The Midwife's Tale(3)

I opened my valise and laid out the oils and medicines I would need. I said a prayer as I slipped a small knife for the navel string into my apron. The small satchel of cutting tools remained at the bottom of the bag, and I hoped they would remain there. I opened a vial of oil and, muttering another prayer under my breath, anointed my hands and the neck of Mercy’s womb. I slipped my hand inside to see how the child lay and to judge how best I could smooth his journey into the world. I could feel the child’s head and knew that he would be born soon. I looked up at Mercy. The skin was drawn tight across her cheeks and her eyes shone with pain, giving her the look of a demon. She should have eaten to sustain her strength, and I wished I’d brought some food for her.

I turned to Sairy. “The baby will be born shortly. Do you have linens prepared?” She looked at me blankly. “For swaddling the child?” I added.

“In the chest,” said Mercy. “I purchased them last week.” I nodded at Sairy, and she sprang into action, pulling a small packet out of the chest and laying it on the table.

“Now take some water and put it on the fire,” I said. Sairy hesitated again. A sweet girl and good sister, but not what I would want in an assistant. “We’ll need to wash the baby. Not too hot, just warm enough to clean him.” Sairy disappeared into the kitchen, and I turned back to Mercy.

“Here, let me help you up—you’ll do better squatting on your haunches than lying down. The child will struggle to be born, and it’s better to give him a downhill road.” She hesitated, unsure if walking around while in travail was a good idea. “It will also mean you don’t have to burn your mattress afterwards.” She grasped my hands and with some effort hauled herself off the bed and to her feet.

We walked in small circles around the room, Mercy’s arm over my shoulders, mine around her waist. From time to time she rested her head on my shoulder, and I saw her wipe tears on my collar. It seemed to me that these were tears not of pain but of regret. She had sinned, of course, and deserved some measure of her fate, but I wondered what possible future Peter Clark had stolen from her when he got her with child. Would she ever live as a respectable housewife? Would she raise her children in a home with more than one bed, two stools, and a table? Or was this a final step into dire poverty? Would she end her life as one of the city’s whores, her child an urchin destined for a similar life?

“You’ll be fine,” I said, squeezing her shoulders. I also added a silent prayer that I spoke the truth. “Your travail is going well, and the baby’s head is at the neck of your matrix. Who knows? It may not even hurt.” At this, even though fear and exhaustion threatened to overtake her, she smiled a little. “It will probably hurt,” I conceded, and we continued to walk.

As the height of Mercy’s labor approached, I called to Sairy. “You’ll have to support her while I deliver the child. Sit on the edge of the bed and put your arms under hers, holding her up.” I renewed my questioning.

“Mercy, tell the truth, who is the father of your child?”

“He is Peter Clark.”

“Swear, Mercy.”

“If the father is any man other than Peter Clark, may this child and I never part!”

But a short time later they did part, and by the grace of God I ushered a lusty baby girl into the world. If healthy lungs guaranteed a long life, this child would outlive her own grandchildren. I cut and bound the navel string.

“Bring the water and a clean cloth,” I told Sairy. She went to the kitchen and returned with a pot, which she set on the table. With no great optimism she began to root in the chest for a cloth. “Never mind,” I said. I unclipped my collar and tested the water’s temperature. Miraculously, it was just right. I dipped my collar-turned-washcloth into the water and began to clean the squalling infant. Once that task was accomplished, I took the linen bands from the package Mercy had bought and swaddled the girl. Mercy now sat on one of the stools, leaning against the bed, looking dazed. I placed the infant in her arms and held my lantern so mother and child could gaze upon each other.

“If the afterbirth does not come on its own, in a moment I’ll have to fetch it out myself,” I told her. She nodded. But luck was on her side, and a few minutes later the afterbirth was delivered of its own accord. After dressing Mercy’s privities, I helped her into bed. Exhausted, she lay back and closed her eyes.

“No sleep yet,” I told her. “You should nurse the child and then you can both sleep.” Her nipples were well suited for nursing, and the child sucked greedily. I turned to Sairy and saw that she had dozed off in the corner. Only the Lord knew how long she had been awake. I glanced at the window and noticed that morning had come. I heard the Minster bell toll once—half-five, I guessed. I went into the kitchen to see what food they had but found only a stale bread crust and pot of weak ale. I returned to the parlor and saw that all three of the house’s inhabitants slept. I shook Sairy awake. She looked up at me, still half-asleep.