Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior (38 page)

With a sigh, he bent to pick up Holden. Only by sheer stubbornness was he able to sling his heavy brother across his shoulders to carry him. Then, opting for a resting place far away from the wife who caused Holden so much torment, Duncan hauled him off to an empty storage room over the armory.

There was no cure for what Holden was suffering. Until Cambria delivered the babe, screeching and bellowing and cursing his name and living to tell the tale, he’d not rest easy. The best that Duncan could do for his brother was distract him. And, he thought, rubbing his hands together, the best way to do that was to keep him busy with his sword.

Holden sat up with a start in the dark, wakened by a familiar scraping shriek. A loud oath sprang to his lips, one he instantly regretted. He clapped his palms to his throbbing temples. Shite, his head ached. And his wits felt as thick as his tongue. What addlebrain was sharpening a sword in the middle of the night in the middle of his chamber? No, he amended, the middle of
this
chamber. Where was he? He remembered being in the stables. He couldn’t recall coming here.

Slowly, he struggled to his knees in the makeshift pallet of bunched straw. He winced, holding his head in his hands to stop its spinning. From the sound of it, he was in the room directly above the armory, and although his bones protested every movement, he knew he had to go down the steps to investigate. The horrible grating was as painful and inescapable as a honeybee in a close helm.

Groaning as he came to his feet, he shuffled to the door, combing his hair with his fingers. He mumbled curses every step of the way until he stood before the door of the armory. There was a respite in the grating, then it resumed, and he shivered in revulsion as the sound seemed to slither up his spine.

He flung open the door. “What in the name…!” he tried to bellow, although it came out as more of a whine.

His brother Duncan looked up from the wheel, his grin wide and irritating.

“Must you?” Holden muttered icily, nodding to the whetstone.

“Ah, Holden,” Duncan said cheerily, letting the wheel wind itself down to a slow creak, “paying the price for those two jacks of ale last night, are you?”

Holden grumbled.

“Well, little brother, I warn you, it’s a stiff price you’ll pay at the next tournament if you insist on keeping such demanding bedfellows.” He sheathed his sword and stood with his fists on his hips, regarding Holden from head to toe, clucking his tongue all the while. “Even so, it’s poor competition you’ll be,” he said with mock sorrow, “if you’ve been practicing with that ugly, sluggish quintain of yours. I can hit that lout smack in the eye and swive my wife before it comes round again.”

Holden cracked a weary smile at that. “Maybe that says more about your swiving than my quintain.”

Duncan gasped in dramatic effrontery and drew his sword again. “Sir, I believe I’ll have to challenge you for that!”

Holden shook his head. He had no desire to exert his aching bones in pointless swordplay, not at this hour.

“What! You refuse me?” Duncan set the point of his sword on the ground and sniffed, clearly goading him. “Have you grown lazy then, Sir Lord-of-Your-Own-Castle? Do these Scots fight all your battles now?”

Holden grimaced. He couldn’t resist a challenge from his older brother, and Duncan knew it. “Fine. I’ll fetch my squire and meet you in the lists within the hour.” He added with heavy sarcasm. “Perhaps by then the sun will have come up, and we’ll actually be able to see each other.”

The battle dragged through half the morning, but wasn’t yet won when a royal messenger arrived at Blackhaugh. Calling a stalemate, the brothers adjourned from the field to take refreshment in the great hall and to hear news of Edward.

Cambria reluctantly joined the men below. She would have preferred to sleep the winter through than to face Holden’s indifference. But a royal messenger was her concern as laird of Blackhaugh. She clasped sweaty palms together as her husband mulled over the parchment bearing the king’s seal. She could guess what it said. Edward needed the de Ware sword arm again.

Cambria swallowed. She shouldn’t have cared. Even when Holden was at Blackhaugh, he wasn’t…present. Still, the thought of not seeing her husband for weeks or months, of giving birth to the babe without him near…

“It is rumored France, my lord,” the messenger was saying. “There is asylum for him there. As for the declaration, the king believes the Scots will readily assent.”

“Then Edward doesn’t know the Scots,” Holden murmured.

Cambria’s curiosity got the best of her. “Assent to what?”

Duncan told her. “Edward has declared much of the south of Scotland to be under his rule now.”

