The Burning Time (5 page)

“I canna! I tell you I
caaaanna
!” The vowels rolled out along a wail.

“Yes, Helena, you
can
. And you
must
. Oh, poor dear, poor child. Only two more heaves—just two more—and the
babe will be here, I promise you. Petronilla, hold her up, do not let her slump so. Bear down now, Helena,
push
!”

Alyce Kyteler, on her knees in a pool of bloody, watery fluid, kept yelling “
Push
!” as she hunched and strained between the spread, sweat-slick thighs of the woman squatting on the birthing stool before her. It was the seventeenth hour of labor, and Helena was weak with exhaustion. Her colour rose in a livid flush of effort as she bore down hard, then faded to the ashy pale of fatigue again as she relaxed. She moaned softly.

“Good, good, you are doing well, Helena, so well,” Alyce crooned, “What a brave warrior you are … and the babe is almost here. I can see the head—I can see fine dark hair. Rest a moment now, dear. Breathe. Breathe deeply. Then one more set of presses, only
one
more, and it will all be over. There will be time afterward, so much time, time to rest, to celebrate, time to sleep.…” Hearing her singsong voice echo through her own weariness, Alyce sat back on her heels.
What are you babbling about
, she thought.
Time to sleep? With a firstborn in the house?
But she continued her soothing murmurs while wiping the sweat from her eyes with her sleeve.

“Petronilla, cool Helena down again, will you?” she said. “Yes, her forehead, but also a wet cloth on her neck … along her arms, too. And some salve on those lips? Poor dear, poor brave dear …”

There was a timid knock at the door.

“
No
, Sysok, you
still
may
not
come in,” Alyce called over her shoulder. “And
yes
, Sysok, Helena is fine, but tired. And
no
Sysok, the babe is
not
here yet. I swear to you that you shall hear it when the time comes! Now leave us in peace or I will set the curse of Macha on you and you will be a
male
in labor—for four nights and five days!”

The father’s footsteps shuffled away. Helena whispered something through a throat raw with screaming.

“So … grateful, m’Lady. You … here … like any midwife. So—”

Helena’s face contorted with sudden pain.

“Here it is,” Alyce said sharply, shifting forward and leaning in. “Come now, child, bear down one last time. Queen Meave is here to midwife you, far better than I could; cannot you feel Her power? The Great Mother Dana Herself is watching over you. Now
press down
—and the babe shall be blessed in Her sight
—press
, Helena,
press
—and your milk will flow more plentiful than Flidais’s cow that fed the
push
three hundred in one night yes yes bear down bear down
press press PUSH
!”

A gush of blood and warm slime oozing colours jewel-vivid as rubies, sapphires, and yellow diamonds slid the infant into Alyce’s gently tugging hands. One swift stroke on the back brought the first cry. It pierced the dense, pungent air of the cottage like the squeal of a wild goose flying through fog.

“A womanchild!” Alyce exulted, “And though early, she is perfect!”

Helena collapsed into sobs of relief and joy. Petronilla also burst into tears, awestruck, feeling privileged to have been of aid. The afterbirth spewed forth, and the placenta was set aside to be properly buried, as was the tradition with the caul. Sysok, having heard the baby’s wail, was at the door and through it before anyone could try to stop him, not that anyone would do so now. Then all was bustle and warm clean water and tears and laughter and cooing and clean soft cloths. Helena waded to her bed, where the child—now cleaned, swaddled, and placed in her mother’s arms—squinted tiny eyes on the radiant face bent above her. While the woman and the infant studied each other, Old John, Sysok’s father, came limping in, his ancient features creasing with triumph. He announced that never had there been such a beautiful creature in the Blessed Isles as this his own granddaughter and what was everyone waiting for where was the grog.

Only then did Alyce strip off her bloodied apron and indulge in a great armspread stretch.

“What is this wee Maiden’s name, then?” she asked Helena.

“Oh, m’Lady,” the new mother answered, “I am thinking she must be Dana.”

“Well chosen,” smiled Alyce. “The One who brought you through an early, long, and hard travail, keeping you in
Her sight. A second birth will likely be far easier, and those that follow easier still.”

Helena looked up, startled. “A second!” she exclaimed. “Those that follow! By The Morrigan, I am not at all thinking of
that
! I might do as you did, m’Lady—settle for one and be done with the business for good! Why would any woman go through this more than once, I would like to know?
Even
once, if she knew what was coming?”

“And what choice d’we have, I might ask,” Petronilla twitted her, settling a cushion behind Helena’s back.

“More choice than you would think,” Alyce muttered, with a small wink at Helena. Then she shot a sidelong glance at Sysok—who woke from rapt adoration of his wife and daughter to realize that all three women were peering at him with pursed lips.

His bewilderment set them off. They started giggling, while Sysok smiled back from his daze and Old John, moving about with cups and a beaker, fueled the merriment until the cottage rang with laughter.

