Midnight Warrior (41 page)

Alice’s daughter was born the following afternoon, after a nightmare of labor. Several times Adwen thought Alice was going to die or lose the baby. She did neither, and the child came into the world big, healthy, and yelling lustily.

“Is she not beautiful?” Brynn asked softly as she
looked down at the infant cradled in Alice’s arms. “It’s always such a miracle.…”

“I think I … love … her,” Alice said wonderingly as she touched the baby’s cheek with a careful finger. “Isn’t that strange? All the while I carried her I felt no affection. I thought after she was born I would have an actual dislike for her. I knew I had to do my duty by her, but I didn’t think … I would care.”

“But that’s part of the miracle,” Brynn said. “Perhaps the best part.”

“Yes.” Alice smiled luminously before shifting her gaze to Adwen. “I wonder if … would you mind? I must have a name for her. I’d like to call her Adwen.”

Adwen looked at her, stunned. “You wish to name her after me?”

“It’s a lovely name and you’re my friend. If you don’t mind—” She stopped, her eagerness fading as a sudden thought occurred to her. “Unless you don’t wish your husband’s bastard to bear your name.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Adwen blinked back the tears. “I was only surprised. I would be honored for your child to bear my name.” She swallowed and quickly turned away. “And now I think I’ll leave you to rest. I know you must be weary unto—”

She almost ran from the room. She stopped outside the door and leaned against the wall as the tears rained down her face. She should go back into the room; Brynn might need her. Not yet. In a moment she would be strong enough to—

“May I help?” Malik asked. He sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the wall.

“How long have you been here?”

“Only since this morning. I thought you would be too busy to need me until after the babe was born. How is Alice?”

“Tired, happy.” She swallowed. “Very happy. She’s
going to name the child after me. Isn’t that kind of her?”

“Very kind.” He rose to his feet. “And it should not make you weep.”

“It doesn’t—it’s only—the little girl is so beautiful.” Adwen wiped her eyes on the backs of her hands. “It made me sad. I’m very selfish. I wanted the miracle to be mine.”

Malik took her in his arms. “Perhaps someday there will be a miracle for you.”

She shook her head. “Alice knows there’s no chance of that happening. That’s why she gave the child my name. She wanted me not to feel … it was very kind of her.”

“You break my heart,” he said hoarsely. “Marry me, Adwen. Let me try to give you miracles.”

She felt a wild burst of pain and pushed him away from her. “I’m not that selfish. I would not saddle you with a barren woman.”

“You are blind. How many times must I tell you that I would not blame—”

“You would!”

She had to get away. She turned and ran down the long hall toward the staircase.

“Adwen!”

He was following her, passing her. He stood on the top step, barring her path.

“Get out of my way!”

“Never again.” He stared down into her eyes. “Listen to me. I would treasure your child above all things, but there are other miracles in this world. There is laughter and passion and growing old together. There is living day after day with a wife who will love and care for my needs as I will for hers. These are all miracles and I will not be cheated of them. You will marry me, Adwen.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“And what will you do if I refuse?” she said defiantly.

He tilted his head as if considering the matter. “Toss myself down these stairs?”

Her eyes widened as she looked at the stone floor thirty feet below. “What?”

“If you refuse, my life will be over. What else is left for me?”

“You jest.”

“You thought I jested about posting myself on your doorstep at Selkirk.”

And about scarring his face with the burning twig. “You would not do it,” she whispered.

“Do you dare chance it?”

“No.” The tears were suddenly falling again. “No, you madman. I will wed you.” She flew into his arms and held him with all her strength. “But you must not regret it. Promise me that you won’t regret it later.”

“Of course I won’t regret it.” He held her with loving tenderness as he whispered, “You have my promise, Adwen. No regrets and every miracle imaginable.”

“Possible,” she amended.

He smiled. “You do not yet know your husband.”

“I don’t know where to put the council table,” Brynn said with a frown. “After we bring in the bed, there will be no room for it.”

“Throw it out in the stable,” Gage said. “It’s just a heap of broken rubbish.”

“Hevald doesn’t think so.” Brynn frowned at him. “And neither do I. Don’t be disrespectful.”

He bowed mockingly. “My apologies to both you and Hevald.”

“I’ll forgive you when you find a place for the table.”

He sighed. “What about the bedchamber down the hall? If that won’t be too distant for your Hevald.”

“I guess it will have to do.”

“You know this is nonsense, of course,” Gage said. “There are many bedchambers in this castle. Why have the child in this chamber?”

“Because it is fitting.” She turned to the two soldiers waiting patiently by the door. “Take those pieces to the bedchamber down the hall.” She watched them remove the table and then stood before Hevald’s tapestry. “And because I want to have your son here in this room.”

“It may be a daughter.” He moved across the room to stand behind her. He slid his arms around her, his hands gently caressing her swollen belly. “We won’t know for another two months.”

“It will be a son. I
feel
it.” She smiled at him over her shoulder. “But would you be disappointed if it’s a girl?”

He chuckled. “A dangerous question and one I’d be a fool to answer.”

