Page 1 of Always
Chapter
1
Felicia
“Another sip, YourMajesty,” I pleaded, holding out the golden chalice of raspberry-leaf tea. I tried to quell my shaking so I wouldn’t spill the liquid that was supposed to slow the bleeding but hadn’t yet.
The queen clamped her lips closed to fend off another scream. Against the feather bolster and pillow beres, the beautiful woman was as pale as the linen sheets she lay upon. Her eyes were glassy, and her blond hair had come loose from its plait and now lay in tangled waves, damp with perspiration.
“The babe is finally coming.” The head midwife spoke calmly from the footboard of the large canopied bed. “I need more chamomile massage oil.”
One of the other ladies rushed across the chamber to do the midwife’s bidding in preparation for the next royal son or daughter. With so few ladies remaining after the evacuation of the palace, we’d all worked tirelessly during the past eighteen hours that the queen had been in labor, attempting to ease her distress as best we could.
Although my stomach roiled with squeamishness every time I glimpsed the bloody sheets the midwives kept taking away, I was thankful I hadn’t left Delsworth Castle with the other ladies-in-waiting as the queen had urged. After all the kindness she’d shown to me in the year I’d lived at the royal residence, aiding in her travail was the least I could do in return.
“Push, Your Majesty,” the head midwife said, her voice commanding and soothing at the same time.
The queen fumbled for something to grasp. I rapidly placed the chalice on the bedside table and enfolded her hand in mine.
“You are a strong and brave woman.” I bent in closer and smoothed loose strands off her forehead. “You can do this.”
“No, Felicia. I cannot.” She gasped, and the muscles in her neck and face bulged with the strain of her labor.
“If anyone can do this,” I said softly, “it is you.”
And I believed it with all my heart. Her Royal Majesty Dierdal Aurora Leandra, Queen of Mercia, was truly the kindest, noblest, and most gracious woman I knew. While she required impeccable conduct from her ladies-in-waiting, she always expected more of herself than of anyone else.
Even during the past fortnight while an invading army had overrun the capital city of Mercia and besieged the castle, the queen had maintained the strictest order among the few of us ladies who were still with her. She’d kept us all too busy to think about the enemy surrounding the moat and fortified walls. When the battering rams had grown loud, she requested we play our music louder. When the smoke from the firebombs penetrated the inner rooms of the keep, she had more fans and incense brought in. When the reports of skirmishes on the ramparts had been unfavorable, she added more prayer hours to our schedule.
Yesterday, after a young soldier came with news that the king had been injured during a particularly fierce battle on the wall, the queen had remained focused and strong—at least outwardly. Privately, I had no doubt she was worried about her husband, and I couldn’t keep from wondering if the report of the king’s injury had caused her to go into labor. The midwives hadn’t seemed overly anxious about the arrival of the child a few weeks early, especially since the queen’s abdomen had shown the babe to be of a good size.
Now the queen strained, holding her breath and squeezing my hand for so long, I started to panic. “Breathe, Your Majesty,” I urged.
Her lips turned blue and quivered before she finally sucked in a sharp gasp of air. A tiny wail rent the air. A newborn wail.
Tears pricked my eyes—tears of both joy and relief. The childbirth was over.
Around the room came excited murmurs and clapping from the other ladies, followed by the midwife’s triumphant pronouncement. “You’ve delivered a healthy princess, Your Majesty.”
The queen dropped her head into the pillow beres and bolster, her body limp, her face more ashen. As her lashes fell, I caught a glimpse of sadness before a tear escaped down her cheek. The birth of a child ought to be a time of joy, not despair. But with her husband injured and the city besieged, perhaps the rejoicing would come later.
With a start and sharp gasp, the queen sat forward, clutching my hand again. Another contraction wracked her body, this one tighter and more powerful than any that had come before. Though the regal woman had endured her travail silently thus far, a chilling scream escaped her lips as if torn from her by force.
Every conversation and movement came to a halt, and all eyes turned upon her.
The midwife’s brow furrowed, adding wrinkles to her already aged face. Her intelligent eyes flashed with worry that sparked fear inside me. She examined the queen again, and her eyes widened with surprise. “I do believe the queen is about to have a second babe.”
Twins? Gasps rippled around the chamber.
For an endless moment, the queen struggled to bring another new life into the world. Veins in her temples protruded, pulsing and pounding ribbons of blue. After the tiny squalling cries of a second babe finally rose to greet us, the queen collapsed against her pillow beres once more.
“Another princess,” the other ladies whispered reverently.
“I need my stitching kit,” the midwife called, handing the care of the infant over to her attendant. Instead of triumph, urgency edged the midwife’s voice, which only stirred the anxiety in my chest.
The queen’s grip in mine melted away. Her lashes fluttered up to reveal eyes so glazed I wasn’t sure she could focus. Nevertheless, she shifted her gaze to my hovering face.
I snatched up the chalice of raspberry-leaf tea and lifted it to her lips.
