The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three

by Domning, Denise

  Geoffrey shook his head. "My brother says the wounds he took are grave, but he survives. If he continues to heal without infection he’s expected to recover."

  Elyssa’s eyes widened and she whitened further. "You have killed my son," she whispered, then gave way to the shock and slipped from the conscious world.

  He caught her as she fell, dropping the missive and lifting her into his arms to bear her to her cottage. "God will have to forgive me if he dies, for I think you will not."

  Although the hour of Vespers had passed and the sky was streaked pewter and mauve, Elyssa wasn't prepared to leave the garden. The need to pace was strong, as if doing so might help her escape her desire to weep yet again. She rose from her stool, the replacement of what had been destroyed, still clutching Geoffrey’s missive.

  Four days past, at May's start, Geoffrey left Crosswell, escorting a company of masons to Ashby, that stinking manor. He'd gone more to ease her mind over Jocelyn than because there was any real threat against the workmen. As if there could be any threat left near Ashby. The sarcastic thought seared through Elyssa’s mind. Had her son not nearly given his life to rid that foul place of threat?

  "What does it say, Lyssa?" Clare asked.

  Elyssa stared down at the parchment in her hands, recounting what she’d read without really reading. "Lord Coudray writes that Jocelyn does not lie abed at all, but is up, even playing, although his arm is in a sling. So too, does he claim my son begs I not attempt to remove him from Ashby's care. Lord Coudray is convinced Jocelyn wishes to remain there. He intends to return on the morrow without my son." This last was an outraged cry.

  Cecilia shifted on the grass where she played with her wooden poppet, moving to sit closer to Elyssa’s stool, as Clare looked up with a smile and a relieved sigh. "Good news, then," she said. "Now your mind can be set at ease."

  The relief Clare felt Elyssa utterly refused, using all her grief and anger to keep it at bay. "Hah! I say Lord Coudray lies. Jocelyn nearly lost his life. He cannot want to remain at that foul house.” More to the point, no good mother would let her child remain in so dangerous a place. “Jocelyn must come home!” This aching statement reflected the pain that had settled into the curve of her lower back.

  Between the pain in her heart and the ache in her back, Elyssa gave way to her urge to walk. Unseeing, she strode, nay waddled past clumps of violets and sprouting pinks, unaffected by the perfume of blooming pear and apple trees. She stopped at the far wall, her head bowed. Jocelyn would come home where he belonged, where she could keep him safe. If she had to, she’d threaten to spread Maud’s tale, adding to it the story of Cecilia’s silence. Against that threat and the possibilities of others seeing madness in the daughter as well as the mother, Geoffrey would do whatever she asked of him.

  Cecilia's wee hand curled into hers. "Lyssa, I love you," her poppet whispered, leaning up against Elyssa’s leg as she sought to comfort her borrowed maman.

  It was a sword's blow to Elyssa's heart. How could she even imagine hurting Cecilia this way? Yet how could she leave Jocelyn where he already was hurt?

  A terrible pain seared her core, and she swore she was breaking in two, torn between the children she loved. She couldn’t destroy one to save the other. After a moment, the pain ebbed, and Elyssa wiped away her tears. She glanced down at her poppet and tried to smile. "I know you do, my heart."

  Gray eyes wide, Cecilia offered her support. "I do not like that Jocelyn was hurt. That shouldn't have happened."

  "Nay, it shouldn't have happened," Elyssa replied, her tears threatening to start afresh.

  "Why isn't Papa bringing him home?" While Cecilia awaited her answer, her teeth worried her lower lip. Over these past three weeks, especially since Geoffrey left for Ashby to see Jocelyn, Cecilia had begun speaking openly of her father.

  A quiver touched Elyssa's lips once again. Geoffrey didn't bring Jocelyn because she couldn't use his sweet child against him. Mary save her, no matter where she looked, there was no way free of her heart's trap.

  Clare came to stand behind Cecilia, her hands on the child's shoulders. "Come now, poppet, why not give Lyssa a moment alone?"

  Cecilia's brow creased, and she stroked Elyssa's belly, then cradled her wooden plaything close. "My poppet doesn't like that Jocelyn was hurt, either."