Yawning, the Bishop adjusted the folds of his cassock, appreciating as he did so the sheen of its violet-coloured silk, brought to Avignon by heroic Spanish sons of the Church in
a raid on an infidel outpost near Granada, an act of militancy reminiscent of the glorious Crusades. He fingered the large pectoral cross of beaten gold that hung round his neck on its heavy gold chain, and admired again the craftsmanship that had so cunningly inlaid five fat cabochon rubies precisely at the five points where Christ’s wounds had bled. A taste for exquisite things was a form of worship, he had long ago decided, an esthetic celebration of the beauty of the Church. Meticulously, he centered the ornament on his round front. Squirming in his chair, he glanced surreptitiously left and right, then loosened the cincture girdling his ample middle. Perhaps he
had
consumed too much roast lamb the previous evening—but sweet Christ, that garlic and rosemary crust! No, he thought, God’s plenty warranted affirmation. It was this ridiculous waiting that had upset his digestion. Perhaps he had been too mindful of his duty to save this Lady’s soul. Now it really was time for him to storm off and …

His meditation on rage was interrupted by the entrance of a tall woman who strode toward him across the expanse of the Great Hall. Her red-gold hair hung loose and tousled well past the waist of her wrinkled, stained, homespun gown; its wide hanging sleeves had been rolled and tied up above her elbows, leaving her sun-browned forearms bare. Neither young nor old, she was slender but sturdily broad-shouldered, and the eyes that looked straight into his were green as new apples.
A cat—a black one, he noticed—wove itself between and around her ankles. A small angora goat, fleece lustrous as pearl, clattered in after her, looking bored and bleating softly.

“Welcome to Kyteler Castle, my lord Bishop,” the woman said pleasantly. “I hear you have been waiting for some time. My apologies—although I understand that you have had refreshment. I had important business to attend to.” The eyes glowed in her tired face. “We brought a baby girl into this life today—tiny, but she will survive. Especially with a voice like hers, strong enough to squall any attention she wants. And the mother well enough, too. Weary she is, but that’s no wonder.” The woman blew out a sigh of accomplishment and rubbed the back of her neck with both hands. “Ahh, but that was good hard work,” she said. “Now. What is it you wish from me?”

The Papal Emissary blinked.

“You cannot be … who
are
you, wench? Announce me to Her Grace at once!”

“The last I looked, Her Grace was standing in front of you,” Alyce said affably. Unknotting one of her purse sleeves, she rummaged through its folds, produced a pear from a hidden pocket, slumped onto a nearby bench, and proceeded to sink her even white teeth into the fruit, adding, “Actually, now
sitting
in front of you. Famished.”

Her visitor stared. Then he began to struggle to his feet.

“Oh! I
am
sorry,” she gargled from a full mouth, “How rude of me.” She held out the partly eaten pear to him.
“Would you like a bite?
No
, not
you
, Greedigut,” she added, waving away the goat, whose interest had perked up mightily at the sight of a pear. “Please, no ceremony,” she added to her guest, “do be seated.”

He did, which was just as well because he felt faint. This was a woman of high noble birth he had mistaken for an impudent serving maid. But Jesu, she was too vulgar to be imagined! How to converse with such a creature? Absurd enough that she knew how to read and write and was a scold who’d caused pain to her husband. But running around costumed as a filthy peasant! He could actually see her feet,
naked
, in sandals—and caked with mud at that. Not one jewel on her! Furthermore, though married and an aristocrat, she wore no circlet or hennin, no wimple, not even a veil—she was bareheaded, like an unwed female serf. And actually boasting that she had acted as a common midwife—she must be mad. Or possessed. De Ledrede closed his eyes and took a deep breath. God preserve me from the eccentric whims of the nobility, he groaned inwardly. He had once had to administer last rites to an imperious French count convinced he was already an archangel, thus in no need of absolution. Having succeeded then, he would succeed now.

“My child—” he began.

“Wrong. Grown woman of more summers than you might suspect,” she interrupted, “hardly a child. Certainly not yours—unless you know something I do not?” She actually winked at him. “Though I have seen many an Irish priest
trying to hide his share of secret offspring under his cassock. Not that I mind their breaking chastity vows. Denying the body’s natural joy is as futile a task as Cuchulain battling the tide, I think—ask Greedigut here, she knows all about that,” she stroked the goat’s head, rubbing gently between the two small horns. “What I
do
mind,” she added in a sterner tone, “is refusing to acknowledge the children, and denouncing the women who bear them.” She wiped pear juice off her chin with the none-too-clean sleeve. “You are fairly new to Kilkenny, though, so perhaps you have not yet encountered such clerical hypocrisy?”

“I have been Chief Prelate of Ossary and Special Papal Emissary to Ireland for almost two years, Your Grace. I was here all of last year. Then I was away temporarily, attending upon His Holiness at Avignon, over last Christmas. I returned to Ireland in January, six months ago.”

“Almost two years—so long as that!” Alyce Kyteler replied genially, adding, “A newcomer by the way we reckon time here. I do know that you have spent many hours acquainting yourself with the district and with your local parishioners in Kilkenny Town.”

“That I have, Your Grace. Yet, strangely, I have never had the honour of encountering you among the nobles.” He bowed his head with respect, but that brought those muddy toes back into view, so he quickly glanced away.

Lady Alyce laughed heartily.

“You would not likely encounter me among the peers, my lord Bishop. They and I are on excellent terms—so long as we avoid each other. I find them ignorant, pretentious, and boring.” De Ledrede’s eyes narrowed with interest. “They do not miss my company, nor I theirs,” Alyce continued, “I go rarely to town or visit other manors. My days are filled with managing the estate.”

“
You
manage the estate?”

“Women manage our husbands’ holdings all the time, modestly pretending we do not. I differ only in that I am honest about it—and the estate
is
wholly
mine
, so why would I want anyone else managing it? But such details aside, I am a bit tired at present. I mean you no discourtesy, yet … please, what is the point of your visit?” She bit off another chunk of the pear.