Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) by Janell Rhiannon

Author:Janell Rhiannon [Rhiannon, Janell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-06-22T04:00:00+00:00

CLYTEMNESTRA ROSE TIRED and achy from her bed. She rubbed the dull ache in her back with a knuckled hand. “Neola!”

As if from air, her maid appeared. “My lady?”

“Draw a hot bath.”

Neola eyed her queen suspiciously. “How long has your back pained you?”

“All night. After Agamemnon and I...he left and I have been unable to settle comfortably.”

Neola clapped her hands together. “My lady, have you not guessed?”

“At what?” the queen asked irritated. “Guessed at what?”

“Perhaps your labor has begun.”

Clytemnestra blinked and shook her head. “No. That is not possible.”

“Why not?”

“It...I...am not ready,” she said. Memory of the pain and work of childbirth filled her with dread. “I am not ready.”

“My lady, perhaps the child is? You are strong. Delivered of a healthy babe already...” Neola’s voice trailed into silence. She sighed slowly. “Apologies...I intended no—”

Again a reminder of the past. The heartache of losing her young son ripped open the tender scar she bore in silence to keep him always with her. “I know. It is the truth.” Suddenly it occurred to her that she hadn’t considered she might lose this child before it was born, or that she herself might lose her life. Death would not be so horrible, she thought. I could escape this wretched place...a sharp pain low under her belly pulled her from her morbid thoughts. “Neola, you are perceptive. The child is coming.”

The maid clapped her hands again in excitement again. “To your bed then, my queen. I will fetch the women to ready your chamber and inform the king.”

Clytemnestra obeyed the maid. “I trust in your hands, Neola.”

The maid bowed her head. “Too high is your praise for me.”

“It most certainly is not. Go, now, fetch your women.”

Neola left quickly and returned before Clytemnestra had settled into the bed. The gaggle of concerned women followed the queen’s personal maid. Two male servants carried in the birthing chair and promptly left the sacred work of delivering the heir of Mycenae to the women. The birth attendants shook freshly bleached linens open, refolded them across the foot of the bed. They poured water into waiting basins and stoked the hearth fire in the chamber.

“Neola, I am too warm already. Please, put the fire out.”

“My lady, soon enough you will shiver with cold and pain and ask for flames. We must keep the fire stoked and the water warm. For the child.” Neola pulled the coverlet down and folded it neatly at her queen’s feet. “Mira, come.” A rounded woman with kind dark eyes appeared at the bedside. She motioned the woman toward Clytemnestra. “How much longer will the queen labor?”

Mira looked into her queen’s eyes, nodded deference. “Forgive any discomfort this may cause. I will be as gentle as I can.” A painful spasm took Clytemnestra by surprise. She sat up as the sharpness increased pulling a tight ring of pain beneath her navel. The queen screamed out her agony. The mid-wife pressed her hand gently against the queen’s abdomen and inside her once the pain passed.

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