  Elyssa lay a hand atop Cecilia's head. "Whatever should I do without you to love me?" she asked. She couldn't, she wouldn't, hurt this babe, not even to save Jocelyn. Mother of God, but what sort of parent betrayed the son of her blood for a temporary daughter only of the heart?

  The terrible aching returned, but this time it passed from her soul's core to center in her womb. Elyssa bit her lip against the shock of it, incapable of drawing a breath. It ebbed slowly. She sighed as a strange relief flowed over her. Aye, death would be easier to face than this dilemma.

  "Clare, the babe comes."

  Night was almost fully upon his small troop as Geoffrey led them toward Crosswell's gatehouse. For the first time since becoming sheriff, the massive structure seemed welcoming. It wasn't that he'd developed any liking for Crosswell's defenses, rather, it was the woman who dwelt within these walls. She, and her caring for him, made this hellhole easier to bear.

  How he could feel this way after her weeks of tears and pleas over bringing Jocelyn back here remained a mystery to Geoffrey. Especially so, since the journey she'd begged him to take had turned out to be a wasted trip, unless he counted his amusement at watching his brother Gilliam and his new wife. Jocelyn was hale and well, despite his injuries, and a far more enjoyable child than he'd been in autumn past.

  He freed a tolerant breath. Not that Elyssa would believe him when he said so. Until she saw her son for herself, she'd worry. Meanwhile, Jocelyn refused to come home, even to visit, fearing his mother would reclaim him and lock him away in a monastery against his will.

  "So, what will you be telling the lady, my lord?" Osbert asked in friendly inquiry. A year's acquaintanceship had thawed this knight, making him into an amiable companion. "I think she'll not believe us when we describe the boy we saw."

  Geoffrey glanced at the mercenary. "That, Osbert, is an unfortunate truth. I can hear her already. I'll utter no more than two words, before she'll yammer over me, denying what I've just said. When I tell her that her child refused to return, the tears will fall like rain. By God, Osbert, but she's an impossible woman. Rather than find pride that her son displays great courage and military abilities far beyond his years, she moans and complains as if he were an infant."

  Osbert laughed as they halted before the outer gate, waiting for the portcullis to rise. Geoffrey shook his head over the coming confrontation. Why couldn't Elyssa see what harm she did her son by trying to protect him from life's normal flow?

  His thoughts swung around like a morningstar in motion to strike him with its backlash. Elyssa's fears for her son were no different than his worries over Cecilia and he, no more justified in his fears than she in hers. Like Jocelyn, who'd found a lion's heart in Gilliam's love for him, Cecilia would find what she needed wrapped in Elyssa's support and care.

  "Oh, so irritation is all you find in Freyne's widow, is it?" There was deep amusement hiding in Osbert's tone, and the knight shot him a sidelong glance as they rode together into the bailey. "Do you know, my lord, I've long since ceased to pray for you? Say, since Christmastide." This was a sly aside.

  The corner of Geoff's mouth lifted in a wry smile, and he looked at the man. "Am I as obvious as that?"

  "Mayhap to none of them," Osbert jerked his head toward the soldiers who followed them, the latest contingent of outsiders to man Crosswell's garrison, "but I have known you a year now."

  "And familiarity has destroyed my reputation, eh?" Sudden gratitude rose in Geoffrey. If Cecilia stood on her own, he could release the cloak of his reputed evil in which he'd attempted to shield her. To be feared and shunned no longer would be a wondrous thing.

  "Nay my lord, not you. Lady Freyne has r
evealed you. You should've beaten her that day on the road to Crosswell. The devil and his minions are not known for their patience or mercy. With Lady Freyne to do the pushing, it all rolled downhill from there." Osbert stared at the inner gateway, mouth tight against a smile.

  Geoffrey shook his head in amusement then glanced toward the widow's cottage. The building was caught in deep shadow, pierced only by what little light escaped between Elyssa's door and frame. That soft illumination called to him, whispering of its owner's caring nature. So too, did it hint at the passion they'd created between them. Aye, irritation was the least of the emotions she raised in him.

  The need to see her this very moment struck. He'd go, not only to relate Jocelyn's tale to her, but to speak of Cecilia's future. As Henry of Lavendon suggested, his daughter could be fostered once Cecilia was strong enough to bear separation from Elyssa.

