The Book of Gothel, page 33
I felt the otherworldly weather shifting fast in the opposite direction. A strong pull into the next world. The possibility of death swirled around—the air going taut—like a snake waiting to strike.
A cacophony of feeling rose up in me. Certainty, that I was supposed to be here. Outrage, at the midwife’s intent.
The figurine buzzed in my coin-purse, humming, furious. I knew what I had to do. I threw my body between the midwife and Ursilda.
When the midwife drew her knife, the anger inside me burst.
I was not myself when I pulled the dagger from its hilt. I was my mother, lashing out to protect me. I was the Mother’s impulse to protect her daughters on earth. I thought of Rika, how I had failed her. I thought of Ursilda, the child in her belly, as I slit the midwife’s throat.
The cut was jagged and deep. Blood seeped from the wound onto her dress. She crumpled to the floor.
I heard a stifled cry behind me.
Blood began to pool, thick and red, beneath the body on the rug. My body sagged with relief. Ursilda was safe. I said a quick prayer for the midwife’s soul as I watched it exit this world, a thin breeze that hissed on its way out. When it was gone, the tension in the air didn’t collapse. The pull into the next world continued.
The disembodied sound of sobbing filled the room.
Matthäus materialized in front of us, removing his tarnkappe. The sobs were his. His expression was shocked; he stared at the midwife’s corpse in horror. “God have mercy,” he said.
Irmgard gasped: a man, in the birthing chamber. She eyed the spreading pool of blood.
“Princess Ursilda,” I blurted. “Forgive us for bringing a man into your chamber. The queen warned us you had been beset by an assassin.”
Matthäus nodded, averting his eyes. “I couldn’t let her face this alone.”
I met his eyes, trying to gauge how he felt about what I’d done. There was relief in his eyes, but also fear. Despite our conversation on the way here, he wasn’t sure what to think. We would have to discuss this later.
I turned to Ursilda. “The midwife was sent here by the king to find out where Ulrich was, or kill you. To punish your family.”
“Why?”
I met her eyes, uncertain whether I should upset her further. “Your brother ordered Frederika’s murder.”
Ursilda’s mouth fell open, her face crumpling into a sob. “No.” She began to hyperventilate. “My brother?”
I nodded, gritting my teeth. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why would he kill Frederika?”
“He found out she was handfasted to someone else. A peasant.”
Her face crumpled in horror. “No.” She burst into tears. “No—”
Irmgard reached for her hand, trying to comfort her.
Ursilda pushed her away. “Frederika.” Her voice shook. She kept shaking her head in denial. “He—I can’t—”
“I’m sorry, Ursilda. I saw his man do it with my own eyes. He berated her for running away from him.”
She stared at me, horrified, a darkness creeping into her green eyes. They narrowed, and I saw an anger there that I knew must’ve simmered for a very long time.
“Beatrice sent us to warn you. The king—he wants revenge. Since he can’t get to your brother, he wants you dead. The midwife has been poisoning you, I suspect, with arsenic.”
Ursilda’s mouth fell open. “That’s why I’ve felt so weak?”
I turned to the cook. “Is there sysemera, betony, and rue in the garden?” She nodded. “What about hydromel? Garden spurge?”
The cook nodded again, rushing out for the ingredients.
I helped Ursilda away from the blood that was seeping into the rags. She listened as I described the murder I’d witnessed, what happened when I testified against Ulrich at court. When I finished the story, a pang overwhelmed her.
I closed my eyes, taking stock of the otherworldly weather. There was no trembling, no soul at the threshold. The pull into the next world was still strong.
“Breathe,” I told her, panicking. “Rock your hips. You’ve got to stay calm.”
She arched her back, moaning with pain. All of the color drained from her face. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
I feared that her soul was about to leave her body. She didn’t have the strength to push. When the pang passed, she began to pant with shallow breaths, so quickly I worried she might faint. “Breathe deep,” I reminded her.
As we waited for the cook to bring back the ingredients for the antidote, Matthäus asked in a small voice, “Should I wait outside?”
“Yes,” I said, meeting his eyes. “Thank you for coming with me.”
