by Tamara Leigh
If only Gabriel would answer her summons, but he gave her naught with which to fight Bernart’s claim upon their child. Soon there would be bloodshed.
Of a sudden, warmth wet her thighs, calves, feet. A cry parting her lips, she looked down, moments later saw moisture seep from beneath her skirts. Her water had broken.
The scissors clattered to the floor. The green material dropped atop them.
“Too soon,” she whispered. “Three weeks too soon.”
Pressing her palms to her belly, she felt it turn hard as it did more often these past days. Though ever she calmed herself with the reminder it was a normal part of the weeks preceding childbirth, her knowledge of such was limited to the talk of serving women. But this she knew—with the breaking of her water, the babe would not be long in wailing from her body. And its early arrival portended ill.
Would the child be sickly? Diseased? Misshapen? Stillborn? Any or all of these her punishment for the manner in which he was gotten? She would be deserving, but not this innocent.
She lifted her face heavenward. “Please Lord, do not punish this child. ’Twas I who sinned.”
When her belly eased, she gathered breath deep and wrapped her arms around her child. No matter its infirmity, she would love him.
Her next thought was bittersweet. If Bernart deemed the babe unworthy, he would not want him—would gladly leave Gabriel his son. But would Gabriel accept such a child?
A sorrowful smile convulsed her mouth. Of course he would.
She crossed to the bed. As she lowered to it, her womb hardened again, this time accompanied by such pain she cried out. It passed but soon returned.
After its third visit, she forced herself to rise. Lissant had said Gabriel had arranged for a midwife from a nearby village to usher their child into the world. It was time to summon her.
Juliana reached the door without further evidence of the babe’s impending birth. Leaning against the planked wood, she called to the guard. Minutes passed.
She called louder, still without result.
She opened her mouth again, but pain turned her words into a scream, and she slid down the door onto her knees. When it once more subsided, she touched her brow. It was hot and perspiring, sharply contrasting with the room that grew increasingly chill with the shutters turned back from the window whose oilcloth she had loosened.
Gaining her feet, she assured herself she must manage only a half dozen steps. She nearly made it to the window before her belly cramped and she sank to the floor. Then she loosed a wail so piercing surely even God in His heavens could not disregard it.
As she crested the pain and started down the other side, she curled amid the rushes and panted away the ache coursing her womb. When finally granted reprieve, she could not rise for reveling in it. But it did not last long.
She whimpered, sent up a prayer Gabriel would come, and as she moved toward senselessness heard his name cried high. Once. Twice. Three times.
Throat stinging as if raked by nails, she wondered who besides her called to him. Who besides her needed him…
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A voice pitched above the clang of his blade swept his gaze to the prison tower—for which he paid a price that could have meant his death were it true battle in which he engaged. Steel sliced wool, met flesh, drew blood.
He sprang backward and glanced at the crimson spreading across his tunic. Though the wound to his ribs was minor, his opponent’s look of horror made it seem mortal.
“My lord, I did not—”
Gabriel silenced him with a throw of the hand.
She screamed again. His name.
Sword opening a path before him, he ran from the training ground, all the while begging the Almighty to keep Juliana from harm.
The guard’s station was unmanned, and when he reached the uppermost landing, he found the door to Juliana’s prison wide open. A tray of viands on the floor just over the threshold, the guard knelt near the window alongside his charge’s convulsing figure.
If not for Gabriel’s ability to assess a situation quickly, he might have parted the man’s head from his body.
“My lord!” the guard exclaimed as Gabriel dropped to his knees beside him. “Methinks the lady is birthing—”
“Go quick to Tannon and bring back the midwife,” Gabriel spoke over him.
The man scrambled to his feet.
“And send word to Lissant her lady births.” Blessedly, the maid had returned from her village yesterday evening.
“Aye, my lord.”
Gabriel set his sword aside, bent over Juliana. Her hair was tangled with rushes, eyes closed, face ruddy and moist. “Juliana?”
She shook her head, squeezed her lids tightly, and began to pant and rock her belly in her arms.
Gabriel’s gut twisted. Would the midwife arrive in time to see Juliana safely delivered of their babe? If not, would he lose mother and child? Sooner he should have brought the midwife to Mergot!
He reined in his writhing thoughts, ignored the voice whispering amid them, stroked Juliana’s wet cheek.
Her lids cracked so little that were her eyes not so entrenched a memory, their color would be unknown to him. “Gabriel?”
“I am here.”
Her lids lifted further, and there was the brown ringing dilated pupils. “You came.”
He closed a hand over hers on her belly. “You called.”
“For a sennight I have called.” She gasped, chest heaved. “But only now you come.”
“Only now do you need me.”
“You are wrong. Long you have been missing from me. Too long.” As her breathy words sent a shock of pain through his heart, she turned her hand and so tightly gripped his fingers he thought she might never let go. “Promise you will not leave me again, Gabriel.”
He would have to, but not until the midwife arrived. Of course, if the babe came before the old woman showed her rumpled face…
Proscribed though it was for a man to be present during birthing, for naught would he leave Juliana to inexperienced hands. He would deliver his son himself. However that was done. “I shall stay as long as you want me, Juliana.”
