Mercy's Prince (6 page)

“Mercy!”

The cottage door flew open without a knock.
Serene hurried inside.

“Whatever is the matter?” Mercy grabbed her
hands.

“You must hurry! Faith is having her baby, but
it will not come.”

Mercy’s first reaction was panic. How could she
help? She was not a Healer; Papa was. But Papa was gone, taken away seven days
ago.

“I will come, but I must find someone to watch
Rafael.” She nodded to her brother where he sat shaping a clay pot.

Serene pulled her toward the door.

“I’ll stay with him. You must go now!”

Mercy was grateful she’d assisted Papa at
childbirths for several years. At the last one, just half a year ago, he’d let
her deliver the babe by herself. She grabbed her carry sack and placed in it
her mortar and pestle, vials of oil, and fresh bunches of dried balmflower and
tongues-of-fire.

“I’m away,” she said to Serene. “Thank you.”

Mercy ran to Faith’s nearby cottage. At the
door she heard anguished moaning. Without knocking, Mercy entered. Aunt
Prudence, Sister Providence, and Charity, Faith’s mother, hovered around a
pallet on the floor.

“Has anyone boiled water?” Mercy dropped to her
knees beside the laboring woman. Faith wasn’t much older than her. The poor
young wife lay trembling, drenched in sweat, her face white as a new lamb’s
wool.

Breathing deeply to still her own trembling
heart, Mercy laid her small hands on the taut belly and closed her eyes,
willing herself to feel what was happening. The babe appeared to be properly
turned, but she couldn’t tell for sure. Under her hands she felt a contraction
begin, heard Faith’s groaning.

In a flash of insight, Mercy
knew
that
the babe was in distress. So clear was the image in her mind, it was as if she
could
See
with her hands.

“Is the water hot?” she asked hoarsely.

“Yes,” came Providence’s voice behind her.

“Pour it into a cup, please.”

Mercy opened her carry sack and pulled out the
mortar, pestle, and dried balmflower. She ground the herb into fine pieces and
scraped it into the water.

“Stir this and give it to her.”

While Providence obeyed, Mercy took out one of
the vials of oil and poured a little into her palm. After rubbing her hands
together, she came close to the laboring woman, who lay panting after the
contraction.

“Faith, dear, it’s Mercy. I’m here in my father’s
place. You must make yourself drink this tea. It will help dull the pain.”

When Faith nodded, her eyes full of pain and
weariness, Mercy took a deep breath. This next part would be difficult.

“I must now reach inside you to check the babe.
Something doesn’t feel right, but I won’t know until I touch it directly.”

Faith nodded again, and her mother brought the
cup to her lips. Her trust humbled Mercy.

Gently, she slipped one oiled hand into the
birth canal, grateful anew that Papa had used her assistance in this for the
last several births. She touched the crown of the head, a large head, and
something else. The birth cord was wrapped around the babe’s neck like a noose,
preventing its exit and possibly its breath as well.

For once Mercy was thankful she had small
hands. She was able to push the baby back far enough to work the birth cord
around and around, removing it from its stranglehold. She rested her fingers on
the small neck until she was sure she found a pulse, and then slid out her
hand. Aunt Prudence was ready with a cloth to wipe off Mercy’s hand and arm.

“Thank you, Aunt.” She turned her attention to
Faith. “You should feel a stronger urge to push now. The babe is free to come
forth.”

The birthing woman’s face contorted with the
coming of another contraction. This time she screamed at the intensity of it.
Mercy shuddered, remembering her own mother’s agonized screams when Rafael was
born. She’d clung to Mercy, her fingernails puncturing Mercy’s hand. It had
been a terrible experience. Would Faith share her mother’s fate?

Mercy shook off the feeling of doom. She may
not be a proper Healer, but she would do all in her power to save Faith and the
babe. She oiled her hand again, and as soon as the third contraction finished,
slid her hand inside the birth canal. The babe’s head was so large it was
unable to progress, even without the birth cord’s obstruction.

