by Tamara Leigh
But there was something he could do. Though it might prove in vain, he would send Sir Erec to England to root out Alaiz and, if she yet eluded her pursuers, bring her to France. This day he would send for his vassal.
For two days it had been thus—the gaps in the inner wall filling twice as quickly as on the days past, workers darting bailey to bailey with an urgency not heretofore present, the clatter of wagons loaded with food stores, the ring of the forging of steel synchronous with the sound of men hard in training. And it frightened her. It could mean but one thing: siege was coming to Mergot.
Juliana closed her eyes against the scene in the bailey, pressing fingers to her brow. Though she prayed Gabriel's neighbor and enemy, Baron Faison, was responsible, she knew it was Bernart come in the yawn of winter.
She dragged a hand down her face, then closed it over the other that grasped the scissors and trailing material at her swollen waist. If only Gabriel would answer her summons. If only he had brought Alaiz out of Tremoral with her. But he gave her naught with which to fight Bernart's claim upon her and the child they had made. Thus there would be bloodshed.
A gush of warmth wet her thighs, calves, and feet, eliciting a gasp. She took a step back, looking to the pool of water that seeped from beneath her skirts. And knew.
The scissors clattered to the floor. The green material drifted down and settled atop the sharp blades.
Dear God, no. It was too early. Three weeks too soon. She pressed palms to her belly. Beneath her touch, it turned hard as it had done many times this past week. At first she had feared the tightening, but had calmed herself with the reminder that it was a normal part of those weeks preceding childbirth. Unfortunately, her knowledge of such things was limited to that overheard from serving women. But this she also knew: her waters had broken, meaning the babe would not be long in wailing from her body, its early arrival portending ill.
She nearly choked on a sob. Would her child be sickly, diseased, misshapen? Stillborn? Any or all of these as her punishment for the manner in which the babe was gotten? She would be deserving of such, but not this innocent who had naught to do with his getting.
She lifted her face heavenward. "Please, God, punish not this child. 'Twas I who sinned."
No answer but the easing of the hard ball of her belly.
She dropped her chin, gathered a quavering breath, then hugged her arms to her belly. No matter her child's infirmity, regardless of whether he was as befitted the heir Bernart came to steal from Gabriel, she would love him. Her next thought was bittersweet. Did Bernart deem the babe unworthy, he would have naught to do with him as he'd had naught to do with Alaiz—would gladly leave Gabriel his son. But would Gabriel accept such a child? Something told Juliana he would not turn away. She fought to hold her tears, but one after another brimmed over.
"Heavenly Father," she whispered, " 'tis not as I would have my prayers answered." Leaving the shutters open in spite of the chill that stole warmth from the room, she crossed to the bed. No sooner did she lower herself to the mattress edge than her womb hardened again, this time sending a shock of pain through her. She nearly cried out. The pain passed, but was not long in returning. After the fourth time it came and spent itself on her, she forced herself up from the bed. She needed a midwife to help her push her child into this cold, cold world. Months back Lissant had mentioned that Gabriel had arranged for one from a nearby village to come when the babe was due. God willing, the village was near.
Juliana made it to the door without further evidence of the babe's impending birth. She leaned against the planked wood and called to the guard. Minutes passed. Could he not hear her? She called louder, again without result. Cradling her belly, feeling it begin to harden, she opened her mouth a third time, but sudden pain turned her words to a cry. She slid down the door to her knees, would have tried to hold back the next cry if not that it might alert someone. But when the pain receded, she was still alone.
Trembling, more frightened than she could remember having ever been, she sat back on her heels. She looked to the unshuttered window. Though gaining her feet was awkward, she prevailed. Swaying, she touched a hand to her brow. It was damp with perspiration in contrast to a room grown increasingly chill.
A dozen steps, no more, she reassured herself, and put a foot forward. She nearly made it, would have gained the window if not that her belly cramped. She sank to the floor, sucking a breath against the pain. When she exhaled, it was on a wail that even God in his lofty heavens could not disregard.
