The priest’s lips thinned and he reached quickly into her basket, his thick fingers digging under the towels to the knife, herbs, and candles within. “Witch’s tools?” he whispered, clucking his sanctimonious tongue.
“Nay, Father, only the tools of a good midwife.” She tore her arm from his.
“Is this true?” Father William asked Rowena.
Rowena swallowed back the truth and avoided the priest’s heavy gaze. “Isolde is here but to help in God’s work of bringing the baron a son. M’lady needs assistance that only Isolde with all her practice can bring.”
“But—”
“Remember, Father,” Rowena added, “Isolde was not at the birthing of the still babe. Aye, and she was not here when the lady lost those poor little souls who had no chance to grow in her womb. I think ’tis God’s will that the baron and his wife have many more sons and daughters.”
From the chamber, Lady Cleva cried out, “Help me, please. Oh, God, help me!”
The priest opened his mouth, caught a glance from Baron Eaton, and snapped his teeth together. His face was a mask of his own iron will. “There will be no witchcraft in the house of Prydd, Isolde. ’Tis the law of God and country.”
Isolde straightened her old spine and stared directly into the priest’s righteous eyes. “I have work to do, Father. Mayhaps you can help by going to the chapel and praying for the soul of this unborn babe.” She glanced at the baron. “’Twould help you as well.”
“Aye.” Without another word, Eaton led Father William down the stairs, and Isolde, offering a prayer of thanks to whatever god was listening, hastened to Lady Cleva’s bedside.
The room was large, with fresh rushes spread upon the floor, clean tapestries draped over the whitewashed walls, and a fire glowing warmly in the hearth. Yet wafting over the scents of smoke and lavender came the acrid odors of sweat, urine, and blood.
Lady Cleva lay on her bed, her face flushed and damp, her eyes bright with pain. “Help me,” she whispered, twisting her fingers in the wrinkled linen sheets. “Please, Isolde … you must …” She clamped her lips together and tears filled her eyes.
“Shh …” Isolde said softly as she touched Cleva’s sweat-soaked hair. She ran bony, experienced hands along Cleva’s body and didn’t stop until she’d felt the baby, twisted in the birthing channel.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Rowena hastily cross her heavy bosom.
“ ’Twill be all right,” Isolde assured the lady, though she doubted her own words. There was more here than a simple birth, and would the baby not turn, it would strangle itself.
“God is punishing me,” Cleva murmured, her pretty face twisting in agony as her body convulsed.
“Hush, m’lady! God punishes no one with a child.”
Again Cleva cried out. Her skin, so perfect and white, was now mottled, flushed where the veins in her face had burst. “But this child …’tis not Eaton’s …”
Isolde turned her stern eyes on Rowena, cutting off further confession. “You, midwife. Get clean sheets from the laundress, fresh, hot water from the kitchen, and see that no one disturbs us.”
“But I could be of assistance—”
Isolde wouldn’t budge. “The lady is rambling; she knows not what she says.”
Rowena swallowed. “You think that the child is a bas—”
“I think we need to save this babe and heed not the words of a woman in pain. All that is said here will remain in this chamber.”
“But—”
“Should I hear one word of what goes on tonight gossiped in the kitchen or stables, believe me, Rowena, by all that is holy and all that is not, I will work my magic against you, for I will know that it is you who have spoken. Now, get the towels.”
Cleva screamed, and Rowena, biting her fat lip, hurried into the hallway. Isolde wasted no time. She reached into her basket. Withdrawing herbs, she poured a combination of ground mistletoe, fern, and rosemary onto the candle holders before placing long tapers therein. Only then did she light each candle, murmuring a quiet spell of protection for the mother and infant. She cared not if the babe be Eaton’s or that of a stableboy; Isolde loved the lady and would do whatever necessary to protect her.
Cleva sucked in a breath, and Isolde took a red cord, knotted it nine times, then threaded the cord around Lady Cleva’s sweaty neck. “Now, m’lady, we must work fast, the babe’s almost here.” With deft fingers she took off her silver ring, in the shape of a serpent, and pressed it into Cleva’s palm. “Hold tight to this and feel its healing power,” she said, folding Cleva’s sweaty fingers over the ring. “Now, the child …”
Carefully spreading Cleva’s legs further, Isolde reached into the birthing channel, feeling with skilled fingers, praying that the child would turn as she eased the baby’s slick head forward.
Rain pounded the thick walls, and the wind gave up a shriek as loud as Cleva’s cries. “Merciful God! Please. Ohhh—” Her fingers curled over the ring until the metal cut into her palm.
“Come, Cleva, ’tis only a short time yet …”