Marin's Fire

Chapter 25

"Marin?" Tilly asked, confusion, shock, and anger all mixed into her voice. "What are you doing here?" It was an accusation, not a mere question.

He knew it looked bad. Wanted to protest. But other matters seemed more pressing in the moment. "I—I think the baby is coming," he answered. "She's been having contractions. They seem to be getting worse."

Tilly's eyes only bore into Marin for a moment longer before her attention shifted to Jocelyn, who was now panting heavily. "How long have you been feeling contractions?"

"Since last night, but–" she stopped, clamping her eyes shut, suddenly overcome with another wave of pain.

"Ok, just breathe through it. Yes, like that. Good," Tilly coached, walking forward in three long strides and grasping Jocelyn's hand.

Jocelyn grimaced for nearly a minute, and then she let out a sharp exhale. "I think I just wet myself," she said, worry infiltrating her voice.

"Your water just broke. That's a good sign. Here, let's get you onto the bed so I can examine you better." Tilly helped Jocelyn stand. The cushion she had been sitting on was soaked. "Marin, help," she ordered, her voice professional. Cool.

He realized he'd been frozen, and immediately jumped up to grab Jocelyn's elbow, helping guide her towards the bed. As soon as she was laying down, Tilly reached one hand under Jocelyn's skirts, her other hand feeling her abdomen, pressing, prodding.

"Ok, you have progressed quickly through your labor. It's a good thing I arrived when I did. Marin, looks like you will have to assist me with this delivery. There's no time to go back to The Order to call for another nutrix." She spoke with calm authority. "Can you grab me supplies from my kit?"

"Yes, of course. Do you need vinegar?" He sprung up, ready to be useful. He knew healing, but, being a man, did not have experience assisting with childbirth.

"And rose oil."

Marin opened Tilly's bag and found a flask of vinegar and a dram of rose oil. He held out his hands, but Tilly only took the flask. She picked up a rag and soaked it with the vinegar, then she pushed Jocelyn's skirts back, over her knees, and used the antiseptic to clean the fluids off of Jocelyn's thighs. Marin caught himself watching, then quickly turned his head away, embarrassed.

"This pain is unbearable," Jocelyn complained, her head now pressing back into a pillow, her back beginning to arch.

"Don't worry, we'll work to make you comfortable. Marin, open the rose oil. Let her inhale the aroma. Rub some on her neck." Tilly's words lacked warmth, and Marin hoped it was because she was so focused on her job, and not because of how she found him, crouched by Jocelyn's side.

Another wave of pain convulsed through Jocelyn. "I want my mother," she cried.

"Yes, we'll get her," Tilly assured her. "But first, Marin, grab me the magnet from my bag. It should be in the front pouch."

He left Jocelyn's side, placing the small glass bottle of oil on a table, and searched through Tilly's bag. Finding the magnet, he handed it to Tilly. "Here."

She accepted the small black stone and went to hold it over Jocelyn's hands. "Do you feel that energy? This will draw out the pain."

"Please, get my mother," Jocelyn whimpered.

"I'll go fetch her," Marin stood and raced out of the room.

"Rags! We need many more rags," Tilly called after him. "And clean water, too!"

He bounded down the steps, two at a time, and burst through the back entranceway to the tavern. "Blanche?" he shouted into an empty kitchen.

No one answered, so Marin walked past the cooking fires and kegs of ale to make his way into the main dining area. It was approaching midday, and many customers crowded around the tables. He spotted Blanche serving a tray of drinks, carefully setting each mug brimming with ale in front of a man. Not wanting to startle her, he approached at a normal pace and patted her on the shoulder. When she turned, her mouth fell agape, confused.

"Jocelyn needs you. I was... passing by. Tilly said she needs rags and clean water."

"You–you should not be near my daughter. Stay away, you filthy swine." Sputum sprayed like venom onto Marin's face.

Why was this woman so hateful? She was in on the setup. She knew he had never harmed Jocelyn, yet here she was, playing the part of the aggrieved mother. "Did you hear me? The baby is coming. Tilly needs rags and water," Marin repeated, deciding to ignore her insults.

"What's going on?" Greggory approached from behind. "You?" His face flushed with anger when he recognized Marin.

"The baby is coming. Jocelyn asked for her mother," Marin explained again, becoming exasperated.

"Get out of my tavern. How dare you show your face round here?" Greggory grabbed Marin by the collar of his robes and dragged him towards the door, tossing him into the street.

Marin sat on the cobblestones, momentarily stunned. He was the one who by all rights should be angry. But he didn't stay down in the filth for long. Horses and donkey carts, the muck from men's shoes. Who knew what grime he might be sitting in. Greggory had disappeared from view, and Marin hauled himself up, wiping his hands on his pants.

Tilly had said that there was no time to make it to The Order and back, and he trusted her instincts. If she was going to need help, he would have to stay nearby. And besides, he had left his satchel up in Jocelyn's room. There was no way that he would leave that behind.

Tentatively, Marin made his way back towards the rear staircase. Sticking to the shadows, he saw Blanche running up the stairs holding a pile of rags in her aprons. Greggory lumbered behind her, a heavy basin of sloshing water in his hands. Even if they had slung hate at him, at least they had listened about what Tilly needed.

A few minutes later, Greggory came walking back down the stairs and went back to tend his business. What was happening upstairs was women's work. They would grab him once the baby was born. Marin wondered if Albert had any clue what was happening. Or if he would even care.

Feeling useless, Marin stepped out of the shadows and found a wooden bucket, flipped it over, and sat down upon it. He had nothing to occupy his hands with, so as he waiting, he picked at his nails. Examined his cuticles. Scratched at a mosquito bite. He then turned his attention to a few old stray dogs who were laying in the alleyway behind the tavern. They must wait for the nightly scraps. Their heads were down, tails flicking occasionally. The dogs seemed so calm, yet Marin's knee was bouncing faster than a jackrabbit scratching at a tick.

Over the noise of the tavern, he heard the occasional scream. He wondered how things were progressing. If Blanche could assist Tilly. If Tilly understood why he had never returned. He desperately wanted to be up in that room, even if it wasn't a place for a man. Not for Jocelyn, but for Tilly.

After what seemed like too long, Marin heard the unmistakable cry of a newborn. High-pitched and quaking, almost like a bleating goat. His heart skipped. The Abbot would finally grant him an audience. Soon, he would know what his future held.

"Marin! Marin! Are you still around?" Blanche's panicked voice reached him a moment before he saw the woman, stricken with fear, run down the stairs.

"Yes, yes, I'm here. What's the matter?" He jumped up, sending the bucket tumbling.

"Oh, thank the Lord! Please, please, come now." She turned and rushed back up the stairs before she had reached the ground, and Marin hurried after her.

He burst in the room. Tilly was holding the squawking newborn, red, cone-headed, legs and arms still bent close to her small body. The umbilical cord was still attached, thick and yellow. Birth was not a peaceful or beautiful thing, as far as Marin was concerned, but the baby looked robust with healthy lungs.

Then he noticed Jocelyn.

Limp. Pale.

There was too much blood. Too much.

"Please, Marin, save her," Blanche pleaded.

Turning, leaving Tilly to tend to the infant, Marin grabbed his satchel, rolled up his sleeves, and started to assess his patient.