With a little gasp, Mercy recalled the old
shepherd Ezekiel’s account of a lamb’s birth, one that had been too large for
the ewe to deliver alone. He’d worked it out, bit by bit. Stretching her small
fingers around the babe’s head, Mercy waited for the next contraction and
worked with the muscles’ action to coax the babe further into the birth canal.
Two more contractions, and the crown of the head was ready to emerge. Now Mercy
could use both hands to ease the head past tissues strained to the point of
rupturing.

There was one final valiant push. Faith
screamed louder than Mercy believed possible, and the babe slid out, bloody and
yelling, a healthy boy. The other women took over to separate the birth cord
and wrap the child in cloths. Mercy waited for the afterbirth, which took a
long while to emerge.

When it did, a fountain of blood followed.
Instinctively Mercy clamped down on the woman’s belly, desperate to staunch the
flow.

“Please, God of Peace, don’t take her now!” She
squeezed her eyes shut and tried to imagine where the blood was hemorrhaging.

Incredibly, she could clearly
See
the
place in her mind’s eye and moved her hands over the area. She pressed harder,
using not just physical strength but also her will to pinch off the artery and
cause the bleeding to slow and clot. Mercy detached from her surroundings and
drifted, floating as if she were a leaf on the river, until strong hands pulled
her away.

“Enough,” said a gruff voice. “The bleeding’s
stopped. Don’t kill yourself.”

Mercy opened her eyes and focused on the
wrinkled face of Sister Providence.

“Is she still alive?” Mercy whispered.

“Yes, child.” Providence’s voice softened. “You
have saved her. But you almost went too far. You must be careful with your
gift.”

“Gift?” Mercy frowned. “What gift?”

Providence leaned so close Mercy could see the
tuft of hair growing from the wart on her chin.

“Your Healing gift. Did you not know?” Mercy
shook her head.

“Power came forth from your hands. I saw the
light there.” Providence’s voice was reverent. “Praise be to the Most High!
Another Healer among us!”

These were the last words Mercy heard before
she lost consciousness.

***

Valerian awoke to trumpets sounding a call to
arms. He nearly fell out of his high bed, but Kieran was there, already awake
and ready to assist him.

“What happened?” Valerian rubbed the sleep from
his eyes before raising his arms so Kieran could help him pull off the
nightshirt. Then the squire deftly pulled Valerian’s tunic over his head
followed by the coat of mail.

“I dinna know, Sire, but I would guess a Horde
attack.”

“The Horde? Where?” Valerian began to tremble.

Kieran shrugged. His nimble fingers buckled the
belt securing Valerian’s purple surcoat.

“What about your mail?” Valerian asked. “I can
put on my own boots.” Kieran couldn’t go into battle without wearing chain
mail, for all the good it did for Waryn.

“Now, Your Highness, you must stop thinking
like a squire and start acting like a prince.” He grinned to show he was
teasing, even while he struggled into his own mail and surcoat.

They gathered bows, quivers, and spears and
hurried down the stone stairs to the great hall where men were arriving from
all corners of the Keep. King Orland stood at one end of the room, also dressed
for battle. A herald called for silence over the din.

“Briarwood Village is under attack by the
Horde.” The king’s voice rang with anticipation, not fear. “We ride to intercept
them as quickly as possible. Your horses are made ready. I will lead you
myself.”

The men cheered while they poured out of the
hall and headed toward the stables. Valerian glanced at Kieran, but the squire
didn’t seem concerned about the king putting himself in harm’s way. Unspoken
words hung in the air, palpable to Valerian:
Vengeance! Avenge Prince Waryn’s
death!

In the press of bodies Valerian didn’t hear Sir
Caelis come up behind him. His voice spoke in Valerian’s ear.

“Stay away from the king. I will protect him in
this battle.” Before Valerian could frame a reply, Caelis faded into the crowd
of men.

A groom stood holding Theo’s reins. Valerian’s
black warhorse snorted, pawing the stable floor.