“Would you?”

“I would love her as I do her mother.”

“Tell me.”

He pretended to think. “Not if you let me teach her swordplay and archery and—”

“I will not!”

“I fear it will be necessary,” he teased. “A man needs a strong ally by his side when he goes into battle.”

Brynn’s laughter faded. “Will you have to go into battle? Is William going to try to take Redfern away from Malik and Adwen?”

“There’s always that possibility. He wasn’t pleased when I gave Redfern to Malik. The idea of a Saracen holding such a rich plum was not at all popular with his barons.”

“You had no use for it when you had Gwynthal and Bellerieve. William gave it to you and it was yours to do with as you wished.”

“As long as I keep it mine.”

“Adwen was wife of the Saxon who held title to it. Surely that means something.”

“Nothing.” He frowned. “I’d feel better if Malik and Adwen came back from the East and took possession. LeFont’s presence there is a formidable deterrent, but the matter needs to be settled. Once the confrontation is over, we’ll have no more trouble.”

“He says the Eastern physicians know many things
that we do not,” Brynn said. “He’s searching for a miracle for Adwen.”

“Pray God he finds it.”

“I think he will. Happiness itself is a powerful medicine, and I’ve never seen Adwen so happy.” Almost as happy as she was, Brynn thought. No, no one could approach that splendor. “After our babe is born, I’d like to go to them. I want to be with Adwen when she needs me.”

“I believe you’re beginning to like moving from place to place.”

“It’s possible.” She had found William’s court interesting, but she would not be able to bear it for long periods. Bellerieve, on the other hand, was almost as beautiful as Gwynthal, yet so steeped in worldliness that she would constantly be challenged to use her gift. “As long as I can return to Gwynthal.”

“Are we not here?” His lips brushed her ear. “I keep my promises, Brynn.”

“Yes, you do.” She looked up at the tapestry. Was Hevald smiling at her? It was probably a trick of the light or imagination; the entire world seemed to be smiling these days. “I’ve been thinking. I think we should name our son after him.”

“If it is a son.”

“I told you he would be. Trust me. Would it be all right with you if we give him his name?”

“Hevald? If you like.”

“No, not Hevald. It’s too heavy and weighty a name. I’ve never really liked it. I thought we would call him Arthur.”

“But I thought you wanted to name him after Hevald.”

“He was known as Arthur when he was a warrior. I told you, he and his warriors shed all the trappings of their old life when they came here.”

“Including their names?”

She nodded. “It was to be a new life.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “I believe I’ve heard of this Arthur.”

“Of course you have. I told you he was greatly renowned.”

“But Britain is not the entire world. What of your ancestor, his chief adviser, Bentar? Did he also change his name?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Yes, of course. He was very loyal. He would do as Hevald wished.”

“And what was his name before coming to Gwynthal?”

She leaned back against him, gazing dreamily up at the tapestry of those bygone days and feeling the stirring of new life within her. “Why, his name was Merlin.”

Arthur of Britain, truth or myth?

In the British Museum there’s a bundle of documents dated either 499 or 519 (the date is disputed) in which an entry regarding the Battle of Badon tells of Arthur carrying the cross of Lord Jesus Christ on his shoulders for three days and three nights. Later in the mid-eighth century a Welsh monk, Nennius, compiled what is known as the
Historia Brittoman;
in it Arthur is spoken of as a leader of battles but not a king himself. He’s referred to as Arthur the Soldier.

Documented proof may be very scanty regarding the existence of this mysterious warrior, but fables abound. From as early as 1170 the Prior of Tewkesbury wrote: “Who is there, I ask, who does not speak of Arthur the Briton, since he is but little less known to the people of Asia than to the Bretons, as we are informed by pilgrims who return from the Eastern lands?” Troubadours sang of him, storytellers embroidered and glorified
his deeds. The legend grew and changed until it became a part of the fabric of our lives.

How many of those fables are based on truth may never be determined. We do know that Arthur was a man able to arouse a passion and imagination that spanned the fourteen centuries from the Dark Ages to our own time.

Now, to my own fable of the Midnight Warrior. Was Gwynthal Camelot? Or was it Avalon, the island of healing, where the monk Geoffrey of Monmouth claimed Arthur was taken to heal from a death wound? I leave the choice to you. Every fable should be open to interpretation, imagination … and dreams.

BANTAM BOOKS BY IRIS JOHANSEN

Blind Alley
Firestorm
Fatal Tide
Dead Aim
No One to Trust
Body of Lies
Final Target
The Search
The Killing Game
The Face of Deception
And Then You Die
Long After Midnight
The Ugly Duckling
Lion’s Bride
Dark Rider
Midnight Warrior
The Beloved Scoundrel
The Magnificent Rogue
The Tiger Prince
Last Bridge Home
The Golden Barbarian
Reap the Wind
Storm Winds
The Wind Dancer

Iris Johansen
, who has more than eight million copies of her books in print, has won many awards for her achievements in writing. She lives in Kennesaw, Georgia, where she is currently at work on a new novel.