Cambria planted her fists on her hips, forgetting her despondence in her outrage. “That’s preposterous! He was to give us our own king. Does he think to eat up Scotland piece by piece like some hungry beast? Robert the Bruce’s supporters haven’t forgotten. Even now, his son David—“

“Has fled,” Holden finished. “To France.”

She was struck numb. David fled? The son of Robert the Bruce turned tail? How could he desert his own country? His father had never done so, even when it meant his death.

It was as if Holden had heard her thoughts. “The boy is likely pursuing French support for his claim to the throne.”

Perhaps, she thought, perhaps that was it. Still, she couldn’t condone David’s actions. “So who will keep the French from acquiring Scotland in turn?” she muttered in disgust.

Holden let out a sigh, fully aware she was right.

“Are you going to war?” Cambria asked, a catch in her voice.

“Nay,” Holden assured her grimly. He spoke as if to himself. “We can’t use the sword. It’s a poor diplomat. It should be the mission of a messenger, pointing out the lesser evil. We have to convince the Scots there will be a greater harmony under Edward’s own reign than that of Balliol.”

She agreed with him. But she doubted the loyalist Scots would embrace English rule as readily as Holden believed. There would be fighting. And Holden’s life would be at risk.

“Where are you going? When do you leave?”

“I’m bound for Edinburgh,” Holden said.

“The king bids us make all haste,” Duncan added.

Holden’s eyes met Cambria’s, and she almost imagined she saw a trace of regret there. “We should leave on the morrow.”

She didn’t hear the rest of the discussion about how many carts and what provisions he’d require, who’d stay behind, all the details of the journey. All she could think about was how unfair it was. She was going to have his child, damn it all, and once again they were about to be torn apart by the ravages of politics.

Ariel lifted a restless hoof, stirring the fog in swirls upon the sod. Like her master, she was impatient to leave.

Holden was sure the castle would be safe in his absence. Malcolm was more than trustworthy. Blackhaugh’s larder was well stocked. The keep was secure. There was nothing to worry about, as long as he didn’t think about… He shook his head. The sooner he left, the better.

It wasn’t that he’d tired of his new role as lord. Aye, the title came with a great deal of responsibility, but it was just the sort of challenge he welcomed. Blackhaugh was magnificent. The countryside was breathtaking, the people fast feeling like family. He couldn’t even imagine going back to England.

And it wasn’t that he thirsted for war. God knew he’d had enough of spilling blood. In his youth he’d battled anything on two legs. But now, with a holding, with a wife…

Cambria. She was the reason. He closed his eyes and pounded a fist on the bed of the arms wagon. If he let them, the images would overwhelm him again, cloud his vision and turn him into a quivering mass of fear. He couldn’t let that happen. He was off to war. He’d need all the steel nerve he possessed to keep himself and his men alive.

The arms wagon was loaded now. All the provisions had been packed. The knights, his brother’s and his own, were mounted. Horses snorted and chuffed out white feathers of breath on the damp air. Wives and mistresses winked or sobbed or kissed their men farewell. Their subdued voices floated over the pervasive creak of leather like doves’ calls in the cote. He could feel her behind him, yards away, but there, staring at his back, beckoning him wordlessly to turn toward her. He cursed under his breath. If he turned, he’d be lost. But if he didn’t…

He slowly pivoted to face her. She was the most beautiful thing on the face of the earth. Her soft gray kirtle seemed part of the mists. Her unbound hair cascaded over her shoulders like the winding roots of a Gavin oak. Her eyes, illuminated by the dark blue of her sideless surcoat, shone with wisdom and pride. And bewilderment as he continued to stare at her, motionless.

How could he live without her? What in God’s name had he done? Cambria was the most precious part of his life, yet he’d put her in danger. He’d filled her womb with a child, and because of it she might die. Like his mother. His throat tightened painfully as he traced her altered silhouette with his eyes—the full breasts, the subtly widened hips, the gently rounded bulge of her belly.

His feet moved of their own accord, bringing him closer, quickening his step until he was running toward her. She reached forward for him until, with a cry of relief and fear and desperation, he took her in his arms.

