Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (30 page)

I took a drink of it. Gaston took a long pull on the remains of the rum bottle.

“Have you seen a child born before?” I asked him in French.

He shook his head and considered Vivian’s sex spread open before him with dismay.

“Has anyone here seen a baby born before?” I asked in English.

I was greeted with concerned wide eyes and shaking heads.

“Have you?” Gaston asked accusingly, as if I were withholding some vital piece of information from him.

“Non,” I sighed.

“You bloody arses!” Vivian yelled. “Find the midwife!” Then she lifted her entire chest off the ground and roared at Gaston. “And stop touching me!”

I slammed her back to the floor and growled in her face. “Shut up!

You are having a baby.”

“I know that, you imbecile,” she hissed.

Gaston handed me the leather-wrapped stick he used as a gag for amputations. I pinned Vivian’s arm under my leg and battled her thrashing head to get it into place. I had to hold her nose closed to force her to open her mouth enough to get it between her teeth. She fought even that, holding her breath until her belly contracted again and drove the air from her in a whoosh.

I swear we fought the baby for as long as we fought the fire. The child did not seem to want to be born. Gaston said he could feel its head, but the opening it must pass through was not as wide as it should be. Vivian at last stopped fighting us and simply lay there, exhausted, as the contractions tightened her belly. We removed the gag, because even when the contractions came, she did not seem to need or want anything to bite down on.

The golden light of dawn was streaming in between the shutters of the narrow windows when Striker and Pete staggered in the room and said the fire was out. They saw what we were about and quickly left– though they promised to see if they could find food and water for us.

They finally reappeared with some boucan, mangos, and two buckets of water. We wiped away the grime with dry cloths first, and then with a damp one. Then we began to take turns napping.

I noticed Henrietta, and even Vivian when she was lucid, eyeing us with concern. I thought it due to our only wearing breeches. Then I saw they were really staring at Gaston, and I knew it was because he was only wearing breeches and his scars were now shown in vivid relief with all the soot still ground into them. I considered my chest, and saw with relief that many of the bruises that still lingered from our Horse play were disguised by the smudged soot. I went to find cleaner clothes. The house was thankfully empty of the men from the bucket line. Striker, Pete, Rucker, Theodore, Dupree and the Marquis sat around at tables sipping wine in the atrium, exhausted and soot-smeared.

“Is there any possibility of finding the midwife?” I asked them.

“Nay,” Theodore said sadly. “We have tried. It was a night for babies, apparently.”

“Well the damn child does not wish to be born,” I said.

“Can Ya BlameIt?” Pete rasped.

I looked about at the atrium: the upper floor was smoke stained, and below, planters and even chairs had been broken in all the commotion. I sighed and went upstairs. Our room was a water-soaked shambles. Our clean white netting and linens were black, as were the white-washed walls, floor, and ceiling. I collected and counted our weapons and other valuables, and found none missing. Someone had thankfully stacked many of them in the farthest corner. I found a pair of tunics in one of the chests. They smelled of smoke, but they were clean and dry.

When I returned to the atrium, Theodore asked, “Do we know how it started?” as if he already did know.

I met his resigned gaze levelly. “Let us say my drunken wife knocked over a lamp while stumbling about in a panic when she realized she was due to birth.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds good. I would hate to see her charged with arson.”

I snorted and sighed. “I suppose this will cost a good deal of money.

The water vendors will have quite the festival.”

He nodded and awarded me a rueful shrug.

“Lovely,” I sighed, and returned to the parlor.

I could not initially decide if I was dismayed or relieved to find it a place of activity once again. Apparently the babe had at last decided to move, or perhaps Vivian had at last decided to release it.

I helped support her as we pushed her up to sit somewhat, and Gaston extolled her to push when her belly tightened. The contractions were much closer together now, but it still seemed to take an eternity and my aching limbs complained during every second of it. In the aftermath of such a drinking binge, and hours upon hours of laboring to deliver, Vivian was barely conscious.

At last Gaston got a very surprised and happy look upon his face, and he pulled a slimy red mass from between her legs. I was appalled, thinking for sure it was dead. And then he swiped at it with a cloth and rubbed its chest a little and it gave forth a weak cry.

