Strands of Starlight (6 page)

“Mika?” Miriam was alarmed. “Did—“

“I lost Petronella's girl. She was breech, and the cord was tangled. I . . . just couldn't get the child out in time. Oh . . . the sweet little thing. A face like her mother's.” Mika put her own face in her hands.

Miriam was beside her in a moment, ignoring the pain of her joints. “Mika . . .” she stopped, unable to say a word. Eight years of bitterness filled her mouth with sand. Babies died. Of course they did. So did adults. So did healers. What difference did it make?

But Mika's shoulders were shaking, and Miriam knew that to some, it did indeed make a difference. There were those in the world who, like Aloysius Cranby, took life; and there were those who, like Mika, desired to give it, who reached out to the ill, the old,t he newborn to find at times their hands empty, their grasp not large enough, their reach just short of the goal.

“It happens, Mika,” she managed.

“It does,” whispered the midwife. “But I always wonder: if I'd done something different, been wiser, seen more . . . maybe . . .”

“Don't blame yourself.”

“Who should I blame? God? The devil?” The midwife raised her head and blinked at the healer. “Times like these, I don't know, Miriam. Times like these, I envy you.”

“Don't envy me. Just look at my legs. Don't envy me.”

Mika did not seem to hear. “And now Clare seems to be having difficulty. Mother of God, be with me!”

Miriam rubbed her shoulders, made her eat and lie down. Clare's husband might come at any time for her, and she needed to be rested. When she was sure the midwife was asleep, she banked the fire, extinguished the lamps, and sat in the darkness, listening to Mika's slow, even breathing.

***

Crows were flying south over the roofs of Hypprux, circling about the cathedral spines, counterpointing the bells ringing terce with their croaking descants. They flitted past the weavers' guildhall, paused above the market to eye the breads and cheeses, then passed on, wings beating heavily, making toward the faint dark line of the southern horizon that was Malvern Forest.

For a moment, their shadows fell on Roger of Aurverelle's city house that stood near the walls of the Chateau, snuggling up against that seat of power as though it pressed an ear to the door of a council chamber. It stretched all the way from High Baron's Street to Trinity Street, white, new-painted, and ornamented with grotesques and with emblems of its owner's interest: a stag running from the hunter's arrow, a bear cornered by hounds, a falcon in flight, the arms of the city of Hypprux.

George Darci paused before the gate. The arms of Hypprux. Why Hypprux? Roger's lands lay to the south, adjacent to the Free Towns. He had his own arms. Why did he display those of Hypprux?

When George entered, the porter was already waiting for him. “I am sorry, Your Honor,” the man said in his French accent. “The master is not in today.”

George pressed his lips together, fought for his temper. It was not, after all, the porter's fault. “This is the sixth time in as many weeks that your master has been unavailable,” he said finally. “Tell me, my man, is he
ever
available?”

“Begging your pardon, Your Honor,” said the porter. “He took it in his head to go hunting. He set off toward his lands early this morning.”

George contemplated his boots. He had stayed in Hypprux too long, and the odors of the city—garbage, sewage, the omnipresent stench of the retting pools—were rank in the back of his throat. He wanted to go home, back to Saint Blaise, away from all this bowing and scraping and intrigue. He wanted to crawl into bed with Anne, laugh and giggle with her as they always did during lovemaking. Roger was gone? So much more the excuse to return to the Free Towns, talk to the burghers about the threat, take Janet out to gather flowers, and maybe—if it was not asking overmuch—see Terrill again. How long had it been? A year? Well, everybody knew Elves did not like cities.

He realized the porter was waiting for a response. “Will I be able to find your master at his estate in Aurverelle?”

“By Notre Dame I do not know, Your Honor. Sometimes the baron goes off into the forest alone for many days.”

“Very well. Thank you.” He started to leave, but turned again. “Why does your master display the arms of Hypprux?”

“Ah, sir,” said the porter. “His half-sister married Enguerrand, Baron of Hypprux. Baron Roger is most anxious for good relations with his brother-in-law.”

“Thank you,” said George. “God be with you, sir.” He went out to the street. Stag, bear, falcon, and the city arms. Hunting, hunting, hunting . . . and hunting.

It was Robert who came for Mika, the big man standing in the doorway with the cold wind tearing at his hair. Clare had, he said solemnly, gone into labor at last.

