Chapter 2
Avice
Avice followed her Grim with the newborn clutched to her chest. She picked her way carefully through the frosty fields until she finally spotted a brown-coated man amongst the ewes.
Her breath puffed through the air, and she trembled beneath her layers of woollen and linen clothes.
Avice chanced a peek at the baby in her arms. She nodded with satisfaction that the girl’s chest still softly rose and fell.
The birthing blood had dried on her pale, soft skin and the external viscera still glistened with vitality.
Her heart hammered in her chest. The thought of delivering the unfortunate news to Robert Shepherd – a man much older than his wife – sent a skitter of terror up Avice’s spine.
The midwife had heard rumours amongst the villagers of Lamorna of how rough and domineering he could be but was thankful she had not experienced it herself.
Bramble whined softly by her side, sensing her apprehension. I will stay unseen. However, if he becomes a threat to you, the shepherd will see me, he reassured.
Avice swallowed her nerves, emboldened by his support. She smiled gratefully down at her familiar. She wished she could grip his fur for reassurance, but her hands were occupied holding the infant to her chest.
“Thank you, Bramble. Have I told you recently how glad I am you decided to stay after Aunt Agnes passed away?” she asked, continuing her path towards the shepherd.
Yes. The Grim trotted at her heels. However, I am always happy to hear it again, he said with a swish of his tail.
The brown-coated man bobbed up and down amongst his pregnant ewes. Each was as round as a wine barrel, waddling around on stick thin legs.
Avice wet her mouth before she called out, “Robert Shepherd!”
The man startled and stood up straight amongst his flock. The burn of his penetrating glare kept Avice rooted to the spot.
“Midwife. Why are you here? And not with my wife?” he questioned, a muscle feathering in his broad jaw.
Avice considered the shepherd. He was tall and broad. His bleary eyes were set in a stubbled, weathered face. Deep lines traced the edges of his mouth and forehead as he scowled at her. Avice stifled a tremble at his hardened gaze.
With a lump in her throat, she opened her dry, cracked lips. “Mister Robert. Your wife has survived the birth of your daughter—”
“Then, why are you here, woman?” he growled.
The words finally fell out. “Because your daughter will not survive much longer.” Avice shifted the bundle in her arms.
“My daughter?” Robert’s legs ate up the remaining space between them in moments.
She wrinkled her nose at his scent, a nauseating mix of stale ale, sheep, and unwashed body. She swallowed down the bile she tasted in her throat.
“Your daughter,” she affirmed.
“What is wrong with her?” he asked, his eyebrows drawing together.
“Mister Robert.” Avice chose her words carefully. “Your daughter has been born with some of her insides on the outside.”
The shepherd grimaced. “What? Show me. Now.”
The world froze for a moment around Avice. The gentle clunk of the iron bells on the sheep’s necks echoed a haunting resonance in her ears. Swallowing her nerves, she dipped her head in agreement.
“Yes, sir.”
The midwife reluctantly tucked her cloak over her shoulder and lowered the barely breathing baby from her chest. She peeled back the blanket. She grimaced as the material resisted her tug; the woven wool stuck to the protruding intestines.
Robert let out a sound that reminded Avice of a strangled cat.
She stole a glance at his face: his mouth had dropped open, and his gums were full of blackened teeth.
She recoiled at his breath, stifling a grimace.
Robert took a step back and performed the Signum Crucis, just as Goodwife Catherine had earlier that morning.
Anger sparked in her chest at the sign. Avice quickly cooled her flaring temper. She took a deep breath, staying calm to get the best outcome for the dying child in her arms.
“Mister Robert, as sad as it is, your daughter is not long for this land,” Avice explained, tucking the blanket back over the baby.
“I can see that,” the shepherd grunted, the corners of his eyes damp as he blinked down at his daughter.
The midwife knew she could waste no more time; she had to get the child to the well before she died. She tilted her chin upwards with false bravado.
“I know this is difficult, sir. I wish to ask you, would you let me offer the child to the Good Neighbours?” she asked.
The shepherd brushed away the tears that gathered with a rough knuckle. “Offer her? To those devils? My child?” he bit.
“Yes, sir.” Avice continued to meet his eyes as she fought the instinct to lower her gaze from his penetrating stare.
Robert furrowed his brow; the lines in his skin deepened. “She should be buried, in the church yard.”
She knew then that there would be no hope for baby.
The poor child would be buried in the cold, hard ground.
That, according to the men of the local church, her soul would go to Limbo.
Her stomach dropped at the thought of the worms in the soil consuming the tiny baby.
But Avice knew if the Good Neighbours accepted the child, she would live in enchantment and joy.
The midwife nodded her acceptance and held her out. “Then, please, take her.”
Robert recoiled from the offer, shaking his head. “I will not touch the child; she has a devil’s mark. You take her.”
Avice scoffed at the man’s order. “I will not. You know I do not often attend the church, and you are her father. If the outcome you wish for is a Christian burial, then that is what you must prepare yourself.”
The shepherd clenched his fists. “You will take her there.”
Then, a growl.
Bramble took a step forward, letting himself be seen. To Avice, he had never left, always in her periphery. However, he could only be seen by others when he wished it to be so. His red eyes flared. Black lips pulled back to reveal glistening, bone-white teeth.
Robert squeaked. His mouth snapped closed with a click as his gaze darted between Avice and the Grim.
“As I have said,” she continued, “you can take your daughter to the church for a Christian burial, or you will let me take her to the Good Neighbours. I will not be forced to do something against my will.”
Robert scowled down at the Grim, and then at the midwife. “So be it.” He half-turned back towards his flock. “There will be another, anyway. And the next one will be a son.”
Once the shepherd had marched away, almost disappearing into his flock, Avice finally took in a full breath; her heart still galloped over the encounter.
The frigid air stung her lungs as she swaddled the baby once more.
She tucked the child back against her soft chest, enveloping her in the cloak again.
Satisfied that the little girl was as protected from the elements as Avice could make her, she turned her attention the Grim at her side.
“To Knucker Hill, and the King of the Well.”