Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero (39 page)

Cambria, however, wasn’t so convinced. She gave Garth a quick appraising glance from head to toe, probably remembering that castle she’d once taken out from under his nose.

“We’ll find him,” she said, “within the hour.”

Eventually, the fiery pyre dwindled into a mass of gray coals, its glowing crimson heart beating out the last of its life.

The de Ware force operated like a well-crafted loom. Holden and his knights rounded up prisoners while their squires stabled the horses. Pages collected discarded weapons, wiping them clean with rags before sorting them into neat piles. Linet directed two women in the repairing of the damaged wattle fence around the chickens while Garth tended the wounds of one of Cambria’s unfortunate victims. Duncan gathered a pack of distressed, sniffling children and kept them occupied, regaling them with some clever tale.

Cynthia surveyed the damage to the courtyard. Her herbs were crushed beyond saving, plowed under by horse hoof and cart wheel. The fire had scorched the sod. And what was left of her grass had been trampled into a muddy mess.

But the seasons would turn again. The ground could be repaired. By next spring, a whole new garden would grow up to replace…

Someone was sobbing.

She let her gaze drift along the castle wall. There, deep beneath the shadows of the dovecote’s eave, Mary sat upon her knees, rocking back and forth, crying as if her heart would break.

Slowly, Cynthia ambled over, dodging knights and pages packing weapons. As she neared, she could see something large and black writhing on Mary’s lap, some injured animal or…

“Oh, my lady,” Mary wailed. “Forgive me, my lady, and forgive him, I beg you.” Her young face was ugly with weeping. “Please forgive him.”

“Who, Mary?” Cynthia asked gently, coming closer.

Mary glanced down at her lap.

The Abbot. His cassock was drenched. He writhed in agony and groaned, gripping his stomach as if he would tear it out. Cynthia dropped down beside him.

All her fears, all her hatred were forgotten in that instant. A man was suffering. She had to help him.

“What happened?” she asked, brushing her shift aside.

“I didn’t mean…” Mary wailed.

She took Mary by the shoulders and shook her once. “Tell me what happened.”

Mary blinked her eyes. “I couldn’t let him do it, my lady. Don’t you see? It’s a mortal sin to kill an innocent babe. I couldn’t let the Abbot’s soul burn in the eternal fires of hell. I couldn’t!”

Cynthia glanced at the Abbot. His skin was a sickly shade, and blisters swelled and distorted his mouth. Poison. “What did you use, Mary? What did you give him?”

“Hellebore. Wine with black hellebore.” She laced her fingers over her face and began to cry again in earnest.

Cynthia slowly began to rub her palms together, though the sinking in her heart told her it was futile. Black hellebore was a powerful poison with no cure.

“Bloody hell.” It was Garth. “What’s happened to him? What…” Then, realizing Cynthia’s intent, he grabbed her abruptly by the arm. “Nay. Nay, Cynthia. You owe him nothing. Stay away from him. Stay away from the devil.”

She ignored him, focusing on the heat growing between her hands.

“He tried to slay you,” Garth reasoned. “Faith, he tried to kill our unborn child! How can you—“

“How can I not, Garth?” she answered without looking up. “Just as you’re a man of God, I’m a healer.”

He fell silent then, and as she worked she heard others gather behind her, but none uttered a word. She laid a hand upon the Abbot’s clammy brow and closed her eyes. He made small mewling sounds, twisting in pain as the poison seeped into his veins.

Finally, she withdrew her hand. As she suspected, it was too late to save him. But it wasn’t too late to relieve his agony.

“Fetch my opium wine from the cellar. Hurry!” she directed to no one in particular. Someone sped to do her bidding. To the Abbot, she said, “The pain will be over soon. The opium will ease your suffering.” She stroked his head gently with one hand and laid the flat of her other palm upon his cramping belly. Warmth filled her, stronger than she’d ever felt before, and she directed the energy toward the Abbot, moving it in soothing waves over his stomach.

Gradually his grimace relaxed, and his breathing, though shallow and rapid, was at least devoid of moaning. His onyx-dark gaze was puzzled as he raised it to her.

“I was…wrong, child,” he croaked, lifting one skeletal hand to lock onto her arm. “Not…a…witch.” His eyes grew distant for a moment, as if he glimpsed the world beyond. Then he looked at her one final time. “An angel.”

