The Saxon Bride (The Norman Conquest Series)

by York, Ashley

  Rowena stroked the little cheek with the tip of her finger. The baby's lips were tinged with blue. "I think she had your dimples."

  John didn't realize he had dimples. "My lady love, she is as beautiful as you." Kissing her cheek softly, they leaned their heads together and mourned together the loss of their first child.

  It was midday when Perceval finally arrived with Claire and Joan in tow. Stiff from sitting on the cold, hard floor, John knew that Rowena was much worse off. Claire gently took the child from Rowena's arms and Joan came to replace John at her side.

  Suddenly feeling awkward and helpless, John stood a few feet from the scene. It sickened him to think that Arthur had somehow brought all of this about. Ah, revenge gave him a purpose. Something to do. He didn't want to bother his wife with the details, but he needed to know.

  "How did you get here?" His voice sounded loud in the small cavern against the quieter reassuring womanly words being exchanged.

  Rowena's eyes bore into him but there were no tears when she answered. "Arthur." Joan was seeing to her needs, and John knew he should desist. There was so much blood everywhere. He had gone through the whole night without asking what was most on his mind. How had she come to be with Arthur…here? When she spoke again, he was surprised by the loathing in her voice. "He called me a whore."

  Joan's gasp reflected what all present felt. "Did he take you from the garden, my lady?"

  Rowena nodded slowly. The anger closed in on Rowena, and John's rage only deepened. "What did he say?" He forced his voice to sound calm. He did not need to upset her any further. He didn't dare breathe as he waited for her answer.

  "He told me you were near death." Perceval had been correct. Arthur had coerced her into leaving willingly with him. "He lied. He called me a whore and hit me. I fell to the ground from the blow." Her voice was dead. "I fell too hard for the baby to stay inside."

  Many woman survived childbirth by sheer determination. He prayed she had that.

  Perceval came down the stairs again with a litter to lay Rowena on. Claire packed her up to staunch the bleeding. Joan tucked Rowena in with her cape once she was laid out on the makeshift bed. Tousled around as they moved her, Rowena did not open her eyes once.

  "Will you see to her safety?" John's voice was low so the women could not hear.

  "What are you going to do?" Perceval was clearly concerned for John.

  "I will take care of Arthur."

  Understanding, Perceval nodded. Each took an end and brought Rowena, no longer with child, up into the sunlight.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Rowena awoke from a deep sleep to an intense burning sensation between her legs. She settled deeper into her bed, rocking gently. She watched the eerie shadows cast on the walls about her room while the wood crackled in the fire. Joan was the first to notice she was awake. She stooped close and talked softly to Rowena.

  "How fare ye?" Her wide eyes were full of concern.

  Rowena gently cupped her blurring friend's cheek. "Will I survive?"

  Joan nodded slowly. "But your beautiful daughter…she did not. I am so sorry, my lady."

  Tears slipped down her face and into Rowena's hair but she tried to smile. "I know. She was beautiful, wasn't she?"

  "Oh, yes. I have never seen such a perfect little baby." Joan sniffled loudly and Rowena took her into her arms.

  "Shhh." Rowena's body shook with her sobbing as they clung to each other in their sadness. "I am overcome with my grief, Joan."

  "I know. I know." Joan's voice was muffled in her hair.

  Having spent her tears for the moment, Rowena's exhaustion quickly took hold. Her entire body ached.

  Claire interrupted them.

  "How do you feel? Is there any pain?" the midwife asked as she poured freshly warmed water into the basin on the table.

  "Yes. Here." Rowena indicated the afflicted area then slid her hand along her stomach. The flatness felt strange, the precious swell no longer there. The gentle pressure no longer pushed against her hand. Her heart ached at the emptiness. "My belly has pain. Is it the loss of the child?"

  Claire pulled down the covers to inspect Rowena. "Does this hurt?" Claire pressed gently against her womb. Rowena winced in answer. "That may not be good."

  Standing behind the older woman, Joan wrung her hands helplessly. "Is there anything I can do?"

