An Unfortunate Birth, a Medieval Tale

(Caution. Mention of someone bleeding in this story)

Long, long ago . . . there lived a Lord named Tytus who dwelled in a castle commonly known as Wadeley Keep. He had inherited it from his father-in-law, Lord Roland. On this day, Tytus stood near the bed holding an undersized baby bundled in a soft woolen wrap. The father’s green eyes sparkled in adoration at his son and heir while his wife Soona cuddled their newborn daughter in the comfort of the bed. Red-rimmed eyes and a flushed face made her look unwell.

A full moon shone through the window as the heavy drapes remained open. The abandoned birthing chair sat to one side as she rested. Morag, the midwife who had assisted Lady Soona with the birth, stood nearby, disheveled, as she observed the family of four. Births often developed complications, but this devoted pair welcomed their long-awaited first-born son and daughter. She shivered as the air felt chilled. Stone walls covered with rich tapestries looked cozy but added no warmth. The two sconces on the wall cast shadows and flickering illumination on the happy scene.

“Tytus, can we name our son Roland after my father?” she appealed.

“Dearest, I agree. We already discussed the names Roland, and Tabor, after my father. I believed you carried two sons. But two names for two sons will become two names for one son.”

“Gramercy. And our daughter? I asked you about Anna Faye, after my mother,” she said.

“I’m so happy. Our babies are perfect, you clever one. I’ve been blessed by both you and your father. He found me, took me in, and raised me. I owe him my life.”

Firewood thumped as it landed in the grate. Another younger woman, Jolenta, clothed in a maid’s cap and apron, bent over the fire, replenishing wood. 

“Oh, Morag!” Soona screeched, “Something is wrong.” Her face contorted as she gasped. Tytus looked at Morag perturbed, and she placed a reassuring hand on his arm. 

“It’s alright,” she soothed. Soona opened her mouth to scream but only uttered an exhausted moan.

Morag took baby Anna from her mother, called Jolenta, and handed her the infant.

“Out with you both,” she said, “Take the babies into the other room.”

They left as Morag attended to Soona, who groaned again. “Don’t fret, my dear,” she said. “The afterbirth hasn’t come away. Let me see.”

Soona began fast-breathing, pushing again in earnest as she commenced birthing another baby. Morag opened her eyes wide.

“Don’t worry. It’s a miracle, a third wee babe. You don’t need the chair. Relax and breathe slowly.”

The third infant birthed quickly. Her tiny wrinkled face offset her fuzz of dark hair, while bright eyes stared without blinking. She breathed but didn’t cry.

“All this fuss, and here you are without a care in the world,” Morag said with surprise as she wrapped the wee mite.

Soona sank into the pillows. Wisps of black hair clung to her feverish brow.

Morag saw a trickle of blood spreading over the sheet Soona lay on. She bundled the baby into a crib, quickly grabbed the soiled towels, and turned to Soona. “Tytus! Come quickly!” Her voice spelled alarm.

He thrust his young son to Jolenta. “Take the babies to their nurses.” 

Soon he stood at Morag’s side.

“Soona’s bleeding and it won’t stop. Fetch my bag,” said Morag. 

He did so, and she applied a unique mixture, with an overpowering herbal aroma, on a sea sponge to hopefully stem the flow. She prayed in silence, glancing upwards, her lips mouthing the words.

He held his wife’s limp hand as he dabbed her brow.

“I’m so tired . . . let me sleep,” she whispered.

“What went wrong?” He looked in horror at the crimson-stained sheets and towels. 

“Your wife has successfully given birth to three infants but is exhausted. If I can stop the bleeding, she’ll live.”

“She’ll live? What happened?”

“Another daughter. The three are robust. Thankfully, there are two wet nurses. But Lady Soona’s labor took all day. She’s exhausted. Women who bleed so much, need prolonged care . . . I hope she recovers.”

Tytus looked from the blood-soaked towels to his ashen wife and then at Morag. Women did die in childbirth, but providence had prevailed so far.

Childless Morag, a midwife’s daughter, had been recommended, as she had often assisted her mother and been available. Throughout the day and long night, she had remained confident. She remained so, though her hands clasped so tightly together she could see white knuckles.

“Can’t you do something?” He squeezed his wife’s unresponsive hand, put pressure on her arm, leaned over her, checked for shallow breathing, then touched her neck for any sign of life. Nothing. Soona lay still. “No, no, no! Soona come back!”

Soona startled and inhaled with a rasping wheeze.

