Return to Me - By Morgan O'Neill Page 0,14

Nevertheless, she felt a twinge of satisfaction, for the church was almost as chilly as it had been outside, and Gaila doubtless was regretting her decision, considering the glacial feel of her skin. Placidia guessed the girl would dress with greater care the next time she went outdoors in the dead of winter.

Smiling, Placidia let go of Gaila’s hand and greeted Bishop Sigesar, who was himself clad only in his ceremonial robes. He also looked chilled, but would soon find relief, for the body heat of hundreds of worshippers would warm their surroundings.

The bishop led them to the marble sarcophagus of St. Eulalia, where they prayed for her soul, and for all those who had been martyred for their Christian faith. The girl had been tortured and burned at the stake by Emperor Diocletian. At her death, the poor thing was only thirteen years old.

Placidia watched as Gaila knelt before the sarcophagus, bowed her head, and murmured into hands tightly clasped in prayer. Gaila was almost the same age as Eulalia had been at her execution. Placidia nodded to herself, satisfied Gaila would now reflect on her own selfish and trying ways. She would remember the sacrifices of Eulalia, and thereby receive the grace to comport herself with dignity.

The bishop made the sign of the cross over the tomb, and then led Placidia and her family to the royal enclosure. He climbed the steps to the altar and turned to face the multitude of worshippers.

“God is great!” he joyously proclaimed. His voice was pure and strong as he told of the Lord’s most blessed gift to the world, His Son, Jesus Christ. Placidia felt gladness in her heart, not only for this, but also for more personal reasons. She looked at Athaulf, standing tall by her side. He was her other gift, the love of her life —

Placidia felt a sharp pang that made her gasp, a sense that every muscle was pulling her inward. “Oh, not now,” she whispered.

Both Athaulf and Gaila glanced at her.

“Are you all right, Mother?” Gaila asked.

Athaulf gently put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Let me know if you need to go home, dear one,” he said quietly.

Placidia bravely smiled and straightened, shaking her head. The moment had passed.

The priest droned on, and for once, she found it hard to concentrate on his words. All she could think of was her desire to sit, to lie down, to rest.

Another pain gripped her belly. “Ahh!” she groaned, grasping the railing and doubling over.

Nobody asked how she fared now. It was time. The royal family simply smiled at concerned faces and helped Placidia from the church.

“Ahhhhhhh!” Placidia bellowed, once they were outside. Only Athaulf’s strong arms kept her from collapsing.

It seemed to take forever before they reached her chambers in the castellum, where she was stripped down to a shift and put to bed. Her maid, Vana, and other women scurried around her, and Athaulf kissed her goodbye before being banished from the room. Pillows were piled behind her, sheets and a heavy blanket drawn over her. She could see Elpidia sitting in the corner, wringing her hands and praying. Ona, the royal obstetrix, who’d been at the palace all week, was calm and in control, giving directions to the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.

Placidia smiled when Verica entered the bedchamber. Her widowed sister-in-law and the Visigoth’s dowager queen, Verica was still in mourning after all these years, her husband, King Alaric, having gone to God some four winters past.

Placidia reached for Verica’s hand and then relaxed back into the pillows. Everything felt right and good. It was time she let her body take control.

• • •

With a smile of satisfaction, Ona prodded the queen’s birth passage, and then looked up over the sheet covering Placidia’s knees. “You’re well opened already, my lady, and your water’s not broke, which is a good thing, but rare.”

“Why is it a good thing? I thought the release of the water was the start of labor,” the queen asked.

Just then, Placidia screwed up her face as another wrenching pain gripped her. Ona nodded to a serving girl, who placed a thick strap of leather between Placidia’s teeth. The queen grunted and bit against the pain until it receded, then dropped back onto the pillows, breathing heavily.

“The body is trying to push the babe out,” Ona said. “Think of a wine skein. If it’s full, but you’ve got a plug blocking the opening, and you pounce on it, the wine gushes