Return to Me - By Morgan O'Neill Page 0,16
a torrent of fluid.
“Well done!” she cried out, laughing. Even after hundreds of babies, it always stirred her emotions. Ona quickly mopped the red face and blue body, clearing the nose and throat of mucus, as the others tended the queen. Tying off the cord in two places, she quickly cut it, then laid the babe in her lap and began rubbing vigorously. Soon, the newborn was a healthy pink and squalling in protest over entering such a harsh, unfriendly world. The queen’s body tensed again, and Ona knew the afterbirth was coming, so she gave the little one to Queen Verica.
Chuckling, Verica wrapped the infant, trapping one tiny, flailing arm in swaddling cloth, and then the other.
As soon as the placenta was expelled, Ona checked it for tears or missing bits, but everything was as it should be. She was so intent on her business, she hardly noticed as the queen’s ladies lifted Placidia back onto her bed and covered her with blankets.
“Ona?” the queen asked.
Smiling broadly, Ona proudly took the babe from Verica and presented the weary mother with her tightly wrapped bundle. “Queen Placidia, you have a prince.”
• • •
Placidia awoke from a deep, healing sleep. It was warm in her bedchamber, the candlelight bathing everything in a soft, golden glow. She turned and saw Athaulf standing by the door, smiling at her and holding a small silk bag.
“I have sent your ladies off for a rest,” he said, coming to her side. “I have seen our son. He is perfect.”
She breathed in her husband’s scent, leather and lavender. How she loved him!
He kissed her lips. “You have given me a great gift, Placidia. And now, I have something to give you in return, something that is but a token of my love for you.”
He opened the bag and revealed a string of magnificent sea pearls, the largest she had even seen. “Oh, Athaulf!”
He dangled them before her, his grin a reflection of his pleasure. The necklace was truly exquisite. As a princess of Rome, Placidia had owned many wonderful pieces of jewelry, but this was beyond compare: the pearls as large as quail’s eggs, evenly matched, lustrous, and creamy white.
Athaulf placed the necklace about her throat, the pearls cool against her skin.
“Thank you, dearest wife. I cherish you and our children.”
Tears of joy filled her eyes. “I love you,” she replied.
He sat by her side and leaned in, kissing away her tears. “I love you even more.”
They laughed and held each other, thankful for God’s many blessings.
• • •
A storm had come and gone while Placidia lay in childbed, but now the early evening was calm and quiet. Inside, their room glowed soft and warm from the light of the fire, and Placidia lay against a pile of pillows, bathed and blissfully content. Athaulf sat beside her, a smile on his face.
His children surrounded the bed. Everyone had their eyes on the newborn, ooing and ahing every time he flexed tiny little fingers, yawned, or peeked open an eye.
“I’m done with my nap, Mama!” Three-year-old Margareta, the babe’s big sister, pushed her way past her half-siblings, undaunted. With the passage of time, it had become increasingly clear Marga had the look of her paternal grandmother, Randegund, who had ever been a bane to Placidia. But Placidia’s heart was not the least bit troubled by the resemblance, for there was a marked difference between the two: while the spark of deep intelligence was evident in both their eyes, Marga’s features were softened by a sweetness Randegund never possessed.
“Can I see him, Mama? Nana says he came out of your tummy.”
Athaulf laughed and picked Marga up, putting her on his lap. “Margareta, may I present your brother. What do you think of him?”
Marga studied her brother intently, a frown of concentration creasing her little brow.
Placidia looked up at Athaulf, her dearest love, and smiled, enjoying how he played with and adored all of his children. There were six by his first wife — may her soul rest in eternal peace — and their eldest child together, Marga, and now their son, whom, by custom, would be given his name nine days hence.
Marga continued to frown, then finally made up her mind and leaned in, her tiny finger leading the way. Worried at what Marga intended to do, Placidia held her breath, ready to grab the little girl’s hand, if needed.
Marga gently pressed her finger to his forehead. “That’s his head bone,” she announced and grinned at her mother.
Everyone