He searched my eyes, his expression wary, full of fear.
Irmgard looked at him. “There’s a sitting room across the hall.”
As Matthäus slipped out, I pushed my concerns and fears about him down; I made myself focus on the birth. I instructed Irmgard to massage Ursilda’s back. Ursilda wailed, her body going rigid, as the cook hurried in with the herbs.
“Another pang!” Irmgard cried.
I nodded as I began to work on expressing the juice from the plants. “They’re coming faster now. It’s all the excitement.” I turned to Ursilda. “Can you push?”
Ursilda screamed at the top of her lungs, arching her back. Her eyes rolled back in her head, then fluttered shut. She crumpled to her belly in the rags.
I left the nearly finished preparation to lay her on her side, putting my palm to her belly, feeling the contraction roll beneath her skin. The baby was still moving. Alive. I could feel it. Moving my hand over her belly, I could feel the baby’s head, deep down in the pelvis. Ursilda’s breathing was growing more ragged, more shallow.
I felt for her pulse. It was weak.
The contraction stopped.
“Is she going to live?” Irmgard asked, her voice quavering.
I didn’t know how to answer the question. There was no way to know whether the preparation would work. I finished making it, quickly, mixing the juice of sysemera, betony, and rue, with garden spurge. I poured it into a cup. “We have to get her to take this.”
Irmgard went to Ursilda and shook her. “Your highness—”
“Be gentle,” I warned her.
“Wake up!”
Ursilda would not stir.
Taking a deep breath, I went to the princess, cupping the bottom of her jaw to open her lips, as I had once done for my mother. I poured the mixture into her mouth, pressing her lips tightly shut so the liquid wouldn’t leak out. “Give me the hydromel,” I told the cook. The woman complied.
Ursilda’s belly contracted again. She stirred, moaning softly without opening her eyes. It was worrisome that her pangs weren’t waking her up. I waited for the contraction to pass, checking her birth canal to see how far along she was. It was nearly time, but I could still feel no soul at the threshold. The pull still went in the other direction. Ursilda had to wake up soon, or both she and the child would be lost.
When the contraction passed, I opened her mouth again to give her hydromel. She gagged involuntarily on the foam it brought up in her throat, but otherwise she did not stir.
Mother, I prayed, clasping her limp hand in my own. Help me save them. I cannot bear another death on my watch.
Ursilda lay still on her side on the rags on the floor. My heart thudded in my throat.
And then, after a blessed moment, Ursilda began to sputter and cough, as foam leaked from her mouth. I sat her upright so she wouldn’t choke. I told the cook to bring the chamber pot.
As the cook held it in front of her, Ursilda’s eyes flew open. She threw up a foamy substance, her eyes animal-wild and panicked.
When she was finished, I asked Irmgard to pour her a mug of the caudle. Ursilda drank it down between pangs, as if she suffered from great thirst. I checked between her legs and saw that the birth tunnel had opened enough for her to push. “Do you feel any stronger?”
She shook her head.
“Do you think you could try the birthing stool?”
She stared at it skeptically, shaking her head again.
“She needs more caudle,” I said.
The cook hurried to pour her another mug. I held it to her lips.
“Now could you try? Sometimes it helps to change positions.”
She hung her head, and I knew that she would, though I worried she simply didn’t have the strength to argue. I helped her over to the birthing stool and told her to gather her strength for the next pang. She could barely hold herself up. Her legs trembled violently. Her hands shook. I took her wrist, checking for her pulse. Her heartbeat was weak, irregular. The antidote could only do so much. I motioned for Irmgard and the cook to come over and help hold her up. They did so, murmuring soft words of encouragement. “You can do this. You must.”
When the next pang came, Ursilda finally began to push, half growling, half screaming a terrible animal cry.
I could still sense no soul, no trembling at the threshold. I crouched on the floor before her. The babe crowned, a little pink circle emerging from the birth canal, sticky with blood and mucus. Was it going to be born dead?
The pull into the next world was so strong, I felt dizzy. As the veil between worlds opened, Ursilda looked at me, her expression woozy—eyes crossed—and let go of my hand. She slumped on her stool.