  "That green bottle…" Claire pointed to her basket, "…yes, mix it with some warm water for her to drink." She turned back to her patient. "It doesn't taste overly bad but it will help with your pain."

  Rowena moved as if in a dream. She watched Joan glide across the room and wondered why they both spoke so slowly. Claire's voice sounded as if she were very far away. "I feel dizzy." Rowena couldn't remember speaking yet she heard her own thoughts coming back to her. The world spun violently just before it ceased to exist.

  §

  The leaves on the trees hung heavy, soaked from the constant drizzle. John stared straight ahead as he rode back along the path to their camp. At least he knew the men he'd left in charge would protect the castle if he wasn't able to stop Arthur himself. They were good Saxon men and there was certainly some satisfaction in that knowledge. Rowena had loyal people around her but they were afraid to show any sign of it, afraid there would be repercussions.

  The horse jerked suddenly, nearly unseating John. He shook his head to clear his mind and was relieved to see his men coming toward him. How could he not have heard them coming? They were not very quiet.

  "Hail, my lord." Philip spoke first. "We have brought news."

  The young boy came up on the smallest of the palfreys, pushing his way ahead to stop beside John. He smiled at the boy before turning back to Philip.

  "What news?"

  "The enemy camp has been located. We have seen five men present. They seem to be waiting for something or someone."

  John's lips curled with contempt. Arthur. So he hasn't made it back to them. "Anything else?"

  Philip looked to the young boy, who seemed suddenly shy, unable to look John in the face. "Speak plain. Don't be afraid."

  "It's the red-haired man, me lord. He'd said he'd get his family land back, one way or another. I didn't understand what he meant until I heard your men talking."

  "What is it he meant then?"

  "He must have been Arthur the Red's son. The Normans slaughtered him and burned his lands. It was worse than anywhere else. He had fought against the Normans. He wouldn't pay homage."

  John's mind went unbidden to the early days of their landing when William had looked for supporters among the villagers against King Harold. Those who went against William were treated cruelly. None survived those early days. William slaughtered them all. Surprised by his own contempt for the behavior, John wondered why he had just gone along with such horrendous acts.

  Philip interrupted his thoughts. "Arthur had every reason to want to keep the fight against us going. He wanted his land back."

  Every man there knew William's code for surrender—swear fealty to him and survive—fight against him and lose everything.

  "It must not have been enough for our greedy friend."

  John tried to piece together the events that would have led to William giving Arthur the demesne. It didn't make sense. Why would William trust someone who had every reason to hate him?

  "My lord, we believe we know where Arthur and his men have gone."

  Philip and John looked at each other. "Their family lands," John stated.

  §

  It didn't take long to pick up Arthur's trail when they knew where he would be heading. The Roman ruins had been at the very farthest corner of his family lands. They had been extremely wealthy with many men at their disposal. John learned from Aldred that Arthur had sided with Tostig Godwinson over his more powerful brother. Arthur the elder and his son had traveled to the north to fight with him. Backed by the Danish Canute, they were sure that they would win. Instead, they were quickly beaten back. It was a setb
ack for Arthur's future hopes for himself and his son. The news that William of Normandy was making his way across the channel had set them all at a run back to protect their homes.

  Passing by the burned out shell of what was once Arthur's family home, John saw the proof of Arthur's loss. The once well-maintained lands were overrun with tall, wild grass, brown from the miserable drought. The castle's only source of water, the stone well, had been smashed to pieces, the strewn rocks now interspersed with tall clumps of weeds. The wooden bucket hung forlornly from the winch, its wooden support nearly rotted in two.

  John could imagine why Arthur would choose this place to finally face him. Here, Arthur had been someone of importance. Here, Arthur could finally stop running, surrounded by all that he had lost. Perhaps even putting an end to the guilt that probably plagued him ever since his father's death. Today Arthur would be present to defend his family home against the Norman usurpers, John, and take back what was his or die in the battle.

  The unnatural silence sent a cold shiver of anticipation through John's body. Arthur was close by. He sensed it. Slowly approaching the fallow fields, little tufts of tall grass had taken over the once well-maintained path. The lingering death and destruction after all this time gave John a glimpse of what Arthur had lost when William had laid claim to the area.

