As Alida’s contractions came with closer frequency, she twined her arm about the girl’s, feeling her cold skin next to her own. Her fingers slipped about the girl’s nearly lifeless ones. She did this not for comfort or even for relief of pain, for the truth was, Alida often felt that she could have continued her embroidery during birth.
The reason she held the girl’s hand was to encourage the spirit of that child to enter her child. Alida began to pray, turning her head toward the girl so she was close to her ear. “God, grant that this child may come unto me,” she whispered, for what felt like hours.
The girl had shown little sign of life for quite a while, but just lay there unmoving, her huge belly swollen. It was as though the child inside her had given up hope of trying to get out and had resigned itself to its approaching death.
When the girl seemed to be drawing her last breath, Alida turned the limp head toward her so they were nose to nose. With all the life Alida had in her, she prayed and begged God to give her child the spirit of this woman’s son.
When she felt Alida’s breath on her face, the girl’s eyelids flickered and after several tries, she managed to open them slightly. When she looked at Alida, with her eyes closed in fervent prayer, the girl seemed to rally some.
To Alida’s astonishment, for she thought the girl past any sensibility, the girl’s fingers tightened around her own. The girl’s grasp was as weak as a kitten’s, but Alida could feel life lingering in the frail body.
When the girl spoke it was so quietly that only Alida could hear her. The rest of the women in the room were bustling about, trying to look busy, so no one else noticed the faint whispers of a dying girl.
“My child shall be your child;
Your child shall be mine.
They will be one spirit in two bodies.
They will live together; they will die together.”
Her English was broken, and in ordinary circumstances Alida would have had difficulty understanding her. But it was as though the experience they were now sharing, this giving of life, made the girl’s words crystal clear. Alida heard her and knew without a doubt that what the girl had said would be emblazoned on her heart forever.
“Take my child,” the girl whispered.
Even Alida blanched at the words. To take the child would mean ripping the girl open, leaving her to die an even more agonizing death than she was now experiencing.
“What’s the gypsy girl saying?” Berta asked. To her anyone who did not have the white skin of an Englishman was a “gypsy.”
“Take my child,” the girl said louder.
When Alida hesitated, the dying girl gripped Alida’s hand with all her strength.
“Take my child!” the girl said, her face so close to Alida’s that her breath went into Alida’s lungs.
“Yes,” Alida said and gripped the girl’s hand in response. She knew what it felt to be a mother.
“Take the child,” Alida commanded, and when the four maids in the room and the midwife did nothing but stand there and look at her as though she weren’t aware of what she was saying, she half shouted at them. “Take the girl’s child, I tell you. Take it!”
The midwife responded first. “I will need a knife,” she said to a stupefied maid behind her. “A large knife and sharp,” she repeated, shoving the maid toward the stairs.
Alida had no more time to think as three contractions came together quickly and she knew that her own child was near to being born. She started to pray again, no longer trying to lower her voice, but making sure the girl could hear her. “Let our children blend,” she prayed. “Let them be one. Give me this girl’s son. Let me have it for my own child.”
Suddenly, everything seemed to happen at once. The terrified maid returned with a kitchen knife, and Alida’s child began to shoot down the birth canal just as the midwife ripped the belly of the girl open to free the suffocating child from inside her.
Blood was everywhere. It was astounding that so tiny a girl could have so much blood—and there seemed to be something wrong with Alida too, so that for a while no one could tell whose blood belonged to whom.
In the turmoil of seeing to the mothers, the babies were nearly forgotten. Still attached to their mothers, who at the moment both seemed in danger of dying, the babies were dumped on top of each other, like newborn puppies, lying between their pain-crazed mothers.
One of the children was a boy, an enormous boy, with lots of black hair and black eyes, his skin the color of pale honey. The other child was a girl, as pink and white as a dew drop. The downy hair on her head was golden and her skin was like cream.
Both babies, stunned after the birth, seemed to wrap themselves around each other, clinging to each other as though seeking comfort for what they had just been through. Since no one was holding them aloft and smacking various parts of their bodies, they seemed to feel no need to cry.
Into this chaos of screams for more cloths and more straw to sop up the blood, into the confusion caused by the midwife, who knew that now was the time she had to prove that all the food she’d eaten over the last year was worth it, came the wet nurse.
Meg Watkins was a large woman, perhaps fat, but many said that it was Meg’s huge heart that made her so big. She was now nearly thirty years old, an old woman by the standards of the farmers who were her neighbors, and she had taken loving care of hundreds of other people’s children.
Nine months ago Meg had become pregnant and nearly everyone in the village had rejoiced for her. They teased her “old” husband, Will, mercilessly, and he, in his quiet way, had blushed. But everyone could see that he was as pleased as Meg was.
But just four days ago Meg had given birth to a set of twins who had lived only long enough to be blessed by the priest. Neither she nor her husband had cried or shown any grief when the babies had died. Meg had gone about her business as though her life had not ended, and her husband had buried the sweet little bodies in the churchyard.
