The Kadin - Bertrice Small [72]
“At once, my lady, and I’ll wager my lord outrides the storm,” she chuckled.
Alone for a few moments, Cyra lay, scarcely breathing. Tomorrow, she thought, this time tomorrow, my son will be born, and I’ll hold him in my arms. Then she remembered her mother. Meg had died in childbirth, and Adam’s mother, too. Fear took hold, and she began to tremble.
“Allah—God—” she whispered, “let me live! I don’t want to die. Let me survive to lie once again in my Selim’s arms.” She stopped. What kind of a thing was that to say to Him? “Oh, please understand,” she began again.
At that point Lady Refet hurried into the room with Zala and Fekriye.
“I’ve sent for the midwife. Have you any pain?”
Cyra shook her head.
Issuing quick orders, Selim’s aunt helped Cyra to rise, and, working quickly, the three women stripped the girl of her trousers and blouse, sponged her with herbed water, and wrapped her in a light robe. Assisting Cyra to her large bed, which Zala and Fekriye had freshly prepared, Lady Refet tacked her in.
Fatima, the midwife, arrived. Examining Cyra, she remarked, “It will be several hours yet, but not bad for a first child. This one is built for breeding.”
Smiling wryly, Cyra remembered her innocent remark to her father: “But, father, Grandmother Mary says I’m meant to bear children.”
Marian returned. “The messenger has left, my lady. He has promised to ride as though the seven jinns were chasing him.”
Sighing with relief, Cyra felt a slight cramp in her back.
“I think I had a pain,” she exclaimed excitedly.
“Let us wait a few minutes to see if another one comes, my lady. Then we shall know for certain if your labor has begun,” said Fatima.
The pains began coming with steady regularity but for a few hours seemed no more than the brief cramps that accompanied her monthly show of blood. Then they began to mount in intensity and duration.
The hours inched by, and the prince did not arrive. The wind was high, and the thunder rolled, peal after peal, but the rain did not come. Jagged lightning ripped at the fabric of the sky, giving it a weird illumination.
“I am going to die,” Cyra said to Lady Refet “Just as my mother before me did, I am going to die. I shall never see Selim again.” She began to cry.
The older woman cradled the girl in her arms. “You are most certainly not going to die. Everything is proceeding normally.”
“The pain is terrible, aunt. I do not think I can stand much more. I am so frightened.”
“Pah,” snapped the midwife. “Your pain is slight my little bird. I have seen girls scream and shriek with real pain. All is well with you. This is an easy birth. You are frightened because it is something new to you.”
The words were small comfort Night fell, and suddenly they heard the clatter of hooves. Minutes later, Selim burst into the room.
“Beloved.” He held her close.
“Selim,” she sobbed, and then, smiling through her tears, said, “I can go on now that I have seen you for one last time.”
Startled, the prince turned to his aunt for an explanation.
“It is all right nephew,” she soothed him. “Cyra is just a bit frightened. Everything proceeds normally.”
“I should have brought a doctor from Constantinople,” raged Selim.
Fatima sniffed audibly. “And what could a doctor do that I cannot? I am, Your Highness, the most famous midwife in the whole region. A doctor would drug the lady with opiates, and the baby would enter the world drowsy and weakened.”
Selim glowered at her and turned back to Cyra. “Take my hands,” he said. “When the pains come, squeeze hard. I will share your agony. I would see my first son born.”
He stayed beside her until the end, refusing all food or drink. As the hour approached midnight, Cyra shrieked, and the midwife cried out ‘The baby’s head! I can see the baby’s head!”
Lady Refet whispered to Selim, “I must go for the witnesses.”
Hurrying out she returned moments later with Zuleika, Sarina, Cyra’s bodyguard, Arslan, her eunuch, Anber, and a harem slave