Chapter 17: The Heat and the Chill

Author's Note: The character of Dame Beatrice is based loosely on the woman known as Trotula of Salerno, who lived in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries. Trotula was both classically educated in medicine and highly experienced as a practitioner treating women's illnesses. Famous in her own time, she wrote (or had attributed to her) a number of the earliest gynecological treatises in European history.

Donna sat down on the edge of Rosalind's bed, laying a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, slowly rousing her from sleep. Rosalind's eyelids fluttered and opened. She smiled. "Donna. Good morning."

"I brought you a cup of water."

"Thank you." Rosalind heaved herself up and Donna arranged pillows behind her back so she could rest partly upright. Rosalind accepted the cup and sipped, then began to fan herself ineffectually with her own hand. "God, it's hot. What time is it?"

"About eight o'clock."

"And already stifling. Heaven help me today, with this little stove burning away inside of me." She stroked her belly, with a smile that belied her complaint.

Donna stood, crossed the room, and returned with a basin that she set on the bedside table. She dipped a cloth in it, wrung it out, and smoothed it over Rosalind's brow. She wet it and wrung it out again, then rolled it and draped it over the back of the girl's neck. Rosalind closed her eyes. "Oh, that feels marvelous."

"One of the other ladies said that this is the hottest summer that she can remember."

"It's terrible. I hate to say it, but in mid-summer, I think I may prefer Durham to Paris. It was never this hot at home. And it did not smell this bad."

Donna giggled. "It is awful, isn't it?"

"Oh God! I was at some outdoor function with Philip a few days ago, and it was all I could do to keep a pleasant look on my face. Can't have the queen screwing up her nose and mouth at everything, now can you?"

"He should not be dragging you out in this heat."

"I insisted, Donna. I get so bored, staying inside. I almost had to cry to get him to take me. You know Philip—given his way, he'd never let me out of this room."

Donna did know. It was now over a year since she had first laid eyes on the real Philip in the forests of northern England. She had given up on asking the Doctor when they would be returning to their former life in the TARDIS. Once Rosalind returned from the journey south and discovered that she was pregnant, Donna had known that they were not going to leave in the foreseeable future. And truth be told, Donna was herself now torn on the issue of whether and when they should return. On the one hand, she missed her family dearly; she had never gone this long without seeing her grandfather. Of course, she knew that they could arrive back on the day they left, so Wilf would never know the difference, but still. She knew, and she missed him.

But on the other hand, she had grown to love Rosalind like a best friend, or even a sister. Slowly, the other ladies-in-waiting who served the queen had fallen away and were only called upon on occasions when Rosalind needed to wear a particularly elaborate outfit or hair dressing. All other times, Donna served as her sole attendant and—other than Philip—was her closest companion. She did not want to leave her friend before the baby was born, which would be any day now. She hoped desperately that the heat wave would break just a bit before Rosalind went into labor. Donna had developed a sense, from hearing stories told by the other ladies, of the dangers of childbirth in this era, for both the mother and the baby. Although they did not use the modern terms for them, the women had described what sounded to Donna like hemorrhages, infections, dehydration, shock, breech babies, and other issues easily dealt with in a modern hospital but often fatal in this time and place. This was a frightening prospect, to say the least. She knew that Rosalind worried about the birth, given what had happened to her own mother. The last thing the scared girl needed was to have to deal with this sweltering heat in addition to everything else.

These thoughts brought her mind back to something about which she needed to remind the queen. "Remember, my lady, that the midwife will visit you shortly."

"I am anxious to meet her. She is thought to be one of the best."

"So they say."

"What is her name again?"

"Dame Beatrice. She is apparently from southern Italy, but has been in Paris for many years. She speaks French, the other ladies assure me."

Rosalind sighed. "And when will she be here?"

"In about an hour."

"Ugh. I suppose I need to dress. But that will require moving." Rosalind closed her eyes and stuck out her lip in a simulated pout.

"Come on, you. Up and out of bed. I have a lovely linen dress for you to wear today, which will keep you cool, I promise."

Dame Beatrice of Salerno was scrupulously punctual for her appointment with the queen. She was ushered in by another of the ladies-in-waiting at precisely nine o'clock; the bells of Notre-Dame were still ringing outside the windows as she moved to greet her patient. She was not, at first glance, a figure who would seem destined to garner much notice or renown. Tiny, old, and humbly dressed in a plain gown of rough blue cloth, her wrinkled face peered out under a white wimple that entirely covered her hair. Her hands, held clasped in front of her waist, were small and weathered by work. Yet she held herself straight as a rod and her eyes sparkled with intelligence and interest as they roved around the room and then came to rest on the queen. Rosalind, who had seated herself in one of the high-backed chairs in her room, looked bemused at the sight of this small wizened lady who was the most sought after midwife in Paris. She said, "Dame Beatrice? It is an honor to meet you."