Garth knelt beside her then. He retrieved his once discarded wooden cross from inside his tunic and clutched it in one hand. With the other, he made the sign of blessing over the Abbot. He peeled the dying man’s hand from Cynthia’s arm and held it in his own, against the cross. Then, in a voice ringing with faith, he began the sacred words of the last rites.

By the time Linet and Cambria arrived with the opium wine, the Abbot was already gone, and they were startled to find their husbands uncharacteristically silent and solemn, staring in awe at Cynthia as if she’d performed a miracle.

Cynthia took a deep breath of late October air. The leaves twirled and twisted on the gray branches of the canopy overhead, like ladies dancing in gowns of lemon and apricot and cerise. A few, caught by an unexpected puff of wind, swirled loose to flutter to the ground, flickering in the pale sunlight on their way. The scent of ripe apples permeated the brisk air, mixing with the odors of smoke and mulch to mull the wine of the autumn breeze.

Everyone waited for her within the privy garden, just past the gate—her betrothed, the priest, the few witnesses. But impulsively, Cynthia kicked off her boots and allowed the nurturing energy of the earth to seep up through the soles of her bare feet. She closed her eyes, letting the sun burnish her thoughts to a golden hue.

At long last, she took Roger the steward’s arm, giving it an affectionate squeeze, and they walked slowly forward through the gate, along the leafy path toward the man she was about to marry.

It was an intimate wedding, here in the lush quiet of the garden. The feast afterward, of course, would be enormous. The retinues of both de Ware brothers, her own castle folk, and the nearby villagers were invited to partake of a week’s worth of festivities, including, at Cambria’s insistence, a grand tournament. Elspeth had slaved for days organizing the great event. And Linet had wielded her creative authority, ordering the attire for the bride and groom with a practiced hand.

But the wedding ceremony itself was of Cynthia’s design.

Beneath the leafless peach tree, Prior Thomas from the monastery, Bible in hand, beamed at her. Near him, Elspeth blubbered into a linen kerchief. And on either side of the path, Garth’s closest kin stood, their faces a sweet blend of encouragement and acceptance.

Cynthia, however, only had eyes for Garth.

He wore a surcoat of rich, deep gray velvet overlaid with a fir green tabard that perfectly matched the smoky hue of his eyes. Around his neck hung the wooden cross proclaiming him a man of God. But it was the first time since he was a boy that Cynthia had seen him attired in clothing befitting the son of a noble. The silver link belt slung low on his hips caught the folds of fabric in a manner that accentuated his bold, lean figure, tripping her heart and turning her knees to pudding.

Cynthia swallowed hard. Were it not for the half dozen witnesses present, she might well have thrown herself at him, so intense was the wave of desire that washed over her as her handsome hero captured her gaze with his own.

She nervously fingered the soft material of the gown Linet had made up for her. It was of her finest Italian blue, Linet had said, claiming it set off Cynthia’s eyes like two pale sapphires set in a summer sky. At the moment, Cynthia didn’t care if it glowed with starlight. She didn’t plan to be wearing it long after the ceremony was over.

As if scolding her for impure thoughts, the babe inside her suddenly aimed a hearty kick at her ribs. She gasped, then giggled as five faces showed instant concern. How sweet it was, she decided, to garner such affection from those who’d shortly be her kin. She’d known them less than a fortnight, and already they looked after her like a baby sister. Linet fussed over her clothing as if Cynthia were a queen. Duncan flattered her mercilessly with odes to her virtues. Holden stood guard over her like a mastiff. And Cambria taught her the history of her own Gavin clan, of which she insisted Cynthia would soon be a part. Cynthia couldn’t be happier.

Roger guided her to her betrothed, and Garth held a beringed hand out to her. She glanced at the insignia. It was the Wolf de Ware. It was right that he wore it, she thought. It would remind him that though he also wore the cross of peace, the warrior wolf was always within him.

He took her hand, and Prior Thomas began the solemn rite of marriage. The moment seemed enchanted as the words fell from his lips in an elegant rhythm, their magic echoed even more powerfully by the man beside her. Even as Garth spoke, the sun peeped from behind a silvery cloud, spraying its rays through the bare limbs of the tree and down over his head like the halo of a saint in a cathedral painting. She sighed. How magnificent Garth was—beautiful and honorable and noble—and how lucky she was to have him.

She hugged his forearm and stepped a pace closer.

Suddenly, something wiggled beneath her bare foot. She shifted her weight. It wiggled again. Nay, she thought, holding her breath. It couldn’t be…not in October.

