White Blood (7 page)

Coewyn ushered Rogelan to the door. “Thank you again for your aid.”

“It’s no more than my duty. Don’t hesitate to call whenever you have need.” He swept from the room.

Coewyn turned back to Maryn. “Well, Maryn, my choice is clear. The position is yours. Now let us discuss the terms of your contract.”

Maryn fought an impulse to stammer a refusal and flee. She would not throw this chance away, not after she had worked so hard and come so far. She drew a deep, shaky breath. “Thank you, Madam Coewyn.”

“Thank me after the prince is safely born and your place is secure.” The Stewardess sat down at her desk and pulled a cloth from the drawer. She picked up the mirror, rubbed off the sticky film of blood and milk residue, and tucked cloth and mirror away. “With any luck this will see much use in the next few years, with Princess Voerell married, and Prince Marolan’s bride arriving in the fall. Now, if only Prince Carlich will leave off his wild ways and settle down, King Froethych might finally be able to rest easy.”

The Stewardess rummaged through the papers on her desk and produced a sheet of finely written text. “This contract spells out your responsibilities and obligations. It’s the standard agreement, save for a few provisions unique to the royal family. You will note, in particular, that instead of the typical five-year term, you will be bound to abide by certain conditions for life. Under no circumstances are you permitted to engage in any sexual relationship, licit or illicit, until after the prince is fully weaned, on pain of immediate dismissal. If at any point after that you wish to marry, your prospective spouse must be approved by my office.” Coewyn looked sharply over the paper at Maryn. “You will receive a generous payment each year you refrain from producing a milk;-;sibling for the prince.”

Maryn blushed and looked down at her lap. While she knew intellectually that someday she might wish to wed again, her grief was still so fresh she couldn’t imagine wanting another man. Certainly not before the prince weaned. That might be as soon as two years, although some children nursed much longer. But even if the prince was one of those who didn’t wean until he was five or six, Maryn didn’t anticipate the prohibition would pose any difficulty. “I understand.”

Coewyn studied her a moment, and nodded. “If you fulfill all your duties adequately, you will remain in the employ of the palace after your charge weans, continuing to serve as his attendant and servant. When the prince reaches the age of twelve, he will become a page, and you will be assigned other duties.” She went on for a good while longer, enumerating all the details of the contract in complicated language Maryn found difficult to understand. Eventually she quit trying and just nodded whenever Madam Coewyn paused for breath.

Finally the Stewardess stopped speaking and looked at Maryn. “I trust you find all these terms satisfactory?”

Maryn had no standing to negotiate them, even if she didn’t. “Yes, ma’am.”

Coewyn pushed the paper across the desk to Maryn, and thrust a quill pen into her hand. “Good. Sign there.”

“Excuse me, Madame Coewyn?” Maryn clutched the pen and stared at the marks on the paper. “I don’t read or write.”

Coewyn narrowed her eyes. “That’s right; you were a serf. Didn’t you learn, after you moved to the town?”

“Only a little.” Edrich had made a few half;-;hearted attempts to teach her, but he didn’t have the temperament for it, and it had not gone well. Truthfully, she had not been particularly interested. She was quite willing to allow Edrich to keep the family’s accounts, and there was little other practical use for the skill.

Coewyn sighed. “Just make whatever mark you can; it will have to do.”

Maryn poked the pen into the pot of ink and dragged it across the paper at the indicated spot. The ink blotched and smeared, but she managed to produce a wobbly approximation of the first letter of her name, the one symbol she had successfully committed to memory.

The Royal Stewardess set the contract aside. She picked up another piece of paper, frowned at it, and set it down. “I suppose this won’t do you any good. It’s a list of the rules of protocol you are required to follow. I was going to instruct you to study it.” She glanced at Maryn’s contract as if she wished she might rescind it, but set her mouth and went on. “You’ll just have to listen while I explain.” She sat back in her chair and fixed Maryn with a stern gaze. “As wet nurse, you rank quite high. Beneath Princess Voerell’s ladies;-;in;-;waiting, who are all daughters of noble houses, but above her personal servants. Be sure to note, however, that the Under;-;Stewardess in charge of the Royal Nursery will have final say over the prince’s education, and you will be expected to conduct yourself accordingly.

“Of course, Madam Coewyn.”

