Grave Goods by Ariana Franklin

she went into detailed account of the different ways, in different ages, in which men and women had attempted to achieve the dignity of choosing for themselves how many children they could cope with. First she spoke of “receptacles,” sheaths for the penis that various peoples made from sheepskin, or snakeskin, sometimes soaked in vinegar or lemon juice. “Effective, my mother said, but many men do not like to wear them.”
    Then came the subject of coitus interruptus, the biblical sin of Onan, who, forced by Jewish law to marry his brother’s wife, had “spilled his seed upon the ground” rather than let it impregnate her. “But again, most men do not wish to do that.”
    The nightingale continued its ethereal song while Adelia labored on through earthy, human truths. “There are plant remedies, of course, pennyroyal, asafetida, et cetera,” she said, “but Mother was wary of those; so many are poisonous and in any case do not work.”
    She paused for a moment, hoping for a response. There was none. Whether Emma, sitting so silently, was listening to her or to the blasted nightingale it was difficult to know.
    “And then there are the pessaries,” Adelia said. She enlarged on their history, speaking of Outremer women who placed sponges soaked in crocodile dung and lemon juice in the vulva, of an Arab tribe that used the same method, this time favoring a mixture of honey and camel droppings beaten into a paste with wine vinegar. She spoke of similar advice found in ancient writings, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Greek and Latin …
    Emma shifted, and Adelia realized she was losing her audience. She took in a breath. “What Mother found was that among all these recipes, when they worked, was what she called
‘acidus,’
a constant theme of the sour—lemon juice, vinegar. She was sure that it was that which killed sperm.”
    At the word “killed,” Emma stiffened. “And what has God had to say of these ways to murder?”
    “Not murder,” Adelia said. “Prevention. According to the priests, God condemns them, but priests are men who overlook the death of too many women through the imposition of too much childbearing.” Adelia thought of the murdered baby and its grave in the fens. “Or families struggling in poverty because they have too many mouths to feed.”
    Emma stood up. “Well, I think it is disgusting. Worse, it’s
vulgar.”
She walked away.
    “And in the case of pessaries,” Adelia shouted after her, “Mother recommends the attachment of a silk thread so they can be pulled down afterward.”
    She heard the inn door slam closed and sighed. “Well, you did ask,” she said. “At least, I think you did.”
    She sat on for a while, listening to the nightingale.
    “You been a time,” Gyltha said when Adelia returned to their and Allie’s bedroom.
    “I was talking to Emma. Gyltha, I think, I
think,
she’s in love with Master Roetger but doesn’t feel she can marry him.”
    “Could’ve told you that,” Gyltha said. “Too high and mighty to look after him herself but jealous as a cat of them as do.”
    “Yes, I suppose that’s it. Poor girl, poor girl.”
    “And she thinks as how you fancy him yourself.”
    “Oh, Gyltha, she
can’t.”
To Adelia, the German was a patient. She saw him only as a broken arm, a ruptured Achilles heel, and a long-suffering nature.
    “Maybe she can’t, but she do.”
    The next morning, Emma tongue-lashed her people—the grooms for being tardy in saddling up, the nurse for dressing Pippy in the wrong clothes, even Father Septimus for an overlong grace at breakfast. Adelia and Master Roetger were ignored as if they did not exist.
    “An oh-be-joyful journey this is going to be,” Gyltha muttered as they set out.
    Adelia agreed with her. If the situation continued all the way to Wells, it would be intolerable.
    As it turned out, Adelia, Gyltha, Allie, and Mansur did not have to endure it long. The company had been on the road only an hour when the sound of