The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [30]
She looked drawn and thoughtful. She blew on her soup to cool it, then raised the bowl to her lips.
The children quickly drained theirs and wanted more. Tom took the pot out of the fire, using the hem of his cloak to avoid burning his hands, and emptied the remaining soup into the children’s bowls.
When he returned to Agnes’s side she said: “What about you?”
“I’ll eat tomorrow,” he said.
She seemed too tired to argue.
Tom and Alfred built the fire high and gathered enough wood to last the night. Then they all rolled up in their cloaks and lay down on the leaves to sleep.
Tom slept lightly, and when Agnes groaned he woke up instantly. “What is it?” he whispered.
She groaned again. Her face was pale and her eyes were closed. After a moment she said: “The baby is coming.”
Tom’s heart missed a beat. Not here, he thought; not here on the frozen ground in the depths of a forest. “But it’s not due,” he said.
“It’s early.”
Tom made his voice calm. “Have the waters broken?”
“Soon after we left the verderer’s hut,” Agnes panted, not opening her eyes.
Tom remembered her suddenly diving into the bushes as if to answer an urgent call of nature. “And the pains?”
“Ever since.”
It was like her to keep quiet about it.
Alfred and Martha were awake. Alfred said: “What’s happening?”
“The baby is coming,” Tom said.
Martha burst into tears.
Tom frowned. “Could you make it back to the verderer’s hut?” he asked Agnes. There they would at least have a roof, and straw to lie on, and someone to help.
Agnes shook her head. “The baby has dropped already.”
“It won’t be long, then!” They were in the most deserted part of the forest. They had not seen a village since morning, and the verderer had said they would not see one all day tomorrow. That meant there was no possibility of finding a woman to act as midwife. Tom would have to deliver the baby himself, in the cold, with only the children to help, and if anything should go wrong he had no medicines, no knowledge....
This is my fault, Tom thought; I got her with child, and I brought her into destitution. She trusted me to provide for her, and now she is giving birth in the open air in the middle of winter. He had always despised men who fathered children and then left them to starve; and now he was no better than they. He felt ashamed.
“I’m so tired,” Agnes said. “I don’t believe I can bring this baby into the world. I want to rest.” Her face glistened, in the firelight, with a thin film of sweat.
Tom realized he must pull himself together. He was going to have to give Agnes strength. “I’ll help you,” he said. There was nothing mysterious or complicated about what was going to happen. He had watched the births of several children. The work was normally done by women, for they knew how the mother felt, and that enabled them to be more helpful; but there was no reason why a man should not do it if necessary. He must first make her comfortable; then find out how far advanced the birth was; then make sensible preparations; then calm her and reassure her while they waited.
“How do you feel?” he asked her.
“Cold,” she replied.
“Come closer to the fire,” he said. He took off his cloak and spread it on the ground a yard from the blaze. Agnes tried to struggle to her feet. Tom lifted her easily, and set her down gently on his cloak.
He knelt beside her. The wool tunic she was wearing underneath her own cloak had buttons all the way down the front. He undid two of them and put his hands inside. Agnes gasped.
“Does it hurt?” he said, surprised and worried.
“No,” she said with a brief smile. “Your hands are cold.” He felt the outline of her belly. The swelling was higher and more pointed than it had been last night, when the two of them had slept together in the straw on the floor of a peasant’s hovel. Tom pressed a little harder, feeling the shape of the unborn baby. He found one end of the body, just beneath Agnes’s navel; but he could not locate the other end. He said: “I can feel its bottom, but not its head.”
“That’s because it’s on the way out,” she said.