Note that when a woman is in the beginning of her pregnancy, care ought to be taken that nothing is named in front of her which she is not able to have, because if she sets her mind on it and it is not given to her, this occasions miscarriage.
Estela sighed over an embroidered letter M which had turned into a crooked H through no fault of her own, or so she would have sworn. Even though she used a palm protector, her left hand was pricked raw from all the moments when she’d lost concentration and the needle had found her through the fine lawn.
‘Is there some nobleman with the initial H?’ she asked Sancha, who sat beside her, perfecting a delicate flower in three colours and chain stitch. ‘Then I need not unpick it.’ They were slightly apart from the other ladies, the better to talk in confidence, but so far Estela had learned only what she knew already, including how badly she sewed.
With mouth pursed, Sancha mutely held out a hand, and Estela passed over the unfortunate letter for re-working. ‘I wish you could visit the baths at Ais!’
‘I don’t think public baths are appropriate for me,’ murmured Sancha, head bowed over her sewing, surprisingly deft for such a large-boned woman.
Estela flashed a look at her friend, knowing full well the secret proclaimed by Sancha’s Adam’s apple for those who were perceptive about human anatomy. Most people saw no further than Sancha’s strident gown and flamboyant headwear, her make-up and plucked eyebrows. If her voice held husky notes and her build was large, then the difference between one individual and another was sufficient reason. Estela however knew why Sancha needed privacy for bathing.
‘You could use the private room we’ve created. It’s curtained off,’ Estela told her, then was struck by another potential problem. ‘And it would be best if you came on the women’s day. After all, you would be entering the baths in a gown, whatever you look like without one.’
‘Estela!’ Sancha winced at the bald, but honest, judgement and glanced around but no-one had heard. Estela was careful enough to make sure of that and was continuing blithely with her own obsession.
‘That is the only thing I miss from coming here. I know that the project is advancing without me and I’m sure Dana will use the perforated chair for basic regulation of a woman’s flowers but if I were there, I would test some of the more complex instructions in The Trotula.
When I accompanied the midwife in Die, there was a case after miscarriage where I’m sure the woman had an ulcerous womb. Now I know to check for blackish fluid with a horrible stench, and I could treat her with a diet of cold ingredients - I remember deadly nightshade and white of egg were among them but I’d have to look the others up. I would love to cure a woman in such a manner!’
‘Could you give me less detail, please, dear,’ Sancha said faintly as she bit through a length of embroidery silk. ‘It’s all so …unfeminine.’
Undeterred, Estela continued tartly, ‘It’s actually very feminine, like so many other horrible ailments!’ She relented. ‘But there are many scripts on men’s diseases too…’
‘No,’ warned Sancha. ‘I really do not want to know.’
‘What I would like most of all would be to carry out surgery.’ Estela’s voice turned dreamy. ‘Imagine, if I could repair a man’s arm.’
Sancha looked at the mangled letter M on her lap, the crooked stitching already coming undone at the start. ‘I’m imagining,’ she said.
‘Like Malik did for Nici. I watched and I know with a bit of practice I could do it too. He cleans the needle first, you know, and I would never have thought of that if I hadn’t seen him do it. He uses lavender oil. If only the priests didn’t fill people’s heads with nonsense against Arab learning, we could help so many people!’
‘Nici?’ queried Sancha.
‘The dog.’
‘Perhaps you could practise on dogs,’ suggested Sancha, grateful on behalf of the human race for the possibility. There was no way of gauging Estela’s response as the friends were interrupted by a messenger, wearing red and yellow stripes.
‘What is the point of wearing a master’s colours if all the houses bear the same?!’ Estela complained. ‘Provence, Barcelone - one of them should choose something different.’
‘That, my dear, is the problem in a nutshell,’ murmured Sancha at the same time as the page announced his mistress’ request for Lady Estela to join her in the ante-chamber reserved for the guests from Barcelone. Questioned further, the boy denied any knowledge of what Queen Petronilla might want with Etiennette’s latest troubadour. Whatever her misgivings, Estela had no option but to obey and at least she had an excuse to drop her embroidery into the basket ‘for later’.
