DELUGE (33 page)

I pushed, and I pushed, and I pushed, much preferring this round of the whole ordeal to the previous, horrific contractions. The transition that took hours.

We were in a rhythm now.

There was focus, rather than sheer, terrifying pain.

A goal. The baby was coming.

“Here are the shoulders,” the midwife said, her tone soothing, joyous. “The baby ‘tis almost here. One more push, m’lady. Just one more.”

And then I felt the relief, as the babe was finally free of me. It was done.

Lia was crying and laughing, all at once, as the midwife lifted the babe up so we could see.

“A boy,” she said. “A precious boy.”

He-Wolf,
I thought, collapsing backward, eyes still hungry to watch my son every second, catching my breath as he took his first, scrunching up tiny cheeks and eyes to wail his complaint against this cold, bright air after so many months of comfort and warmth within my womb.

Alessandra and Lia were both hugging me and kissing me at once and we all laughed through our tears.

The midwife produced a sharp dagger and held it in the flames of the hearth, then cut the umbilical cord. She tied a clumsy knot and rubbed him down with a linen, removing most of the white, pasty film that covered his body. Alessandra gently lifted him in two hands and encouraged me to untie my gown. Lia helped me pull the straps of my shift down, and Alessandra laid the child against my breast to suckle.

Overwhelmed, exhausted, stunned, I seemed to be little more than putty in their hands, content to do whatever they asked. All that filled my mind and heart was that I was a new mama. With a baby Forelli at her breast.

He squirmed against my skin, and all I could do was wonder at the miracle of him. The perfect, precious gift. Ten toes like tiny little roly-poly bugs. Ten fingers, stretching in complaint and then clenching into tiny fists. Swollen newborn eyes, momentarily opening, staring at me, as if recognizing me,
knowing
me, but at the same time trying to get to know me.

“A boy, Gabs, a
boy
. I was so sure he was going to be a girl,” Lia said in English, snuggling close to my side. She laughed softly, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

“Mom and I did, too,” I said, tracing the side of his precious little, round face. “But now that he’s here, it’s like I’ve known all along. My son. Little Lord Forelli.”

They helped me cover up and ran a brush through my hair before ushering in Marcello. Mom had talked me out of inviting him in to the labor process, knowing it might change custom if one of the Nine did such a thing. But I felt a pang of loss that he hadn’t been here to share it with me. It had been horribly hard, and scary and amazing and awesome all at once.

My husband’s face was a mass of wonder and terror and triumph—and in seconds my pang of loss was gone. He cupped my face, tucking hair back behind my ear, before turning to gaze upon our tiny, perfect son with me.

And we were all still for a sec.

One, precious, perfect second of recognition. Of the miracle of a new life, a new soul, born among us.

“What shall you name him?” Alessandra said, after that moment, bundling soiled linens and pulling them aside, into the corner.

I looked to the babe in my arms and smiled, a tear running down my cheek, love swelling inside me so big I thought I might burst. He was so wonderful. It was such a miracle. My son,
our
son.

I looked into Marcello’s eyes and smiled, remembering another special Forelli son. We’d not spoken of names much. It had only led to disagreement.

But it was so clear to me now.

I laughed, tears welling in my eyes.

“Fortino?” I asked him, my cheeks wet, then looking back to our child, knowing it was intrinsically right. “Fortino Betarrini Forelli?” I whispered.

“Fortino, si,” Marcello said, his tone warm, as sure as I was.

I pulled our tiny son close to kiss the dark, damp curls, plastered to his round head in places, wisping in others. “Welcome, little Fortino. We’re so glad you’re here. Somewhere, up in heaven, your uncle is celebrating too.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

~GABRIELLA~

Marcello left me—to go hand out cigars? Drink brandy? I had no idea…this birthing chamber was just clearly the domain of women in medieval Italia and he’d gone beyond his bounds. With swift Italian-mama actions, the midwife saw to the grossness that was the afterbirth. Afterward, she washed me and massaged my belly with the relaxed moves of one who did it every day, telling me it was good for the uterus, it would ensure I’d have many more babies in the years to come.

“I shall be content with just this one,” I said, lifting the baby a little, so glad—
so
glad—it was all done.