“He smells a battle, Your Highness,” said the
young man.

“Thank you, Conrad.” Valerian slipped his bow
and quiver onto the saddle and handed his spear to Conrad before he mounted
Theo.

“Good hunting, Sire.” Conrad gave Valerian the
reins and the spear and stood back from the restless stallion.

Valerian urged Theo forward and guided him in
the direction of the king’s banner. He made sure Kieran followed on his bay.
They cantered with the rest of the men toward the village, which lay one valley
south of the Keep. The lead scout crested the hill as the bulk of the army
began their ascent. Reining to a halt, the scout held up his fist, indicating
arrows should be readied. Valerian slid his spear into the sheath on the saddle
and secured the reins to leave his hands free. Thankfully he’d spent many hours
learning to guide Theo with his knees. He strung his bow and pulled an arrow
from the quiver.

Guiding Theo upward, Valerian gained the
summit. Below, a battle raged between villagers armed with pitchforks and the
Horde with their battle-axes. King Orland signaled the charge, and Valerian had
only to hold on while Theo plunged down the hill with the rest.

The nearest cottages were ablaze. Several
bodies lay nearby, but the fighting had moved to the farther side of the
village. Valerian aimed at a Mohorovian within his range and shot the arrow,
but the tip glanced along the creature’s scales. It turned and bellowed when it
saw the men of Levathia charging toward them.

Valerian nocked another arrow as he searched
for the nearest target. A Mohorovian archer readied an arrow of its own, a
poisoned one, and took aim at King Orland. Blocking out everything else,
Valerian focused on the creature’s unprotected forearm and let his arrow fly.
It impaled the Mohorovian before it could shoot, and the deadly arrow fell
harmlessly to the ground.

Then Valerian heard a yell beside him. Sir
Rudyard MacNeil fell from his horse, clutching his leg where a Horde arrow had
struck him. Valerian wheeled Theo around and slid from the saddle. He dropped
Theo’s reins so the stallion would know to stand still and act as a shield
while the rest of the horses thundered past them.

“Ruddy! What can I do?” The shaft protruded
from both sides of his friend’s calf. The flint arrowhead glistened with blood.

“I’m already dead, Val.” The knight’s desperate
eyes gazed up at Valerian.

Without meaning to, Valerian
Saw
Rudyard’s
fear, not for himself but for the pregnant wife he would leave behind. There
had to be some way to save him!

“Me leg! Cut off me leg!” Rudyard gasped. “I
dinna want tae die!”

Reeling against the horror of it but frantic to
save the man’s life, Valerian pulled off his belt and tightened it around
Rudyard’s leg just above the knee. But how would he amputate it? His only blade
was a knife, and he could not bear to saw through flesh and bone while causing
a man such agony.

One of the Horde’s battle-axes lay on the
ground, and Valerian snatched it up. Before he could think too clearly about
what he was doing, he gripped the handle, raised it over his head, and brought
it down across Ruddy’s leg with all the strength he had.

Afraid to look at what he’d done, Valerian let
Ruddy’s scream fill his being. The stench of burned flesh reached his nostrils,
and Valerian opened his eyes. Kieran had cauterized the stump with a burning
brand. A pool of blood lay beneath Ruddy’s severed leg.

“Kieran! How—”

“When you stopped, Sire, I turned back and
realized what you were about to do, so I got fire from a burning cottage.”

Valerian’s knees turned to water, and he had to
sit down. If Kieran hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen what was going on, Ruddy
would have bled to death. He wouldn’t have saved his friend at all.

Rudyard lay mercifully unconscious. What would
he say when he did regain consciousness? Would he thank Valerian for cutting
off his leg? Valerian shuddered.

He and Kieran stayed with Rudyard. Although
they couldn’t see clearly what was happening on the other side of the village,
the battle did not last long. Once all the Horde were either dead or run away,
the villagers tended the wounded and keened for their dead. A man-at-arms
helped Kieran lift Ruddy into a wagon with other wounded of the king’s men.