Enchantress Mine

Table of Contents

BOOKS BY BERTRICE SMALL

THE O’MALLEY SAGA

ANTHOLOGIES

New American Library

Published by New American Library, a division of

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Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Previously published in an Onyx edition.

First New American Library Trade Paperback Printing, January 2004

Copyright © Bertrice Small, 1987

All rights reserved

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Set in Goudy

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ISBN : 978-1-101-54971-1

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“
T
he child is a bastard, uncle, and must be declared so!” Blanche St. Ronan compressed her thin lips into a narrow line, and her hard blue eyes stared unflinchingly into those of her uncle. “I did not marry Ciaran St. Ronan and agree to live in the Argoat so that my child might be passed over in favor of that brat!” Her slender fingers worried at her full indigo blue silk skirt. He noted that each one of those fingers wore a gold ring encrusted with a colored gemstone. “You must help me, uncle!
You must!
”

The bishop of St. Brieuc looked directly at his niece, and felt the same sensuous pleasure he always felt when he looked at her. She was an absolutely beautiful girl, her pale golden hair braided with colorful ribbons, her white-rose skin, and those perfect sky-blue eyes. He felt a sting of regret. She was fit for a king, but because she was the last of his sister’s children she had only had a small dowry. Her parents had thought to send her to a convent, but Blanche had rebelled and he had supported her in her rebellion for she was far too lovely to be shut away. It had been he who had arranged her marriage to the Sieur St. Ronan, a man of impeccable Breton lineage and a pleasant estate, but little other wealth.

Ciaran St. Ronan was a widower who had a small daughter from his first marriage. Blanche had detested the child on sight, but she had hidden her dislike long enough to marry the Sieur St. Ronan. Now she was with child, and although the bishop understood his niece’s concern, he was a cautious man. Blanche could simply not dispose of her stepdaughter as if she were an unwanted puppy. He made another attempt at reasoning with her.

“If the infant you carry is a son, Blanche, there is no question at all of his position. All the daughter will have is a small dowry. In another year or two she will be old enough to go to her future husband’s family, and they will raise her; or we may place her in a convent, and that will be the end of it. There is no need for you to upset yourself, my precious girl.” A fat, dimpled hand reached out, and he stroked her silken head. “You are young. At fourteen you have many years ahead of you, and you will undoubtedly bear many sons for your lord husband.”

“Ciaran is dying, uncle! There is only this child! If it is another daughter then it is the girl, Mairin, who will inherit, and my child will be left with nothing! You cannot let that happen to me, uncle! You cannot!” Her voice was tinged with growing hysteria. “It is a female that I carry, uncle.
She
has said it! Help me!”

“No one can know if the babe that you carry is a son or a daughter until the child is born, Blanche. Who has told you that you will bear a daughter? Surely you have not listened to the old women in the village with their stories, and their signs that usually mean nothing?”

“
Mairin
has said it, uncle. You know that the child has second sight! We do not discount these things here in Brittany, for we are a Celtic race. Several weeks ago the brat greeted me in the morning with the words, ‘How fare you this morning, my lady Blanche? And how fares my little sister?’ Ciaran was with me, for it was before his accident, and he lifted the little brat into his arms saying, ‘So it is a sister you see, Mairin?’, and she answered, ‘Aye, my father. A sister, and she will be as pretty as the lady Blanche.’ ”

The bishop sat back in his chair and contemplated his niece’s words. The church did not approve of second sight, but as Blanche had pointed out to him, they were Bretons. Theirs was a Celtic race, and whatever the church might say on the subject, Bretons believed in second sight. His niece’s stepchild was known to possess it, although being but five and a half years of age she could but innocently speak of what she saw, but had not real power over her gift. If Ciaran St. Ronan died of his injuries, and Blanche’s child was a female, their family would certainly lose the St. Ronan lands for the elder daughter would indeed be the heiress. Mairin was a healthy child, however, and although he would never countenance violence against a child, his niece did have a valid point.

“What do the physicians say about your husband’s condition, my precious girl?” the bishop gently queried. “Are they truly convinced that he is dying?”

“Aye,” she answered him irritably. “His condition is disgusting, uncle, for his bowels run constantly. He grows weaker every day, and the doctor holds little hope for him. I will be widowed long before my baby is born, and all because he and the Comte de Combourg must play their stupid game! Will the comte look after my child and me when Ciaran is dead and buried? He will not! This is all his fault, but it is I who must suffer!”

“Blanche, Blanche,” soothed the bishop, and he squeezed her delicate shoulder in his pudgy hand, “Ciaran and the comte have been friends since boyhood, and they played the game they enjoyed each time the comte visited Landerneau. Leaping the castle moat from the narrow ribbon of land below the walls to the other side takes great skill, and both men had fallen into the moat in the past. It is unfortunate that this time Ciaran’s horse fell on him, and that he swallowed so much water.”

“Yes,” Blanche St. Ronan said bitterly, “it is indeed unfortunate, uncle, but now I must protect my baby alone. Mairin must be declared a bastard lest my own child suffer. Why should I care what happens to Mairin? She is not mine! Why should I be left to care for the bastard spawn of some Irish savage? If I wait until Ciaran is dead, people will say I make the claim out of malice, but if you will help me now, dearest uncle, who will dispute the church’s decision? If it is done before my husband dies, and he protests not, who will dare to criticize me?”

“Ciaran St. Ronan loves his daughter, Blanche. I do not believe he will allow you to do this thing.”