Page 36 of My Hero
There was no need for the girl to speak, for in a few moments her body relaxed, and her face took on a dreamy expression, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
“We’ll take the babe now,” Cynthia murmured to the midwife.
Jeanne ran a hand across the girl’s belly and massaged, pressing gently at first, then more firmly. Cynthia eased her fingers in around the babe’s head, trying not to think about its poor, lifeless body. It was difficult, slippery work, but she managed to turn the baby and pull it forth as Jeanne pressed hard on Meggie’s belly. Meggie was mercifully oblivious through the whole procedure. She scarcely knew the deed was done.
Cynthia received the afterbirth onto a thick pad of linen and handed the baby to Mary. The young maid went white.
“You stay with me,” Cynthia ordered. The girl had probably never seen so horrifying a thing, but Cynthia couldn’t afford to lose her help.
Then she applied a poultice of crushed shepherd’s purse to stop the bleeding. She insisted the midwife scrub her hands clean in the hot water and go home to rest, asking her to send the chaplain to the infirmary. Elspeth pressed a wad of absorbent linen between Meggie’s legs while Cynthia scoured her own hands. Then she took over, covering Meggie with a thin sheet and combing the girl’s hair back with her fingers till she fell asleep.
Meanwhile, Mary cowered in the corner of the chamber, and now she hissed like a frightened kitten. “She’s bound to die after what you did, my lady.”
Elspeth rounded on the terrified maid, wagging an angry finger. “Lady Cynthia’s healing is held in the highest regard, whelp. There may come a day you’ll be thankful for it yourself. Until then, you’d do well to remember your place and hold your tongue.”
“But it’s a witch’s herb, monkshood,” Mary argued.
Elspeth’s voice was dangerously soft. “Would you be calling Lady Cynthia a witch?”
“See that you wash your hands well, both of you,” Cynthia interrupted before a fight could ensue. “Monkshood isn’t a witch’s herb, but it can be dangerous.”
She shook her head. Where anyone got the notion that an herb could be evil was beyond her. After all, hadn’t God createdallthe plants? True, some of them could be poison if used in ample amounts, but they possessed no mystical powers. Herbs were simply for healing the sick and removing pain.
A tentative knock came at the door as she scrubbed at a spot of blood on her sleeve.
“Come,” she called.
Garth frowned. He’d half hoped no one would hear him. He had no idea why he’d been summoned. After all, he knew nothing about birthing. And he was filthy from the garden.
He pushed the door inward anyway. A de Ware never walked away from a lady in need.
The metallic odor of blood unnerved him for an instant. His eyes sought the source at once. A young woman lay atop the bed in the middle of the chamber. The linens at the foot of the bed were streaked with scarlet, as if the bed itself had been slashed and wounded in some gruesome battle. But though the woman’s face was as pale as plaster, as still as death, she was alive. The sheet rose and fell to the rhythm of her breathing.
The two maids tidying the chamber stared at him. He clearly didn’t belong here. This was a woman’s domain. Yet Cynthia motioned him in, fetching a bundle from the bed with great care.
“The babe,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes, “needs blessing. I was hoping you’d defer your vow of silence to see it done.”
He furrowed his brow. The infant could scarcely be moments old. Why such urgency?
She lifted her gaze to him then, and he knew at once.
The babe was dead.
He swallowed hard. She wanted him to perform last rites.
She continued to stare at him, beseeching him with eyes burdened by sorrow, haunted by pain. And in that moment, no matter what had passed between them before, no matter that he thought her the seductive daughter of Eve, he knew he’d do anything to take that suffering from her eyes.
He received the feather-light bundle and strode to a private corner of the infirmary, whispering the words around the painful lump in his throat to save the poor babe’s soul. By the last Amen, Cynthia had gone.
He handed the babe to Mary. The women would no doubt prepare its tiny body for burial. The mother snored softly from the bed, her grief abandoned for the moment in the land of dreams. Elspeth blew her nose, then shoved the rag into her pocket, busying herself with gathering up the soiled linens. His work here was done.
But what about Lady Cynthia? It was his duty to comfort the living as well as bless the dead. Certainly she must be in need of comfort. After all, he’d seen how she took her duty to her household to heart. In some way, she probably felt responsible for this tragedy.
He found her in the outbuilding she’d fashioned to grow starts of tender plants. It was a cozy place, kept warm by a roof of sheepskin that let in the sun’s light, and wet by a well sunk in its midst. Earthenware pots of all sizes, filled with assorted foliage, cluttered the wooden shelves. As he let himself in, warm, moist air enveloped him.
“Close the door.” Her voice came from the far corner, muffled by a forest of greenery. “Please.” Then her head popped up between the fronds. Her eyes were red from crying, and he felt a sudden, inexplicable longing to cradle her against his shoulder, to let her sob her sorrow into his cassock.
“Oh. Chaplain.” She self-consciously wiped at her cheeks, then gestured toward the entrance. “If you’ll kindly…”