As if her suffering passed, her shoulders fell against the floorboards. “I want you, Gabriel. You cannot know how much I want you.”
He brushed damp tendrils off her brow. “The pain eases?”
“Some.” Her eyes sharpened. “You know the babe comes? He will soon be here? With us?”
It was as if she sought reassurance her arms would be filled with a living child. “I know it.” Once more ignoring the whispering that sought to slink out of the shadows, he loosed his hand from hers and slid his arms beneath her. “I shall put you to bed.”
“You bleed!”
He followed her gaze to his tunic beneath which lay the injury he hardly felt. “Only swordplay.”
“You make ready for siege,” she choked. “’Tis Bernart who rides on Mergot?”
“Hush, Juliana. Set your mind to birthing our child. That is where it belongs.”
She lowered her lids, nodded.
Despite the added weight of her pregnancy, she lifted easily. As he settled her atop the coverlet, the tip of her tongue dragged across her dry lower lip.
He retrieved the tray the guard had left on the floor, set it on the bedside table, and poured a cup of honey milk. Raising her, he said, “You must drink.”
Hardly had she sipped than she jerked her head back.
“More pain?” he asked.
“Nay, feel the babe.”
He set the cup on the table, placed a hand on her belly, and smiled at the wondrous shifting of limbs. “I feel him.”
Her smile was weak. “Your son is impatient.”
Certes, he was. After all, he came three weeks early.
Or perhaps not. This time the voice did not whisper. Your son, Gabriel? Mayhap not come early. Mayhap on time. Bernart’s child as she told but you would not believe.
But when he had
taken her, she had claimed she was three months pregnant, not four as would indicate he was the father. And not five, which would mean Bernart’s threat to set her aside if she did not provide an heir had born fruit before the tournament.
Had he erred so greatly? Was he the one who sought to steal another’s son?
“Gabriel?” Juliana breathed. “What is wrong? Do I…?” She swallowed loudly. “Do I bleed?”
Did she? If this was his child, its early arrival could mean miscarriage that might also claim Juliana. Miscarriage for which he would be responsible for having sent her to the tower where she had this day lain until the guard brought her meal. Then there was his prayer of months past, lamenting her time did not come soon enough and beseeching the Lord to allow what remained of her pregnancy to pass quickly. But not like this.
Flooded with self-contempt, he stared at his hand upon her. If he lost her or the babe, there would be no need to seek reversal of his excommunication. It would be his due.
“Do I, Gabriel?”
Though he would not tell the truth if she did bleed, he slid his other hand beneath her thighs. Her skirts were as wet as when he had lifted her from the floor, but the moisture on his hand was clear.
“You do not bleed.”
Hardly did relief smooth her brow than her belly grew hard again and her cries spilled between them.
Abhorrently helpless, he gave her his hand. As she squeezed all feeling from it, he closed his eyes and prayed.
When the pain passed and before the next, Lissant entered with two women servants, their arms laden with blankets, towels, and basins of water.
“For what do you dawdle?” Gabriel barked.
Lissant faltered. “Pardon, my lord. I came as soon as I could gather what is needed to deliver the child.” She halted alongside the bed and considered Juliana’s flushed, moist face. “I will see to Lady Mary until the midwife arrives.”
Here was his dismissal from the domain of women. But he would not leave until the deliverer of babes appeared.
“My lord,” Lissant said with apology, “I shall send word as soon as the babe is come.”
“Nay!” Juliana’s frantic gaze found his. “You told you would stay.”
Though he did not understand why she was desperate to keep him with her when he could lend naught but his presence, he said, “I shall.”
“It is not proper, my lord,” Lissant said. “A man should not—”
“I stay!”
Her teeth picked at her lip, then she crossed to the brazier and dragged a chair to the bed. “It may be a long wait, my lord.”
Over the next hour, Juliana’s pain worsened, but Gabriel remained at her side, pressed cold towels to her brow, and reassured her as best he could—whilst silently praying the Lord would cease visiting cruelties on her and speed the aged legs of the midwife.
At last, the woman arrived. The eyes in her wizened face glowered at the sight of Gabriel. “Your place is not here, my lord.”
He looked to Juliana who panted through her most recent travail, bent near. “The midwife has come. You would have me leave?”
She did not answer, and he guessed she could no longer hear outside herself.
The midwife touched his shoulder. “There is much to do before she pushes forth her burden. Pray, leave.”
What if he did not see her again? What if—?
“Stay.” It was barely a whisper that passed Juliana’s lips, but it was enough.
“I will remain.”
The midwife blew out a breath. “Then you will aid me.” She looked to Lissant and the servants who stood opposite the bed. “And you.”
Shortly, the room was alive with something other than the sounds of pain. As Lissant prepared a drink of vinegar and sugar to aid her lady’s labor, one of the servants coaxed the brazier to greater heat, while the second darted around the room flinging open windows, the chest, and anything else that could be opened.
Gabriel’s patience snapped. “For what do you throw wide doors and windows when warmth is lacking?”
The midwife looked up from Juliana’s bared belly. “It will aid in the opening of the womb.” Her voice was crusty as three-day-old-bread.
