The Knucker King (Song of the Sidhe Kings #1)

Chapter 1

Avice

The infant had been born to die.

Avice Gardener – midwife, apothecary, and Faerie-speaker – knew that to be a fact.

The moment she laid her brown eyes upon the newborn in her arms, still slick with birthing blood, she knew the little girl was doomed.

Avice’s stomach dropped at the sight. She carefully wrapped the panting baby in her arms, delicately covering the exposed viscera on the child’s abdomen. Avice’s mouth was suddenly dry. She licked her lips, preparing to speak, before turning her gaze to the weakened mother in the birthing chair.

Too young. The midwife observed. Still a child herself.

Catherine, the eldest sister of the new mother and the only other woman in attendance at the birth, frowned up at Avice.

“What is wrong?” she asked as she straightened up from her crouched position on the rammed earth floor. “I have had four of my own, and they all squalled the walls down the moment they were born.”

Avice clenched her jaw as she adjusted the baby in her arms. The afterbirth was still attached and bundled up in the blanket with the newborn. She swallowed, the dryness of her mouth strangling the words.

“Well?” Catherine demanded, stepping towards the midwife.

“I… The baby, she is not long for this land,” Avice tried to explain.

“What do you mean?” the woman asked. Her sharp, blue eyes narrowed. “Show her to me.”

With a heavy heart, Avice lowered the weak newborn that she had pressed to her chest. She gritted her teeth as she tugged back the blood-stained, woollen blanket.

Catherine gasped and promptly took a step backwards from her weak niece.

At the sight of the external intestines, she performed the Signum Crucis.

Avice knew that movement well, done deliberately to mimic the shape of the cross.

Avice furrowed her brow as she watched Catherine.

The woman blew her blonde fringe from her forehead before pressing her shaking fingertips there.

She then touched them to her chest and brushed her hand from shoulder to shoulder, completing the ritual.

“A devil’s mark to be sure,” she whispered.

“A devil’s—” Avice looked down at the pale, cold infant in her arms. “Some babies are simply born too early, or maybe something happened to them as they came into the world.”

“I should tell the father.” Catherine looked down at her shivering sister.

Avice’s stomach twisted. “You will not,” she asserted, before looking down towards the weary mother. “We must have Goodwife Joan start her lying-in. Your sister needs to be helped.”

Avice always used the proper designation of ‘Goodwife’ for her labouring patients. It was a title earned by respectable, married ladies. For those that were obedient, submissive, and most importantly, produced children.

“I—”

“Goodwife Catherine,” Avice snapped. “You may either hold your niece while I attend to your sister or help your sister while I look after the child and tell the father.”

Joan moaned from the birthing chair. Her hair was plastered to her pale, white forehead. She blearily looked up at her sister, gaze unfocused, dark circles bagging her eyes.

Avice saw concern flash over Catherine’s face as she studied her sibling. The woman stuck her chin out, a grim determination set on her countenance.

Catherine nodded at Avice. “I will aid my sister, the Lord knows I have had enough of my own lying-ins to assist her. You…” – she glanced down at the bloody swaddle in the midwife’s arms – “…can tell the father.”

Anxiety clawed at Avice’s chest. Part of her had hoped that Catherine, bold as she was, would tell her brother-in-law of his daughter’s state.

She was equally concerned about the condition of Joan.

This birth was her first. It had been long and difficult.

The young wife would need rest, with warmth and healthful foods to aid her recovery.

She remembered her lessons from her Great Aunt Agnes, which had included instructions about nutritious diets – the foods that peasant mothers would need to ensure their milk would come in and would assist their recovery.

Porridge. Broth. Meat. She repeated the instructions she had learnt over the ten years of tutelage.

“A warm water wash. A fresh chemise and blankets. Lamb’s wool beneath Goodwife Joan to collect the birthing blood – it needs to be changed for a fresh one when it is soaked.

For her meals, porridge with honey and broth from bones.

Some meat and fish, slowly stewed, if it is available. ”

Catherine had already begun helping her sister up from the wooden, birthing chair. Likely, it had been passed down through the women in their family for generations. A precious heirloom, where their ancestors had won or lost the battle of birthing over the turns of many seasons.