“Ah, look, it be a little girl,” Henrietta cooed as she helped Gaston wipe it clean.

I suppressed a curse.

“Drown her,” Vivian breathed. “No one wants a girl. No one ever wants a girl.”

She was wrong: the Gods had surely done much to see this child born.

Sixty-Two

Gaston laid the child on Vivian’s still-distended belly, with the little head nestled between her breasts. He tied off the cord and cut it. He then regarded the cord with a tired sigh and tugged on it experimentally.

“I think we have to wait for the afterbirth now, since it did not arrive with the child,” he sighed.

“I am not finished?” Vivian asked, her voice as shaky as her hands as she tried to turn the squalling infant around.

I gingerly helped her move the baby so that she could view its face.

She gazed on it for several moments, and the baby seemed to look back at her.

Then my wife wailed, “Oh, God. She is ugly. She is a girl and she is ugly. Oh, God!”

The baby began to squall in earnest.

“Ah now, sweetheart,” Henrietta cooed and pulled the baby away.

“Let us clean her up a bit now. You’ll see. She’s a sweet little one.” She cuddled it to her ample bosom and crooned.

The infant quieted somewhat, until Agnes tried to wipe one of her feet with a wet cloth. The squalling began anew.

“We’ll get her clean,” Henrietta continued in a singsong fashion, as if she was oblivious to the cries. “And then after you be done birthin’, you can nurse her.”

Vivian began to squall much like her child, and turned to bury her face in my shoulder.

I held her, as I had for much of the last several hours, and looked Raised By Wolves - Treasure

to my matelot, who appeared as miserable as I felt – and Vivian and the child sounded. He was staring at her sex as if the afterbirth might crawl from her of its own accord. I wondered how long it would make us wait.

Henrietta and Agnes now had the baby on the settee, and they were wiping it clean while making shushing sounds that could barely be heard over the little one’s screaming. I felt someone was missing, and I looked to my left and saw Sarah sitting forlornly on the floor staring at Vivian. She met my gaze and burst into tears.

“Pete and Striker are outside,” I told her.

She nodded between sobs, and slowly crawled to a chair to push her way to her feet, and stumbled out the door.

“So will you deliver Sarah’s child?” I asked Gaston in French.

He awarded me a look that said I must never jest about such things– or even make mention of them. I could not help but smile.

“You need not remind me you wanted no part of this,” Gaston said ruefully.

“Non, non, I do not blame you,” I said with a smile to reassure him.

“I blame the Gods.”

“Oh, God,” Vivian cried as her sobs stopped and she tensed in my arms. “When will it end?”

“Push,” Gaston told her kindly. “Just push. Let us get this out.”

“I will never, never do this again,” she sobbed once the contraction passed.

“Ah now, my Lady,” Henrietta said. “All women say that, an’ here we be.”I peered down to find Vivian glaring at her, as if she would strangle the woman if she only had the strength.

“I want to go home,” Vivian said with another sob.

“You burned your house,” I said.

She began to wail again until another contraction gripped her.

This one did as we needed, though; and Gaston was able to pull the afterbirth from her. It was bigger than the baby. I thanked the Gods it was soft and squishy, and apparently able to come through her opening much easier than a bony little child. If we had to wait another hour, or even another minute, I would have wailed.

I was at last able to disentangle myself from Vivian. She lay on the floor in a heap, and offered little protest as Agnes and Henrietta got her wrapped in a clean blanket.

Gaston had been handed the baby, and as he gazed down at the tiny face with wonder, I knew we would likely be doing this again – not with Vivian, but with some other hapless woman. He had a puppy. The child apparently liked him as well, because she quieted; but perhaps that was due to the warm blanket she was now wrapped in and the tip of Gaston’s finger in her mouth.

I moved to kneel beside him and gaze at her. She was ugly. I had not seen an infant so fresh from the womb before. She was red and wrinkled and squished; and I recalled Striker likening one to a flaccid cock.

