“In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Mary gave birth to Christ, Anne gave birth to Mary, Elizabeth gave birth to John the Baptist. Mary gave birth to Our Lord Jesus Christ without shame and without sorrow. In his name and through the merits of St Mary the Virgin, his mother, and of St John the Baptist we ask you to come out, child, whether you be male or female, from your mother’s womb, without dying or causing her death. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Anest intoned the prayer, hoping that her words would find favour with St Margaret of Antioch and that she, a patron saint of childbirth, would intercede and smooth the passage of Tirion’s labour.

The healer had already decided that if a cut were necessary then Tirion would require some form of sedation. Prepared for such an eventuality, Anest possessed a beverage called dwale, a mixture of lettuce, briony, opium, henbane, juice of hemlock and the gall from a sow, all mixed in a measure of wine. From her medicines, Anest produced this concoction, handing the phial to Madog. Then, she proceeded to wash her hands, along with the belly and the genitalia of the pregnant woman.

The preparatory stage over, it was time to assist in the birth of Tirion’s baby.

Tilting Tirion’s head forward, Madog was about to administer the dwale when the young woman’s eyes opened. She stared wildly at her clothing: “The dagger…you must ensure that Payn de la March gets the dagger…promise me…promise.”

Mystified, Anest moved to Tirion’s side. “Does the dagger belong to Payn de la March?”

Crying out in pain, Tirion was unable to answer. She gripped the straw as yet another contraction consumed her. This was swiftly followed by yet more blood loss. The intensity, and the regularity, of the bleeding proved to be far greater than anything Anest had ever seen before. This forced the healer to reconsider her options: dangerous at the start, the cut seemed impossible now; any incision and subsequent blood loss would surely drain Tirion of all life. In conclusion, Anest decided that the dwale would not be required; she would have to find another way.

Sobbing, Tirion took hold of Anest’s cloak; her fingers, white, translucent, gripping the cloth with surprising force. “The baby…will be a girl…and she is to be called Tangwstyl.”

In compliance, Anest nodded. She would carry out Tirion’s instructions. But she had so many questions: where was Tirion‘s home? Why was she trying to reach Ty Maen? And in relation to the baby: what was the father’s name? And how did she know of its sex? When Tirion subsequently spoke, Anest considered that, maybe, some of those questions remained, etched upon her face.

“The seer…he told me about the baby…believe, and you will all be saved.”

Consciousness had once again deserted Tirion leading Anest to fear that all hope might soon be lost. She was aware that action had to be taken swiftly, or the baby would not take its place in this world. But what to do? Looking at Madog, she was struck by an idea.

“Can you lift Tirion and stand above me on that straw?” Anest pointed to a series of bales, akin to a set of grain steps, arranged neatly, placed near the undercroft door.

Madog nodded vigorously: “That will be no problem. Stand clear, we will see this child born yet.”

Anest watched as Madog raised Tirion by her armpits, the stump of his left arm supporting, the strength in his right arm taking the strain. He climbed the straw steps until he found the third level. There, he sat, holding Tirion, dangling her legs over the edge, in a position where the baby’s weight would take maximum effect; Anest had come to realise that there was little more that Tirion could do; the baby would have to find its own way out of the womb.

Panting, but unable to respond to the contractions, Tirion remained cloaked in perspiration; lucent, her skin shone like glass in the moonlight.

Anest realised that she too was perspiring. She looked up at Madog, wondering: how much longer could he take the strain. But the ease upon his face told her that, in this quarter at least, she had no need of worry; the labour could go on all night if necessary and he would remain there, as solid as a rock, as secure as the Pope’s faith.

However, Tirion could not wait, and so it was with relief that Anest saw the first sign of the baby emerging: the bulge of its head pressing against Tirion’s pelvic floor. The head itself followed, moving forward with each contraction, only to slip back a little, before making more progress. Then, Anest saw that the umbilical cord had looped itself around the baby’s neck and so, carefully, she slipped her fingers under the cord and hooked it over the baby’s head. With the head now fully engaged, Anest manoeuvred the baby backwards until first one shoulder, and then the other, appeared. Two more contractions saw the delivery of Tirion’s baby and, with only a mild measure of astonishment, Anest noted that the seer had been vindicated; Tirion had indeed given birth to a girl: blue, crying, streaked in blood, Tangwstyl was born.

