Chapter 19: The Lily and the Wolf

Sitting on a chair in the hallway outside the birthing room, Donna rested her head on her hands and contemplated the feasibility of dozing for a few minutes. It was unlikely that she would be able to do so, she decided, without falling off the chair onto the flagstone of the floor. Her exhausted mind drifted back to the only other time she had attended a birth. It had been years ago, when she was in her early twenties. A mate from school, Sharon, had gotten pregnant. Her boyfriend had immediately done a runner. When her due date approached, Sharon had asked Donna to be with her in the hospital, and Donna had felt honor-bound to agree. She remembered vividly how horrible she had thought it was, the hour or so that Sharon had suffered through her contractions before calling for an epidural. She thought of how messy it had seemed to her when the baby emerged covered in blood and fluids. But now, thinking back to it, all she could think of was how easy it had been, how cool and efficient, how clean. Compared to this… Her eyes welled with tears, but she impatiently shook her head to clear them. She had no right to cry, and no time.

The first twelve hours of Rosalind's labor had gone well. The birthing room had been set up in Rosalind's own bedchamber, to take advantage of the light and air from the windows. Rosalind had been able to walk around her room and her mood had been cheerful and excited. She had even been able to nap for a short while.

As dusk fell, the tone in the room became more serious. Rosalind turned inward, not talking between her contractions, moaning through them but generally remaining still and calm. Dame Beatrice had spent much of her time—when she was not examining Rosalind to check on the progress of the labor—sitting on a stool by the head of the bed, with the girl's two hands in her own, whispering to her through her contractions. Donna saw now the truth of what Beatrice had said at their first meeting: Rosalind was not a queen at this moment, despite the fact that they were in a large and comfortable room in a palace. She was simply a woman in pain. And whatever Beatrice was saying to her seemed to be working; Rosalind clearly took great comfort from the old woman's presence.

Around midnight things had turned uglier. It was a stiflingly hot night, so little relief came from the open windows, and the rooms were made even hotter by the fire in the fireplace. It seemed almost cruel to have a fire going, but Beatrice explained that it was essential to keep scalding water on hand late in the labor to ensure a supply of clean cloths and instruments. Rosalind streamed with sweat for hours as she labored, and then—even more worryingly—she stopped sweating, her skin hot and sticky with dried perspiration. They tried to coax sips of water into her and to feed her honey from a teaspoon to keep up her strength, but any food or drink only made her retch and she began to refuse them. Donna tried desperately to keep Rosalind cool, fanning her until her arms ached, but it felt like a hopeless effort against the heat of the night and of the fire.

The worst, however, was that Rosalind seemed to lose her focus and her faith that the work and pain were going somewhere. She flailed and screamed during the contractions, despite Beatrice's best efforts to calm her. Beatrice seemed troubled but not alarmed; she pulled Donna aside during one of the lulls and told her that this was the worst part of labor and that once Rosalind began to push it would be better. She then suggested that Donna find the king, update him, and return as quickly as she could.

As Donna left the stifling heat of the room, the relative coolness of the hall had muddled her head for a moment and thus she had ended up in a chair, contemplating the exhausting twenty hours behind her and the hurdles yet to come. But she had no time to linger; she needed to find the Doctor and then get back to Rosalind.

The Doctor was where he said he would be—in his bedchamber—although when she entered she did not see him immediately. Then she spotted him, curled in a chair in the corner, his head on his knees. She was about to ask him what was wrong when she heard Rosalind scream. The sound was muffled by the intervening walls but still clearly audible. He must have heard her screaming all this time, the poor man. She spoke softly. "Doctor?"

He raised a ravaged face to her, and it took a moment before he really seemed to see her. Then he leapt up. "Donna? Is the baby here?"

"No, not yet."

He ran a hand viciously through his hair. "What is that damn midwife doing? What is taking so long?"

"It's childbirth, Doctor. It takes a long time."

"How is Rosalind?"

She hesitated and thought of lying to him, but she could not, not even to comfort him. "Not very good at the moment. It's so hot, and she's in so much pain. She's not had anything to eat or drink all night because it makes her vomit." He keened and, turning, slammed his fist into the wall, muttering to himself. Donna stepped to him and took his hand, smoothing her fingers over his torn knuckles. Despite her own fear and the trauma of seeing Rosalind in pain, she tried her best, for his sake, to take the measured view. "Dame Beatrice says this is the hardest part of labor, that she is making progress, and that she'll be pushing soon. She seems to think it will be okay." As if to belie her statement, another wrenching shriek cut through the silence. He immediately started for the door.

"I'm going. I'm going to take her to the TARDIS."

