1867-02-12: Blessed
Summary: A happy occasion for Prince Martyn Tracano is shared with a friend, though in Martyn's typical fashion, he can't enjoy it without worrying.
Date: 2/12/1867 IA
Related: None
Martyn  Devlin  

“You didn’t need to gate down from Ironhold for this, especially with your guests there, and the hunt.” Prince Martyn Tracano paced in the private sitting room of the “family wing” of the Greenmeadow Manse. Not so very far away, there was a whirl of activity as midwives, healers, and their assistants all attended to the Princess Johanna Tracano, deep in the throes of labor. “But…I’m…grateful. That you’re here.” Martyn turned his eyes to Lord Devlin Cassomir, who sat upon one of the comfortable chairs here, watching the Prince pace.

“It was only a short sickness.” Devlin replied, and smiled more brightly towards Martyn, giving one shoulder a shrug, "Besides, one of the Alhazredi women kept eyeing me like I was a side of beef…or perhaps a stallion to be broken, and while that wouldn't normally bother me, I think she takes that sort of thing more…casually…than I do." He chuckled, “And if you don’t mind my saying so, I’d like to think you’re both my Prince and my friend. Your Highness.”

Martyn paused a moment in his pacing, blinking a few times, then nodding, though his furrowed brow and mouth downturned in worry did not shift, “I…should. But I don’t mind, no.” He laughed, the slight quaver in the sound betraying his nervousness. “It’s good to have a friend here now. I suppose…I suppose you can call me Martyn. At least here.” He glanced towards the door, “It’s been a few hours…I should go check on her.” He turned to start towards the door, but in an instant, Devlin was on his feet, barring his path.

“The chief Midwife said she was doing fine, and made it damn well clear that your presence was not wanted.” Devlin reached to place a hand on Martyn’s shoulder, “I know you’re worried. I’d have worn a track in that rug by now if I were in your place, but they’re good people. They know what they’re doing. Princess Johanna is strong and healthy. They’ll let you know as soon as there’s anything to know.” Devlin smiled, and gestured towards one of the chairs, “Come on Martyn…sit down. Have a drink. Or a cup of tea if you don’t want wine or spirits.”

“Yes…you’re right. Of course.” Martyn moved over and did seat himself in the offered chair. “Peppermint Tea.” He noted, and a nearby servant snapped into action preparing the request. Martyn smiled a bit abashedly towards Devlin, “Helps soothe my stomach. Feels like it’s doing cartwheels. Even waiting for a battle isn’t half this nerve-wracking.” Even seated, Martyn’ drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, and tapped his feet on the floor, restless still.

“I wouldn’t know.” Devlin replied with a bit of a grin, moving back to seat himself, “And One willing, Jaren and Rae will be finding out well before I will.” He chuckled, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his thighs, lacing his fingers before him. Still he eschewed refreshment, at least for the moment.

“Jaren was here this morning, and Alysande. I sent the message that Jo’s water had come last night.” Martyn seemed to be talking as much to himself as Devlin in his distraction, “They could only stay about an hour, though they hoped to return before the child came. Sir Thaddeus stopped over almost as soon as they left, but he couldn’t stay either. Then Prince Tristan. All of them already bearing gifts, too. All these guests, beloved though they may be, aren’t helping my nerves.” Martyn suddenly barked a short laugh, “Maybe Jo’s waiting for them all to get back. That would be like her.”

Devlin chuckled in kind, shaking his head slightly, “I think it’s less Princess Johanna’s choice and more the child’s, but he might take after his mother, I suppose.” Devlin leaned back in his chair now, allowing himself to get a bit more comfortable, “And I suppose that’s the benefit of having less responsibility. I don’t have to be anywhere in particular.” Devlin looked a touch amused, “And I think your guests would be forgiving if you didn’t fuss over them Martyn. Besides, you can have Princess Clara handle that sort of thing, can’t you?” The Prince was extremely particular about the protocols and hospitality afforded his guests, after all…and had a tendency to practically hover over the servants making sure everything was just-so when they were around.

Martyn looked amusedly towards Devlin, “You have met my wife, Devlin. If any woman could hold a child in until she damn well wanted it to arrive…” He added after a moment. “Or she. He or she. The midwife said she expected a boy, but it’s never certain.” Martyn bristled a bit at the latter bit, but the “anger” was laced with abashed humor, “I don’t fuss. It’s just the proper way, that’s all. And Clara’s keeping near the Midwives.”

“I suppose you have a point there…” Devlin conceded on the matter of Johanna, grinning just a bit, he opened his mouth to say something more, when the door to the sitting room swung open, sending Martyn instantly back to his feet. The matronly figure of the chief midwife stood in the threshold, looking tired and a bit disheveled…but smiling. She dipped into a perfect curtsey, eyes downcast but smile still in place.

“Your Highness…it pleases me to tell you that you are blessed with a healthy son, and that her Highness Princess Johanna has weathered the birth well. She and the child will need rest, but if it pleases you, I can escort you to meet your new son and heir? Her Highness Princess Clara is already with them.”

Devlin could practically see the tension draining away from Martyn, replaced with unmistakable relief followed by a brilliant, joyous smile. “Yes…proceed, Mistress.” Martyn began to move to the door, pausing to glance towards Devlin, “I ah…I will return shortly, Sir Devlin.”

“Go!” Devlin made a shoo’ing motion with his hands, shaking his head and grinning, “I’ll make sure the servants break out a few bottles of your best Red while you’re gone. And congratulations, Your Highness.”

Martyn inclined his head, his smile fading to something more reserved but no less genuine, “Thank you, Sir Devlin.” And then the Prince was out the door to meet his new child.


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