“Understood, Midwife Avice. Now, please inform the father and take the… child away.”

“My baby?” Joan murmured. “Where is my baby?”

Catherine’s jaw clenched as she supported her sister. “She’s gone my love. Gone. With our Father in heaven. Robert and the midwife will take care of it for us. But you are still here, so you are my concern now.” She nodded at Avice before tugging her sister over towards the pallet bed.

“Where is Robert?” Joan whimpered. “Someone must tell him.”

“I will,” Avice conceded.

She turned from the sisters and inhaled deeply.

Awkwardly shifting the baby girl from one arm to another, she pulled on her cloak, tucking the swaddled infant within.

Between her plump body and the thick blanket, she hoped the infant would stay warm.

She braced herself before she cracked open the wooden door.

It creaked loudly, making the baby in her arms jerk in surprise, the first time she had reacted to an external stimulus.

Avice stepped outside and the chilly air bit at her round cheeks. The wind buffeted her face, blowing strands of black hair loose from the neat bun she wore at the nape of her neck. She squinted in the morning light as the sun fractured through the grey clouds above.

“Bramble?” she called softly into the garden. The frost-covered ground was hard beneath her leather boots, sending a jolt of cold up her stocking-clad legs.

There was a rustle behind a laurel bush, the evergreen leaves surviving the brutal Winter into what should now be Spring. Out stepped her Grim, a black hound of shadow. He stretched; a puff of steam wafted from his mouth as he padded over to Avice.

The top of his shaggy head reached the midwife’s hip. He lowered his muzzle and sniffed at the bottom hem of her dress, where some birthing blood had dried.

His gaze met hers. The blood is not yours, Bramble confirmed.

Avice gave her Grim a gentle smile. His familiar-ship had been transferred from her Great Aunt Agnes to her, after the elderly woman had died.

The bond between them was sealed with a drop of her blood on his large, wet nose.

His glowing, red eyes were soft as he stared up at his mistress, adoration dancing through his irises.

“Do not worry yourself. It is from the birth,” Avice reassured.

I dislike it when we are apart for so long. The last church bell pealed seven times. You have been in that dwelling all night, Bramble lectured. He shifted his snout to snuff at the bundle in her arms. Why is this pup not with its dam?

Avice’s lips tugged down. “She will not survive long.” She considered her options.

Her herbs and medicines would not work. The cost of her other option was exceptionally high – an image of her Aunt Agnes on the funeral pyre flashed across her mind – especially as it may not be enough to save the child.

“The Goodwives inside have asked me to let Robert Shepherd know. I want to see what we can do with the baby. I hope he will allow me to take her to the well.”

Bramble cocked his head and whimpered. You know the villagers of Lamorna no longer send offerings to the Good Neighbours. They are infatuated with their Cross God. Why would they take her?

“I want to ask the King of the Well for help. You know we have been friendly over the years. I hope he will convince the Good Neighbours to take her – at least, there, she will have a chance.” Avice looked down at the pale, quiet, baby in her arms. Her eyes had not opened and her skin grew colder with each passing moment.

“It is alright, little one. We will find your father. Then I hope he will let me take you somewhere where you will feel no more pain.” She turned to her Grim. “Can you find him?”

Bramble turned his shaggy head to the wind. His nose twitched as he tracked the location of the man. I believe Robert Shepherd is in his lower field, checking on his ewes that are in-lamb.

Avice sighed. The lower fields were not close, and the morning was cold. The infant could die before she reached her father. Avice stuck out her chin and nodded at her familiar.

“Lead the way please, Bramble.”

The freezing breeze tousled the hound’s fur.

His wiry hair protected him from the worst of the chill.

Avice, however, felt every bite of the frigid air.

Beneath her sleeves and stockings, her arms and legs prickled.

The Grim, lustrous black in the grey morning, scented at the air a final time before pointing his snout in the direction they were to walk.

This way, Avice. I will also attend this meeting with the father. He will be distressed by his daughter’s condition, and I will not have him reacting poorly to your presence, Bramble said, before stepping towards the fields.