"Doctor, there's an army of women in there. You'll never get in."

"Just watch me. I'm the king, damn it. They will do as I say"

Donna chuckled. "You're just a scared husband in the eyes of Beatrice and her helpers. Trust me, you won't get in there. And even if you did, how could you send everyone away and spirit her to the TARDIS without everyone knowing? Or if they didn't know, suspecting witchcraft when she recovers instantly from this?"

The Doctor looked desperate but also defeated. Donna felt terrible that she had to be the one to deliver this cold measure of common sense, but he needed to understand. "You can't do anything right now, Doctor, but wait." Helplessness did not suit the Doctor, and he looked at her angrily for a moment, but then his shoulders slumped.

"What if I just came with you and stayed with her? She might want to see me. I could help her, comfort her."

Donna laid a hand on his arm. "Trust me, Doctor. She barely knows any of us are there right now. She only hears Beatrice, I think, and she trusts her. Besides, you know Rosalind—she wouldn't want you to be distressed by seeing her in pain."

He nodded, his face wretched. Donna said, "I need to get back."

"Donna?" She turned to face him. "Promise me, if things get really bad, if she… Promise me that you'll come to find me. I can't lose her. I'll deal with the consequences later, but if this gets life-threatening, I'm taking her to the TARDIS."

"I will, Doctor." She gave him the most reassuring smile she could muster before venturing back into the hallway and toward Rosalind's room.

Something was wrong. She could tell. She swam upward through the exhausted oblivion into which she had fallen to find the room emptier than it had been for hours. By some mercy, the fire had been banked down and a slightly cooler breeze blew from the window, through which the evening sunlight shone. She closed her eyes again, almost savoring the fatigue of her body. It had taken so long. A morning, an afternoon, an unspeakable night, a morning again, and finally, in the afternoon, the baby had come. She had no memory of that moment. Long before, she had given up any attempt to direct what was happening and merely let her body do what it could. She had been infinitely grateful to fall unconscious.

Someone had moved her so that she lay on her side. Her hand lay next to her forehead, and she stared for a long moment at the inside of her wrist, trying to focus her mind, which felt fuzzy and oddly detached. Eventually she parted her lips to speak, to call for someone. A pitifully small noise emerged from her throat, which she realized must be ravaged from hours of screaming. She licked her dry lips, but her tongue was dry too and provided no relief. She was desperate for water. Moving was unthinkable, but surely someone would check on her soon?

As if in answer to an unspoken prayer the face of Dame Beatrice appeared in her field of vision. She held a cup and a spoon. Sitting down on a stool at the side of Rosalind's bed, the midwife slowly and delicately fed water into her mouth, one blissful and agonizing spoonful at a time. She wanted to grab the cup and drink deeply, but she remembered the retching she had done during her labor. Surely Beatrice was trying to prevent something similar from happening again by going slowly.

After the cup was empty, Beatrice set it down and took her hands. "You did well, my lady. You have a son."

"Is he alive?"

"Yes. Alive and well and with the wet-nurses. He seems strong. And he has a good latch."

She closed her eyes as a wave of relief overcame her. Tears squeezed out from behind her lids. She whispered hoarsely, "Has my husband seen him?"

"He has, my lady. The king has been here as well, but you were unconscious at the time. I sent him away, but he will want to return."

Her eyes fell shut again. She wanted nothing more than to see her son, and Philip and Donna, but she was so tired, so tired. She felt unable to do anything now but rest. Even lying very still, there was still so much pain, and she craved the release of sleep. "You must rest now, my lady," Beatrice said. She tried to open her eyes again, to thank her, but she could not, and instead drifted down again into sleep.

Two hours later she awoke again. This time, both Donna and Beatrice sat by her bedside. The room was dark, lit only by a candle. Donna whispered, "Hello, sweetheart. How do you feel?"

Rosalind attempted a smile. "Terrible." It was true. The pain in her abdomen had only worsened, and she felt shivery and feverish.

Dame Beatrice nodded. "It was a difficult birth, to be sure."

"But not the worst you have seen?"

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "You are here talking to us, my lady. It is not the worst."

Donna tutted, shocked by the morbid talk. "I've seen your boy, Rosalind. He's beautiful!"

"May I see him?"

"Enough time for that tomorrow, when you've rested," said Beatrice decisively. "He is being well cared for."

Donna looked disapproving but said nothing to contradict the midwife, instead asking Rosalind, "Shall I go and fetch Philip? I am under strict instructions to let him know the moment you wake up."

"Yes, please." Donna stood but before she could leave Rosalind said quietly, "Donna?"