Her pattens clicking on the flagstones as she followed the page, Estela rehearsed all the reasons she hated Petronilla. Born into the rich inheritance of Aragon, and betrothed to Barcelone from babyhood, what excuse could there be for usurping Etiennette’s right to Provence? Land hungry, power hungry, usurper and tyrant. According to Sancha, Etiennette’s lord had died ‘mysteriously’ on his enforced truce visit to Barcelone. In Estela’s mind, there was no doubt; Petronilla was accessory to murder. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Petronilla had carried out the murder, possibly without her husband’s knowledge. After all, ‘mysterious’ death was most likely poison, the weapon of Saracens and women. Ramon Berenguer himself might be innocent of this terrible betrayal. And if the Comte de Barcelone had been manipulated and lied to by his scheming wife, perhaps Malik’s respect for the man was not completely ill-founded. To the catalogue of Petronilla’s known crimes, Estela added a few personal qualities; arrogant and spiteful (or why else pay this visit, rubbing the Baux family noses in their defeat), ill-favoured and ill-mannered.
Satisfied that she had the measure of the heir to Aragon, Estela flounced through the door held open to her and curtseyed with a finely judged degree of both formality and insolence. Then she took a long, level look at the girl who stood in front of her. For she was just a girl. Plainly dressed, far too plainly Estela thought, fingering her own bright silk. Rank should be displayed or how would the rabble see the distinction between themselves and a queen?
Beetle-browed and pock-marked, Petronilla was every bit as plain as her clothing. Speaking quietly, the Queen thanked Estela for responding to her invitation (as if there were any choice!) and dismissed her entourage quietly. The ladies-in-waiting glided out of the ante-chamber without hesitation. Estela waited, as she must, for Petronilla to divulge the reason she’d been summoned. The silence stretched as Petronilla flushed, walked to the window, turned her back on Estela and finally spoke.
‘My physician, Malik, told me that you had some expertise in women’s matters.’
The mention of her friend and mentor softened Estela’s instinctive denial to mere prevarication. ‘Nothing compared to his own, my Lady.’ She had to strain to hear Petronilla’s words, spoken as if to the blue skies through the window.
‘There are things only a woman can understand. Not just of the body. And Malik said you could be trusted in this.’
In this. But not in everything. Not when she was Lady Etiennette’s troubadour. It was Estela’s turn to flush but Malik had indeed taught her something of his profession. ‘I have helped some women with their troubles,’ she admitted, ‘and the practice of medicine carries the seal of the confessional, beyond politics and beyond morality.’
Petronilla’s cross glinted as she kissed it and let the chain drop back onto the tiny jut of her breasts. ‘There is no immorality, beyond the sins we cannot escape of being mortal and a woman.’ She turned to face Estela, sat down in the carved chair and motioned her guest to take a stool. Another of Malik’s lessons had been to know when to listen and when to question, whether learning to play Arabic chords on al-oud or waiting for a patient to tell you what she needed to say. After that, you might be able to find out what you, as a doctor, needed to know.
So Estela sat and schooled her face to sympathy, which needed less acting with every new observation she made of her unexpected patient. Tiny, that jut of breast might well be, but Estela divined that it had grown recently, as, no doubt, had the belly invisible beneath the modest folds of a drab gown. Someone as experienced in midwifery as Estela recognized the small signs.
In childhood, she’d accompanied her mother often enough; as an adult she’d learned from a midwife in Die, from Malik and from the precious books he sent. Most telling experience of all, she’d given birth herself, lonely and ill-attended. She reminded herself that this was the usurper and tyrant but there was no longer any bite to the words. This was a girl asking for help.
‘I think I’m with child,’ Petronilla confirmed, stuttering, colouring up. Drawing her black brows together, she looked as if she’d just confessed the worst of sins instead of happy tidings. ‘It is a blessing on our marriage.’ The frown lines deepened and her confession was spoken so low that Estela had to guess some of the words. ‘But I don’t know whether I can do it.’