My matelot was reluctant to let her go when Henrietta came to take her to Vivian. My Damn Wife was initially reluctant to accept her, but then she held the little bundle and something akin to motherly love seemed to light her features. Then she became insistent on unwrapping the girl so that she could see all of her, and counting her toes and fingers. Once they had the child in the blanket again, Vivian attempted to nurse her. I could tell that was going to take some practice.

“The first few times it be just ta give her a taste and tell your bosom it be time to make more,” Henrietta was assuring her. “She not be truly hungry yet.”

I pulled a worried Gaston to the far corner of the room and bade him lie down to nap. He did not close his eyes until the child stopped crying, and the quiet sounds of suckling drifted to us along with Vivian’s surprised gasp. We at last slept.

We woke to Agnes’ gentle prodding. “The midwife is here,” she whispered when I opened my eyes.

Gaston was quickly on his knees and peering around Agnes at a woman with a wide back and frazzled hair escaping her bonnet, who knelt beside Vivian. A nervous Henrietta sat next to them. My matelot pushed his way to his feet and went to join them, and I reluctantly followed. I did not see what the woman could say that should make us lose sleep: the baby was already here and seemed well enough. And then we came to stand above them and I saw my wife’s bitterly held composure.

“This is my husband, Lord Marsdale,” Vivian said. “And that is the…

physician who delivered her.”

“The Comte de Montren,” I said quickly.

“He is a count, too?” Vivian said with annoyance.

The midwife was looking up at us with wide eyes and struggling to push her squat body off the floor.

“Nay, nay, my good woman,” I said with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We shall sit. You need not stand. And how are you called?”

“I’m Mistress Engle,” she said.

We dropped down next to the women, and Mistress Engle seemed not to know where to look. She was avoiding us with her gaze with such dedication that I quickly checked to insure we were clothed.

“How is the child?” Gaston asked.

The babe seemed content to my eye: she was deeply asleep even though she was lying naked between her mother and the midwife.

“She is fine,” Vivian answered tiredly. She looked as exhausted as I still felt: her face was soot-smeared and her eyes were puffy and dark.

“Does she appear as she should?” Gaston asked Mistress Engle.

The midwife was biting her lip. “I was just tellin’ your lady that the babe’s a bit small.” She shrugged and asked Vivian. “Has there been any bleedin’ after? Your woman said that the afterbirth came out all right and that you did not seem to bleed much.”

“There did not seem to be any bleeding, other than the fluids of the womb, but I have not seen a child birthed before,” Gaston said.

“That’s good, my Lord,” Mistress Engle said with a compressed smile and her eyes firmly on Vivian. “There will be lots o’ bleedin’ now, but it is as it should be. More like your monthly. May I take a look at you, my Lady?”

My wife nodded reluctantly and moved to spread her legs. The midwife gave Gaston and me a nervous glance. I awarded her a compressed but pleasant smile, and stayed where I was.

My matelot gently pulled the baby on her blanket toward him and rewrapped her. His face held concern.

I leaned to him and asked, “What?” in French.

“She is not saying all that she sees,” he muttered.

“I see that,” I whispered. “Is her opinion of import?”

He nodded.

I stood and motioned for Henrietta to rise and follow me. She slowly got to her feet and followed me across the room on stiff legs.

“Has she been paid?” I asked her of the midwife.

She shrugged. “Not yet, but a small coin’ll do since she missed the birthin’.”

“Do you have a coin?” I asked, as patting my waist revealed that not only did I not have my belt pouch, I did not have my belt, either.

Henrietta smiled. “Aye, my Lord.”

“Good. When you escort her out and pay her, see what else she will say to you that she will not say to us.”

She smiled shyly. “I were already goin’ ta do that, my Lord.”

I grinned. “Good woman. Well, now you know to tell Gaston and me, no matter what it might be.”

“Aye, my Lord.”

We returned to the others. The midwife apparently thought Vivian had weathered the birth well enough. She stood, and with a gracious but clumsy curtsy, bid us farewell, and Henrietta ushered her to the door and out.

Vivian was smoothing her clothing decently about her again. She looked to me, presumably because I was standing, and asked, “Is there anything to drink on that sideboard?”