Miriam watched as Mika took up her bundle of supplies and the pot of herbal infusion she had kept ready. “I'll be back late,” said the midwife as she went toward the door.

The healer stood. “I'm . . .”

Mika and Robert had paused at her tone. Outside, the wind blew fiercely. Miriam picked up the dark green cloak and wrapped it around her. It hung on her like a tent, but she fastened the clasp and tucked up the hems. “I'm going with you.”

“Child . . . you can't. . . .” Mika shook her head vehemently. “It may be difficult.” She stole a glance at Robert. His usually impassive peasant face showed strain and worry. His doting on Clare was almost a local joke.

“I'm coming. You'll probably need . . . an apprentice . . . or someone. . . .”

“Child—“

“
I'm not a child!
” Miriam flung the words at her like a sword. Mika looked again at Robert, then at Miriam.

“All right,” Mika said at last. Her voice was small, fragile, nearly drowned out by the wind.

Robert led them out of the house and down the road, the wind driving bits of trees and clouds of dust like hailstones and rain. Mika put her arm around Miriam to steady the tottering healer. “Why?” she said into Miriam's ear. “You can't do this. It's dangerous.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“Answer me!”

A gust kicked at them. Miriam stumbled both from the wind and from the flash of white heat that flickered for an instant at the base of her spine. She clung to Mika. “I saw what happened when you lost Petronella's girl,” she said. “I . . . I don't want that to happen again.”

“It could bring the Inquisition.”

“I'll take the chance.”

“Miriam!”

“Dammit, Mika, just do your bloody job and we won't have to worry about it. All right?”

Mika flinched and said nothing more.

Robert's was a farmer's house—rock, wood, and mud—lying at the edge of the hamlet, looking out across the new-plowed fields that stretched off toward the west. The wind buffeted it, and its thatched roof seemed about to blow away at any moment. “ 'Tis a hard wind for this time of year,” said Robert as they crossed the yard. “I think she'll hold, though.” A cry, half of surprise, half of pain, drifted from the hut, and he stopped and fell silent, his eyes moist.

The fire was building in Miriam's spine. She stifled it, and it turned into a pool of magma in the small of her back. Was Clare in such condition that even out here . . . ?

“I'll take care of her.” Mika was saying to Robert.

“By Our Lady,” he returned with a clumsy bow, “I'll thank'ee for it.” He straightened and turned away. “I'll be with Kyle,” he called over his shoulder.

There was another brief cry. Mika took Miriam by the arm and pounded on the door. “The midwife,” she called, and the door was jerked open by Jeanne. The sturdy woman hustled them in and helped them off with their cloaks.

Because of the wind, the shutters were closed, and Miriam blinked while her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Some of the other women of the village were there, sitting around the fire, knitting, sewing, making swaddling bands. Then she saw Clare lying on a pallet on the other side of the room, and the flash up her spine nearly sent her staggering.

The woman was grossly bloated from the dropsy, and her face was pale and damp with sweat. When she saw Mika, she extended a puffy hand. Her fingers looked like sausages.

“Boil water,” said the midwife to Jeanne. She reached into her bundle and extracted a package of herbs. “And brew up some of this. It's raspberry leaf and parsley. You know what I need.”

“Aye.”

“And bring me something so I can wash my hands, please.”

While Jeanne was hurrying for a basin, Mika sat down next to Clare. The laboring woman was dazed. “Mika?”

“I'm here, child.”

“I'm cold. . . .”

The midwife put a hand on Clare's forehead. Miriam did not have to see the shake of her head to know that Clare was fevered. She knew also the mother's heart was racing. The power flickered along her spine. Brutally, she shoved it down again. The magma pool grew larger.

Let Mika do it. She can handle it. That's what she's here for.
She tried to reassure the power, but the fire only grew. She looked at the circle of women around the hearth. One of them, gray-haired and grandmotherly, patted an empty place on the bench. Miriam shook her head.
Mika, please don't fail.

The midwife washed her hands carefully and examined Clare. “Pain?” she murmured.

“I . . . I . . .” Clare made an indefinite gesture at her chest. Mika looked alarmed. Clare let her bloated arm fall to the side and stared blankly at the ceiling. A long contraction shuddered down her belly.

