The Witch’s Daughter by Paula Brackston Read Free Book Online Page B

pain and effort and blood and yet produced no baby. Sarah lay wide-eyed, clutching at her mother’s hand, her sweaty face showing a mix of exhaustion and fear. Sarah’s sister dabbed at her ineffectually with a damp cloth.
    Mary drew Anne to a corner and spoke to her with a muted voice, which she was forced to raise on occasion because of the girl’s pitiful cries.
    ‘Bless thee for coming with such speed, Anne. This does not go well. The poor child is all but spent and still no sign of the infant coming forth.’
    Anne nodded, listening closely to what the old woman had to say. Bess thought Mary herself looked near collapse. What did she think her mother could do for this wretched girl that she could not? Bess watched the two consulting for a moment longer before Anne stepped over to the bed and laid her hands on Sarah’s belly.
    ‘Hush, child, do not fear.’
    ‘Oh, Missus Hawksmith!’ Sarah grabbed at her with a clammy hand. ‘The babe will surely die, and me besides!’
    ‘No, no. It is just as Mary says. Your infant is lying awkward, ’tis all. We must bid him turn so that he can find his way out.’
    She had barely finished her sentence when a powerful spasm gripped Sarah’s body. The girl let out a shout that grew into a shriek until it trailed off to a heartbreaking whimper. Anne placed her hands on Sarah’s belly once more, gently but firmly working to manipulate the baby, to change its position. For a moment it seemed she might succeed, but then, just when the child seemed ready to engage with the process of being born, it would spin upward and sideways again. Anne persisted. Three times she almost won, but on each occasion the infant swiveled at the last minute. Anne straightened up as Sarah endured another agonizing convulsion. Bess marveled at how her whole body was taken up as if by some unseen force. A force that should be aiding the unborn child’s delivery but instead seemed only to be hastening its death.
    Anne spoke softly to Mary.
    ‘Have you tried turning it from inside the girl?’
    ‘I have’—Mary nodded—‘but she is a lissome lass. There is no room for my crooked hands.’
    The two women looked at her bent, arthritic fingers, and then at Anne’s own straight but broad palms. Anne turned to Bess.
    ‘Show me your hands.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Quickly, Bess, show me.’
    Bess did as her mother bade her. Anne and Mary examined her hands closely. They looked at each other and then back at Bess. Anne lifted her daughter’s hands up and squeezed them as she spoke.
    ‘Bess, you must attend to my words. Do precisely what I tell you, no more nor less. Move with care but firmly.’
    ‘You mean … but, I can’t, Mother. I cannot!’
    ‘You must! Only you can do it. If you do not, both mother and babe will die this night. Do you hear me?’
    Bess opened her mouth to protest further but could not find the words. She had delivered calves for her father, who had also seen the value of her small hands. She had assisted at lambing time. She had even been present in the room when Margaret was born, though she remembered little past her mother’s determined face. She saw that same fixed expression now and knew it was not in her power to change it. Before she could think further, her mother called for a bowl of hot water and had Bess wash her hands. Anne dried them on clean linen, then rubbed them with lavender oil. All the while Mistress Prosser and the attendant women looked on with disdain at such unfamiliar practices. Anne led Bess to the bed before positioning herself at Sarah’s side, placing her hands on her belly once more. She nodded at Bess.
    Bess looked at the young girl who was lying before her. Her chest heaved with the effort of labor and of pain. Her cheeks had taken on an alarming pallor. She looked up at Bess, her eyes pleading. Bess leaned forward and slowly eased the fingers of her right hand into the girl.
    ‘What do you feel, Bess?’ Anne asked.
    ‘I cannot be