  John's horse snorted but kept its head low. No imminent danger. His hands ached where they clenched the reins, the persistent cold drizzle saturating his leather gloves. The branches from the surrounding woods creaked sharply in the breeze. John scanned the distant tree line. He heard their horses before he saw their approach through the fog.

  Arthur had four men with him, so this would be an easy fight. No, this was just a necessary fight. The memory of Rowena's ashen face flashed in John's mind. She would be avenged. Arthur had to die. John's two men followed directly behind him, closing the distance across the uneven fields. The horses' approach was muffled by the damp earth. Each side stopped. Their breathing vaporized in the mist. At the sight of Arthur's smirking face, John's jaw clenched. He squared his shoulders. "Ready to end this?"

  "You arrogant bastard!" Arthur shook his head, his nose crinkled in disgust. "She never had any use for you."

  Refusing to take the bait, John waited. His horse shifted impatiently beneath him. John released his tight hold of the reins. The weight of his mace rested comfortably against his thigh. He caressed the worn handle of the formidable weapon. He would enjoy smashing this man's brains in. He smiled at Arthur.

  Arthur sneered back, struggling to control his skittish mount. "I have to say though…" He lifted his chin in defiance. "She wasn't really worth waiting for. Disappointing even."

  John reached for the heavy mace at the same time his knees squeezed his battle-ready horse beneath him. It reared slightly in anticipation of its target. Arthur did not hesitate as he, too, advanced his horse, closing the distance between them. As if on cue, Peter and Philip cut Arthur's men away from their leader. Their horses unequal to the task of warfare quickly turned tail and ran. They were easily chased into the dense forest.

  Arthur continued toward John at full speed. He leaned forward, his spear at the ready. John's eagerness increased as the distance closed between them. Arthur's horse unexpectedly broke the advance and made a wide arc around him. John snorted in frustration. With satisfaction, he heard his opponent's muffled curses at the animal's lack of training.

  John laughed, bringing his horse around with ease to face his opponent. "You can pretend to be Norman but you…and your mount… verily fall short!"

  Arthur pulled up sharply on the reins, his animal reared in distress. His face was a mask of fury. He pushed his horse forward. John smirked. He remained motionless. The horse would not come close. He was right. Arthur nearly unseated himself, his raised spear unable to make contact.

  Turning his horse back around, Arthur faced him, huffing in his outrage. John crossed his arms, leaned against the mace in front of him, and gave him a menacing smile. "Would you like to see how it is actually done?"

  Arthur's nostrils flared in anger. John spurred his horse forward, hunched low for speed. His body protected by his shield; his other arm honed into the rhythmic arc of his mace. He focused on Arthur's skull. Jerked at the reckless pace, Arthur's horse whinnied in distress. With a firm pull on the reins, John cut off their retreat. The weighted mace swung in a downward arc. His heels pushed into the stirrups. He prepared for the impact.

  Arthur's skull was cracked under the impact. Unseated, he dropped to the ground. The shaft of his spear snapped loudly beneath him. Arthur lay motionless, face down in the mud.

  John dismounted. The jolt of the ground ran up his body. The weight of the mace pulled at his arm. Exhaustion. Blood matted Arthur's hair to his head. John approached cautiously. Moaning, Arthur shifted his arms. Thrashing would begin soon if it had indeed been a death blow. John waited. Thick drops of rain started. It pounded against his helmet, against his throbbing head. His mace rested head down against the ground. He leaned slightly against its shaft. Arthur moaned again. There was little movement. Wiping the rain that dripped down his nose, John was caught off guard by the sudden movement. The mace flew away from his grasp. He struggled to remain standing. In one movement, Arthur swung the spear handle as he planted himself before John.

  Unarmed, John was pressed backward by Arthur's quick advance. His broken spear shaft whipped by, hissing near John's ear. Arthur's speed and accuracy surprised John, and he stumbled, unable to move fast enough. The ground beneath his feet turned to muck and oozed around him. He staggered back with one foot sucked into the mud, costing him precious seconds and Arthur was on him. He swung the shaft again. Contact.