"The honor is mine, your grace." Beatrice's French was heavily accented with her native Italian. Even with the TARDIS's help, Donna found it hard to follow; Rosalind's furrowed brow suggested that she too had to concentrate to understand what the woman said.

Beatrice made no move after she bobbed a perfunctory curtsey to Rosalind. Rosalind, meanwhile, seemed to be waiting for the older woman to speak. Finally, Donna grew impatient and said, "Dame Beatrice, did you wish to examine the queen?"

Beatrice nodded, never taking her eyes off Rosalind. "If your grace permits it, it would be of help."

"Of course…" Rosalind hesitated. "Shall I undress?"

"Yes, naturally. It is the only way I can see you and feel the baby. And lay down on the bed."

With just such an exam in mind, Donna had dressed Rosalind in a loose gown that was easily shed. The queen scooted onto her bed and lay fully extended, her head and shoulders propped on pillows. Dame Beatrice approached the bed and, somewhat disconcertingly, climbed up on it, kneeling next to Rosalind. Donna supposed that this was the only way the tiny woman was going to get a good look at her patient. She extended those small, worn hands and began to feel over Rosalind's belly, pressing and prodding. Rosalind gasped softly at the vigor of her touch. Beatrice grinned. "It takes a little force to feel where the baby is. I will not hurt you or him, my lady." She continued her examination.

Rosalind seemed to wish to break the silence that fell as Beatrice focused on her task. "The king's doctor has been to see me a number of times but he has never examined me in this way. In fact, he has barely touched me."

Beatrice snorted. "A university man? A master?"

"Yes. Master John of Amiens."

"Hmm. These masters of medicine. They know their medical texts. They know their Galen and their Aristotle. But how many babies have they delivered, eh? The wee ones rarely behave by the book. There is more involved than the masters know. You cannot understand childbirth without feeling and touching."

Rosalind nodded. Donna saw the small smile on the queen's face and knew that she was already beginning to like this brusque little lady. Rosalind spoke again: "I understand that you come from southern Italy, Dame Beatrice. You and I are both far from home here in Paris."

"Yes, I am from Salerno. It is south of Naples, my lady. That is where I began my studies. I even learned some Galen and Aristotle, from teachers at the university of Naples who were willing to teach a woman. But I came to Paris many years ago."

"And how many births have you attended?" This was Donna, feeling protective of her friend.

Beatrice shot her an appraising glance from her brown button eyes. "I lost count a decade ago and more. Hundreds and hundreds. And I gave birth to six of my own, of course."

Rosalind asked, "Have you attended many queens and princesses?"

"Some, my lady. But I find that I forget a woman's status when she is in labor. The sheets may be finer or less fine, the chamber larger or smaller, but the pain is the same, no matter what the rank." She sat back on her heels. "The baby's head is still up, your grace." She indicated a spot under Rosalind's ribs. "We must hope that he turns before you go into labor." She narrowed her eyes. "What do you know of the births of the women in your family? Your mother?"

Donna stiffened, and Rosalind's eyes widened, although her voice was steady as she said, "My mother died giving birth to me."

"Ah." Beatrice nodded. "Forgive me for probing, my lady, but do you know what happened? What went wrong?"

Rosalind shook her head. "My father would never speak of it. My aunt said there was a great deal of blood, but that is all I know."

"It is a shame we do not know more. Still. Our mothers are not always an accurate indicator of what will happen to us." She climbed off the bed and Donna brought Rosalind her gown. Rosalind quickly dressed and returned to her chair. Beatrice, having sought permission with a gesture and a glance, sat on a low bench at Rosalind's feet. Beatrice said, "You must get your rest in the coming weeks, my lady, to conserve your strength. But do not be completely idle. Walk some, if only around the castle, every day. The masters would have you lie still for days at a time, but the birth is hard work and we do not want you weakened from too much sloth."

"When will you come again, Dame Beatrice?"

"If your grace permits, I will return in three days, to check on the baby's position. If he has not moved, I will try to turn him."

"Forgive me, Beatrice, but you refer to the baby as 'he'. Do you know that it is a boy?"

Beatrice smiled. "No, my lady. I can offer potions and charms before conception that can help ensure a boy. But it is too late to change things now. I merely say 'he' because I know your grace must be hoping for a son and heir."

Rosalind looked at the old woman. "I'm sure my husband is, yes. I want a healthy baby. And I want to survive, as my mother did not."

Beatrice nodded, meeting the queen's eyes. "Childbirth is not a matter for men, my lady. I cannot promise to fulfill the king's wishes. But I will do my very best to fulfill yours."