“You must at all times observe the proper etiquette in your interactions with your superiors and inferiors. You will find life in the palace very different from the provincial town you come from. I will assign someone to instruct you in the full details, but for now you must at least understand the basics.” She launched into a description of the types of servants, employees, officials, dignitaries, and nobles that Maryn might encounter.

Maryn listened as carefully as she could, but she soon became aware of growing discomfort. At length she had no choice but to interrupt. She chose her moment carefully, waiting until Coewyn paused between topics. Even so she spoke over the beginning of Coewyn’s next sentence, and the Stewardess glared at her. “Excuse me. But I must express my milk soon, if I’m to maintain a good supply until the prince is born. And if there’s a privy I might use…”

Coewyn rolled her eyes. “I suppose you must. I’ll have one of my aides get you settled in your rooms, and show you to the garderobe.” She rose and led Maryn toward the door.

Before they could reach it, the door flew open and a page burst into the room. “Madam Coewyn, the Royal Midwife sent me. She’s certain Princess Voerell is really in labor this time. She thinks the prince might be born in only a few hours!”

Coewyn raised her eyebrows. “Tell the Royal Midwife I am on my way. And you can inform her I have secured a suitable nurse, and will present her to the princess shortly.” She turned to Maryn. “Take care of your business quickly. I will come to your room in half an hour to collect you. With any luck, you will begin your service before nightfall.”

Five

A
low moan sounded beyond the ornate door. As Madam Coewyn conferred with the guards that flanked the entrance to Princess Voerell’s quarters, it escalated into a shriek.

Maryn caught her breath. The sound brought back a vivid memory of her labor with Frilan, the way the pain had wrapped around her body, squeezing tighter and tighter until she feared she might break in half. The same cry had burst from her own lips as the pain climaxed. She had fallen quiet as the pressure eased, as the voice beyond the door did now.

The guards swung the door open and Coewyn entered, Maryn at her heels. No one noticed. The spacious room held many female servants, and a number of well;-;dressed ladies clustered to one side, but everyone focused on the two women by the hearth.

A tall young woman, her loose silk dressing gown draped over the swell of her belly, leaned on a plump older woman. “Gallows, Litholl, you didn’t tell me it would be this bad! I can’t take this much longer. Not if it gets worse.”

The midwife brushed back a strand of sweaty hair that had escaped the laboring woman’s braids. “Remember what I told you, your Highness. Surrender to the sensation, don’t fight it. Accept it, allow it to sweep over you and do its work.”

The princess glared at the midwife. “Surrender? Would you counsel one of my brothers to surrender to the foe that drove a sword into his gut? Don’t say that again.”

The midwife remained unruffled. “As you wish, your Highness. You must choose your own way to deal with your trial. Come, walk with me a bit more. It will help your child descend and hasten the birth.”

“Anything to get this over with,” the princess growled. She pushed Litholl away and drew herself upright.

Madam Coewyn stepped forward. “Excuse me, your Highness. I’m sorry to interrupt, but you asked me to inform you when I had chosen a wet nurse. This is Maryn Loesella of Ralo. Maryn, Princess Voerell.”

Maryn sank into a deep curtsy. She wasn’t sure what she had expected of the princess, but she knew she hadn’t pictured anything like the fierce, angry woman in front of her. Although perhaps she was judging her unfairly. Labor could bring out strange sides of a woman. Her own mother, when Maryn had been present at her siblings’ births, would grow tearful and afraid as her labor progressed, quite unlike her usual stoic, confident self. Maryn hoped the princess was just experiencing a similar temporary shift in mood. Otherwise, working for her could be most unpleasant.

Voerell’s eyes brushed over Maryn without focusing. “It took you long enough. But you made it in time. Barely. Gallows, I hope it’s barely! Oh, curse it, Litholl, here comes another one.” She turned back to the midwife, fear in her eyes and voice.

“You’re doing wonderfully, your Highness. Relax and breathe.” Litholl demonstrated, inhaling slowly and sighing the breath out. Voerell tried to follow suit, but her face twisted into a grimace, and she let out a stream of profanity.

Coewyn took Maryn’s arm and pulled her to the side, where a velvet;-;upholstered bench stood on scrolled gilt feet. “Wait here until you’re needed. It won’t be long, if the midwife is right. I hope so. The way Voerell carries on, you’d think she fancies herself the first woman to feel a little pain giving birth.” She bustled off toward the ladies;-;in;-;waiting. The group of young noblewomen clung to each other, watching the princess with fearful eyes. “Come, come, make yourselves useful. Her Highness will be fine. You and you, go help the midwife. And you, have the servants build up the fire. We can’t have the prince taking a chill.”