After what seemed an eternity, she crested the pain and started down the other side. She squeezed her eyes closed, ground her jaws, curled onto her side amid the rushes, and began to pant away the ache coursing her womb. Mother Mary! Though she'd heard of the pain of childbirth, never would she have believed it to be so fierce. Mayhap she was dying....
This time when the pain left her, she could not rise for reveling in those precious minutes of relief. It did not last long. She whimpered, sending up a fervent prayer that Gabriel would come to her. How she longed to feel his arms around her, to see their son cradled in those strong arms.
Through the delirium dragging her senses, she thought she heard his name cried high. Of her imagining, she told herself. Only her imagining.
"Gabriel!"
Her voice, a pitch above the clang of his blade against his opponents', caused him to falter. Imagined? He looked to the prison tower, and paid a price that might have meant his death were it true battle in which he engaged. Steel met wool, sliced through it, met flesh, drew blood.
He jumped back and glanced down his tunic to where crimson seeped from his ribs. A minor wound, though the knight's look of horror made it seem mortal.
"My lord," the man said with a gasp, "I did not—"
Gabriel silenced his words with a sweep of his hand, listening. And he heard her scream his name again. He raised his sword, ran from the training ground of the outer bailey to the inner drawbridge, and silently begged the Almighty to hold Juliana above harm. But would the Lord receive prayers from one who had not sent any heavenward for years?
It seemed forever until Gabriel reached the uppermost landing. The door stood wide, and when he charged into the room he saw that the guard knelt beside Juliana's writhing figure. Fortunately, his ability to quickly assess a situation held him from parting the guard's head from his neck. Juliana's time had come.
He dropped his sword, hastened forward, and nearly trod a tray of viands set to the floor.
The man looked up as Gabriel dropped to his knees beside him. "My lord, methinks she be birthing—"
'Take you to Tannon and bring back the midwife." Gabriel searched Juliana's pain-wrenched features. "Now!"
The man scrambled to his feet.
"And send for Lissant! Tell her the lady births."
"Aye, my lord." The guard ran.
Gabriel bent near Juliana. Her hair was tangled with rushes, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed, her face ruddy and moist. "Juliana!"
She shook her head, squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, and began to pant and rock her belly in the fold of her arms.
Gabriel's gut twisted. Would the midwife arrive in time? He ought to have sooner brought her to Mergot. But then, he had been certain the child was his, that it had yet three weeks—
Nay! It would not do to think on that now. Juliana's needs must come first. Putting the painful truth from him, he stroked the backs of his fingers down her wet cheek. " 'Tis I—Gabriel. Do you hear me, Juliana?"
He thought her lids cracked, but could not be certain. The scream that met his ears a moment later clawed his heart.
Though logic told him the guard could hardly have reached his station belowstairs, Gabriel questioned what caused Lissant to delay. Damnation! Where was the woman?
"Gabriel?"
He met Juliana's gaze that peeked from slit lids. "I am here." He ran a hand down her belly, covered her clenched fingers with his.
Her lids lifted further to revea
l the brown of her eyes. " 'Tis truly you?"
"Aye."
A sob rent her throat. "You... came." He tried to smile. "You called."
"For near a fortnight I have... sent word." She gasped, her chest heaving. "But only now you come." "Only now do you need me." She shook her head. "You are wrong." Was he?
She turned her hands, gripping his fingers tightly as if she might never let go. "Promise you will not leave me again."
He did not wish to leave her; he would stay with her until the midwife arrived. Of course, the babe might deliver before the old woman put her rumpled face around the door. In that moment, he knew what he must do. Proscribed though it was for a man to be present during birthing—even were he a physician—for naught would he leave Juliana to inexperienced hands. Were it necessary, he would deliver the babe himself. However that was done...
He squeezed her fingers. "I shall stay as long as you need me."
Her shoulders slumped, her tension easing as if her suffering passed. "I need you."
