Chapter One, "Prologue" Northeast Sea Coast, Whinnyfold, Scotland
October 31, 1619
The midwife wrapped the child tightly, opened the door, and walked a path to the stone cottage where Jessie Hay lived. It was the last day of October and the wind from the sea was bitter cold.
Maggie had been a midwife for forty years, and never witnessed such brutality. No one knew the young woman who came on horseback, showing signs of labor. Her body was dark with bruises and rope burns marred her wrists. She gave birth, held her son tenderly, and whispered something in his ear. Then she bled to death.
Maggie’s heart ached as she walked the stony path. How could a man beat his pregnant wife? A fierce wind blew the skirt about her legs, chilling her to the marrow. The small boy snuggled against her bosom, lifting her spirits. He was seeking a nipple, a good sign.
“Poor laddie,” she crooned. “What will I do with ye?” Maggie’s head throbbed as she considered the possibilities. The stranger never spoke her name, so it would be impossible to find her husband. Even if she could, would she want to? The man had beaten the lass nearly to death. He might blame her for the woman’s demise or accuse her of sorcery. Her inner voice insisted that the child live. She prayed for divine guidance. “Goddess, help me. Am I doing the right thing?”
The blanket was thick with the smells of birth, blood and mucous and the rose-like scent of newborn skin. It spoke of life. Her first idea seemed right. Close by, a fishwife named Jessie Hay nursed a newborn son. Perhaps she would have enough milk for this wee orphan.
She arrived at the woman’s door and hesitated. What would she say? Jessie was a good friend and fellow healer. For years she’d been childless, even called barren. It might please her to have two sons. Maggie knocked.
Jessie opened the door and the midwife entered. The cottage was dark, but for the glow of the hearth and a single candle. Jessie held baby Ian in her arms, stroking his red hair. She laid him in the cradle. “What have ye got there, friend?”
Maggie shifted her bundle and uncovered the lad’s face. “Poor child, he’s shivering.”
Jessie’s eyes widened. “Let me feed the fire.” She stoked the fire with a bundle of peat. “Whose child is this?”
Maggie took off her shawl and sat at the table, holding the precious bundle. She was weary to the bone. “Sit with me, lass.”
Jessie left the hearth and joined her.
The midwife stroked the child’s face. “His mother came on horseback, showing signs of labor. She was a lady.”
Jessie’s brow knotted. “How did ye know?”
“Her clothes and shoes were well made, of silks and fine leather.”
“Who was she?”
“I asked her name, but got no answer. The lass removed her ring and pressed it into my hand. Payment, I suppose. I put her to bed and made ready for the birth.”
Jessie leaned forward to get a glimpse of the baby. “The child looks good. What happened?”
Maggie’s throat tightened. “Her arms were dark with bruises where a man’s hands grabbed her. He’d taken a belt to her legs, leaving great welts. I wondered how she rode that horse.”
Jessie’s eyes widened. “What kind of devil would beat a woman with child?”
“That’s not all! I saw rope burns on her wrists; she must have struggled.”
“Poor lass. Did she say who did this?”
Maggie frowned. “Nay. She wouldn’t tell and she didn’t cry out, though the birth was hard. I would have thought her dumb if she hadn’t spoken to the child.”
“What did she say?”
“She held him so tenderly and whispered in his ear.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Oh dear.”
“Please friend. What did she say?”
“Poor little one, yer father must never find ye.”
Jessie shuddered. “Mercy! What happened to her?”
Maggie glanced at the blood under her fingernails. “She’s dead. The afterbirth came and the bleedin’ wouldn’t stop. There was nothing I could do.”
They were silent for a moment.
Maggie searched her eyes. “Take this child. I’ll swear he’s yer own.”
Jessie bit her lower lip gently. “Let me see him.”
They placed the infant on the table and uncovered him. The wee lad shivered as they counted fingers and toes and admired his black curls. He was perfect but for a birthmark on his shoulder that looked like the head of a stag. He fussed as they wrapped him, sucking his lower lip fiercely. Jessie picked him up and responded to his search for a nipple, nursing him until he fell asleep. When she put him in the cradle, the children stirred and touched each other.
Jessie smiled. “Two sons. My husband will be pleased.” She touched the lad’s cheek. “Wee stranger. We’ll name ye Dughall, after my own dear father.”
The midwife was relieved. “Bless ye, lass.” “Maggie, can ye tell the child’s fortune?”
“Born on the day of the dead. This child will have the Sight.”
“You said that about my son Ian.”
“Aye.”
Jessie frowned. “I must know the truth, and don’t tell my husband. You know how he feels about the old religion.”
The old midwife hesitated. Did she dare tell a fortune? Her body was weary, and her emotions were raw.
“Please, friend. I must know if we’re to keep him.”
Maggie took a breath. She touched the lad gently between the eyes, until her mind filled with a vision of another time. Two men rode horses along a dry riverbed. She reached out with her other hand and touched Ian between the eyes. “This is not the first time these two souls have been together.”
“Tell me, Maggie.”
“Wait, lass.” She closed her eyes. “They were brothers during a time of death and destruction. I feel love and admiration, and something else.” Maggie saw a vision of what had been, and touched Ian’s crown. Will ye stand by him this time, or let him die? Pain and regret flooded her senses, and she pulled her hand back suddenly.
Jessie was startled. “What do ye see friend? What shall this child bring?”
The midwife hid her true feelings. “Sweet lass, he will bring ye luck.” Maggie pulled on her wrap and left the cottage, tears falling on her cheeks. She would tell no one. Her mother had been hanged a witch for less.
***
Read another snippet at:
http://jeannetreat.wordpress.com/2012/03/20/a-snippet-from-my-novel-dark-birthright-2/