Within minutes of Alida’s leaving her daughter’s marriage feast, the entire village knew what was about to happen, and they knew that a wet nurse would be wanted. As a body, they went to Meg and her husband and when they met with reluctance, with Meg saying she wanted to take care of no more children, her husband “persuaded” her by picking her up and shoving her into the back of a wagon, which took off running, not allowing Meg a chance to change her mind.
So now, Meg found herself entering the chaotic room, with women running hither and thither. Meg took one look at the two women on the bed, saw that one, her belly ripped open, was already dead, while her ladyship looked pale enough to be near death. Meg dismissed the women, for her love of children was such that she cared little for the mothers. Meg’s only concern was for the two children entwined about each other, nestled between the women.
For all that Meg was sweet tempered, she knew how to get things done and she had known Berta since they were girls together. She knew that Berta was a bully and if allowed, would cause as much confusion as possible and do as little work as she could get away with—all while trying to look enormously important.
While Berta had the young, gullible maids enthralled as she gave an incomprehensible lecture on the state of Alida’s afterbirth, Meg took the knife that had been used on his mother and, after tying it off, cut the cord of the boy. In spite of his size, the boy looked as though he needed attention first as there was a quietness about him that made Meg fear for his life. Had she the time, she would have reduced the midwife to tears for her neglect of the babies, but instead, Meg’s big, strong arms went out to pick up the slippery boy.
But the minute she touched him, the children’s arms and legs tightened about each other, renewing their grip on one another. When Meg gave a gentle tug, they clung tighter. Putting one hand on the girl’s chest, and one on the boy’s, she pulled, but they held fast to each other. They did not cry; they clung.
Removing her hands, Meg looked down at the children in wonder. In her experience, newborn ba
bies cried or slept after birth. Sometimes they were born hungry and sometimes not. But she had never seen children who were as wide-awake as these two, staring into each other’s eyes, their bodies entangled with each other’s. If their skin had not been different colors you would not have been able to see where one began and the other ended. The boy, so much larger than the girl, but at the moment so much weaker, was held by the girl in a grip that could only be described as protective.
“So you want to be together, do you?” Meg whispered as she cut the other cord, then scooped up both children into her ample arms.
The two children felt good to her; they felt right. She was still quite shaken by the loss of her own two children and now her arms were at last filled with babies.
The babies did not trust her. They seemed to think that she would again try to separate them, so they held each other fiercely, defiantly, as though they dared anyone to try to separate them.
“It’s all right,” she cooed to them. “I won’t let you be taken from one another. I will protect you. I won’t let anyone harm you.”
As though the children understood her, they relaxed their fierce grip and softened in Meg’s arms.
14
Let me see my son,” Alida said, beginning to recover from her near swoon after the birth. She could not understand her reaction to what had happened. This birth was no different than any of her others, in fact it was less difficult since the child had been rather small. But when the midwife’s knife had touched the girl beside her, she had felt the pain, felt every inch of flesh that the callous woman had cut into. Somehow, Alida knew that the girl had been alive until the birth of her child, until she knew that the child did indeed live, and only then had she died. Alida also knew that the girl had died happily, knowing that her child would live and be cared for.
Alida did not like to think of it now but after the girl died, it was as though Alida could feel the girl’s spirit hovering above the scene, looking down at them, watching everything, taking a moment to look at her child. The girl was at peace, no longer in the body that had been split nearly in half; she felt no pain.
It was Alida who felt the pain. Her body felt as though it had been the one cut open. She, who prided herself on her easy births, she who had great contempt for women who screamed and ranted over such a small thing as giving birth, realized that she was screaming with all her might. She was incoherent with pain, her hands on her belly, making sure that it was still in one piece. It did not feel as though it were in a single piece but felt torn and bleeding, ripped, slashed. The pain was intolerable and she screamed hysterically while the midwife and her maids searched frantically for the cause of her pain. In the turmoil of the search, the children were temporarily forgotten.
Now, with utter confidence, Alida asked to see her son, for of course she had given birth to a son. No woman could go through what she had and not be given what she wanted. Alida had never done anything to God to cause Him to be so cruel as to give her another daughter.
Alida’s words effectively managed to hush the room as all eyes except Meg’s were upon her. Meg was interested only in wrapping a clean cloth about the children so they wouldn’t get cold.
“Well!” Alida said with as much strength as she could manage, for she was weak from pain. “Where is my son?”
None of Alida’s maids wanted the blast of her wrath when she was told that she had had yet another daughter.
Meg felt no such qualms. She knew, of course, about her ladyship’s prayers for a son, but Meg thought they were ridiculous. What did it matter whether a child was a girl or a boy? A child was a Gift from God and should be treated as such.
“You have a beautiful daughter,” Meg said, moving forward in the sudden stillness of the room to smilingly present the children to Alida.
At first Alida refused to hear what was being said. She could not, could not have had yet another girl.
