Owein picked up his wife and cradled her in his arms as the servants ran for the birthing chair. Her waters broke, soaking them both, but he would not leave her, instead kneeling by her side and speaking in soothing tones to her as she labored to birth the child within her. He moistened her lips with a napkin soaked with wine. He kissed her brow and mopped away the beads of perspiration that dappled it. And Rosamund wept wildly, for as she had known this child was a son, she also instinctively knew she would lose him before she even knew him. It broke her heart, but she was not prepared when the perfectly formed little boy slid from her straining body in a rush of bloody fluid, the cord wrapped tightly about his neck, his little face and limbs blue. No sound issued forth from the baby, and Maybel, tears running down her own face, shook her head wearily.
“He is dead, poor wee bairn,” she announced. Then she said, attempting to cushion the tragedy, “But you will live, my dearest lass, and you will bear Friarsgate another heir.”
“Let me see him,” Rosamund said. “Let me see my Hugh.”
Maybel wiped the birthing blood from the infant, and after wrapping him in a white swaddling cloth, handed him to Rosamund.
The grieving mother looked down at the child in her arms. The baby was his father’s image, his miniature features mimicking Owein’s: a tiny fuzz of blond hair upon his rounded skull, the almost invisible minuscule sandy lashes upon his cheeks. Her silent tears fell upon the tiny corpse as she clutched him to her aching breasts. Maybel had cut away the cord from the child’s neck, but he was still pale blue in color. The older woman reached out now to take the baby, but Rosamund gave Maybel a fierce look. “Not yet,” she said. “Not yet.”
Finally Owein said in a quiet voice, “Give me my son, Rosamund,” and kissing the baby’s cold brow she handed him to his father. Owein studied the small scrap of humanity in the curve of his arm. “He’s perfect, and considering he was early by a month, every bit as large as his sisters were when they were born. We made a fine son, lovey. We will make another, I promise you.” Then he handed the baby to the young priest.
“I will baptize him, m’lady, before we bury him,” Father Mata said softly. “I know he is Hugh. May we add Simon, for today is St. Simon’s Day?”
She nodded, then asked sadly, “How can you bury him with the snow on the ground, good father?”
“The earth is softer by the church itself, lady,” he said.
Rosamund nodded again. “Go then,” was all she said.
The priest departed the hall with the dead infant.
“Why can I not give you a son?” Rosamund said despairingly.
“You gave me a son,” Owein replied.
“But he is dead!”she cried.“Our son is dead!”
He put his arms about her and let her weep until finally she could weep no more. Her eyes were almost swollen shut with the burning, stinging salt from her tears. She was exhausted with her labor, and finally collapsed with her sorrow and weariness. He picked her up after Maybel had cleaned away the evidence of the unfortunate birth, and carried her to their chamber. After tucking her into their bed, he brought her a cup of warmed, mulled wine, and supporting her shoulders, he helped her to drink it all down. He knew that Maybel had doctored the wine with poppy juice. Rosamund fell quickly into sleep.
“I will see she sleeps for several days,” Maybel told Owein when he returned to the hall. “Sleep is a great healer, though she will grieve a long time for the bairn’s loss. What a pity, Owein, for the lad was perfect.”
“Then why did he come early, and why was he born dead?” Owein said bitterly. He was angry, though Rosamund should never know it lest she blame herself. “Aye, he was beautiful. Every bit as his sisters.”
“He was born dead because the cord twisted about his wee neck and strangled him. He was dead in her womb, and who knows for how long. Why? The priest will say ’tis God’s will, though why God would will a sweet bairn to be born dead I do not know,” Maybel responded. “’Tis a mystery, but she has proven she can birth a son. You will make another, and next time ’twill be all right. This was an accident. Nothing more, no matter what the priest will say.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “but she will grieve hard, Maybel.” He sat down in his chair by the fire, one hand going to pat the greyhound and accepting the goblet of wine she handed him with the other.
“Of course she will grieve. She is a loving woman, a devoted mother,” Maybel retorted.
“What am I to tell our lasses?” he wondered.
“You will tell them that their brother decided to remain with the angels,” Maybel said. “Only Philippa will really understand. Banon and Bessie are too young.”
“Aye,” he said, and sipped thoughtfully at his wine, not even noticing that she left him to his thoughts in the empty hall, the fire warming his feet. He had not felt such sadness since that time long long ago that his own mother had died and he was left alone for the first time in his life. He had remained alone until he had married his Rosamund. They would grieve Hugh’s loss together, each giving the other comfort and love in their sorrow. It would be easier for them having each other.
Rosamund slept for several days, waking for brief times to eat lightly and be consoled by her husband. Then she would drink from the cup and sleep again. After a week she could sleep no more. Her three daughters climbed into their bed, cuddling with her and chattering how their brother had decided to stay with the angels. Rosamund swallowed back her tears upon hearing that and hugged her girls tightly. After a second week she arose from her bed, discovering that the snow was melting away, and the hills were beginning to green up again. Her first foray outside took her to a small grave where her son lay buried. She stood over it for what seemed to Owein a long time, and then, turning away, she announced, “I am hungry.”
Relief poured through him. “Then let us go to the hall and eat,” he said to her.
She slipped her hand into his. “’Twas an accident, I know. It will not happen again, and we shall have another son, Owein.”
“Aye, we will,” he agreed, but when she was not within his hearing he instructed Maybel to see she was given the potion that would prevent her conceiving again for the present. “Whether or not we have a son is God’s will,” he said, “but I will take no chances and lose my lovey.”
“Aye, she needs to recover her strength fully,” Maybel concurred.
The rhythm of their life continued as it always had. The fields were plowed and planted with grain. The kitchen gardens were restarted. The herbs began to green up under their mulch of straw. Spring had come in full force. The orchards bloomed, and never had Rosamund seen them so beautiful, the pink and white blossoms that covered the trees emitting a faint odor of sweetness.
Henry Bolton paid them a visit from Otterly, professing sorrow for their loss and then suggesting a match between his eldest son and Philippa.
