“I was waylaid by Master Pons,” Mariam said, “and he insisted that I give you his advice, Dame Esquiva.” This caused some chuckling among the women, for none of them would have dreamed of trusting a male doctor over a midwife. “He says that it would be safe to bleed Joanna now since night has fallen, explaining at great length that all women are of a melancholic nature, unlike men, who can also be choleric, sanguine, and phlegmatic. I feared he was going to give me the entire history of bloodletting ere I could make my escape!”
“If women are indeed melancholic by nature, then we have men to blame for that,” Eleanor said tartly. She had no intention of seeing her daughter bled, thinking women lost enough blood during childbirth as it was. But she need not have worried, for Esquiva was in full agreement, saying dismissively that Master Pons knew as much about delivering a baby as she did about the science of alchemy.
The physician was forgotten then, when Joanna cried out again. Her contractions were coming much more frequently now and under the midwife’s direction, the women massaged her belly with warmed thyme oil, fed her spoonfuls of honey to keep her strength up, and closed the window when she began to shiver. Esquiva had probed the mouth of her womb, assuring herself the baby was in the right position, and urged Joanna to bear down until she saw the crowning.
“Stop pushing, my lady! I see the head,” she announced triumphantly. Joanna had no breath to scream, writhing in pain when the baby’s shoulders came free. She clutched Raimond’s ring so tightly that the coral dug deep scratches into her palm as her son entered the world, his skin blotched and puckered, covered in mucus and her own blood. His sex was confirmed almost at once by Esquiva. “A man-child!”
But instead of rejoicing, Joanna was suddenly overwhelmed by fear, remembering how vulnerable Bohemond had been from the moment he’d drawn his first feeble breath, small and frail and unresponsive, almost as if he’d known that he did not belong there, that God would soon call him home. Tears burning her eyes, she reached out weakly toward her baby, wanting to hold him before she saw upon Esquiva’s face the dismay that she’d seen upon the faces of the Sicilian midwives. It was then, though, that he let out a loud, piercing cry, sounding as if he was protesting the indignities he’d been subjected to, sounding robust and strong enough to banish the worst maternal fears.
The women were cooing over the baby as Esquiva cleaned out his mouth, cut and tied the umbilical cord, and began to wipe the slimy coating from his squirming little body. Tears were not uncommon after birth, so only Mariam interpreted them correctly, Mariam who’d been in the birthing chamber as Joanna had been delivered of her dying baby. “He is perfect, Joanna,” she said, taking the other woman’s hand in her own. “Perfect from head to toe, I swear it.”
Taking the baby from the midwife, Eleanor leaned over and placed him in his mother’s arms. And as Joanna cradled her son, gently stroking his surprisingly thick thatch of dark hair—his father’s hair—she would later remember it as the happiest moment of her life.
WHEN JOANNA AWAKENED, morning sun was pouring into the chamber from the open windows, her baby was sleeping in his cradle under the wet nurse’s watchful eye, and her husband was dozing in a chair by her bed. He opened his eyes as soon as she stirred, leaning over to give her a quick kiss. He’d stayed with her late into the night, but she saw that he’d changed his clothing since she’d fallen asleep, and a cut on his chin showed he’d taken the trouble to shave before coming back. She had never been shy about admitting vanity as one of her besetting sins and she ran her hand now through her tangled hair, saying, “I must look dreadful, Raimond.”
“You look,” he said, “like the mother of my son.” He turned then toward the wet nurse, but Gileta had anticipated him and was already approaching the bed with the infant. Joanna sat up and Raimond positioned pillows behind her back so she could hold their son. His eyes were puffy and he had a reddish splotch on his forehead, which Esquiva said would soon fade, but Joanna thought he was already the most beautiful baby she’d ever seen.
“His eyes are so blue,” she marveled, “just like yours, Raimond.”
“Let’s hope the poor lad does not take after me in any other way.” He reached out and smiled when the baby gripped his finger in a tiny fist. “You do not know it yet, Raimondet, but you are going to like this world even more than your mama’s comfortable womb. You will be spoiled and cosseted by your mother, who happens to be astonishingly beautiful, and your well-meaning, foolish father will make the obligatory speeches about discipline and duty, but he’ll be able to deny you nothing. And one day you will be the Count of Toulouse, a land of milk and honey that is even more blessed than Eden, since we have no talking serpents.”
“Little Raimond,” Joanna echoed softly, smiling at her men. “I suppose it is lucky that we did not have a daughter, since we never did choose a name for a girl.”
“Yes, we did, love. Do you not remember . . . Melusine.”
“It is becoming obvious to me, my darling, that I’d best be the one to name our children. What do you have in mind for our next son—Lucifer?”