Maryn sank down onto the bench. Voerell trudged in a slow circle around the room, pausing occasionally to lean on one of her ladies and give loud voice to her discomfort. Maryn wished there were something she could do to help ease the princess’s misery. During her labor with Frilan, Siwell had given her much the same advice. Maryn had found that when she was able to induce her taut muscles to go limp it really had made the pain more bearable. But Maryn was sure that if Voerell resisted listening to her midwife she would never pay heed to a lowborn stranger.

She had been so innocent back then. Just like the princess, she had been overwhelmed by the agony of her body. Now she knew far worse pain existed. Pain that no relaxing would ease, that would not fade away if only she endured long enough. She longed to go back to that day, when all she had to suffer were the simple pangs of labor.

The hours wore on. Voerell lay down on the bed for a time, but grew restless and rose again to resume her heavy shuffle on Litholl’s arm. The fire blazed high in the hearth, warming the room until the heat was stifling and Maryn could hardly breathe. Large wet patches blotched the princess’s silk robe, and beads of sweat formed on Litholl’s forehead.

Maryn shifted on the bench and stretched her stiff back. Her breasts were beginning to feel full again. Soon she would have to seek permission from Coewyn to go back to her new quarters and get her bowl. Voerell’s cries were duller now, edging toward exhaustion. The midwife still appeared unworried, but fear stirred in Maryn’s gut. What would happen to her if the birth did not go well? If the baby, or Holy One forbid, Voerell herself, did not survive? She tried to remember what Coewyn had read from the contract. Maybe they would at least pay her way back to Ralo.

Voerell halted in front of Maryn and bent over, moaning. Maryn noticed a different quality in her voice. Interspersed with her moans were low, throaty grunts. Litholl looked closely at Voerell’s face, while the two ladies;-;in;-;waiting exchanged anxious glances.

When the contraction passed, Voerell pulled herself up and frowned at Litholl. “I felt something different that time. I had to push; I couldn’t stop. Is that all right?”

“Yes, your Highness.” A new brightness tinged Litholl’s voice, though her calm assurance never wavered. “It won’t be long now.”

Voerell nodded. Her voice held a note of steely determination. “Good. Let’s get this done.”

She braced her feet and stood panting until the next pain. As her ladies clung to her arms, Voerell bent her knees into a squat. She put her head down, and her face twisted into a grimace of effort.

“Gently, your Highness,” Litholl cautioned. “Let your womb do the work; it’s quite capable. You’ll only wear yourself out trying to make it go faster.”

“I’ll do as I please,” Voerell said, her eyes closed, breathing hard.

“Yes, your Highness. Whatever you say. Would you like me to get my birthing stool? Or perhaps you’d be more comfortable lying down.”

“No! Just be quiet and catch the thing when it comes out.”

“Yes, your Highness.” Litholl gestured for the servants to bring fresh straw and spread it at Voerell’s feet. She crouched and pushed the hem of Voerell’s robe aside to examine her. With a nod, she settled on her heels to wait for the next contraction.

Before long it came. Voerell squatted again, giving a series of fierce, angry grunts. Maryn scooted to the end of her bench and leaned over to see past the ladies;-;in;-;waiting who crowded close, eager to catch the first glimpse of the new prince. She hadn’t expected to care so much. Voerell’s labor aroused intense memories of Frilan’s birth. Painful as they were, she found she treasured them. And the excitement of the imminent birth caught her up, just as it always had when she’d been present for her siblings’ births. She waited, as breathless as all the other women in the room, for the miraculous moment when new life would enter the world.

Litholl watched Voerell, hands loose in her lap. When the princess subsided into exhausted gasps, she spoke quietly. “Your bag of waters is bulging, and I could see the top of your baby’s head. All is well.”

Voerell nodded, her eyes closed. She slumped against her lady;-;in;-;waiting, who supported her mistress stoutly despite her look of dismay. It’s all right, Maryn wanted to assure her. The midwife said all was well. Maryn well remembered the feeling graven on Voerell’s face, of dazed and weary numbness. She had been sure, between contractions, that the task was impossible, that there was no way she would be able to muster the strength for one more push. And yet, when the waves of need came, they overpowered all her fear and exhaustion. She had thrust with all her might, over and over, as long as it took, until Frilan slid into the midwife’s waiting hands and Siwell placed him in her arms.