“She lives!” He sounded elated. Then she lay quiet, her face waxen. “Do something!” He clasped her close in desperation. “My darling, wake up. Wake up!”

Morag reached out to him, tears welling. “I’ve seen this before. Her last attempt to breathe. She’s lost too much blood. Be happy your children are safe. You need to concern yourself with their christening.” Her eyes dripped her tears as she consoled him.

“We had two children and everything was perfect. No-one has three! It killed her.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder and protectively picked up the third infant to take her to the wet nurses. As she turned to face him, she opened her mouth to speak but paused. His face had become terrible.

“It’s a changeling! It killed my Soona. Get it away from me, from us. It deserves to die.” His eyes were agog as he stared at his minute third child’s wrinkled face, black hair, and open eyes. 

Her arm cradled the child as she grabbed her cape and hurried out. She didn’t dare leave the baby behind. Trembling, she dashed along the passage and descended the back stairs to the servants’ wing. The usual action of a midwife didn’t include a speedy exit with a baby, even if death had been wished on her by her father.

Morag cradled the little one in the crook of an arm concealed by the cloak over her shoulders.

Next came the long trek across the keep to the entrance.

“Prithee, open up,” she called. A servant obliged. She fled over the drawbridge and disappeared into the stillness of the night, her path lit by the full moon. A moon, no longer beautiful but a possible harbinger of death.

As she headed home, every animal sound startled her. Could she obey Lord Roland and dispose of a baby? It would die if she left it under a bush on such a chilly night. The life of this newborn hung in the balance as she hurried along the path.

Gradually, her strain lessened. Ruminating as she trekked, she arrived, at last, at a rustic cottage where she managed to open the gate and navigate the path in the light which glimmered through a window. She knocked.

 “Malcolm! I’m back. Let me in!”

Her brother came to the door, a giant of a man. He spent his days toiling over the land and livestock of Lord Gerrard. For all his industry, though, he never uttered anything good about his master.

Morag settled herself at the fireside.

“Look at this.” She whipped away her cloak and revealed the baby. The fire glowed, and the baby’s pale skin shone.

 “You have a bairn? Its mother will be distraught,” said Malcolm. He stared with surprise, which turned into shock.

“The mother is dead.” 

“Yay, but what about the father? A missing heir is sure to be noticed!” He rose to this ludicrous situation in which his sister found herself.

“She has a brother, her mother died, and her father demanded I dispose of her. This is no jest. What choice did I have?” 

“Well sister, you’re crazy. She should be exposed. What will everyone say if we suddenly have this bairn? How can you work?” He shook his head and frowned.

“Well, I can’t take her back now! She’ll be in danger. Don’t worry, Malcolm. I thought about it on the way home, and have a plan.”

She related her solution, though with his brows set sternly, he looked far from convinced. It involved his master. Lord Gerrard had wished to marry Morag long ago but had married another. Yet, something had happened the previous year, which remained a mystery. 

“We’ll go to Lord Gerrard, confront him with the baby, and demand support for his child.” She counted on Malcolm’s assistance. 

He had a look of trying to digest a shocking truth.

“A few days ago, I attended Rosie, a dear lady who birthed a stillborn. I’ll pay her to nurse the babe. Someone to love, after her loss. Baby’s identity will be a mystery. After she’s weaned, we’ll say she’s our adopted niece. If Gerrard helps, it means no hardship for anyone.”

Confronted by Morag’s audacious scheme, his mouth opened and closed until he finally said, “Do you really have the nerve to go there? You never told me what happened.”

“Gerrard befriended me, as you know. He watched, admired, and pursued me. I couldn’t avoid him because we lived and worked on his estate. He promised me a wedding ring but his parents made him marry a young lady with goods-enough. You know this. He still came to me but I refused to share him with his wife, so . . . he insisted.” Her face turned pink as she divulged her secret and tear-filled eyes sparkled.

“God’s bones! I always wondered what happened.”

“You’re coming with me. I’ll say she was born early. I’m not a loose woman and will threaten to tell his wife. He had one fault. He didn’t listen when I asked him to leave me be.”

“But what if he uses it as an excuse to be with you still?”

“I’ll threaten him if he doesn’t pay up and keep away,” said Morag.

 “But what if the bairn’s own father wants her?” Malcolm looked worried.

“Not a chance. He still has two other babes. No one else sighted her. What else do you want me to do? Actually, throw her away as her father instructed?”

