Daughters of the Silk Road by Debbie Rix

Author:Debbie Rix [Rix, Debbie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Historical, International Mystery & Crime
ISBN: 9781786810106
Google: tilTDAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1786810107
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2016-04-13T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ANTWERP, 1490

Margarethe lay in her bed, propped up with cushions. She had flung the bed curtains open to let in some air. The room was humid, fetid almost, and she felt faint and weak. Early morning light filtered through the latticed windows in her bedchamber. Pain was searing through her and in spite of herself, she let out a high-pitched scream.

‘Madam, madam, calm yourself.’ The midwife stroked her brow. Her voice was soothing, but her face told a different story. She was worried. The baby was stuck and Margarethe could not, however hard she tried, push any harder. Besides, the pain was terrible, unimaginable.

‘I can’t do any more,’ she said after the last contraction as she collapsed onto her sweat-soaked pillows.

‘I know, I know. You are doing well. I must examine you, I think.’

The midwife plunged her hand between Margarethe’s legs. In agony, Margarethe let out an involuntary scream.

‘Hush now, I know it’s uncomfortable.’

‘Uncomfortable!’ shouted Margarethe. ‘That was terrible. I’ve never felt such a thing before.’

‘The baby is breach – I must turn it or you and the baby will die. You will never push it out the way it’s lying.’

Margarethe wept silently and fingered her rosary. It was made of carved coral beads with a silver bead at either end. Cornelius had given it to her on the birth of their first child Jacob eighteen years before.

‘I will turn the baby now. Take a deep breath.’

Margarethe took in a huge draft of hot humid air as the midwife plunged her hand deep inside her. Her fingers clutched at the rosary so tightly that the sharp carved edges of the tiny beads cut the flesh of her palm. She prayed under her breath. ‘Pray for me, mother of God, now and in the hour of our death,’ over and over again.

‘There! It is done,’ said the midwife with an air of satisfaction, wiping her bloody hand on her apron. ‘I did one of those last week too.’

‘And did it go well?’ said Margarethe anxiously.

‘Not on that occasion, no. Now, when the next contraction comes, you can push.’

Within seconds, the deep burning pain rose up through Margarethe’s body and she pushed with all her might. Her entire being seemed to be on fire as she finally expelled the reluctant child.

The slippery infant fell into the midwife’s waiting hands. She tossed the child upside down and slapped it firmly on the back. It wailed gustily.

Margarethe collapsed back onto the pillows and wept with relief and joy. The absence of pain was overwhelming. ‘Is the baby all right?’

‘Yes! A fine girl – a sister for all those boys.’

‘A girl! Oh, thank you!’

At the age of thirty-nine, Margarethe knew that she was fortunate to have survived another birth. She and Cornelius were already parents to five sons. Two other children had been born – both girls – but they had died in infancy. This was then her eighth delivery, and she was grateful that it was over. She hoped fervently that she would never have to endure it again.

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