She felt like home. Her warmth permeated the fog and his chain mail and the armored recesses of his heart. Her body cleaved to him perfectly, though she was fat with child, as if it had been made for just that. Her hair curled against his cheek, filling him with her scent—the scent of heather and moss and wood smoke and all things fresh and green. If anything happened to her… He took her head in rough hands and with his thumbs brushed away the tears marring her cheeks. He searched her eyes, looking for…what? Reassurance? Forgiveness? Compassion? He found only sorrow.

Heedless of the crowd about them, he tilted his head and captured her lips with his own. She tasted as sweet as love itself, as sweet as heaven. He poured his own bittersweet emotions into the kiss, pledging her his soul, giving her the one promise he hadn’t the power to keep—the promise of life. And then he tore himself away.

If he lingered one moment longer, he knew he wouldn’t go to fight for any man. And yet if he remained, he’d shortly drive himself mad with worry. It was best this way, he told himself, striding across the courtyard without a backward glance. A hasty farewell. Blunt and brief. Like the merciful blow given a mortally wounded knight. Why then, he wondered, did his heart languish in pain for weeks afterward?

Beyond the shuttered windows of the solar, fall-grayed leaves twisted in death throes and floated to the earth. Frost laced the hard ground. Breath came out in steamy curls. The morning mists lengthened with the season, and the shroud of night, too, stretched out its cool hand until they met across days that were gray and unchanging. Only the black skeletons of trees marred the soft, hovering fog, like dark lightning against a pale sky, and the crunch of autumn leaves grew muffled in the damp caress of winter.

All Saint’s Day passed, and Christmas. Cambria grew round and unwieldy, waddling from room to room, snuggling up to the fire one moment, then asking Katie to throw open a shutter the next. And soon, as if nature winked in mockery at the de Wares, one day Linet discovered that she, too, carried a babe. Every morn, as regular as the bells of Mass, pale and quivering, the poor woman emptied her belly of whatever she’d eaten the night before.

Behind the confining walls of Blackhaugh, the ladies of de Ware grew restless.

A log popped and shifted on the fire. Cambria spread a parchment out across the table. Scrutinizing the drawing, she ran a hand over her huge stomach and pressed back the tiny foot that always managed to wedge itself beneath her ribs. Linet looked up briefly from her spot by the hearth, where she bent over a lapful of needlework, and chuckled.

Cambria frowned. “Robbie suggested wings on the poleyns. But Malcolm thinks less weight is better.” The babe must have been in accord. It aimed a particularly hearty kick at her rib. She winced. “Still, against those new Italian thunder tubes…”

“Faith, Cambria!” Linet laughed. “The babe won’t go to war till he’s at least…six! Italian thunder tubes indeed.”

Cambria’s temper simmered beneath the surface. “Perhaps English babes are coddled till they’re half-grown, but in Scotland we wield a sword as soon as we can walk.”

“Oh, la!” Katie crooned, sweeping into the solar. “Would you wield a sword even now in the solar, my lady? And against your poor sister?” She clucked her tongue and squinted down at Linet’s handiwork. “Ah, never mind, lass. You must be near your time. Your mother was the same way, all waspy-tongued and thistly.”

“I am not thistl—“ Cambria began. Then she glanced down at the corner of the parchment. It was wadded in her fist. Sheepishly, she released it. Katie was right. She hadn’t been herself lately. So far, she’d designed a half dozen variation on poleyns, several gauntlets with padded woolen wrist guards, and two different coats of plates, all for the tiny knight who wasn’t even born yet. Maybe it
was
ridiculous. She picked up a sliver of charred wood from the table, made a few subtle changes to the sketch, and then tossed the parchment aside.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Linet smiled engagingly, quick to forgive. “I spoke to the armorer this morn. He’s already stamped the de Ware crest on all the plates. All it wants is for a seamstress to stitch them to the gambeson. If you can settle on the finishing touches soon, it will be finished in time for the babe’s arrival.”

Cambria nodded, but she knew her polite smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was weary. Weary of being sequestered indoors. Weary of the burden in her womb. Weary of worrying about her husband. The last word from him had come weeks ago. The missive had been succinct and careful. After all, treason could be construed from less than enthusiastic reports. But Cambria could tell he was frustrated. His “messenger’s mission” had stretched into an absence of months.