Alan had not been in Anne’s good books for several weeks. She’d been grumpy about lack of sleep, the discomfort of the child moving within her, particularly when the active child kicked her bladder, and dissatisfaction as to the restrictions imposed on her by her gravid state. She’d been spending several hours a day soaking in the hot-tub to help with the pain and aching in her lower back. While she had appreciated his regular anointing of her swollen belly with an expensive oil imported from the Levant and his delight in feeling the child move within her belly, the comments he had made to try to encourage her had not been welcome. Statements such as ‘easy as shelling peas’ or ‘the village ladies give birth and are back out in the fields within a couple of hours’ had struck entirely the wrong note. As a result Anne had told him she would follow normal practice and he would be banished from the birth-chamber.
As the ladies hurried into the room Alan was unceremoniously ejected and wandered out into the Hall, where most of the household were still asleep lying on straw-filled palliases. He sat leaning back against the warmth of the hollow brick wall which formed part of the innovative central-heating system in the building, just one of the details incorporated into the complex of buildings which Alan had designed and built just under two years previously, in part using ancient Roman technology. He dozed fitfully until the Hall slowly came awake with the approach of dawn. First the kitchen staff rose from their beds and departed to the kitchen, which as tradition dictated was located in a nearby building to minimise the risk of fire, then the stable-hands and other servants began to go about their duties. The trestle tables and benches were set up and the servants were provided with their usual light breakfast of day-old bread with a sop of ale or mead and cheese and butter. Alan broke his fast on buttered toasted bread with strawberry jam washed down with diluted mead.
Alan was aware that in birthing prolonged labour periods were not unusual, but when the cries of pain and distress could be heard from the bedroom upstairs continued through to midday he decided that action on his part was required. Not wanting to burst in where he may be neither wanted or needed, he called for his body-servant Leof, who had been sitting nearby since Alan had been roused, to bring the maid Synne from upstairs.
Synne appeared moments later, looking tired and worn. “How go things?” demanded Alan.
“Lady Anne is having… a difficult labour and is in some pain. There appears to be some problem with the child’s passage, but the midwife is confident,” she replied with obvious concern.
Alan nodded and announced, “Enough is enough,” rising and going from the Hall into his study. There he rifled through his medical textbooks and then spent several minutes studying a scroll written by Hippocrates. In the summer sunlight of late morning he then walked the few steps to the building that served as his workshop where he gathered several surgical instruments and placed them and half a dozen small jars of herbs, unguents and potions into a bag, washed his hands in alcohol and marched resolutely back into the Hall. After ascending the staircase to the upstairs family living area, he pushed past the female servant by the door.
Anne was sitting naked on a birthing chair, with her feet drawn up and placed on footrests on either side. She was covered in a sheen of sweat and her long auburn hair was wet and matted. The midwife named Rowena, as white-haired as her name indicated, crouched between Anne’s spread legs, her arms bloody to the elbows. There was a pool of blood on the wooden floor.
Alan elbowed the midwife aside and crouched in her place. The child’s head projected beyond the cervix and Alan used his left hand to support its weight. “What’s the problem? Obviously not a breech!” he demanded.
“The shoulders won’t come through… I’ve tried several ways to ease the shoulders through. We just need to let the contractions push the child through,” replied Rowena in a peevish tone.
“Contractions and gravity obviously aren’t working,” said Alan with annoyance. While he had no practical experience of child delivery, he’d made a point to carefully read and note the details in the medical tracts he owned and had just refreshed his memory. “You four, pick Lady Anne up and place her on the bed. Slowly, as I have to support the child’s head as we move… That’s better. Now, Anne, legs up and lift the knees up to your belly. This widens the pelvis and flattens the spine. Good… good.”
After several minutes without success he continued, “Rowena, put pressure on the belly above the child, pushing gently downwards, while I pull gently on the head. Good… Try again. And again. Now stop the pressure. I’m going to manipulate the shoulders. Rowena, hold the child’s head.” Here Alan pressed the child’s forward shoulder towards its chest and the rearmost shoulder towards its back, the baby’s head turning to face its mother’s rectum. Alan resumed supporting the head. “Now, Anne, you push, and Rowena place pressure again on the belly.” Alan exerted gentle pulling pressure on the head, and with a corkscrew motion first one and then the other shoulder slipped through and the baby was in Alan’s hands. “Thanks be to God! A daughter!” he continued. “Now Rowena, please continue as normal.”
With a sigh of annoyance the midwife took the child from Alan, turned her upside down and smacked her bottom with a hard slap to make her suck air as she howled in protest, before handing her back and clamping and cutting the umbilical cord. Bowls of warm water were at hand and Alan used one bowl to wash the blood and fluids off his daughter, her arms and legs jerking convulsively as she continued to squall, before wrapping her in a warmed soft blanket handed to him. On instruction from the midwife the maids washed Anne with cloths and warm water, changed the bed linen and slipped a nightgown around her, before Alan handed the baby girl to her mother. After a suggestion from Rowena, Anne slid a nipple into the little pouting mouth, stilling the cries.
Alan looked on happily, gave a big sigh or relief and pointed at the midwife. “I suggest that you and the lass you are training come to see me on Sunday afternoon for some instruction. I have several books with illustrations that you need to look at.” After a tight smile and a nod he handed a small leather purse made heavy by a dozen silver pennies. Rowena hefted the purse in her hand and with a satisfied smile sketched a brief and somewhat ironical curtsey, issued some rapid instructions to the maids and departed.
It was Monday 1st September, two days before the Day of St Gregory. The crops had been harvested and much of the harvest had already been threshed to separate the grain, although this work was not yet complete. Alan had declared the day a feast-day to celebrate both the successful harvest and the birth of his daughter. Oxen had been roasting over fires since the previous evening and sheep and swine since early that morning. A mountain of fresh bread had been baked and was sitting together with fresh-churned butter and cheeses on several tables. The villagers from Thorrington, nearby Great Bentley and Wivenhoe were taking advantage of the largess provided by their lord and thronged the village green.
Brother Wacian celebrated Mass at mid-day, which the size of the crowd dictated be held outdoors. Given the good weather the priest had arranged for the altar and the lectern to be brought onto the Green. In the bright sunlight he conducted a moving ceremony of thanks for the joint joys bestowed. He particularly enjoyed reading from the beautiful leather-bound bible and Psalter in Anglo-Saxon English that Alan had bestowed on the Church, his hands almost fondling the books as he turned the pages. The books were beautifully written and bound, although absent of extensive illumination as they were meant to be working tools and not works of art.