Damn his revenge! Emotion making his hands quiver, he seized control of his anger and brushed damp tendrils from her brow. "The pain eases?"
She swallowed loudly. "Aye." Of a sudden, her eyes sharpened. "Know you the babe comes?"
It was as if she sought reassurance that at the end of her pain would come a child who lived. "I know." He bent his head and stirred his lips across hers. "I shall carry you to bed." He loosed his hand from hers and slid his arms beneath her.
She gasped. "Gabriel, you bleed."
He looked to where her gaze fell upon his rent tunic.
He'd forgotten about the injury, even now could not feel it. "But a little," he said. "Swordplay."
"You make ready for siege." New fear was in her voice. "Is it Ber—"
"Hush. 'Tis the babe you ought to put your mind to."
She stared at him, then nodded.
In spite of the added weight of her pregnancy, she lifted easily into his arms. He crossed to the bed and settled her atop the coverlet.
She shuddered into the pillows.
Gabriel strode to where the tray sat near the door. He bent, poured a goblet of honeyed milk, then returned to her. "You must drink." He slid an arm beneath her shoulders and raised her.
She allowed the rim to her lips, sipped, then shook her head. "Enough. I—" Her breath caught.
"The pain again?"
"Nay." She caught his hand and laid it to her belly. "Feel him."
He did, a wondrous ripple of shifting limbs beneath taut, silken skin. "I do."
She smiled weakly. "He is most impatient, your son."
His son? Now that it was proven that Bernart was the father, she relented? Once more, anger snapped at Gabriel, but he held it—washed it away when struck with another possibility. Mayhap the child was his, its early arrival a portent of miscarriage. Miscarriage that might claim Juliana as well. Miscarriage that his visit a fortnight past had likely put upon her.
Rushed with self-contempt, he stared at her hand atop his. Sweet Jesus! Was this his revenge? Death to her and the babe? Did he lose one or both he would himself deliver his soul to the bowels of hell.
Beneath his hand her belly grew suddenly hard, and an instant later her hold on his fingers tightened. He jerked his gaze to her face, seeing her pain. Though she struggled to deny her cries, they came.
He was helpless! There was naught he could do but let her squeeze the feeling from his hand.
After the pain passed and ere the next, Lissant appeared. She bustled in, two women servants close behind—one's arms laden with blankets and towels, the other's with a large basin of water from which steam wafted.
"For what did you dawdle?" Gabriel barked.
Lissant faltered, but continued to the bed. "Pardon, my lord, I came as quickly as I could gather that needed to deliver the child." She looked to Juliana's fevered face. "I will see to Lady Isolde until the midwife arrives."
It was his dismissal from this, the domain of women. But he had promised Juliana he would stay as long as she needed him. Nay, he would not leave until the midwife arrived.
"My lord," Lissant said with apology, "go you to the hall and I shall send word as soon as the babe is come."
"Nay!" Juliana cried, frantically seeking Gabriel's gaze. "You gave me your word."
Why was she so desperate to keep him with her when he had naught to lend but his presence? A presence she ought to find repugnant? He inclined his head. "My word stays true, Juliana."
She released her breath.
"But my lord," Lissant protested, " 'tis not proper. A man should not—"
"I shall not leave!"
She nipped her bottom lip, struggled with an argument she could not win, then crossed to the brazier before which two chairs sat. She chose the nearest and pushed it across the rushes to his side. "It may be a long wait, my lord."
"I thank you." Gabriel lowered himself.
Throughout the next hour, Juliana's pain intensified. No more could Gabriel feel his fingers, so numb were they, but he stayed by her side and pressed cold towels to her brow, reassured her as best he could—while inside he raged at God for visiting such cruelty on her, then at the midwife for old legs that had yet to see her to Mergot. He ground his teeth. If only he could bear the pain for Juliana.
At last, the midwife arrived. Her wizened face glowered at the sight of Gabriel. "You must leave, my lord."