She didn’t mean to scream. It was just such a surprise. And such an unpleasant one when she’d been drifting along on such lovely thoughts.

Of course, once
she
screamed, Elspeth shrieked in turn. Garths’ eyes narrowed dangerously, and the poor prior backed away in alarm. Cynthia heard three swords unsheathe behind her. But all she could do was hop about on one foot, trying very hard not to curse as the pain of the bee sting throbbed under her toe and even harder not to laugh as she beheld the de Wares—Duncan, Holden, and Cambria—with swords drawn to fight the insect foe.

Decorum was eventually restored. As the prior dabbed at his brow, Garth used his dagger to gently dislodge the barb, murmuring with a smile that the task seemed somehow familiar. Elspeth’s heart resumed its normal pace under the calming ministrations of Roger the steward. The de Ware swords returned to their sheaths and the prior to his post.

Later she’d apply a poultice of lemon balm and mint to the swelling. But for now, she wanted to continue with the ceremony. The clouds had thickened ominously, and she could smell rain in the air. Besides, Garth’s palm cupping her bare foot had done little to assuage the desire surging through her veins. Her body was unmistakably eager to consummate the marriage.

She spoke her vows sincerely but hastily, halting just once when the babe again pressed a sharp heel against her rib. She was over halfway through them when she heard the breeze begin to rise lazily through the boughs of the willow. She supposed that was why she didn’t notice the other sound earlier—the soft wheeze coming from behind her.

But there was no overlooking the quick, furious whisper that came moments later. That was followed by a long sigh, then a quicker, more furious whisper. Soon there were whispers from all sides and something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Finally, she couldn’t ignore them anymore. She stopped mid-sentence and wheeled around.

Everyone was gathered around Linet. Her face was strained and as white as birch bark, and she staggered against Duncan.

“What the devil?” Garth said.

“Oh, shite!” Cynthia cried, picking up her skirts and rushing to Linet’s side. “It’s the babe, isn’t it?”

“Oh…Cynthia…” Linet puffed, “I’m…sorry.”

Cynthia waved away her words. There was neither reason nor time for apology. By the looks of her, Linet might well deliver her babe before she could get inside the keep.

“Duncan!” she ordered, snapping into action. “Spread your cloak on the grass here. Help her lie down.”

“On the grass?”

“Aye! There’s no time! Holden and Cambria! Fetch hot water from the kitchen! And Elspeth—“

“I’ve got it,” the trusty maid called, already on her way. “Primrose, yarrow, and raspberry infusion. I’ll bring them all. Roger, come along to fetch linens!”

Cynthia briskly rubbed her hands together and crouched beside Linet, laid out now upon the sod. She smiled at the huffing woman in reassurance.

“It’s your second child, aye?”

Linet nodded vigorously.

“Then we’d best hurry.”

A first babe nearly always took half the night, but a second…there was no telling how quickly it would come. Cynthia blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes and glanced at the sky. Lord—she was so ill-equipped outside, and the heavens looked ripe to loose their burden any moment. It was ludicrous. She needed a bolster, linens, hot water…and a midwife. It took more than one person to properly deliver a babe.

“What I really need is a midwife.” She peered speculatively up at Garth and Duncan.

“I’ll go,” Duncan said sternly, ready to spring to his feet to fetch her. “Where is she? In the castle? In the village?”

“There’s no time,” Cynthia replied.

Garth understood at once. He placed a hand on his brother’s arm. “Us. She means us.”

“Us?” Duncan said in horror. “But we’re not… We’ve never… It’s Holden who helped birth—“

“What do you need?” Garth asked, undaunted, kneeling before Linet and pushing up his sleeves.

Cynthia nodded her thanks. Heat glowed between her palms now as she rubbed them together. “Lift her knees and look beneath her skirts to see—“

“What? Oh, nay, you don’t!” Duncan roared, shoving Garth aside. He pushed up his own sleeves and knelt, grumbling, before his wife. “Don’t worry, Linet,” he muttered. “After this is over, I’ll beat Garth for his impertinence.”

Cynthia was too busy laying her hand on Linet’s damp forehead to see the glower Garth gave his brother. She closed her eyes. Almost at once she received a brilliant picture…a healthy girl infant, a smiling mother—but no herbs. She frowned. She should at least see primrose. She took a deep breath and relaxed her mind. Nothing—not a single leaf. She pursed her lips in frustration. Why would there be no…