A Whisper Of Rosemary (Medieval Herb Garden 3)

Drawing a deep breath—as much to calm her nerves as to dispel the stench of blood, urine and other waste—she ducked her head and, pushing aside the heavy door, entered the hut.

In one corner of the dwelling was a bed, with a prone woman twisting on it in agony. Her huge belly swelled up from under the old blankets. Thomas the Cooper sat next to her on a three legged stool and held her hand. A block of wood was clamped tightly between her teeth, but did nothing to stifle the moans and shrieks of pain.

The windows were shrouded, and smoke from the fire pit choked Maris’s vision. Within moments, she had Thomas and Widow Maggie opening the windows and chimney to let the stagnant air out of the room.

“Darkness only encourages the bad humors,” she explained, stating aloud one of the cardinal rules Good Venny, her mentor, had taught her.

She wasted no time and pushed the blankets up over the woman’s abdomen to see what was happening. Dried blood smeared her legs, but Maris could see the bloody skin of a babe erupting from her womb. It was not the head crowning betwixt the woman’s thighs.

Dear God. “’Tis the bottom that comes. Bring water,” Maris ordered, her lips tight. “And, Maggie, some of that lye soap. I will wash before touching her. ”

The leeches and physicians of England did not always agree with the tenets of Good Venny’s homeland, Jerusalem, but Maris had been taught by him and rarely veered from his wisdom. Most of the local leeches would never dare consider what Maris knew she must do to save the woman. She washed her hands quickly—another of Good Venny’s rules—then wiped the legs of the woman so she could better see.

The babe was twisted and bent double as it tried to push from the womb. With no further thought—for if she allowed herself to hesitate, she might not act—Maris reached into the crying woman’s womb and felt the slick bottom of the babe. Fighting against nature, she pushed the infant back in and up. Hardly aware of the gapi

ng stare of Maggie behind her, Maris struggled with the slippery babe, sliding her fingers in and around to turn it into the proper direction.

At last…at last, the baby moved and Maris felt the curve of a small foot. “Push!” she cried to the cooper’s wife. “Push!”

The woman’s muscles bunched and her stomach shifted. Then, with a long, keening moan, the mother forced the babe from her body. Maris guided the infant, feet first, as it erupted from the womb, and at last held the tiny infant in her hands.

The squall of a newborn filled the hut.

“’Tis a son,” Maris announced, handing the babe to Maggie. “Now, mistress, one more push to rid you of the afterbirth and you may rest. ” But when she pressed the woman’s stomach and felt another bump and movement within, she realized she was wrong.

“There is another, mistress. You are blessed with two! Push,” Maris ordered, replacing the block of wood between the woman’s teeth. “Comes another babe. ”

It took the rest of the woman’s strength to rid herself of her second son, and the afterbirth, mercifully, came shortly after.

“She’ll sleep,” Maris told Thomas. “’Tis likely the babes were tangled in the womb and thus became mixed up. ”

She gave him a packet of herbs with instructions to boil them with water and have her drink it as often as she would. “Send for Widow Maggie if you need her. She will bleed some, but not overmuch. ” Turning to Maggie, she asked, “Is there not a wet nurse in the village? What of the smith’s daughter?”

“Aye, my lady. I’ll fetch her. ” Widow Maggie’s wrinkled face had smoothed a bit, and relief glowed in her eyes.

“Oh, my lady, thank’ee for coming. ” Thomas was at her feet, tugging profusely at his forelock. “My lady, thank’ee for my sons. ”

“Two strapping boys they’ll be,” Maris said with a smile, and made a mental note to send three chickens and a calf to them from her own stables. “What a good help to you in the shop. But your wife will be poorly for some time. Take care not to work her until Maggie gives the word. Keep the smith’s daughter for a wet nurse as long as you need. ”

Then, because the dark room with its stench of blood had finally begun to close in on her, Maris had to get out. She said her last farewells and slipped from the close, smoky hut.

It was dark—Maris looked up in surprise at the moon and stars. She’d spent nearly the whole day in that tiny room. Weariness washed over her, followed by a burst of exhilaration at the realization that she had helped two new babes into the world.

Surely God would rather that she spend her time doing such things, rather than embroidering or even praying on her knees in the chapel—which was what many ladies such as her own mother preferred to do.

Maris’s feet crunched in the snow as she trudged along, considering this n. Clutching her pouch in one cold hand, she tucked the other inside her cloak. The moon was bright in the clear sky, lighting her way almost as if it were day.

The gate to the bailey was just ahead, lit invitingly with torches. Surely Papa would be in bed—and if he weren’t, as his healer, she’d have something to say about that. Thus, tomorrow would be soon enough for them to speak on whatever he meant to tell her.

All at once, Maris was jolted from her thoughts as a huge horse appeared from nowhere. He was coming too quickly down the narrow, deserted throughway, and Maris shrieked, holding up a hand to shield her face.

“’Sblood, woman!” cried the rider, jerking back frantically on the reins of his mount as soon as he saw her shadowed figure. “Do you not open your eyes when wandering at night?”

Maris’s initial fright turned to anger. No one spoke to the Lady of Langumont in that manner. She turned her face up to meet the eyes of the rider, drawing her shoulders back and lifting her chin haughtily.

The man was a stranger to her, but he was obviously one of high rank. He wore chain mail and rode a horse as valuable as her father’s. Even in the instant of her anger and fright, she took in the details of his appearance: he was tall and broad-shouldered with thick, shadowed hair curling wildly at the nape of his neck. One big hand waved his helm angrily at her while the other fought to keep his mount under control.

“It was your good fortune that I could stop Nick before we trampled you,” Dirick snapped, altogether too grateful that he had, in fact, seen her slender shadow before it was too late. His heart was thudding in his chest as he realized how close he’d come to trampling the wench.