Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [4]
The canon went to the bed and looked down at his wife. Her damp hair was pasted to her skin, which had turned yellowish white, her dark-rimmed eyes were hollow and sunken into her head; but for the long, unsteady exhalation of breath, she might have been already dead.
“Well?” prodded Hrotrud.
The canon wheeled to face her. “God’s blood, woman! Why didn’t you bring the women with you?”
“As you said yourself, sir, your wife’s given birth before without a speck of trouble. There was no reason to expect any this time. Besides, who would have come in weather such as this?”
The canon stalked to the hearth and paced back and forth agitatedly. At last he halted. “What do you want me to do?”
Hrotrud smiled broadly. “Oh, little enough, sir, little enough.” She led him back to the bed. “For a start, help get her up.”
Standing on either side of Gudrun, they grabbed her under the arms and heaved. Her body was heavy, but together they managed to lift her to her feet, where she swayed against her husband. The canon was stronger than Hrotrud had thought. That was good, for she would need all his strength for what came next.
“We must force the babe down into position. When I give the command, lift her as high as you can. And shake hard.”
The canon nodded, his mouth set grimly. Gudrun hung like a dead weight between them, her head fallen forward on her chest.
“Lift!” shouted Hrotrud. They hoisted Gudrun by the arms and began to shake her up and down. Gudrun screamed and fought to free herself. Pain and fear gave her surprising strength; the two of them were hard put to restrain her. If only he had let me give her the henbane, Hrotrud thought. She would be half-sensible by now.
Quickly they lowered her, but she continued to struggle and cry out. Hrotrud gave a second command, and again they hoisted, shook, then lowered Gudrun to the bed, where she lay half-fainting, murmuring in her barbarous native tongue. Good, Hrotrud thought. If I move quickly, it will all be over before she regains her senses.
Hrotrud reached into the birth passage, probing for the opening to the womb. It was rigid and swollen from the long hours of ineffectual labor. Using her right index fingernail, which she kept long for just this purpose, Hrotrud tore at the resistant tissue. Gudrun groaned, then went completely limp. Warm blood poured over Hrotrud’s hand, down her arms, and onto the bed. At last she felt the opening give way. With an exultant cry, Hrotrud reached in and took hold of the baby’s head, exerting a gentle downward pressure.
“Take her by the shoulders and pull against me,” she instructed the canon, whose face had gone quite pale. Nevertheless he obeyed; Hrotrud felt the pressure increase as the canon added his strength to hers. After a few minutes, the baby started to move down into the birth passage. She kept pulling steadily, careful not to injure the soft bones of the child’s head and neck. At last the crown of the babe’s head appeared, covered with a mass of fine, wet hair. Hrotrud eased the head out gently, then turned the body to permit the right shoulder, then the left, to emerge. One last, firm tug and the small body slid wetly into Hrotrud’s waiting arms.
“A girl,” Hrotrud announced. “A strong one too, by the look of her,” she added, noting with approval the infant’s lusty cry and healthy pink color.
She turned to meet the canon’s disapproving stare.
“A girl,” he said. “So it was all for nothing.”
“Do not say so, sir.” Hrotrud was suddenly fearful that the canon’s disappointment might mean less for her to eat. “The child is healthy and strong. God grant that she live to do credit to your name.”
The canon shook his head. “She is a punishment from God. A punishment for my sins—and hers.” He motioned toward Gudrun, who lay motionless. “Will she live?”
“Yes.” Hrotrud hoped that she sounded