“Ursilda?” Irmgard said, her voice trembling.
I felt for her pulse again. For a moment there was nothing. Then I thought I felt a faint, single beat. I moved my fingers to see if I was missing a more regular pulse. The princess slumped on the birthing stool in Irmgard’s arms, completely unresponsive. A long moment passed during which I avoided Irmgard’s gaze. I was afraid we were too late, that in an instant, I would see a dewy soul lift from her mouth. The poison had been too long in her blood.
I reached for the figurine in my pocket, rubbing it, praying for the otherworldly balance to shift. I heard a shadowy voice from the next world. Move her, the Mother hissed.
Suddenly I understood. This position wasn’t going to work. Panicking, with all my strength, I began to pull her to her hands and knees. “Help me,” I told Irmgard.
Another pang contracted Ursilda’s stomach as we moved her. She moaned, her eyes flying open.
And then I felt it: the trembling in the air. The child’s soul. “Push,” I said, crouching beside her. “Ursilda. It’s time. Push!”
The princess started sobbing. She summoned up all the strength she had and pushed, letting out a terrible animal growl.
And then the child was out, an angry pink baby girl with a full head of bright-red hair. She was small for a newborn, but not unhealthily so. A squirming weight in my arms, silent.
The princess craned her neck to see the child, her eyes full of exhaustion. Tears streamed down her face. I wiped my hand on my cloak and reached into the baby’s throat to clear it of debris. As I finished, I felt goose bumps. A whisper-wind slipped past me. Her soul, flying to enter her.
Her mewling cries awakened a longing so deep, my breath caught in my throat. Her softness, her weight in my arms. Everything about holding her felt right. When she looked up at me, I saw her eyes, full of need—and completely black. I gasped, awestruck. This baby was like me. She would have the gift.
I held her tight, looking into those eyes, cooing, the strongest mother-greed I’ve ever felt choking my heart. When Ursilda reached out to touch her—may I be forgiven—I winced. Ursilda tried to stand from her stool, her legs wobbling, falling backward.
“Let’s get you cleaned up first and in bed,” I said, smiling, using her weakness as an excuse. My eyes fell on the corpse on the floor, the blood pooling around it. It was a dark thing, to see a body as a nuisance. But that’s how I felt, staring down at what was left of the midwife: I cursed the trouble she had made for us. “Could you take care of that?” I asked the cook.
“Aye,” the cook said. “I’ll go get help.”
As the cook left to go find the guards, Irmgard used a rag to wipe Ursilda’s legs. I bathed the child, swaddled her bottom, and put her in a pretty white embroidered gown. I rocked her and rocked her, my heart full of a greed so pure, so perfect, I couldn’t stand it.
Irmgard helped Ursilda over to the bed. She was so weak, she nearly fell three times before she collapsed on the pillows. I watched Irmgard prop her up, straightening her robe, noticing how pale she still was. The midwife must have been poisoning her for a week. Who knows how much arsenic she had been given and when? I hoped her body had protected the child from the poison. Kunegunde would say the best cure for that was mother’s milk, but would Ursilda even be able to nurse?
The child had gone silent in my arms. Her black eyes watching me watch her. When Ursilda was settled, I made myself give her the baby, propping her up with a nest of pillows, a choking sensation in my throat. Mine mine mine, a terrible voice inside me whispered. I cursed that voice when I first heard it, I did.
At first.
Irmgard opened Ursilda’s robe, and the child began squirming, healthy, hungry, searching out her first meal. As the baby rooted, I breathed deep, trying to push the horrible voice away. Thank you, Mother, I prayed, for everything you’ve done so far. I have done everything you commanded. Is there anything more I can do to help?
The child latched onto Ursilda and began to suckle.
By the time the guards came back with the cook to take care of the body, we had covered the pair in blankets. Ursilda’s eyes fluttered closed, as the baby tried to coax milk from her breast.
After a moment, the child began to squirm. “Try the other breast.”
Irmgard helped her move the child. Ursilda looked worried. Her face was drawn. The shadows beneath her eyes were deep.
