Epic Historial Collection by Ken Follett Page B

gasped.
    â€œDoes it hurt?” he said, surprised and worried.
    â€œNo,” 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.”
    â€œThat’s because it’s on the way out,” she said.
    He covered her and tucked her cloak around her. He would need to make his preparations quickly. He looked at the children. Martha was snuffling. Alfred just looked scared. It would be good to give them something to do.
    â€œAlfred, take that cooking pot to the stream. Wash it clean and bring it back full of fresh water. Martha, collect some reeds and make me two lengths of string, each big enough for a necklace. Quick, now. You’re going to have another brother or sister by daybreak.”
    They went off. Tom took out his eating knife and a small hard stone and began to sharpen the blade. Agnes groaned again. Tom put down his knife and held her hand.
    He had sat with her like this when the others were born: Alfred; then Matilda, who had died after two years; and Martha; and the child who had been born dead, a boy whom Tom had secretly planned to name Harold. But each time there had been someone else to give help and reassurance—Agnes’ mother for Alfred, a village midwife for Matilda and Harold, and the lady of the manor, no less, for Martha. This time he would have to do it alone. But he must not show his anxiety: he must make her feel happy and confident.
    She relaxed as the spasm passed. Tom said: “Remember when Martha was born, and the Lady Isabella acted as midwife?”
    Agnes smiled. “You were building a chapel for the lord, and you asked her to send her maid to fetch the midwife from the village….”
    â€œAnd she said: ‘That drunken old witch? I wouldn’t let her deliver a litter of wolfhound pups!’ And she took us to her own chamber, and Lord Robert could not go to bed until Martha was born.”
    â€œShe was a good woman.”
    â€œThere aren’t many ladies like her.”
    Alfred returned with the pot full of cold water. Tom set it down near the fire, not close enough to boil, so there would be warm water. Agnes reached inside her cloak and took out a small linen bag containing clean rags which she had ready.
    Martha came back with her hands full of reeds and sat down to plait them. “What do you need strings for?” she asked.
    â€œSomething very important, you’ll see,” Tom said. “Make them well.”
    Alfred looked restless and embarrassed. “Go and collect more wood,” Tom told him. “Let’s have a bigger fire.” The boy went off, glad to have something to do.
    Agnes’s face tautened with strain as she began to bear down again, pushing the baby out of her womb, making a low noise like a tree creaking in a gale. Tom could see that the effort was costing her dear, using up her last reserves of strength; and he wished with all his heart that he could bear down for her, and take the strain himself, to give her some relief. At last the pain seemed to ease, and Tom breathed again. Agnes seemed to drift off into a doze.
    Alfred returned with his arms full of sticks.
    Agnes became alert again and said: “I’m so cold.”
    Tom said: “Alfred, build up the fire. Martha, lie down beside your mother and keep her warm.” They both obeyed with worried looks. Agnes put her arms around Martha and held her close, shivering.
    Tom was sick with worry. The fire was roaring, but the air was getting colder. It might be so cold that it would kill the baby with its first breath.