Donna turned back to look at the girl on the bed. "Thank you, Donna. I cannot imagine a better friend than you have been to me."

Donna moved back to the side of the bed, leaned over, and placed a gentle kiss on Rosalind's forehead. "It's alright, love," she said. "I'll be right back."

She left. Rosalind knew that she had little time before Donna returned with Philip. She turned her eyes to Beatrice. "How am I really, Dame Beatrice?" The little woman appraised her for a long moment, and she repeated with impatience and steel in her voice, "How am I? The truth, if you please. I need to know."

Beatrice nodded crisply. "Your temperature is higher than I would like. You lost a great deal of blood and you are continuing to bleed heavily. It was a very long and draining labor. There is still a great risk of infection. I have done what I can to stop the bleeding, but it has not worked. If it does not stop soon, it will be a problem."

"Thank you." She took a deep breath. "Thank you for telling me the truth. It hurts very badly."

"I had to stitch you up, where you tore."

"Not there. Or rather, yes, but not only there. It's worse deep inside me. A terrible ache."

The midwife's brow furrowed with concern, which Rosalind did not miss. Then the old woman said, "Unfortunately, there is little I can do about internal injuries, my lady. I have left here," she gestured toward a cup sitting on the bedside table, "a goblet of wine mixed with medicine; it will lessen the pain, and it will make you sleep. The rest is up to your body and to God."

Rosalind nodded thoughtfully. Suddenly, she saw a way forward, a way she might accomplish what she knew she had to do. "I do not need it as of yet, Dame Beatrice. I can tolerate the pain. But I am grateful to have it here."

"It is a strong potion, my lady. You should drink about half the goblet as a dose."

Rosalind suddenly heard the sound of Donna's and Philip's voices as they returned. So little time. Beatrice moved to stand and leave her bedside. Rosalind summoned her strength and grasped the woman's hand where it lay on the sheet. The movement sent a spike of pain through her and she whimpered but her grip remained tenacious. "You will not tell the king what you told me," she whispered fiercely to Beatrice. "You will let me tell him. You will say that I am doing as well as can be expected after a difficult labor. Then you will leave me with him."

Beatrice stared at her, startled by the request and by the intensity of the queen's gaze, but finally nodded. Rosalind murmured her thanks just as Philip rushed into the room. The midwife stepped quickly back, head bowed, as Philip went down on his knees at the bedside, kissing Rosalind's hands, stroking her hair back from her temple. "My love. How are you? Have you seen our son?"

"I am well, my dearest. Tired and sore, but well. I have not yet seen him. Dame Beatrice feels I should rest tonight and see him in the morning."

Philip turned an inquiring gaze on Beatrice, who nodded mutely. He asked the midwife, "How is she?"

Beatrice paused, flicked her eyes to Rosalind and back again, and then said, "She is as well as can be expected, my lord, after such a long labor."

Rosalind closed her eyes in relief and gratitude. When she opened them again, Beatrice had vanished and Donna was at the door. "I'll leave you two in peace. Rosalind, I will see you in the morning."

"Yes. Thank you, Donna. Thank you for everything."

Donna smiled sweetly at her as she closed the door behind her.

Philip remained on his knees next to her bed. "I want to take you to my ship, love. I can stop your pain and heal any injuries you may have." He pressed his lips to her palms, one after the other. "Thank you, thank you. For my son, for everything. What you went through…I can't imagine."

She stroked his hair. "You are welcome, my love. What will you name him?"

"I thought you might wish to call him Robert?"

She choked back a small sob. "Oh, Philip. That is such a generous offer. But I think you should name your eldest son after your father."

"Louis?" He shrugged. "If you wish."

"The next one can be Robert."

"The next?" His eyes filled with tears at her generosity and bravery. "You'd do that again?"

"Well, not any time soon, I assure you." She smiled wanly.

"Oh God, I'm forgetting what I'm doing, sitting here talking. Let's get you to the ship."

For the second time in a matter of minutes, she gripped a hand to prevent the owner from moving. He looked at her inquiringly. She paused and gathered herself. "My love…" She closed her eyes. This was the moment. She had to convince him.

He asked, "What is it?"

She opened her eyes again. "I am tired, but so comfortable here. I am in no pain. Can we not rest here for a short while, together, and then you can take me to your ship?"

He hesitated. "How can you be in no pain, after all you went through?"

She put all her conviction into her gaze. "Dame Beatrice has given me medicines, and she has arranged me comfortably. I don't want to move right now. I just want to lay here with you. Would you do that?"

He looked doubtful but eventually said, "If you really want that, yes. But we should go to the ship before very long. I want to give you a check-up."

