pressed cool cloths to her forehead, but Violante pushed them away – she had never felt more confident in her role. This, this was what she had been born for. This was her moment.
She had worried and fretted all the way through her confinement, found new confidence to ask for the best physicians from Vienna and the best leechers from Rome. Her father-in-law
Cosimo de’ Medici, galvanized from his usual torpor by the prospect of a Medici heir at last, had granted her every boon.
Even her husband Ferdinando had spoken to her, these last nine months, with something approaching kindness. She had counted the weeks anxiously, for she knew that Ferdinando’s sister, that chilly countess Anna Maria Luisa, had miscarried six times, so many that the citizens had begun to whisper about the curse of the Medici, that a shadow was on the great house, that an heir would never come. Such talk did not assist Violante’s spirits, but she had carried her precious burden for a full term. She would bear a son for Ferdinando, and he would love her at last; for that, if not for herself.
She was supremely confident, strong and sure for the first time. She was thirty, so no green girl, and old to be brought to childbed. But only now did she feel she had grown into her womanhood at last and knew, as she laboured, that this was what she had been born to do. Suddenly there was a rush of waters upon the coverlet, an easing of the terrible pain below, and the midwife held up a tiny bundle slick with blood, with a knotted blue rope connecting mother and son. Mother. Violante was a mother.
She tried this new and wonderful word on her dry tongue, saying it over and over like a prayer. The dame took out a knife curved like a sickle and cut the cord but it did not matter. Violante knew she was connected to her son for ever now. She thought she could not be happier, but she was wrong, for her womb gave another great lurch and soon the midwife held up a second child, the exact copy of the first. Twins. It was the greatest and happiest surprise of her life. Not one, but two boys.
She held out her arms to her sons in a gesture of command she had never used before. The midwife understood and gave her the children at once. In contravention of every birthing convention for a high-born lady, Violante laid them, sticky as they were, on her chest. It was the most perfect moment of her life. As one, they ceased to cry and opened their eyes, looking at her with tiny beady orbs the colour and size of capers. Wondering, she returned their gaze, looking from one to the other, knowing that if she spent the rest of her life doing just this, she would be supremely happy. Violante melted in their quiet gaze, her lips curling, blinking away tears, for nothing should dim her sight of them. She was perfectly happy for the first time since she had herself been born. She knew, in that moment, unquestioningly, that they loved her.
She held them, gently but firmly; would not have them taken from her and cleaned. Her maids were scandalized – the children must be doused and swaddled properly and given to the wet-nurse, but Violante did not care. She asked the women to lay a balmcloth over them and leave them be. And at length, exhausted after two days of difficult labour, her eyes began to close. Her sons’ little heartbeats raced against her chest, their little mouths sought her nipples. She felt a tug as her breasts began to leak milk in her willingness to suckle the Medici heirs. She did not have to do a thing. She was a mother – her body knew what it had to do. The little princes fed. Violante, contented, slept.
She woke, cold, clean, in a white cotton nightshift and stiff clean sheets. Her sons were gone, but she knew that while she slept her women would have taken them, at last, to be cleaned, swaddled and dressed, to be given such rites as were fitting for
the heirs to the grand duchy. She saw, in the dim twilight, a hunched shape of the midwife on the end of the
She had worried and fretted all the way through her confinement, found new confidence to ask for the best physicians from Vienna and the best leechers from Rome. Her father-in-law
Cosimo de’ Medici, galvanized from his usual torpor by the prospect of a Medici heir at last, had granted her every boon.
Even her husband Ferdinando had spoken to her, these last nine months, with something approaching kindness. She had counted the weeks anxiously, for she knew that Ferdinando’s sister, that chilly countess Anna Maria Luisa, had miscarried six times, so many that the citizens had begun to whisper about the curse of the Medici, that a shadow was on the great house, that an heir would never come. Such talk did not assist Violante’s spirits, but she had carried her precious burden for a full term. She would bear a son for Ferdinando, and he would love her at last; for that, if not for herself.
She was supremely confident, strong and sure for the first time. She was thirty, so no green girl, and old to be brought to childbed. But only now did she feel she had grown into her womanhood at last and knew, as she laboured, that this was what she had been born to do. Suddenly there was a rush of waters upon the coverlet, an easing of the terrible pain below, and the midwife held up a tiny bundle slick with blood, with a knotted blue rope connecting mother and son. Mother. Violante was a mother.
She tried this new and wonderful word on her dry tongue, saying it over and over like a prayer. The dame took out a knife curved like a sickle and cut the cord but it did not matter. Violante knew she was connected to her son for ever now. She thought she could not be happier, but she was wrong, for her womb gave another great lurch and soon the midwife held up a second child, the exact copy of the first. Twins. It was the greatest and happiest surprise of her life. Not one, but two boys.
She held out her arms to her sons in a gesture of command she had never used before. The midwife understood and gave her the children at once. In contravention of every birthing convention for a high-born lady, Violante laid them, sticky as they were, on her chest. It was the most perfect moment of her life. As one, they ceased to cry and opened their eyes, looking at her with tiny beady orbs the colour and size of capers. Wondering, she returned their gaze, looking from one to the other, knowing that if she spent the rest of her life doing just this, she would be supremely happy. Violante melted in their quiet gaze, her lips curling, blinking away tears, for nothing should dim her sight of them. She was perfectly happy for the first time since she had herself been born. She knew, in that moment, unquestioningly, that they loved her.
She held them, gently but firmly; would not have them taken from her and cleaned. Her maids were scandalized – the children must be doused and swaddled properly and given to the wet-nurse, but Violante did not care. She asked the women to lay a balmcloth over them and leave them be. And at length, exhausted after two days of difficult labour, her eyes began to close. Her sons’ little heartbeats raced against her chest, their little mouths sought her nipples. She felt a tug as her breasts began to leak milk in her willingness to suckle the Medici heirs. She did not have to do a thing. She was a mother – her body knew what it had to do. The little princes fed. Violante, contented, slept.
She woke, cold, clean, in a white cotton nightshift and stiff clean sheets. Her sons were gone, but she knew that while she slept her women would have taken them, at last, to be cleaned, swaddled and dressed, to be given such rites as were fitting for
the heirs to the grand duchy. She saw, in the dim twilight, a hunched shape of the midwife on the end of the
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