Traveller Probo
92. 11th Century England

It was time.

Tatae had known of course. She and her acolytes brewed a drink from flowers and bark as they chanted quietly around a blazing fire in one of their special groves. They squatted naked, painted with clay, water and blood. Michael recalled the rites performed by the hunters on his first real hunt, how they had painted their bodies with the blood of the great boar. This wasn’t so different.

Tatae’s hair was braided and crowned with holly. As she sipped the potion, she smiled and looked to Michael, and then swallowed.

She didn’t have long to wait. Even from where he sat he saw the muscles around her stomach tighten in a spasm that had his wife gasp. Tatae closed her eyes and waited. There was another convulsion as her labour began.

As her time came closer, Michael had suggested modern medical specialists to help and she rounded on him in horror. “My love, please have faith in me! I’ve attended over a hundred births. Do you think I don’t know how to care for my own?” she smiled. He immediately felt foolish at his suggestion.

So, while she panted and strained, naked by the fire, Michael sat, white knuckled, and simply watched. He had seen movies of home births and completed his midwife course as part of his medic training but his ordeal as spectator was unbearably stressful.

It took over six excruciating hours. By the light of early morning there was a final cessation in the struggle. Tatae, sweat-soaked and wearied, finally squatted to give her final push and Michael’s daughter slid out, purple and covered with grey vernix. Tatae panted in exhaustion and was presented with her naked, slippery daughter. The wee thing never cried but was immediately placed to her breast, where she suckled. Tatae kneeled as her afterbirth dropped. Only then were the acolytes permitted to place a blanket around the new mother and daughter as, together, they sang a joyous song of thanks. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

The cord was cut and the women washed and clothed Tatae and her baby, then ritually washed each other. Michael, legs a mass of pins and needles, was finally permitted to stand and approach.

Tatae stood unsteadily and proudly while she held her daughter up for his inspection. His beautiful wife looked radiant. The baby was warmly wrapped in a swaddling cloth of fine wool. She screwed up her face at being taken from her mother but when Michael spoke her little face immediately smoothed as she opened her deep blue eyes. She knew his voice. When he took her tiny body into his rough hands, Michael was filled with a bolt of pure love the like of which he had never before experienced. He imagined his heart would burst as he raised her tiny face to be kissed. She made little grunts. He smelled her hair and felt her pure, silken skin. “What shall we call her?” he asked in wonder. He knew it was Tatae’s task to name her daughter.

“Genovefa,” she replied quietly. “Her name will be Genovefa, as was my mother.”

Michael nodded and hugged Genovefa close before he handed her back to her mother. Tatae promptly opened her tunic and popped the babe onto her other breast.

Further ceremony was given to the cloths used to clean Tatae and Genovefa. These were used to wrap the placenta and then all were placed reverently into the fire. As the smoke spiralled into the sky that early spring morning, the women sang together and Michael’s heart soared.

He felt like spreading his arms wide and crying out to the heavens in a roar of savage joy.

He had a baby daughter! He was a father!

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