“There now, isn’t she pretty?” Meg was saying as she bent over Alida and showed her the two children in her arms. Meg pulled back the soft cloth covering them. “See how white her skin is, how fine her hair. And such pretty eyes! She will be the most beautiful of your daughters, I can tell.”
Alida, dazed from pain, stunned with disappointment, could not yet believe her misfortune. Now all she could see was the big, golden-skinned boy next to the insignificant blonde girl.
“Let me see my son. Let me see him,” Alida said frantically, her hands reaching out to take the boy, ignoring the girl.
When Meg realized what she was about to do, she drew back. “No!” she said sharply. “The children want to be together.”
There was an intake of breath in the room. Alida’s fierce, quick temper was renowned. The anger her husband took out on her, she took out on those around her, and now they feared her wrath.
But there was something about Meg’s common sense, her lack of fear, that brought Alida back to reality. “I want the boy,” she whispered. “He should have been mine.” Quickly, she began to look about the room, seeing who was there, calculating if she could terrorize these women into silence and secrecy.
She meant to have this boy for her own. Hadn’t the girl given him to her? Wasn’t he by rights hers? And who’s to say that in the confusion the children weren’t switched and this boy was hers and the girl belonged to that dead foreigner? Never mind that all her daughters had been blonde and this boy had a thick crop of black hair.
Could she do it? she wondered.
Only Meg, who did not live daily with Alida and therefore did not see firsthand what she had suffered from her husband over the years, did not know what her ladyship was thinking. And had she known it would not have mattered to her, as long as both children were cared for.
Penella, who had been with Alida since her marriage, was the first to speak. There were tears in her eyes, for she loved her mistress and had, over the years, seen her change from a happy, laughing girl into the virago she now was. “That one,” she whispered, pointing to the dead body of the boy’s mother, “had an old servant woman here. The instant the boy was born, she went to tell the father.”
For a moment Alida’s head reeled with anger, anger at herself, anger at everyone for not having earlier thought of switching the babies. She could have made the suggestion to her maid and she could have cleared the room except for the midwife and herself. The switch would have been easy then. No one would have dared dispute that the son was hers and not this dead girl’s.
And if she’d told John that the boy was his he would have killed that odious Gilbert Rasher if he dared contradict the statement. But most important, her husband would love her. Truly love her.
“I will try to catch her,” Penella whispered as she opened the door to run after the herald.
But John was standing outside the door and behind him, drunk, his dirty face red, was Gilbert Rasher.
In spite of all he could do to keep the hope from his voice and from his face, there was anticipation on John’s face. “There has been a son born,” he said, trying to sound as though he did not believe this could be true, but he was not a good actor.
Pushing her way through the two men standing in the doorway was a tiny, monkeylike creature, an old woman with black eyes and hands like a bird’s claws. “My lady has given birth to a son,” she half yelled in heavily accented words. “They killed her to take the babe. He belongs to me. He is mine!”
At that Gilbert Rasher pushed his way into the room and smacked the little woman across the face, sending her reeling. “Out!” he commanded. “I don’t have to stand that ugly face of yours any longer.”
He lumbered his way into the room, pretending to be drunker than he was, pretending to be oblivious to what was going on in the room, but the truth was, he was a very, very shrewd man. In order to make a decent living a lazy man had to find ways other than actual work to keep furs on his back and beef on his table.
For the last two days he had chosen the plainest-faced maids and pretended gre
at lust at the mere sight of them. They were so pleased by his attentions that they each went to bed with him and when he asked to hear all the gossip of the castle, they were more than willing to tell it. He now knew in detail how much John wanted a son and how his wife had paid much gold to an old witch woman to try to help her to get that son.
Gilbert had paid the hideous little creature that his wife had brought with her from her foreign country to stay in the room, silent and unseen, and bring him news immediately when his son was born. Unlike Alida, who acted out of desperation, Gilbert planned things, and he correctly guessed that if Lady Alida’s time came during his wife’s, she would think of switching the children, for surely Hadley’s next child would also be a daughter.
It wasn’t that Gilbert especially wanted another son. The three he had ate enough for half an army and it cost to clothe them. He did not bother with education and was therefore spared that expense, but unfortunately that meant he was burdened with sons who knew no more than he did.
Now he knew that if he played his cards right he might be able to get John to pay him while still bearing the cost of raising a son who was not his.
“Let me see my son,” Gilbert said, his voice as full of love as he could make it sound as he went toward Meg, the babies cuddled in her arms. He meant to take the child, to display it like something won in a tournament, but he didn’t like babies at best and this one was covered with blood and grease and was unnaturally clinging to the tiny white girl. Right away, some sixth sense of self-preservation—the trait that was honed to its keenest edge in Gilbert—told him that there was something unusual about this child and he’d do best to get rid of it—with a profit of course. He should never have married that silent, big-eyed foreign girl that was the child’s mother. Even thinking of her, he had to resist the urge to cross himself.