  The pain shot across John's upper body. Arthur's smug smile spurred John to react. His foot now free, he charged at his body, just missing Arthur's swinging shaft, grabbing his chest. The rain pelted down on them. They fell to the ground. Arthur's soaked hauberk slipped easily through John's frozen fingers.

  Air whooshed from John's lungs, Arthur's knees squeezing as he straddled his body. Arthur steadily pushed the shaft across John's chest, closer and closer to his neck. The slivers pierced John's hand where he strained against the downward motion. Arthur's strength was far superior. John's injured arm dipped first. Fear shot through him like a hot iron. If he died here, Rowena would be forced into marrying this man. If he died here, this devil's spawn would rally the Saxons against the Normans. If he died here, the rest of Rowena's people would be caught up in a bloodbath not of their doing. No. That is not the way of it.

  A sudden surge burst through his arm and the shaft came up unexpectedly cracking against Arthur's face. Blood dripped from his nose as he pulled back in pain. John pushed and tumbled Arthur onto his back, John's elbow against his neck. Arthur's eyes were wide with fear. With his free hand, John grabbed the spear head and jabbed it into the unprotected inner thigh of his nemesis. His life's blood gushed onto the ground. John pushed the spear in deeper until the man struggled no more.

  Arthur's heavy body relaxed against John's hand. Dead. The cold ground numbed John's body when he pulled away from the corpse. The rain puddled around him. As if in a dream, John's friends emerged from the mist, his own horse in tow. Hanging back, they gave him time. John knew they had taken care of the other men. He didn't need to ask how. They had been Arthur's lackeys. What now? There was no satisfaction. A threat had been dealt with. No more. No less.

  John shook off his heavy helmet, the rain cool against his sweaty head. His deep breath was cut off by the shot of pain across his throbbing chest. It would take time to recover, in body and spirit. His arms were dead weights, and he peeled the bloodied glove from his hand. Arthur's blood. The rain washed it clean. John sighed in resignation. Returning to the present, he stood to face his friends. He silently mounted. They headed back across the barren land.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Rowena could smell the dampness, the blood… her blood, and feel the cold f
loor beneath her uncovered legs.

  "No, Arthur. Do not slake your anger on me." Her plea made no impression on the contorted face of her former confidant. "Why?" The whisper penetrated into her ear when she spoke the word aloud, forcing her to awaken from the nightmare. Sweat dripped down her neck as she propped herself to sit in the bed.

  The room was empty. All had left her to sleep or perhaps die? Rowena placed her hand on her empty womb. Many women died at childbirth. Some before the baby was even born. Many after. Some during the birthing, killing the child as well.

  Closing her eyes, she again saw her husband's haggard expression, his tears slipping down his face to fall on little Beatrice's cold face.

  Where was John now?

  He had told her he was a bastard and didn't know who his father was. It pained him to share that. She remembered his face, almost a look of surprise at his own admission. Why would he bare that inner shame, holding her all night long and rubbing her arms to keep the chill away, and sobbing with her at their shared grief?

  Rowena opened her eyes. She brought her hand to her mouth, a slow smile spreading across her face. She was loved by him.

  He had said he would not go to another. It was her choice to believe him and even trust him. He could be the very man she had always wanted as a husband. Most importantly, his love could help her through this loss. She no longer had to suffer alone. She was not alone.

  Turning to her side, Rowena stroked the pillow beside her. He would return to her. She wanted him now, beside her. She needed his arms around her. If she died now, he would never know that she had loved him. The very idea felt like a stab to her heart. She pressed her lips in a determined line. She best not die now.

  §

  The heavy black material of mourning was draped across the gate as John approached the castle. Peter followed not far behind but passed on to stop abreast of him.

  "Your people share your loss, my lord," Peter said.

  There had been other signs along the way; boughs of dried flowers and thistle, a cairn already as high as his horse's flank, and the deafening stillness. In their own way the villagers mourned their lord and lady’s loss.