"Yes, my dearest. In an hour."

"All right."

She smiled at him lovingly. "Donna brought us a cup of wine to share, in order to celebrate." She made a small motion toward the bedside table. "I had a drink already. Will you finish it?"

He grinned back at her. "Of course." He reached for the cup and tilted it toward her. "To my wonderful wife, who has given me more joy than I thought possible in all the universes. And to our Louis."

She nodded and he drank deeply. He paused, looking momentarily distracted. "The wine has a strange flavor."

She felt a frisson of panic. "It is spiced wine, Donna said. Perhaps it is a spice you do not know?" He wrinkled his nose, and she said, "Finish it for me, love. For good luck."

He shrugged and drained the cup and she took a relieved breath. She then said, "Now, will you lay with me?"

"Behind you?"

"Yes. Just hold me."

He carefully climbed into the bed behind her. She bit down hard on her lip to keep from making noise, as each movement of the mattress caused terrible jolts of pain in her abdomen. She was sweating with the effort when he finally came to rest beside her.

"You feel warm, love."

"It's just the warmth of the room," she managed.

"Hmm." He lay for a few moments, then yawned. "I am tired. You must be absolutely exhausted."

She smiled. "I have slept for several hours, which you probably haven't. But yes, I am tired. Rest now, my love."

"I will, I think. I feel…very sleepy."

Behind her, over the course of about fifteen minutes, his breathing evened out and grew slow and heavy, at first from fatigue and then from the drug as it took effect. When she was sure he was deeply asleep she reached backward and dragged his arm over her, clutching his hand in her own, kissing his knuckles. She felt a sudden wave of panic, but she fought it down, reminding herself of what she knew had to be done.

She loved him. She so desperately wanted to stay with him, to see their son grow up, to grow old together. She wanted time. Time to savor this newfound joy in her life. She also wanted her pain to stop. She wanted to get better. All that could be accomplished if she let him take her to his ship. She had seen enough there to know that he had medicines undreamed of in her era. But. It was not that simple.

Although she did not understand everything Philip had told her two days before, she did understand that he had put himself in danger from too much meddling with history—that it had been wrong for him to do so. She knew that he would stop at nothing to save her, to keep her with him. To do that he would use technology and medicine that had no place here and now. And in so doing, he would no doubt do more damage to his own well-being, and perhaps to history itself, in ways that she could not fully comprehend. She was determined that this would not happen. What happened to her—at least for the hours that the drug would keep him safely in sleep—would be a decision made by an authority other than him. Fate, luck, God, the universe, whatever she or he would call it. It would not be him.

She closed her eyes resolutely against the growing pain inside her and the fear she felt. She was young and strong. She might still recover. She laced her fingers through those of her husband and drew his hand to rest against her heart. Then she let the exhaustion suck her down again into darkness and rest.

Donna wended her way toward Rosalind's chamber late the next morning. She had returned to her own room and fallen into the deepest sleep she could remember. It had been a long and draining two days for her as well. She woke with the sun high in the sky and stretched luxuriantly, feeling the soreness of her muscles. With great relief she stripped off her filthy dress, in which she had fallen asleep, washed and put on fresh clothes. She brushed and arranged her hair. Then, feeling cheerful and refreshed, she went to check on her friend's progress. She wanted to be there when they brought baby Louis to meet his mother.

She found a scene of confusion outside the door. Several female servants stood there, trays covered by cloths in their hands, looking indecisive and flustered. "What is the matter?" Donna asked.

The girls looked at each other and then one piped up, "The king went in hours and hours ago. Last night. We don't want to disturb them, but we have food and drink for them to break their fast. We thought we would just leave the trays here, but then we heard a cry, just a few minutes ago. We didn't know what to do."

Donna's heart began to beat faster. "A cry? The queen?"

"It sounded like the king, my lady."

Donna stepped to the door and knocked. She called, "Rosalind? Philip?" There was no answer. She waved the servant girls away, waited until they turned the corner of the hallway, and then eased open the door.

After a few steps, the bed came into view. The Doctor sat on it, with Rosalind gathered into his lap, his face invisible in her hair. Even at a distance Donna could see him shaking, although he made no noise.

She whispered, "Philip?" When he did not move, she tried again. "Doctor?" As she took a step closer to the bed, she suddenly realized that his hands, clutched around his wife, were covered in blood. She clapped her hand over her mouth when she saw the sheets around Rosalind were soaked with red.

"Oh God," she cried. "What happened?"

Now he raised his head and met her eyes. He was not crying, but his face was gray and contorted, his eyes fathomless. He whispered, "I fell asleep, Donna. I fell asleep, and she left me."