She grinned then, showing her missing teeth. “He is a fine boy. Good and strong,” she said, flexing her arm muscles. “His father shall be proud. But a mama needs many.”

I grinned. “Mayhap. ’Tis difficult to think beyond this one.”

“Keep massaging your belly,” she said to me sternly. “Until you can feel it soften. Eat good, red meat every day. Drink milk, lots of milk. You need it as the child needs it from you. And two glasses of wine, one in the morning, one at night,” she added, lifting two fingers, and then tucking the far side of my blankets in and under the mattress.

I frowned. I was pretty sure the Surgeon General wouldn’t approve of that last advice. “Wine?”

“One for the mama,” she said with a grin, “and one for the babe,” she added, leaning down to affectionately pinch his little foot.

I smiled. I wouldn’t take that last advice, but I loved the spirit in which it was given.

“Does he look small?” I asked her, worriedly looking at my son. “Did he come too soon?”

“Heavens, no,” she said, crossing herself. “The Lord brought him on the day he was destined to arrive. And this child is perfect. To me, he seems full-formed.” Her dark eyes looked me over, and a bit of doubt creeped into her face. “And yet for one as big as you…” She shrugged and leaned down to take the baby from me without asking.

Quickly, she stripped him from his blanket. Little Fortino squirmed and then his tiny lips curled into a mewl of complaint, but she ignored him. Her round hands covered his shoulders, probed his belly and, unceremoniously, his little man parts. She turned him over on one palm and forearm, running two fingers down his back. Then she turned him back over and pulled his mouth close to her ear, not seeming to hear his cry, only the air coming from his lungs. At last, she smiled and cradled him close, cooing and cooing, bringing his complaint to a stop.

She tossed me a satisfied smile, waving away my concerns with her fat fingers. “The little lord is perfect. Fully formed. No need to worry, Mama Forelli.”

“
Grazie mille
,” I said, watching as she swiftly bundled him again and then settled him in my arms.

She waved my thanks off even as she backed away. “I shall stay here for the day, unless I am called to another. If you have need, just send for me, yes?”

“Yes, thank you,” I murmured.

Lia arrived again, two steaming buckets in her hands. And Alessandra with two more.

“We thought we’d change out the bath water and you could sink into it,” she said. “You know. Now that you’ve gone and had that baby and all.”

“That would be wonderful,” I said. My only reluctance was releasing the baby when the time came. But I could see Lia, holding him, bonding with him, and it was almost as good as holding him myself.

Almost.

I eased into the tub, and Alessandra passed me soap. Gingerly, I bathed, feeling new aches and pains, as well as my odd, flabby belly, reminding me of a deflated balloon. I hoped it’d deflate a lot more in time. I massaged it, as the midwife had instructed, thinking how nice it felt to be free of the burden of carrying a child within, and how much nicer it was to look upon my sweet baby boy instead.

“Oh, you are going to be a ladies’ man,” Lia said, nuzzling him. “With that dark hair and those dark eyes…And your auntie will make certain that only the best come near you.”

“May I hold him?” Alessandra asked shyly.

“Of course,” Lia said, offering the child up to her.

Our friend took him and carried him over toward the window, holding him close, looking natural with him in her arms.

“Just think,” I said. “Within the new year, you’ll likely have your own in your arms.”

“Would that it be true,” she mused. Her eyes sought mine. “At least your trial is over.”

“True enough.” I used a sponge to scrub my neck and shoulders and arms, then rinsed off and sat back in the warm waters. The girl was holding my son.
My son.
It was real. It had happened.

“He is beautifully formed, Gabriella. He doesn’t seem a bit too small.”

“You believe so?” I said, worry creeping into my mind and heart again. This child needed every week of growth he could get between his birth and what was to come…Strength. Immunities.

After I finished my bath and toweled off, donning a clean shift, she brought him back to me and settled him in my arms. Lia returned then and climbed onto the bed beside me, which the maids had swiftly changed, whisking away the old linens. I set little Fortino on the bed and carefully unwrapped him. His legs and arms were skinny, his belly rounded. I saw now that the umbilical cord end was tied to a tiny stick, which was how they encouraged it to wither and fall off, leaving behind a rustic sort of belly button. Everyone was pretty much an Outie in this era, I’d discovered. The skills needed to accomplish an Innie appeared to be a feat indeed.

