The Birth

“She’s not an ox,” said the midwife. “You can’t work her day and night when she’s so near her time.”

Arsène’s face was flushed. “Will she live?”

“She might. Oughtn’t get a child on a slip like her. Too thin. Hips that narrow; the babe could die before it passes through.”

“I didn’t ask for your cheek, woman.”

“No, but you’ll have it, or I’ll not bloody my hands for you or yours again.”

Joan, walking up and down the hall, paid them no mind. Sweat poured in rivers down her aching back. Rohaise watched her from where she lay flat on her back on one of the benches, picking at her teeth with a gnawed and flaking nail. The other woman’s merry blue eyes tracked her back and forth, back and forth, tirelessly amused by her swollen belly, her blemished skin, her shuffling, awkward gait.

When it’s out of me I’ll give her something to laugh about. Claw her eyes bloody and nail her tongue to the wall.

Another cramp seized hold of her as she neared the doors. She doubled over, clawing at the nearest pillar for support, and listened to the pop and hiss of green wood in the fire and the uneven rasp of her own breathing.

The midwife appeared at her side. “Come,” she said, not unkindly. “It’s time to sit.”

Joan let the other woman lead her by the hand to the east wall and help her sink onto the heap of rags piled against it. All the strength went out of her body as she leaned back against the slats. Another cramp swept down from her belly to her thighs, twisting muscles into knots. 

“You,” the midwife barked at Arsène. “Out.”

Joan heard him go. Fresh spring air swept through the sweltering gloom. The fire roared, leaping up toward the vent in the roof. The doors slammed. “How long?” she grated through bared teeth. The pressure building above her pelvis felt as though it would soon snap bone. Her stomach’s muscles, warped by the swell of her pregnancy, twitched and strained. 

The woman knelt between Joan’s legs and pushed her chemise up her thighs. She squinted, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepening in the firelight. “Not long now, my lady.” She drew a polished stone out from her sleeve. “For the pain?”

Joan nodded.

The midwife pressed the stone, warmed by her palms, against Joan’s vulva. “Saint Margaret, show this child its gate and ease its passage. Protect its life and the life of its mother. Form well its limbs and clear its eyes.”

She kissed the the stone and set it on the crest of Joan’s belly. What have the saints ever done for me? 

Rohaise looked on, crouched now on the nearer bench and biting idly at the gnawed skin of a fingertip. 

Another cramp. Hands digging through her innards, twisting loops of gut into hard knots. Stiff fingers teasing strands of muscle from their place, leaving her body frayed as an old spider web. She sobbed as much with weariness as fear.

“You’re going to push now,” said the midwife. 

The room swam as the cramp pushed deeper into her, clawing its way through the floor of her belly. “No.”

The old woman bent Joan’s legs, pushing on her calves to tent her knees. “It will be worse if you fight it.”

“No.” Spit surged through her gritted teeth.

She tried to close her legs. Protesting muscles coiled and shuddered.  “I don’t want it.”

The midwife seized her jaw in an iron grip. Her dark gaze burned. “You don’t have a choice.”

She screamed as the next cramp came, her voice a thread of palest light before a dark wave roaring over barren earth. The heat of the fire fell away. The touch of the midwife with it, whipped from her skin into swirling smoke. 

The world crumbled, and she came apart.