  And, in giving Cecilia her future, Geoffrey reclaimed his own. Now that Cecilia was healed, there was no need for him to die. The desire to live rushed through him, stunning in its intensity. But he didn’t choose to live alone. Nay, in this moment’s flight of fancy, it was Elyssa who stood at his side to share his life with him, just as she shared his pain. He turned Passavant's head toward the stables.

  "My lord?" Osbert asked.

  He glanced at the man. "Since you've found me out, I see no reason not to do as I please," he replied with a quirk of his brows. "Just now, I've a need to speak with the widow that cannot wait."

  The mercenary laughed then called behind him his lord's intent. The soldiers groaned loudly against this, several freeing potent curses that addressed the issue of men and women. Aye, Crosswell was indeed feeling much more like home.

  "It's my time to squander," Geoffrey told them as he dismounted before the stable door. He handed Passavant's reins to his groom, then removed helmet, gloves, and sword for Osbert to bear into the hall. Not wishing to make too public an announcement of his intentions toward the lady until she'd agreed, Geoff waited for the commoners to precede him into the inner gateway. When they were gone, he strode along the garden wall.

  Where Coudray fell gratefully into night's soft embrace, finding rest and comfort in darkness’s depths, Crosswell warded off the shadows with torches and lamps as if both town and keep were afeared of day's ending. The slight evening breeze yet retained the foul stench of burning coal, but also brought with it disjointed snatches of music from some nearby inn. At Crosswell's outer gate, a whore called out to a passerby and when she was refused, let fly a string of insults against the unfortunate's manhood. Somewhere in the bailey, men shouted and cursed in English over a dice game gone bad.

  Geoffrey paused before Elyssa's door, his hand lifted to knock, then lowered his fist. What if she refused him? After all, her petition to the court stated she wished never to wed again. Christmas night and the passion of their kiss woke in him once more. She'd melted against him, echoing his desire with her own. Nay, he'd not allow her to refuse him. His knuckles rebounded off the thick door.

  When the panel swung open, it was Martin who was revealed in the portal. Jealousy roared through Geoffrey. He reached for his sword, meaning to end his undersheriff's life for this trespass, only to discover there was no weapon at his side.

  "Thank God, you've returned," Martin said in a low voice, oblivious to his lord's sudden desire to murder him. "She's been calling for you."

  Geoffrey stared, the man's words making no sense. "Calling for me?"

  "It’s no good, I think me," Martin replied with a sad shake of his head. "My lord, I'd rather battle my worst enemy with my bare hands than contemplate giving birth."

  Jealousy ebbed into embarrassment, then shock at how strong his claim on Elyssa was. Finally, the whole of what his undersheriff said penetrated. "She dies?" he breathed. Fear drove deeply into him. She couldn't, not now.

  "Aye, she and the babe slip away," Grief already touched Martin's dark eyes.

  "Nay," Geoff hissed, pushing past his man to enter the tiny room.

  Although May's warmth made a fire unnecessary, flames leapt on the stone to shed its precious light around the room. A woman, the midwife no doubt, crouched near the hearth heating something in a cup. Cecilia lay in the other corner, curled beneath a blanket and already deep in slumber. The bed was framed by its curtains, the scarlet material caught tightly to the posts. Clare stood at its head.

  Geoffrey started toward Elyssa's cousin. At the jangling of his mail, she turned to look at him. Her usually shy reaction was buried beneath her tears for her relative.

  "God be praised, my lord. Mayhap you can wake some fight in her. I vow she is willing herself to death." Her frantic tone shot through him.

  Geoff stared into the bed. Elyssa lay on her side, facing him, her plaits falling over the bed's edge. She wore a simple, white shift, clothed for modesty's sake against in this witnessed birthing. Her eyes were closed, while deep lines of exhaustion marked her face. So still did she lie, it seemed death already held her. He damned himself to hell and back. Why had he left her with the babe's coming so near?

  Her hand lay open, palm down, upon the mattress. Geoff crossed the room and lay his own over the back of hers, intertwining their fingers. Raising her arm, he sought a pulse at her wrist. Weak, but still there.