The birthing process over, Anest took the knife and cut the umbilical cord. Then, she washed Tangwstyl with fresh water before covering her in salt and honey, the better to dry up her humours and prevent any premature loss of moisture. Next, Anest dipped a finger into the honey, rubbing this over the baby’s mouth, both to cleanse and to encourage suckling. Finally, she swathed the baby in swaddling bands, offering support to Tangwstyl’s unformed and malleable limbs.

Taking the baby, Anest placed her in Tirion’s arms. The young mother opened her eyes, smiled and kissed Tangwstyl before lapsing into an everlasting peace.

“She needs to be shriven.” Madog climbed down from his position upon the straw. As Anest took Tangwstyl into her arms, so the steward attended to Tirion’s body, wrapping her lifeless form in the blanket, providing her with a degree of grace and dignity, showing total respect for her sacrifice. “The child needs to be baptised; I will seek a priest.”

“She should not have died.” Anest felt a sense of grief, a sense of contrition; she had failed. Yet, had not the Holy Spirit failed them also? After all, had not Anest invoked the support of St. Margaret of Antioch? “I offered up prayers,” she complained.

“Sometimes, our prayers contradict God’s wishes. And being wise to those wishes is the ultimate belief.” Stoically, Madog walked over and placed a comforting hand upon the healer’s shoulder. He smiled at the baby, who lay oblivious, content in Anest’s arms. “You should not reproach yourself. After all, you saved the child’s life.”

Anest cast her eyes down to the ground; she knew that Madog was right but, in that moment, she found Tirion’s passing hard to accept. She was reminded of her limitations, reminded that her skills could have only a finite effect.

“Who will care for the baby?” Madog patted Ci upon the head, calming the animal; he had been present at the birth, occupying a place near the undercroft door. Silent at first, Ci now appeared agitated, excited, as if knowing that he had been privy to a special event.

Considering her answer carefully, Anest found an image of Ceinlys, Meredydd and their baby presenting itself. What was it that Meredydd had said: “If at any time we can help you, you will make use of our labours?” Maybe now was the time to hold him to his word. Not that Ceinlys would be burdened by such a request. Anest had learned through her dealings with Ceinlys just how keen she was to surround herself with children: she would be overjoyed at the prospect of tending a foundling as well as her son. “I will take Tangwstyl to Ballas.” This solution sat comfortably with Anest, allowing a shaft of optimism to filter into her mind. “She will be safe there. She will be well looked after.”

“And what of Tirion’s vision?” Madog continued to soothe Ci, continued to prevent him from leaping up and so lick the child. “Is a prince’s daughter held within your arms?”

Anest smiled at the notion. “Do you believe in such prophecies, Madog?”

“I believe in what I can see, in what is real.”

“This baby is real.” Anest held Tangwstyl on high, as if to confirm that fact. Adding her voice to the discussion, the baby emitted a soft gurgle; the talk of a princess, or the talk of a commoner, there could be no sweeter sound.

“What you say is true,” Madog replied, soberly.

“Tirion’s words were real.”

“That also is without question.”

“Then who are we to disbelieve her?” Anest spoke with conviction and, she would have to admit, with no little hope, for, whatever the truth of the matter, this much was clear: Tirion believed in the seer’s prophecy, for she had been in no condition to invent such a story. If omens were required, Anest could point to the comet, seen burning in the sky earlier that night. Still, more than anything, Anest held on to her intuition: her intuition was her best friend, her greatest ally. Furthermore, her intuition told her that there was something special about Tangwstyl, it told her that the man responsible for this baby’s being held a quality, held an aura that few other men could possess. It told her that he might well be the new Arthur. And that thought sent a shiver down her spine.

A thoughtful silence ensued, the peace eventually broken by Madog’s deep growl: “If that is so, and there is a truth to Tirion’s story, then the child is in danger.”

Anest nodded in agreement. “And that is why we must keep the secret to ourselves.”

Ci’s whimpering caught Anest’s attention and, understanding his disquiet, she knelt so that he could take sight of the newborn child. This pleased the dog greatly, for he sat, mouth open, panting his approval.

“My lord, Euros, he will return from his pilgrimage shortly.” Madog stared to the east, as if anticipating his lord’s appearance; he was overdue and it could be only a matter of days before he arrived. “He is wise, learned; he will know what to do. We will share the events of this night with him.”