The midwife coated her hands with Thyme Oil, knelt before the birthing chair, and lifted Eleanor's skirts.
"The baby's coming, milady! I can already see the crown of its head," she called out excitedly, hastily removing Eleanor's stained and bloodied petticoat.
Eleanor groaned and writhed in the birthing chair, and the Eagle Stone fell into the rushes on the floor.
By now, the contractions were continuous. The midwife placed her hands on Eleanor's legs, pushing them a little farther apart.
"No, milady, don't do that," she warned. "You mustn't push now, or you'll tear yourself. Don't fight the pain, milady. Let the baby come on its own..."
She murmured ceaselessly, trying to soothe Eleanor with the rhythm of her words, knowing the sound was just as important as the meaning.
Eleanor groaned again, and the midwife gave a triumphant cry as the baby's head emerged.
