special salts that in extreme cases could help a patient overcome the loss of blood.
Betrice glanced over to the window and managed a little grin at the father’s inexperienced handling. Harper Petiron might be, able to play for hours at a Gather, but he’d a lot to learn about fathering. For that matter, he was lucky enough to have a son at all, considering Merelan had lost three in the early stages of pregnancy. Some women were born to bear many, but Merelan was not one of them.
Merelan’s eyes flickered open and then widened with joy as she heard the lusty cries of her newborn.
“There, now, he’s here and all the parts in the right place, so you may rest easy, Singer,” Betrice said, stroking Merelan’s cheek.
“My son…” Merelan whispered, her usually magical voice raspy with exhaustion. Her head turned in the direction of the noise her
baby was making, and her fingers twitched on the stained sheet. “Soon, Singer. Let me clean you up…”
“I must hold him…” Merelan’s voice was feeble, but her need was fierce.
“Now, you’ll have plenty of time to hold him, Merelan,” Betrice said, a hint of sternness in her soothing tone. “I promise you that.” And hope I’m not lying in my teeth, she added to herself.
Just then Sirtie and the healer arrived. Betrice breathed in relief when she saw Ginia and the bottle of clear liquid she carried which might mean the difference between life and death for the new mother.
“Petiron, take that yowling child of yours and show him off,” Ginia said in a peremptory tone, scowling at the nervously jiggling father. “They’ve all been waiting in the Hall to see him in person, not that anyone doubts he’s here with that set of lungs. Off with you!”
Petiron was only too willing to go. He’d been as much help as he could be, rubbing Merelan’s back and sponging her sweaty forehead during the long labour, and he desperately needed a drink to soothe his nerves. He’d been so afraid for Merelan towards the end, especially right after the birth when she seemed to shrink into nothing in the bloodied bed. They wouldn’t have told him to leave if it weren’t all right, he was sure of that! He was also sure that he’d never put merelan in such danger again; he hadn’t known just how difficult childbirth was.
“The lungs on him,” Ginia said with a mirthless smile as she bent to examine Merelan. “She’s torn all right. You can give her some fellis now, Betrice. Sirtie, strap her arm to that splint board. She needs fluid. How I wish we understood more about whole blood transferences. That’s what she really needs, with all she seems to have lost. You know how to find a vein with the needle thorn, Sirrie, but if you’ have trouble, let me know.”
Sirrie nodded and began her ministration, while Ginia did what she could to mend the torn flesh. The baby’s protests were still
audible despite the distance between this room and the main Hall. “She’s fighting the fellis, Ginia,” Betrice said anxiously. “What’s she saying?”
“She wants her baby.” Then Betrice mouthed words that Ginia could easily read: “She thinks she’s dying.”
“Not while I’m here, she isn’t,” Ginia said vehemently. “Get the babe back. It won’t hurt her to have it suckling, and that would help contract the womb. Either way, it’ll calm her, and I want her as calm as possible right now.”
Betrice went herself and brought back the now outraged infant, grinning broadly at his ferocity and grip on life.
“He’ll put right back into her with his own, so he will,” she said, smiling as she laid the baby beside Merelan, whose right arm instinctively curled about her child. He found her breast with no help from anyone. And Merelan sighed with relief.
“I swear he’s doing the trick,” Betrice said, amazed at the sudden flush of colour in the singer’s cheeks.
“I’ve seen stranger things happen,” Ginia replied, glancing up.
“There. That’s all I can do … except caution Petiron that she’s not to get pregnant again. I doubt she can, but he’ll have to restrain himself.”