Though Gabriel had planned to withdraw, it was not easy to do. He looked to Juliana.
Eyes closed, she panted through her most recent travail.
'The midwife is here, Juliana," he said. "You would have me leave?"
She did not answer, causing him to believe she could no longer hear outside herself.
"My lord"—the midwife touched his shoulder—"there be much to do before she pushes forth her burden. You must go."
Must he? What if he did not see Juliana again? What if—
"Stay." It was no more than a whisper Juliana spoke, but it gripped him. "I shall remain, old woman," he said.
The midwife's lips puckered, but she yielded with a shrug to her lord's authority. "Then you will aid me." She looked to Lissant and the woman servants who stood opposite the bed. "And you. We have not much time."
Shortly, the room was alive with something other than the sounds of pain. As Lissant prepared a drink of vinegar and sugar to aid Juliana's labor, one of the women servants coaxed the brazier, while the second darted around the room opening windows, the chest, and anything else that could be opened.
That last snapped Gabriel's patience. "For what do you throw wide doors and windows when warmth is lacking?"
The midwife looked up from Juliana's bared belly. " 'Twill aid in the opening of the womb." Her voice was crusty as four-day-old bread.
Gabriel wanted to spit. Opening windows and doors while Juliana struggled to hold to her life and their child's! "What foolishness speak you?"
She probed a hand over Juliana's belly. "In all my years I have brought forth nearly three hundred babes, my lord. I know the ways of birthing. Do you let me do that for which I have been called, I shall birth your child."
Gabriel longed to argue the wasteful symbolism, but forced the argument down.
The old woman sighed. "A man's place be not the lying-in chamber."
Gabriel looked to Juliana. She rested, moist lashes laid upon the circles beneath her eyes, hair clinging to her brow, jaw, and neck.
"The babe is positioned correctly," the midwife pronounced. She creaked her body nearer Juliana's belly and put her ear to it. "A strong beat."
"And what of its mother?"
She considered Gabriel, then shook her head. "She is small and narrow, my lord."
He felt as if split down the middle.
"But she looks to be strong," the woman added.
Only to soothe him? "Will she live?"
Her mouth turned down. "I have not the answer you seek." She jutted her chin toward the ceiling. "You ought to co
nfer with Him."
Gabriel resisted flaying her with angry words, and instead put his mind to a prayer he hoped would not go unanswered.
Lissant appeared at the old woman's side. "The drink is ready."
"My lord"—the midwife glanced at Gabriel—"raise your lady that she might swallow the draft."
He eyed the goblet Lissant held, conceding that though the mix of sugar and vinegar was likely of no more benefit than the opening of windows, it would moisten Juliana's mouth. He put an arm beneath her.
She grimaced at the trickle Lissant pressed upon her, but drank much of it until pain once more found her.
"Hot water and soap," the midwife instructed Lissant. "Move the chest aside," she commanded the women servants. "My lord, ease your lady down the bed that I can stand between her legs."
Gabriel did as told, aching for the discomfort he caused Juliana.
"Now pillows at her back." Having cleaned her hands up to her forearms, the old woman parted Juliana's quaking thighs and bent between them. A long minute passed ere she straightened. "The head is there and my lady is near full open." She raised four gnarled fingers to show measure. "God willing, 'twill not be long now. Lissant, go into my bag and bring out the oil for your lord."
Lissant unstoppered the vial and passed it to Gabriel. It was pressed of violets, its sweet perfume an unexpected balm to his emotions.
"Rub it into her abdomen and hips—with vigor," the midwife said.
No sooner did he do so than Juliana cried out and put her nails into his flesh.
"And my lord..." The old woman paused.
His breath coming hard as if he exerted himself, he looked to eyes that peered at him above Juliana's belly.
"Aye?"
"Pray."
He did—with more fervor than ever he had. Lord, forgive him his sins, for Acre, for his tourneying, for his rejection of religion, most especially for his revenge upon Juliana.