After Beatrice left, Donna busied herself with organizing and folding the baby clothes that were being produced by the palace seamstresses in astonishing quantity. Rosalind sat at her desk, trying to work on her Aeneid manuscript. She found it uncomfortable to perch at her stool while so heavily pregnant, and difficult to do her work over the top of her protruding belly, but she found it even more frustrating not to make progress, so she did a little every day, however slowly. Today, however, she had a hard time focusing, and not just because of the oppressive heat of the room. She needed to ask Donna something but did not know how to broach the subject. Finally, as was her wont, she chose the direct route.

"Donna, have you ever had visions?"

Donna paused in her work and looked up, but Rosalind was facing away from her, continuing to write, her posture relaxed. It seemed like a casual question, so Donna did not think hard before answering. "Not to my knowledge, why?" She waited, but the girl did not respond. After a few moments, curiosity overcame her and she repeated, "Why? Do you?"

At that Rosalind laid down her pen. "I think I may be." Now she turned to face Donna and Donna could see the worry lines on her brow. She laid down the clothes and moved to sit on a chair nearer Rosalind's desk.

"Has this happened more than once?"

"Yes. It happened again last night. It started months ago."

"At any particular time?"

Rosalind blushed furiously.

"What?" Now Donna was truly interested.

"Well…it's when…when Philip and I are intimate."

Donna choked back a laugh. "I'm sure he'd be flattered to know he can make you have visions during…"

Rosalind swatted at her leg. "Donna, you're terrible!"

"Hang on—last night? You two are still…" Rosalind turned crimson again, and Donna relented. "I'm sorry. Tell me. When did it start?"

"When we were on our journey after the wedding. He…oh God, this is embarrassing. You see, he likes to talk to me while we're…"

Donna arched an eyebrow. "Now that's shocking."

"Hush. He likes to talk and he touches my face and hair. And sometimes I get these flashes of things I don't understand. I don't recognize anything in these images, except my own face. Although even that is strange; sometimes it looks just like me and sometimes I'm painted…well, like a prostitute."

Donna nodded slowly, suddenly on guard. She didn't like the sound of that. She knew from the Doctor that Rose had worn a great deal of makeup. Her mind was beginning to spin through possible explanations but then she snapped back to attention, as Rosalind was continuing to speak. "Some of the visions—usually of me—feel very tender. It's hard to explain, but there's emotion that comes along with what I see. But many of them are so frightening. They are of…machines that I can't even conceive of."

"What do they look like?"

"I drew a sketch of the one that appears most often. Wait a moment…" Rosalind turned and dug around on the table next to her desk, which was covered with assorted scraps of parchment. "Aha! Here. Now tell me, have you ever seen anything like that?"

Donna took the parchment from her hand and looked down. There, on the mottled surface, was a rough ink sketch. Rosalind was no great artist, but still, there was no mistaking it. She was looking at a drawing of the TARDIS.

Donna found Philip closeted with a number of his clerks, working on the text of various royal decrees. She ignored any protocol, barged right into the room, and without asking his permission told the young men to clear out. He felt a wave of mild annoyance, but the look on her face gave him pause and he nodded at them to go. They scurried out and forbore to smirk, at least not in his presence. The fiction of Donna as his mistress was still in place because it proved useful and because the one person whose opinion mattered—his wife—knew the truth. When they had left he asked, "What is it, Donna?"

In response she slapped a scrap of parchment down in front of him. On it was a pen sketch of the TARDIS. He returned his gaze to her, perplexed. "What is this? Why are you drawing the TARDIS?"

"I didn't. Rosalind did."

He was silent for a long moment, staring at her and feeling his heart speed up. He felt a wave of nausea overtake him and then fade. Finally he managed to croak, "What?" He stood up and simultaneously felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him dizzy. "Wha…how?"

"She tells me this morning, after the midwife's visit, that she's having visions. She says…" Donna rubbed her forehead. "Oh heaven help me, I can't believe I'm talking to you about this! She says she sees things when you two are having sex. She sees herself—and I'm quoting here—'painted like a prostitute'. I guess that's Rose. She says she sees machines that she doesn't recognize and can't comprehend their purpose. And then she drags this out and asks me if I've ever seen anything like it."

"Oh no no no no no…" He ran his hands violently through his hair.

"Oh yes! You've been," she waved her hands in the direction of his head "sending off vibes to her or something. And she's worried she's having visions or going insane!"

"What did you say when she showed you this?"

"After I picked myself up off the floor, you mean? I told her to ask you."

"That's it?"

"Yes, that's it! I may have agreed not to tell her the truth, but I'll be damned if I'll lie to her for you."

"Okay. Yes. You're right." He slumped back into his chair. "Oh gods, Donna. What am I going to do?"

"I think, Doctor, that this is the moment when you might have to try the truth."