Set-faced, she added, ‘You need not worry for the succession. I know my duty and I wrote my will as soon as I knew. It is clearly written in my hand, with witnesses, in April of this year, on the Day of St Isodore, that if I should die in childbirth, my husband is heir to Aragon. I think this will happen, that I shall die instead of giving him a baby.’
Estela spoke softly, as to a wounded animal stranded on a cliff edge. She unreeled the safety line, word by word, testing the reaction as she went. ‘You are not alone, not in your fears nor in your questions…’
She caught the flicker in Petronilla’s eyes and continued, ‘You sense the changes in your body…’
Another flicker. ‘Your mother told you what would happen but you want to know more?’
A direct hit. Petronilla’s eyes filled with tears and her fists clenched, white, but her tone was even, without bitterness, as she stated the facts in her oddly accented Occitan.
‘My mother left for the peace of a nun’s life at Fontrevaux, when I was three, and my father returned to his beloved abbey at the same time, having betrothed me to Ramon. They are saintly people, who did their duty by Aragon and conceived an heir.
They were too pure to commit mortal sin a second time in hope of a boy. They left me affianced to the best husband any woman could hope for and he has taken care of me, waiting the twelve years until my flowers came and he could marry me.
Now it is our turn to make the heir I was born for, the reason my father renounced his vow of chastity and put Aragon before God. This baby will be the king who unites Barcelone and Aragon and I am afraid of my body’s weakness and of my ignorance of motherhood. I have sinned too much to be allowed motherhood.’
‘I understand how important the baby is.’ And guessed at what Petronilla’s upbringing had lacked. Saints for parents were all very well in theory. ‘How can I help you?’
The girl - for so Estela now thought of her - turned wide brown eyes on her saviour. ‘I need a potion to stop me becoming fat so that the angels will bring me a baby boy. I am fasting and praying but still my impurity swells.’
Carefully, Estela asked, ‘You know how babies grow?’
Petronilla gave a nervous giggle. ‘Of course. Ramon explained it all to me on our wedding night. He sowed seeds in my garden then we prayed together that the angels would give life to a boy seed and bring it to me to show the world that we have done God’s will in our marriage bed.
But I am afraid that my sins have offended the angels and they have sent me this sign, this fatness, to show me I must be better or they will take my life instead of giving me the baby. I know this happens to sinful women.’
Even more carefully, Estela ventured, ‘And what made you think you were with child.’
‘That was easy.’ The smile was assured this time. ‘My flowers did not come, which means that the angels are growing a seed for me, even if they wait till I am worthy before bringing me the baby.’
‘Have you talked to your Lord about this?’
Again the knotted brows and twisting hands. ‘I can’t. I am a woman now, not a child, and these are women’s matters.’ Very quietly she added, ‘And the Church teaches us how sinful women are. What if the angels won’t bring me the baby? Ramon has waited twelve years for this. What if I let him down? I can’t bear it!’
You will have to bear it, my sweet child, thought Estela, two years and a baby older than the girl in front of her. To become a mother, you will indeed have to bear it, one way or another. How could a girl grow up so ignorant? But Estela knew the answer to that, having lost her own mother so young. Questions that couldn’t be asked or had mysterious answers, whose sense was misunderstood.
How was she to untangle the dangerous innocence facing her? She remembered her mother, fighting to save women’s lives as they quoted the bible against her interventions. ‘Work with their beliefs, not against them.’
Taking a deep breath, Estela chose her words. ‘We women all know these fears but God is merciful, and you can see from the babies all around you that the angels forgive us too. They know what we must risk and suffer to give life; that is our penance and the root of our joy.’
Petronilla paled. ‘Risk and suffer?’
‘The angels have done their work and have already brought life to Ramon’s seed.’ She hurried to answer the unspoken question before further confusion side-tracked her explanation. ‘But we women have to grow the baby ourselves, in our gardens. The fatness is your baby growing.’