“Jeanne, Miriam,” snapped the midwife. “Some cold cloths for her forehead.”

Jeanne brought them, but Miriam pulled herself away from thoughts of the power and took the basin from her. The room was wavering in her sight as she wrung out a cloth and placed it on Clare's brow. The mother's eyes flickered.

Mika was wiping her hands. “I think the baby's in a good position,” she said. “I won't be able to tell for certain for a while.” Her face was pale.

“What is it?” said Miriam.

“The baby's in trouble,” the midwife whispered. “There's little I can do right now. Pray.”

“Pray?” It had been years since she had prayed. She could not start now, not here in this house with a roomful of women, a delirious mother, and the white fire of her healing battering her from within.

Jeanne brought the tea. Clare was hardly able to swallow. Mika gave it to her in minute sips after stirring in a little honey, then sat down by the pallet and wiped Clare's face periodically with the cool cloth, murmuring reassuringly. She was obviously waiting.

The conversations among the women by the fire started up again, soft words about children, housekeeping, husbands, and Clare. There was an element of worry in their tones to be sure, but there was also confidence. Mika was here. She could do anything.

Hours passed. Outside, the sun crawled toward the horizon. Inside, Clare was still delirious, now in heavy labor, crying out in a vague voice when the pain became too great. Mika bathed Clare's face, felt the muscles of her belly, tried to get her to drink a little more of the infusion.

Miriam sat beside Mika, the magma burning through her back, a white haze of pain creeping into her vision. Her hands shook. Toward evening, Mika turned to her. “Maybe you'd better go.”

“It's too late for that.”

Jeanne brought more cool cloths. Mika waved her aside and bent over Clare, who was, between contractions, tossing back and forth on the sweat-soaked pallet.

“I can feel the baby's head,” she said softly to Miriam. “It's not breech. So that means toxemia. Mother of God, I wish it were breech!”

Just then, Clare shuddered, and her face, already blank, lost all expression. Mika slid a hand beneath the mother's knee, elevated it, and gave it a slight blow just below the kneecap. The leg jerked in a massive reflex, the foot swinging high toward the ceiling once, then again. The twitches died away slowly.

“Jesus—”

“Mika?”

Mika was already reaching into her bundle. She came up with a short, thick stick. “Miriam, you'll have to—”

The midwife was cut short by a sudden spasm in Clare. It was not a contraction. It grew quickly, massively, spreading through her body, twisting it, wringing it. Clare's head slammed down on the pallet, her back arching. Mika shoved the stick into Clare's mouth just as her jaws snapped shut, splintering the wood. Clare moaned as she writhed on the pallet, shuddering terribly.

“Miriam, hold her,” Mika snapped as she grabbed and pinned Clare's legs. Without thinking, the little healer flung herself across Clare's head and shoulders, fighting against muscles that were clenching the woman's entire body. A froth of spittle grew around Clare's mouth, and her gasps sprayed flecks of spume into Miriam's face. She hardly noticed: the fire was climbing rapidly.

Abruptly, the seizure passed, and the woman went limp and unconscious. Miriam lay on her, exhausted. The women by the fire had fallen silent, and she heard only the crackling of the fire, the wind, and the sound of blood dripping from the pallet.

Mika straightened. “Jeanne,” she said. “By my bundle is a pot of ergot infusion. Put some in a cup.”

Jeanne was staring at the pallet. Blood was pooling rapidly around the unconscious Clare, soaking the matting, dripping to the floor in a thin stream.

“
Jeanne!
”

Jeanne fumbled with the pot and a cup.

“I . . . don't understand,” Miriam forced the words out.

“What's happening?” The power was white-hot now, flooding her mind, blanketing her sight.

Mika moved with terrible purpose. She snatched the cup of infusion from Jeanne, then turned around and pulled Miriam off the hemorrhaging woman. “She's bleeding to death, Miriam,” she said. Her voice was like ice. “The fit tore the afterbirth away from her womb. Jeanne, you'd best run fetch the priest.”

The peasant woman threw the door open and set off at a run.

Blood dripped steadily, soaking the rushes on the earth floor, puddling, spreading. Mika forced Clare's mouth open and tried to make her drink the ergot tea, but she would not awaken, would not swallow. “Clare. Clare! Swallow! Dear God!”