I put my arm behind Fann’s shoulders and lifted her to sit upright. ‘More pillows,’ I ordered. ‘Wedge them behind her back, that’s it. Now, Fann, listen to me. Soon I’ll need you to push again. The draught you took will help the baby come, but you have to help too. So when I say push, you push as long and hard as you can, even if you’re so tired you can’t even think straight. And when I say stop, you stop pushing and let us do the work. If you breathe like this,’ I demonstrated the short shallow breathing that helps a woman not to expel the baby too quickly, lest the cord strangle it before it has the chance to draw its first breath, ‘it will be easier to hold back. These pains will be strong. Think about your baby. Your son or daughter. Be brave for your child.’ I hated those words, even as I knew I had to speak them. Fann wasn’t going to manage this if I told her the truth: You’re almost too exhausted to push, chances are the baby will be born dead, there’s a possibility the draught will kill you, and if you don’t succeed in getting the child out you’ll both die anyway, unless I use my knife to save the infant at your expense. But do your best. Hope. You had to have hope, or what was the point of anything?

I wished men were allowed in the birthing chamber. Grim’s quiet strength would have steadied me. Now that Fann was in full labour again – perhaps I was the only one who knew how lucky we were to have achieved that – none of us had any time to run over with news for the men. From time to time their voices came to us, like something from another world, singing songs of heroism and courage and magical happenings. Always songs that ended in triumph: the treasure found, the lovers reunited, the battle won, the enemy vanquished. I hoped Fann could hear them.

I lost all sense of time. The day was measured only by the spasms in Fann’s body, the colour of her skin, the speed of her pulse, the shadows around her eyes. I dabbed a tincture of certain spices on her neck and added a few drops to the fire. A pungent smell filled the chamber, setting us all sneezing. Fann sneezed too, then wiped her eyes and kept on pushing.

Ide drew me aside while two of the others took their turn supporting Fann.

‘Mistress Blackthorn. How much longer before you . . .? What if she . . .? I can’t make myself say it.’ Her face was grey with weariness and with the knowledge of what might come.

‘This is our last chance for the child to be born naturally. Either she does it now or we’ll face a very difficult choice.’