She straightened suddenly in bed, her expression panicked, as if something had just occurred to her. “What’s to stop the king from sending someone else?” The child squirmed in her arms.
I looked up at her, remembering my dream.
Seeing my expression, Ursilda clutched the baby tighter, rattled. “Tell me what you know.”
“The Mother speaks to me,” I said quietly. “I have the gift.”
The child began to mewl, impatient for milk that wasn’t flowing. “We need goat’s milk,” I told the cook. “Get it yourself. Don’t let anyone do it for you.”
The cook nodded, understanding, then hurried out.
Ursilda shivered as she looked at Irmgard. The bedroom was still and quiet. Irmgard turned to me. “Tell us everything.”
“You can speak freely in front of Irmgard,” Ursilda said.
We all stared at one another for a long moment. I drew a deep breath. “As you wish. I am Haelewise, daughter-of-Hedda, a supplicant to the circle of daughters who worship the Mother. Sometimes the Mother sends me dreams. Visions that will come to pass unless I do something about them. I foresaw Princess Frederika’s murder but failed to stop it. Last night, the Mother told me in a dream that the king would send another assassin after this attempt failed. A masked man who will creep through that window at the waning half moon to kill both of you.” Anger made my voice choke. “I saw the knife he brought to the cradle. It bore the symbol of the king.”
Ursilda struggled to control her emotions. She looked down at the baby, tears streaming down her cheeks. “To kill her?”
“I’m afraid so.” I sighed, uncomfortable. “It’s not safe here for you, for the child, until the king captures Ulrich and forgives the rest of your family. If he ever does—”
Ursilda started to sob quietly. Her breath hitched. “I can’t go anywhere while I’m this weak.” She was right. She was too sick to walk. She couldn’t even nurse. Her arms were shaking. She was struggling to hold even the smallest newborn in bed.
The baby wailed.
The cook interrupted our stalemate, just then, with a bottle of goat’s milk and a feeding horn. Irmgard bustled around, warming the milk and filling the horn. Ursilda and I fell silent, watching her work. When she handed Ursilda the horn, the princess offered the child the teat. The child wouldn’t latch on.
I took the baby, who quieted at my touch. I showed Ursilda how to hold the horn so she could get a good suck. The baby drank noisily.
The look on Ursilda’s face was heartbreaking. “I’m not doing her any good,” she breathed. “She doesn’t need me.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, but as soon as the child left my arms, she started crying again.
Beside the bed, Irmgard shook her head in protest. Ursilda looked at me. I could tell what she was thinking. It wasn’t safe here, but she didn’t have the strength to leave. She didn’t even have the strength to hold a horn of milk.
The temptation was too great. It felt right to say what I said next. The words were out of my mouth before I had time to think twice.
“We could take her to Gothel.”
I knew, as soon as I said the words, that Ursilda would say yes. She was weak, filled with motherly insecurity. I knew I was taking advantage of her. But my suggestion was a good one—the tower was safe—and I didn’t want to give this baby up.
“She would be safe at Gothel from the king’s assassins. When you recover your strength, you could join us.”
Ursilda’s eyes shone with hope as she nodded, eager. “Kunegunde is a daughter-of-the-Mother. We’ve been estranged for almost a decade, but she’s still bound by oath to help.”
The thought of seeing Kunegunde again filled me with dread—on second thought, I didn’t even know if she would let us into the tower—but I wanted that baby so badly, any excuse to take her sounded good. And where else would Matthäus and I go?
“I will remind her of her oath. You can use the water-spiegel to keep an eye on her until you recover.”
Ursilda nodded. “Thank you.”
I held the child up. “Do you want to hold her again?”
“I don’t have the strength,” Ursilda said, kissing the child’s forehead wanly. The baby stared up at her, wide-eyed, having already emptied the goat’s horn of milk. “Keep her safe until I join you. But what do I tell my father? Where do I say the baby went?”
I stared at her for a long moment, a story forming in my mind. “Tell him the truth. But tell it like this. The new midwife was a witch. She took the baby from your arms when you were too weak to stop her, then flew away with your child into the night.”
