Page 25 of The Knucker King

Not able to help herself, Avice repeated the vision she had to the two women. Despite the situation, Matilda burst into a fit of giggles, wiping away tears at the corner of her eyes. That was, until another contraction came that had her doubling over in pain again, grasping her middle.

“How long?” Avice asked.

Emma tore her concerned face from Matilda. “What?”

“How long?” she repeated the question.

“Oh!” Emma’s brow wrinkled for a moment. “Lunchtime, perhaps midday? By the church bells.”

Too long with no progress.

“Motherwort,” she murmured, naming the herb that made babies come more quickly.

The infant will likely be too small, too weak to live long, if they are born alive at all. She took a deep breath, calming her racing heart. What Matilda needed now was a level-headed midwife. If you cannot save the child, make sure you save the mother.

The plan formed in her mind, and she burst into a flurry of quick efficiency.

“Cup,” Avice shouted.

Emma nodded and stood. She dashed to fetch one and handed it to Avice. The midwife, now working more in her role as an apothecary, quickly tipped in the ground motherwort with a pinch of willow bark – added to aid with the pains. After pouring a mouthful of healing waters into the cup, she tugged a glove off with her teeth and unceremoniously stirred the slurry with a finger.

Dropping the glove from her mouth, she handed the concoction to her patient. “Drink all this now, we need to get this baby out.” She did not add the rest of the words she thought. To save you.

Matilda nodded, sweat slicking her hair to her skin, and took it. She pressed the cup to her lips and knocked it back, even licking it clean. She grimaced before handing it over to Emma.

“That will help shortly,” Avice reassured. “Now, would you let me look at you?”

Matilda snorted and pulled up her skirts. “Of course, it is not like you have not seen it all before.”

Gentle as a lamb, the midwife carefully checked her patient and found that her labour was not far advanced for how long she had been doing the hard, painful work.

The night crawled by as the motherwort took effect. Avice and Emma helped shift Matilda around the pallet to aid her as the contractions increased in frequency and strength. The midwife wiped the labouring mother’s belly and legs with healing waters infused with sage oil, to help ease the strain.

Finally, Lucille burst back into the cottage just in time. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was a smattering of frost on her eyebrows. She dragged the birthing chair over to the pallet, where Matilda was doubled over in pain, wailing like a banshee lost on the moors.

“None of the Nightly Neighbours got you then?” Emma teased, rising to help her with it.

Lucille stuck her tongue out and opened her mouth to retort.

“Enough!” Avice growled.

The previous joviality had helped her patient, but now was the time for focus. The midwife could practically feel the skeletal hand of death turn over the hourglass that held the sands of Matilda’s life. She chewed on her dry lips, and with the aid of the two other women, heaved the labouring mother up into the birthing chair.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…” Avice began, rolling up her patient’s skirts as she pushed. She had no belief in the Lord’s prayer, but she knew it brought many birthing women comfort. “Lucille, fetch the cross from my satchel.” The young woman scrambled and fetched the object. “Give it to her.”

Matilda took the cross and pressed it to her chest.

“Hallowed be thy name,” Emma continued, “thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in—”

Matilda screamed, and with one final push, Avice caught the crowning baby. The smallest she had ever seen. Somehow, he lived. He opened his tiny mouth and gave a single, whispered mewl.

“Another son!” she exclaimed. Her heart caught in her throat as her eyes roved the infant. Too small to live.

“Show him to me, Avice, hand him over,” Matilda gasped, sitting forward and reaching for her tiny boy.

The midwife nodded. She reached to the pallet next to her for a blanket and wrapped the rapidly cooling, little body in the thick wool. She handed the boy to the shaking arms of his mother, before brushing away the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes.

Avice enjoyed these moments more than anything. The threshold of where women became mothers. Where they fought on the battleground against death’s grip, and despite everything, would win. Then there would be a baby. So precious. So perfect. Unstained by the evils of the world.