  The movement of her arm stirred her into drawing a deep breath. Then, as if the effort were almost beyond her, she opened her eyes. Without moving her head, she looked at him.

  "You came." This was a bare breath. A soft sort of peace flowed over her features, and Geoffrey liked it not at all. He'd never seen her like this; where was her obstinance, her courage?

  "Aye," he replied, trying to smile, "and here will I stay until your babe is come."

  "Jocelyn?"

  "He thrives. Elyssa, he is safe and content, this I vow on my own life. He refused to come to Crosswell, fearing you will set him in a monastery."

  She accepted this without a word of the rebuttal he expected from her and closed her eyes once more.

  "My lord," Clare said quietly from behind him, "the midwife has something for her."

  Geoffrey moved back, setting his hand on the post. The knot in the tie that held the bed curtain aside was uncomfortable against his palm. He glanced at it as he shifted his hand then looked again. When Maud labored so long with their stillborn child, the midwife set the servants to removing every knot in the room, saying this would make the labor easier. Belts had been opened, the laces in their shoes untied, even Maud's hair had been loosened. His gaze shifted to Elyssa. Her hair was yet tightly bound in plaits. Geoffrey stared at their coppery lengths as the sense that something was amiss here rose in him.

  The midwife pushed past him, leaning down to set the cup to Elyssa's lips and force the liquid into her patient.

  "What is that you give her?" he asked.

  The surprise in the midwife's face quickly became professional disdain. "My lord sheriff, this is a female matter. The law says you must watch, but I'll not have you interfering." To Elyssa, she said, "Aye, my lady, drink you all of it."

  "I think it cannot be interfering to ask what sort of potion you give her." Geoffrey's voice rose in command.

  "If you must know, it’s something to soothe her," the woman deigned to reply. Her patient swallowed slowly as if even this simple act was too difficult for her. "Now, if you'll take your stool, you may watch what goes forward. Send that other man from here. One of you is all I will bear."

  Geoffrey caught the woman's arm, preventing her from pouring the final dregs into Elyssa. The midwife turned on him, her dark eyes hard with the insult he did her by his questioning. He studied her, but there was no expression save professional pique to see in her broad English face.

  "You came from Freyne?"

  Insult ebbed as confusion woke in her face. "Aye, my lord. The lady requested that I come. She wanted me as I am the one who brought her first two children into the world."

  "I think me Freyne is a backward place," he said, "else
you'd have known to loosen these knots." He tugged on one end of the string holding the bed curtain aside.

  The midwife started against his comment, the surprise on her face not against the necessity of opening knots, but that he'd known she should have done so. After surprise came wild fear. Her eyes shifted as if she sought some avenue of escape. Beside him, Clare gasped aloud as she, too, saw the sudden guilt. What in God's name was afoot here?

  Rage flared in Geoffrey. "I think I'll have me a taste of this brew."

  He reached to take the cup from her hands, but she twisted it, trying to spill what remained within it. The contents splattered against Elyssa's shift, dark against white linen. Geoffrey wrenched it from her. Although there was not even a sip left in it, the wooden container retained the flavor of the last draft. At the unmistakable bitterness of wormwood he threw the cup. It rebounded off the wall, then rattled along the floor mats.

  "You idiot," he roared, "she's already half-dead. This stuff will send her the rest of the way to heaven. I pray for your sake you're but an incompetent, else your life will be the forfeit."

  "I've done no wrong, my lord," the midwife moaned, backing away from the bed while she wrung her hands. "What works one way for a man works another during a woman's travail. How can you be expected to understand what is a female trade?"

  "Then I'll ask another of your ilk to verify your claim." It was a threat, cold and deadly.

  The woman bolted for the door, but Martin was there to block her path. She whirled, new desperation filling her face. "My lord, you mistake my purpose in giving her a sleeping draft. She can go no further without rest." Her words ended in a yelp as Martin caught her by the back of her gown. "My lord, I beg you, I've done no wrong here."

  "If that were so, then you should have been forthcoming when Lord Coudray first asked," the young knight snarled into her ear. "It’s a dismaying lack of honesty you own, bitch. My lord," Martin said to him, regret now coloring his features, "I have seen her give draft after draft to Lady Freyne and never thought to ask after them. Pray God, it isn’t too late."