Page 3 of The Knucker King

Yes. The Grim trotted at her heels. However, I am always happy to hear it again, he said with a swish of his tail.

The brown-coated man bobbed up and down amongst his pregnant ewes. Each was as round as a wine barrel, waddling around on stick thin legs.

Avice wet her mouth before she called out, “Robert Shepherd!”

The man startled and stood up straight amongst his flock. The burn of his penetrating glare kept Avice rooted to the spot.

“Midwife. Why are you here? And not with my wife?” he questioned, a muscle feathering in his broad jaw.

Avice considered the shepherd. He was tall and broad. His bleary eyes were set in a stubbled, weathered face. Deep lines traced the edges of his mouth and forehead as he scowled at her. Avice stifled a tremble at his hardened gaze.

With a lump in her throat, she opened her dry, cracked lips. “Mister Robert. Your wife has survived the birth of your daughter—”

“Then, why are you here, woman?” he growled.

The words finally fell out. “Because your daughter will not survive much longer.” Avice shifted the bundle in her arms.

“My daughter?” Robert’s legs ate up the remaining space between them in moments.

She wrinkled her nose at his scent, a nauseating mix of stale ale, sheep, and unwashed body. She swallowed down the bile she tasted in her throat.

“Your daughter,” she affirmed.

“What is wrong with her?” he asked, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Mister Robert.” Avice chose her words carefully. “Your daughter has been born with some of her insides on the outside.”

The shepherd grimaced. “What? Show me. Now.”

The world froze for a moment around Avice. The gentle clunk of the iron bells on the sheep’s necks echoed a haunting resonance in her ears. Swallowing her nerves, she dipped her head in agreement.

“Yes, sir.”

The midwife reluctantly tucked her cloak over her shoulder and lowered the barely breathing baby from her chest. She peeled back the blanket. She grimaced as the material resisted her tug; the woven wool stuck to the protruding intestines.

Robert let out a sound that reminded Avice of a strangled cat. She stole a glance at his face: his mouth had dropped open, and his gums were full of blackened teeth. She recoiled at his breath, stifling a grimace. Robert took a step back and performed the Signum Crucis, just as Goodwife Catherine had earlier that morning.

Anger sparked in her chest at the sign. Avice quickly cooled her flaring temper. She took a deep breath, staying calm to get the best outcome for the dying child in her arms.

“Mister Robert, as sad as it is, your daughter is not long for this land,” Avice explained, tucking the blanket back over the baby.

“I can see that,” the shepherd grunted, the corners of his eyes damp as he blinked down at his daughter.

The midwife knew she could waste no more time; she had to get the child to the well before she died. She tilted her chin upwards with false bravado.

“I know this is difficult, sir. I wish to ask you, would you let me offer the child to the Good Neighbours?” she asked.

The shepherd brushed away the tears that gathered with a rough knuckle. “Offer her? To those devils? My child?” he bit.

“Yes, sir.” Avice continued to meet his eyes as she fought the instinct to lower her gaze from his penetrating stare.

Robert furrowed his brow; the lines in his skin deepened. “She should be buried, in the church yard.”

She knew then that there would be no hope for baby. The poor child would be buried in the cold, hard ground. That, according to the men of the local church, her soul would go to Limbo. Her stomach dropped at the thought of the worms in the soil consuming the tiny baby. But Avice knew if the Good Neighbours accepted the child, she would live in enchantment and joy.

The midwife nodded her acceptance and held her out. “Then, please, take her.”

Robert recoiled from the offer, shaking his head. “I will not touch the child; she has a devil’s mark. You take her.”