Which was fine with me. I couldn’t wait until he was healed and I could kiss that sweet belly button and watch him smile. I leaned down and kissed his little toes. “I believe I am in love,” I said to Lia, happy tears welling in my eyes.

“He already has my heart, too,” she said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as she kneeled beside me, staring. “Can you imagine it? The little guy will fairly bust with all the love he’s going to get at Castello Forelli.”

“Indeed,” I sighed. I leaned down and took his hands in mine, admiring the eensy nails. He squirmed, and his tiny face squinched up to complain about the cold air across his bare skin. I laughed and cooed and pulled him into my arms, rocking a little, and he soon settled down to sleep, his tiny chest rising and falling.

“Is this all they do all day? Sleep?” I asked.

“If the Lord is kind,” Alessandra said. “Why don’t you try and rest while he does, Gabriella? You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

“Good idea,” Lia whispered, kissing his head. “Marcello will soon return, I’d bet. He went home to give the good news to our people. We’ll leave you two alone for a while. Sleep. And ring the bell or shout if you want or need us to return.”

“All right. Thank you.”

After they closed the door, I settled down on my side, nestling little Fortino close to me. Lightly, I stroked his cheek, cupped his head with my palm, watching as he stretched and then went on slumbering.

A tiny miracle. My tiny miracle.

Thank you, Lord,
I prayed.
Thank you for protecting him. And me.

I was well aware how many women died in childbirth or afterward in this era. But everything seemed fine. I felt well, strong—crazy-tired, sure—and crazy sore, like an alien had just burst through my body. But all in all, okay. I stretched out my arm above my baby so I couldn’t roll over on him, and settled my right hand on the other side of his body. I could feel the steady, staccato beat of his heart, the quick rise and fall of his tiny lungs.

He was here. Whole. And mine. Ours.

Our son.

With that thought, I slept.

Sometime later, my son—
my son!—
awakened me with his pitiful mewling cry, rousing me from a faraway dream. It took a moment for me to remember where I was and what had happened—but then I saw that Marcello had climbed into bed with us. He looked with fear upon our squawling, unhappy babe, but it seemed oddly natural to unlace my gown and bring the babe to my breast. He wandered a bit, but then latched on, and I smiled as he suckled hungrily.

Marcello watched, brows raised, and then a slow smile crossed his face. “A miracle, really. All of it. From start to finish.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Do you not?”

I gazed down at our son. “Yes,” I said, nodding happily. “I do.”

Come morn, after Marcello had dressed and gone again, a knock sounded at the door. “Lia?” I called.

She peeked in. “You two okay?”

“We’re fine,” I said, smiling again at my baby. “Just doing something totally weird.”

“Weird?” she asked, closing the door behind her.

“Yeah, you know. Feeding a baby. With my
body
. Which is producing
milk
. Isn’t that weird? I think it’s weird.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” she said, going to the hearth to set new wood atop the glowing embers. I looked to the window. Late morning, by the looks of it. Were our parents on their way yet? I was so eager for them to meet their grandchild.

She edged over to me as Fortino, sated, pulled off the breast, his head lolling to one side. “Ooo, may I hold him?”

“Sure,” I said, wrapping him up and handing him over.

She lifted him up to stare at him. “Think he’ll have brown eyes?”

“Between me and Marcello? I think so. He’ll be as dark as yours will be fair.”

She shifted, but remained silent. I knew she didn’t want a baby—wanted to wait, if she could, until after the plague came and went—but now that I was through it, all I could think about was the joy of it all, the sheer joy. And I wanted that for my sister, too. Surely God wouldn’t allow all this to happen…me to come here, fall in love with Marcello, marry and have this babe…just to take him from me. Would he?

I frowned, thinking of the stats. One-third of the population. How many mothers who truly loved their sons with everything in them would watch their children die? Or die themselves? Somehow, that seemed even harder to me. Feeling myself fade, knowing I was leaving this precious child motherless…