“Of course not! . . . But, what about . . . your dinner? I cooked a mutton stew, which you can undoubtedly smell. You’ve been gone all day and most of the night. You must be starving.” 

Her mouth watered, and she could almost taste the meal, but instead, she tended to the baby who hadn’t been salted, cleaned, or had oil applied. The little one squirmed and cried as Morag unwrapped her.

“Rosheen, my little rose.” She tenderly gazed into her little face.

Later, Morag’s cunning plan came to fruition. Rosheen grew up in Lord Gerrard’s household as his daughter. His wife, Lady Vivien, believed she had been adopted. A kindness sometimes bestowed upon the needy of the fief. Gerrard hid the secret Morag told him about her being his daughter.

In the meantime, Roland and Anna grew up motherless at the nearby castle of Lord Tytus. Roland became an indulged and mischievous young man as his father, Tytus, had become a depressed recluse who still grieved over his dead wife and shirked any responsibility towards his children.

***

One fine day in spring, Lord Tytus, Roland and Anna’s father, approached Morag as she walked on the dusty road towards the fork in the road; one branch leading to Saelmere Castle, the home of Lord Gerrard, and the other to Wadeley Keep, where he lived. He stopped his horse before her and looked down. Despite her cloak and wimple, he’d recognized her. 

Her stomach lurched, and she felt like darkness had covered the sun. Her hands clenched together, and she knew she couldn’t escape. The accelerated percussion of her heart was a contrast to the cheerful twittering of birds in a nearby oak.

“Mistress, prithee, tell me of the matter I requested your assistance in long ago.”

 “What matter do you refer to, my Lord?” She averted her eyes and shuffled her feet.

“The exposure of an infant,” he said crisply.

“The matter was resolved. Your secret is safe.” Her voice strained the words as she sweated and inhaled. When he rode away, she exhaled in relief. She had both lied and told the truth in one breath. She wiped away a few tears, tasting the salt on her lips, relieved he hadn’t noticed her discomfort.

Hopeful her deception hadn’t raised suspicion, she prayed he’d never approach her again.

***

Nineteen-year-old Roland prepared his palfrey horse and set off at a fast trot towards the nearby Shady Wood. He glimpsed another rider from a distance: a young woman with long dark hair flying as her mount trotted. His curiosity piqued, he followed as he watched her ride toward the hill. 

She strolled her steed up through the trees, higher and higher, following a rough track.

He concealed himself behind large trunks as he urged his horse forward. Only a lady could wear such an elegant wimple and clothing. Who is she? he wondered.

When it became steeper, she dismounted at a clearing. Her rouncie tethered, she tripped towards the brook, which tinkled downwards. The cool air smelled of moss and ferns while tall trees surrounded her. Leaves imposed dappled light on the scene from the sun’s filtered rays. Roland dismounted, quietly followed her and hid. She stooped, trailing her fingers in the water while he inched forward. He unbalanced on a tree root, and she whirled around at the thud as he righted himself.

“Spy, come hither,” she commanded.

He hesitantly revealed himself. “I’m sorry to have startled you.”

She stood, no fear in her green eyes.

“Who are you?” He had no concern over her trespass onto this land but felt awkward as he met this beauteous lady. A new feeling overcame him; nervousness.

“I’m Rosheen, daughter of Lord Gerrard. I hope you don’t mind me coming here.”  

He doffed his hat politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Rosheen. I’m Roland Tabor, son of Lord Tytus.”

 “I know who you are. Your reputation has preceded you,” 

Her forehead creased in a frown.

“What do you know?” What stories has she heard? he thought.

“Do you want me to say? I don’t think so.”

“Perchance it’s untrue, otherwise you should be terrified.”

“Oh, you don’t scare me, Roland Tabor. I just don’t like you.”

“You can’t know me!” 

“Neither do I want to.” 

 “How dare you, be here! I could harm you.”

“Pooh! You’re nothing but a wayward child. If you received more harm in your childhood, you’d not need to be told.”

 “I’m sorry you’re disappointed.” Regret effused from him. Why did I threaten this angel? he thought. He became painfully aware of his crumpled clothes and smell and regretted leaving home in the same attire he had worn the previous day. 

 “Disappointed? I never expected to meet you and you’re everything I imagined. Good day to you.” A ready tongue was hers. She walked towards her mount.

First stabbed, shamed, and then dismissed. Roland stood agog at her impertinence; as if a bucket of icy-cold water had drenched him. She carefully walked downwards with her horse. Who in the world is this girl? What she thinks of me matters, he thought. His forehead creased in a frown.