‘No!’ Petronilla’s horror was instinctive. ‘Get it out! I want someone else to look after it!’
‘No-one else can grow your baby. This is motherhood. This is God’s preparation for the love you will feel.’ Estela only hoped that this would be true. Growing up with saints as parents was difficult enough but being married to one must complete the feelings of inadequacy. She sent silent thanks to her own mother, for the open-eyed preparation for what human beings really did, in work and play.
‘What do I have to do to make the baby come out?’
‘Grow. How many flowers have you missed?’
‘Three.’
‘Then the baby must grow until All Souls’ Day to be complete. He will be ready to come out then.’ There was no avoiding the inevitable question.
‘How will he come out?’
Estela prevaricated. ‘First you must nurture yourself for both your own and the baby’s sake. No more fasting. There are many ways of helping your body carry its burden.’ Estela sifted her recent learning and found suitable advice from Hildegard von Bingen.
‘When your body gets heavy and you feel tired, the mushroom of the beech tree should be taken fresh, cooked with good herbs, boiled in water until broken down and strained through a cloth. A broth from this juice with lard added should be taken twice a day after eating and you will find ease. There are many herbs to help in growing a baby and also some to avoid.’
Estela had known as many women keen to lose their baby as to keep it, often when there were already more mouths to feed than was possible. Keeping a baby was more difficult to guarantee and accepting that, however precious the baby might be to the fate of two kingdoms, was only one of the hardships Petronilla faced. There were however ways to improve the odds.
‘There are some herbs to avoid, such as goatsbeard - I will give you a list and you should make sure a trusted servant keeps these out of your food or drink.’ Estela remembered only too well an attempt on Aliénor’s unborn child, while the Queen of France stayed in Narbonne. ‘In the seventh month, your healer should mix powder of frankincense, oil, wax and mastic and anoint you front and back.’ Trota’s methods could be trusted but were not for the poor. ‘Malik knows all this,’ she tailed off lamely.
Petronilla had not been diverted. ‘How will the baby come out?’ she repeated.
‘Your garden is called the womb by physicians. It will stop its wandering around your body to grow the baby in your belly.’ Petronilla winced at the crudeness and had opened her mouth to ask the question a third time when Estela beat her to it. ‘And the angels will help you open your garden gate wide for the baby to come out, the same way the seeds entered.’
There was a shocked silence as Petronilla took in what this meant. ‘This is what I must do to make an heir for Aragon and Barcelone? And for Provence, in case my nephew should die?’
It was Estela’s turn to wince. She’d forgotten that this was the enemy. Time to think about that later. ‘Yes, this is what you must do.’
‘You did it.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you gave birth to an heir for your husband.’
‘I gave birth to an heir.’ The wound that would never heal ripped open again. What was Musca’s status in the eyes of the world?
Still pale, Petronilla stuck out her jaw and asked, ‘How can I make sure it’s a boy? Ramon made sure we chose the most propitious time and he prayed beforehand to be sure that he would pass on only virtue to his son but I am just a woman and not worthy. I tried to keep my thoughts pure but,’ she whispered, ‘there was pleasure at the conception. There must be some way I can atone.’
Estela shook her head, biting her tongue so as not to challenge the church teaching that pleasure was wrong. Work with their beliefs. She explained that there were measures Petronilla could take before and during conception but that afterwards all she could do was to balance the female hot and male cold elements with diet and herbs. There was no point worrying Petronilla even more by telling the truth, that even with proper preparation for the seed, some women could only grow girls. Aliénor was likely just such a one, having produced only two girls.
Although many would blame the sinfulness of the marriage itself, in being too close a relation, Estela favoured the more scientific explanation. However, Petronilla had been given more than enough truth for one day and if she bore a boy, that question was answered.
Estela had some uncomfortable rethinking of her own to do. She could no longer join in wholeheartedly with Sancha’s diatribe against the usurpers. From loyalty to her host Etiennette and from long friendship with Sancha, she found Petronilla’s husband guilty of all charges, including the intimacies of marriage.