Virgin Widow Read Free

great heiress in her own right who had experienced nothing but a life of high-born privilege and luxury, had folded back the wide cuffs of her over-sleeves and was engaged with Margery in pulling Isabel from the narrow bed. Ignoring Isabel’s fractious complaints, she ordered affairs to her liking, dragging the pallet to the floor and pushing my sister to lie down where there was marginally more space. Margery added her strength with a strange mix of proud competence at my mother’s side and sharp concern imprinting her broad face. But Margery had her own skills. She had been with my mother since well before the Countess’s marriage, tending her through her difficult pregnancies, as I had heard from her frequent telling of how Margery had caught both Isabel and myself when we slid into this world. So, as she informed us, what she didn’t know about such matters as bearing children, although having none of her own, was not worth the knowing.
    ‘Hush, child. Margery is with you. Sit there for Margery, now, and don’t weep so…’ As if Isabel were still a small girl to be cosseted for a grazed knee.
    The Countess was made of sterner stuff. Seeing mehesitate in the doorway, she pounced with impressive speed and pulled me into the cabin. ‘No, you don’t. I shall have need of you.’
    ‘There’s no room—’
    ‘Anne. Be still. Your sister needs you.’
    I feared that I would be the last person to soothe my pain-racked sister. Isabel merely tolerated me. We had always fought—I suspected we always would. But pity moved me at her wretched plight. ‘We cannot land.’ Adopting a martyred expression, I recounted to the Countess the gist of the conversation as I stepped over to replace Margery at Isabel’s side.
    ‘Ha! As I thought. Perhaps it’s too late anyway.’ We staggered and clutched as a rogue wave lifted the boat from prow to stern. I covered my mouth on another surge of nausea, the clammy sweat chilling me in the hot air.
    ‘Breathe deep, daughter. I can’t deal with two of you sick. Sit with Isabel, hold her hand, talk to her.’
    ‘What about?’ I looked to the Countess for guidance. There was a fear here in this cabin. Sharp and bright, it suddenly overwhelmed me.
    ‘Anything. Encourage her, distract her if you can. Now, Margery, let’s see if we can bring this child safe into the world.’
    Three hours later we had made little progress.
    ‘We need the powers of the Blessed Virgin’s Girdlehere, my lady,’ Margery whispered as Isabel’s whole body strained.
    ‘Well, we haven’t got it and so must do what we can without!’
    Sniffing, Margery resorted to the age-old remedy of a knife slipped beneath the pallet to ease the pain and cut the birth pangs, adding a dull green stone for good measure. ‘Jasper,’ she whispered.’It gives strength and fortitude to ailing women.’
    ‘Then we could surely do with such powers this day. For all of us.’ The Countess did not stop her, but decided on a more practical approach.
    ‘Find the kitchen, or what passes for one, wherever it may be in this vessel, Anne. Tell the cook I need grease. Animal fat. Anything to coat my hands.’ The Countess leaned close, speaking to me as an equal in age and knowledge, with a foreboding that she no longer made any effort to hide. ‘The child is taking too long. Isabel grows weaker by the minute and the child’s not showing.’
    I raced off, returning with a pot of noxious and rancid grease—from what source I could not possibly guess.
    ‘Don’t stand gawping, Anne. If nothing else, pray!’
    My mother astounded me. Stripped of all her consequence along with her veils, skirts and under-robe tucked up, hair curling on to her neck in greasy strands, she was as rank as any common midwife, yet as awe inspiring as the most noble lady in the land.
    ‘Who shall I petition?’ I asked. Praying seemed to me a tedious affair when all around was fear and chaos.
    ‘Pray to the Virgin. And St Margaret—chaste and