Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [3]
Gudrun moaned in the throes of another pain. Very well, Hrotrud thought. If the canon would not allow the henbane, she would have to try another approach. She went to her sack and withdrew a long piece of cloth, cut to the True Length of Christ. Moving with brisk efficiency, she wound it tightly around Gudrun’s abdomen. Gudrun groaned when Hrotrud shifted her. Movement was painful for her, but that could not be helped. Hrotrud took from her sack a small parcel, carefully wrapped in a scrap of silken fabric for protection. Inside was one of her treasures—the anklebone of a rabbit killed on Christmas Day. She had begged it off one of the Emperor’s hunting party the previous winter. With utmost care, Hrotrud shaved off three thin slices and placed them in Gudrun’s mouth.
“Chew these slowly,” she instructed Gudrun, who nodded weakly. Hrotrud settled back to wait. From the corner of her eye, she studied the canon, who frowned in concentration on his book till his brows almost met over the bridge of his nose.
Gudrun moaned again and twisted in pain, but the canon did not look up. He’s a cold one, Hrotrud reflected. Still, he must have some fire in his loins, or he wouldn’t have taken her to wife.
How long had it been since the canon brought the Saxon woman home, ten—or was it eleven?—winters ago. Gudrun had not been young, by Frankish standards, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four years old, but she was very beautiful, with the long white-gold hair and blue eyes of the aliengenae. She had lost her entire family in the massacre at Verden. Thousands of Saxons had died that day rather than accept the truth of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Mad barbarians, Hrotrud thought. It wouldn’t have happened to me. She would have sworn to whatever they asked of her, would do it now for that matter, should the barbarians ever sweep through Frankland again, swear to whatever strange and terrible gods they wished. It changed nothing. Who was to know what went on in a person’s heart? A wise woman kept her own counsel.
The fire sparked and flickered; it was burning low. Hrotrud crossed to the pile of wood stacked in the corner, chose two good-sized logs of birch, and put them on the hearth. She watched as they settled, hissing, into the fire, the flames licking upwards around them. Then she turned to check on Gudrun.
It was a full half hour since Gudrun had taken the shavings of rabbit bone, but there was no change in her condition. Even that strong medicine had failed to take effect. The pains remained erratic and ineffectual, and Gudrun was weakening.
Hrotrud sighed wearily. Clearly, she would have to resort to stronger measures.
THE canon proved to be a problem when Hrotrud told him she would need help with the birthing.
“Send for the village women,” he said peremptorily.
“Ah, sir, that is impossible. Who is there to send?” Hrotrud raised her palms expressively. “I cannot go, for your wife needs me here. Your elder boy cannot go, for though he seems a likely lad, he could get lost in weather such as this. I almost did myself.”
The canon glared at her from under his dark brows. “Very well,” he said, “I will go.” As he rose from his chair, Hrotrud shook her head impatiently.
“It would do no good. By the time you returned, it would be too late. It is your help I need, and quickly, if you wish your wife and babe to live.”
“My help? Are you mad, midwife? That”—he motioned distastefully toward the bed—“is women’s business, and unclean. I will have nothing to do with it.”
“Then your wife will die.”
“That is in God’s hands, not mine.”
Hrotrud shrugged. “It is all one to me. But you will not find it easy, raising two children without a mother.”
The canon stared at Hrotrud. “Why should I believe you? She’s given birth before with no trouble. I have fortified her with my prayers. You cannot know that she will die.”
This was too much. Canon or