Gabriel wanted to spit. Opening windows and doors while Juliana struggled to hold to her life and the babe’s? “What foolishness do you speak?”
She probed Juliana’s belly. “I have brought forth hundreds of babes, my lord. I know the ways of birthing. Do you allow me to do that for which I have been called, I shall bring forth your child.”
Though he longed to argue the wasteful symbolism, he forced the words down.
The old woman sighed. “A man’s place is not the lying-in chamber.”
Gabriel looked to Juliana. She rested, moist lashes upon dark circles beneath her eyes, hair clinging to her brow, jaw, and neck.
“The babe is positioned correctly,” the midwife pronounced and creaked her body nearer and put her ear to Juliana’s belly. “A strong heartbeat.”
“What of its mother?”
Slow to answer, she prefaced her words with an apologetic shrug. “She is small and narrow.”
Gabriel felt as if split down the middle.
“But she looks to be strong, my lord.”
“Will she live?”
“That answer I know not.” She shot her eyes toward the ceiling. “Best you confer with Him.”
It was almost humorous she referred him to the Lord considering the superstitious bent that saw the room swept with chill air. But to the Lord he went, sending up prayer he hoped would not go unanswered.
“The draught is ready.” Lissant appeared at the old woman’s side.
The midwife looked to Gabriel. “My lord, raise your lady so she may swallow.”
He eyed the cup Lissant held, conceded that though the mixture of sugar and vinegar was likely of no more benefit than the open shutters, it would moisten Juliana’s mouth. He raised her.
She grimaced at the trickle Lissant slid between her lips, but drank until once more cornered by pain.
“Hot water and soap,” the midwife called to the women servants. “My lord, ease your lady down the bed so I can stand between her legs.”
Gabriel did as told, hating the discomfort he caused Juliana.
“No pillows at her back.” Having cleaned her hands up to her forearms, the old woman parted Juliana’s thighs. After a long minute, she straightened. “The head is there and my lady is nearly full open.” She raised four gnarled fingers to show measure. “God willing, it will not be long now. Lissant, fetch the oil from my bag and pass it to your lord.”
Lissant unstoppered the vial and gave it to Gabriel. It was of pressed violets, its sweet perfume an unexpected balm to his emotions.
“Rub it into her abdomen and hips—with vigor.”
As he did so, Juliana whimpered and pressed her nails into his flesh.
“And my lord…” The midwife paused.
He looked into the aged eyes peering over Juliana’s belly. “Aye?”
“Do not cease praying.”
With more fervor, he resumed his prayers.
Minutes later, Juliana arched, threw her arms out, and gripped the covers on either side.
“Can you do naught for her pain?” he demanded.
Exasperation leapt from the midwife’s eyes. “Henbane would ease her labor, but if I am to give a live babe into your arms, I shall need her help in pushing.”
A cry parted Juliana’s lips.
Gabriel cupped her face between his hands. “I am here. Hold to me.”
She opened her eyes, whispered through chattering teeth, “Ever I shall.”
Pain lanced his breast and spilled something from him he had too long denied. But before he could embrace it, she threw her head back.
“I die! Surely I die!”
“You do not! Now hold to me and it will be over soon.”
She searched his eyes, then gripped his shoulders. “Is our son…?”
Their
son, Gabriel pondered. Was it their son? He pressed his lips to her brow. “He is well.”
A scant smile touched her mouth a moment before further suffering.
“My lord, must I choose between mother and child, who would you have me spare?”
Gabriel nearly roared at the woman for asking it in Juliana’s hearing.
“I must know, my lord.”
“Spare her! Spare Lady Juliana.”
“Do not,” Juliana exclaimed. “Spare the babe!”
He looked into her reddened eyes. “For naught will I lose you.”
“He is your son. He—”
“He I do not yet love,” he rushed the words to her before he could examine them.
Her lids fluttered. “Love?” That single word was more beautiful on her breath than he had ever heard it spoken.
He shifted his jaw. “Love.”
She closed her eyes as if to savor what he bared of himself, for a moment looked serene, then sucked air.
“Push, lady!” the midwife commanded. “Push!”
Clutching Gabriel as if he was all there was to hold to in a storm, Juliana obeyed with a strength he had not known she possessed. And a dozen times more.
The setting sun cast its last rays through the open windows when the babe came slippery and wailing from her womb.
“The Almighty has given you a son, my lord,” the midwife said, “and he appears to be in good health.” She cut the cord, tied it, and motioned Lissant forward.
A blanket over her arms, the maid stepped to the woman’s side, and the two swathed the babe.
“Close the shutters,” the midwife instructed Lissant then said to Gabriel, “You are a father, my lord.” A glimmer of extinguished youth in her old face, she lifted the bundled infant for him to see.
He stared at the little one who continued to fill the room with his cries. But was he a father? This his son? The old woman said he was in good health when surely a child born three weeks early—
“I would hold him,” Juliana croaked.
Gabriel looked at her where her head rested in the curve of his arm, wondered how she could appear so broken and yet so beautiful.
“You are not done, my lady,” the midwife said. “There is the afterbirth.”
