Smakebit på søndag: Innocent Traitor

Bild lånad från bokus

En alldeles härlig söndag idag som inte blir sämre av att det ska bli påskmiddag på systerns gård där små killingar springer omkring i hagarna :) Och innan dess kan man ju läsa några smakbitar från böcker, inte dumt det heller. Smakbitarna hittar, och lägger man upp, på bloggen Flukten fra virkeligheten.

Boken som jag började på sent igår kväll heter Innocent Traitior och är skriven av Alison Weir och handlar om Lady Jane Greys liv under tudortiden. I prologen så sitter hon i Towern och våndas över att ha blivit dömd till döden för förräderi och tänker tillbaka på sitt liv. Min smakbit kommer från första kapitlet.

    I stifle another groan.
    "You can cry out, madam," the midwife says again. But I dont. I would not make such an exhibition of myself. Truly, it´s the indignity of it all that bothers me the most, conscious as I am of my birth and my rank. Lying here like an animal straining to drop its cub, I'm no different from any common jade who gives birth. There´s nothing exalted about it. I know it´s blasphemy to say this, but God was more than unfair when He created woman. Men get all the pleasure, while we poor ladies are left to bear the pain. And if Henry thinks that, after this, I´m going to...
    Something´s happening. Dear God, what´s going on? Sweet Jesus, when is this going to end?
    The midwife draws back the covers, then pulls up my shift to expose my swollen, straining body, as I lie on the bed, knees flexed, thighs parted, and thrusts expert fingers inside me. She nods her head in a satisfied way.
    "If I'm not mistaken, this young lad is now in something of a hurry," she tells my anxiously hovering ladies.
    "Ready now!" she crows triumphantly. "Now push,my lady, push!"
    I gather all my strength, breathe deeply, and exhale with a great effort, knowing that an end is in sight. I can feel the child coming! I ram my chin into my chest again and push as I am instructed, hard. And the miracle happens. In a rush of blood and mucus, I feel a small, wet form slithering from me. Another push, and it is delivered into the midwife's waiting hands, to be quickly wrapped in a rich cloth of damask. I glimpse its face, which resembles a wrinkled peach. I hear the mewling cry that tells me it lives. 
    "A beautiful daughter, my lady," announces the midwife uncertainly. "Healthy and vigorous."
    I should be joyful, thanking God för the safe arrival of a lusty child. Instead my spirits plummet. All this - for nothing.

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