Gripping Iain by the shoulders in a gesture meant to comfort, Tavis said, “The bairn is on its way."
Iain felt as if he had been dealt a powerful blow to the stomach. He swayed slightly beneath the shock of Tavis's quiet announcement. Although he had been expecting Islaen to deliver the child at any moment he had expected some warning of the event when it came. There had been none. Or at least none that he had seen or been told about, he thought suddenly, and looked at Tavis with growing suspicion.
"Ye kenned and said naught?” Iain hissed, the cold in him turning to sheer ice as Tavis's words continued to sear his brain.
"She didnae want ye to ken it was time. Aye, she was in labor as we dined but I didnae guess it ‘til later."
"Oh God,” Iain groaned as he broke from Tavis's light grip and bounded up the stairs, his father and his brother at his heels.
There was no real sound to be heard when he stopped outside of the door of his chambers, a circumstance that chilled his heart. A low moan and the soft murmur of a man's voice reached his ears and his fist wreaked havoc upon the closed door. It did not gain him the entry he desired. Instead, he found himself facing Meg, who planted herself firmly between him and the reshut door.
"Ye cannae go in there. ‘Tis nay a place for a mon."
"There is a mon in there now. I can hear him."
"'Tis Wallace. He has a way of soothing the lass like one of his beasts and is as guid as any midwife. Ye will stay out here."
"God's beard, ye old corbie, I want to see my wife."
"I ken ye arenae intending to sweet talk yer way in. Ye arenae going in. Ye are in a sorry state and thinking on death. It willnae do the lass any guid to have such a dowie face peeking at her. Stay here or gie tae the hall to get drunk but ye arenae going in to fret o'er her.” She slipped back into the room, slammed and bolted the door.
"I will set right here, witch,” he bellowed but then began to pace the hall in agitation.
Colin slipped away and returned a few moments later with some whiskey. Flanked by his brother and father, Iain sat directly opposite the door. Although Tavis and Colin managed to get a dram or two, it was Iain who did most of the drinking. The lack of noise usually associated with a woman in labor began to bother them as well. Somehow it seemed ominous not to be assailed with the vocal expressions of the pain they knew she had to be in. A hearty scream would almost be welcome.
Islaen was sorely tempted to give a scream that would bring down Caraidland's sturdy walls. With the entrance of her son into the world she felt as if she were being torn in two. Her teeth nearly met through the leather she bit on. The worst of it was that it was not over. Her exhausted body hardly took a breath but it was straining yet again to eject another babe. Despite that she smiled when the lusty cries of her firstborn filled the room followed immediately by Iain's pounding fist on the still-bolted door.
For someone who was so terrified of childbirth, Iain seemed very eager to come and see, she thought with a weak smile. His obvious concern was support of a sort and she found a source of renewed strength in that. He might not be right beside her but he was near and clearly concerned and that was good enough.
"Let me in,” Iain belowed. “Now!"
"Nay,” Meg bellowed right back, “ye cannae come in yet. There's things that be left tae be done. Ye'd be surprised if ye kenned,” she muttered.
"Islaen,” called Iain, thrilled by the sound of a living child but still terrified for his wife, “are ye all right?"
It was not easy but Islaen answered him. “Aye. I go along fine, Iain. Be patient. T'will not be long now."
"There,” Tavis soothed as he pulled Iain back from the door, “doesnae that ease your mind? The bairn lives as does Islaen."
"Wee Islaen would say she goes along fine if she had to use her dying breath to do it. I wish to see with my own eyes that she does."
"They will be cleaning up and all,” said Colin. “Then ye can go in and look all ye care to. The worst is o'er now, laddie."
It was not true and they both knew it. Now came the danger that, as with Catalina, the bleeding would continue until the life drained from the woman's body or a fever took her within days of the birth. A live baby would mean little to him if it cost him Islaen. Iain wanted to be with her as if by the sheer strength of his will and presence he could keep her from slipping away from him.
Each minute the door remained closed to him, denying him the sight of a living Islaen, was a torture to Iain. He saw all too clearly all the ways she could die, envisioned every horror that could visit a childbed. As he waited for what seemed a lifetime he took little notice of a second and third wail.
"Mark the first-born,” gasped Islaen as her second son loudly proclaimed that he lived and she wondered why her body still strained. “I want no doubt as to which has what rights. Ye three will be witnesses to it. As my fither had done, Meg."
Begging forgiveness for hurting such a harmless creature, Meg cut the baby's right palm then tended the wound in a way that would leave a scar. It would be a lasting mark that would ever denote the boy as the first to have left his mother's womb. Less important was the way it would ever make the twins easy to tell apart. MacRoth had dubbed it the Heritage Scar for it told without question how the line of succession went. Meg then turned her mind to Islaen and fought to hide her fear and worry.
"What is it, Wallace? Can ye tell why the poor child still labors as if there is yet a bairn to be born?"
After his knowledgeable hands moved over Islaen's still swollen, contracting belly, Wallace said, “Seems there still is a bairn to come."
"Oh God,” Islaen moaned softly, “am I to bear a litter like some bitch?"
"Nay, ‘tis the last but dinnae hope too much for it tae live, lassie,” he said softly. “T'would be a miracle an it did."
