Maybel saw it and quickly asked, “The bairn?”
“I have no pain,” Rosamund said slowly, “but water has gushed forth from me, yet it isn’t pee.” She looked extremely perplexed.
“Some start with the pains and others with the water,” Maybel said calmly. “The bairn has decided to come, and it is its time, lass. You must walk the hall while we set the birthing chair up by the fire.” The older woman turned to Owein. “You and Edmund know what to do, my lord. As for you, my fine priest, a few prayers will help us all along.”
Rosamund began to walk about the little hall. I am having my child now, she thought, suddenly excited. By morning I shall hold my son in my arms. A new generation for Friarsgate. Come, my wee Hughie, and be born. Aye! Hugh for Hugh Cabot. Edward for my lost brother, and Guy for my father whom I barely remember. Hugh Edward Guy Meredith, the next lord of Friarsgate. And suddenly the first pain struck her, and she stopped dead in her tracks.“Ohhhhh!”The wave washed over her, and then was as quickly gone.
“Keep walking,” Maybel instructed her.
The birthing chair was set up by the hearth upon a bed of straw. A large cauldron of water bubbled over the fire. A small table was piled with linen cloths. Another table held a brass ewer and a small flask of oil. The cradle was brought along with the swaddling clothes.
“Now get out, all of you,” Maybel instructed.
“Owein must remain!” Rosamund cried as her uncle Edmund, the priest, and the servants exited the hall.
“Birthing is woman’s work, lass,” Maybel said.
“I’ll stay,” Owein said quietly, and Maybel nodded.
Rosamund walked about the hall until her legs grew weak and she could no longer stand. Owein caught her before she fell, and carried her to the birthing chair. He seated her, and she clutched the sturdy wooden arms of the chair as her pains grew closer and closer. It finally seemed as if there was no respite from her agony at all.
“Push, lass,” Maybel instructed her. “You have to push the bairn from your body.”
“I cannot,” Rosamund wailed. Her brow was dotted with perspiration, and she could hardly catch her breath now.
“You must!”Maybel said fiercely.
The long spring twilight turned into blackest night. The night wore on, and Rosamund grew more tired and weaker as she labored to bring forth her child, the heir to the Friarsgate inheritance. Owein stayed by her side, encouraging her, moistening her dry lips with a rag soaked in wine, smoothing her now lank auburn hair from her moist forehead.
Finally, as the sky began to lighten with a new day, Maybel cried out, “’Tis almost done, lass! The bairn is almost here. With the next pain you must push with every bit of strength in you!”
And Rosamund clutched the arms of the chair, gritting her teeth and grunting as she pushed with all of her might. A cry rent the dawn, and Maybel on her knees before the birthing chair drew the howling infant the last bit from its mother’s body.
“’Tis a lass!” Maybel cried, “and every bit as pretty as you were when you were born!”
“But I wanted a son!” Rosamund wailed.
“Next time,” Owein said, his hazel eyes shining as he looked upon his daughter for the first time.
“Next time?You must be mad,” Rosamund told him, but Owein and Maybel only laughed.
“What shall we name her?” he asked his now exhausted wife.
“What is the day?” Rosamund replied, feeling so very tired and almost unable to keep her eyes open now.
“April the twenty-ninth,” he said.
“Tomorrow is my birthday. I shall be fifteen. Today, however, is St. Catharine’s Day. We will name her after my mother, the saint, and the Queen of the Scots,” Rosamund decided.
Maybel had finished cleaning off the child, whose previously loud cries were now subsiding. She wrapped the baby in clean swaddling clothes and handed her to her mother. “She has your auburn hair, lass.”
Rosamund looked down at her firstborn. “Welcome to the world, Philippa Catharine Margaret. We almost shared a birthday,” she said, and then she laughed as her daughter yawned and closed her eyes in sleep, as if to say,Well now that that’s settled we can get some rest.
Owein’s slender finger touched the infant’s silken cheek. “Our daughter,” he murmured softly.
“I am sorry, my lord,” Rosamund told him. “I did try to make you a son.”
“She is perfect,” he responded. “I could not be happier, lovey.”
