Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  “I was…wrong, child,” he croaked, lifting one skeletal hand to lock onto her arm. “Not…a…witch.” His eyes grew distant for a moment, as if he glimpsed the world beyond. Then he looked at her one final time. “An angel.”

  Garth knelt beside her then. He retrieved his once discarded wooden cross from inside his tunic and clutched it in one hand. With the other, he made the sign of blessing over the Abbot. He peeled the dying man’s hand from Cynthia’s arm and held it in his own, against the cross. Then, in a voice ringing with faith, he began the sacred words of the last rites.

  By the time Linet and Cambria arrived with the opium wine, the Abbot was already gone, and they were startled to find their husbands uncharacteristically silent and solemn, staring in awe at Cynthia as if she’d performed a miracle.

  CHAPTER 23

  Cynthia took a deep breath of late October air. The leaves twirled and twisted on the gray branches of the canopy overhead, like ladies dancing in gowns of lemon and apricot and cerise. A few, caught by an unexpected puff of wind, swirled loose to flutter to the ground, flickering in the pale sunlight on their way. The scent of ripe apples permeated the brisk air, mixing with the odors of smoke and mulch to mull the wine of the autumn breeze.

  Everyone waited for her within the privy garden, just past the gate—her betrothed, the priest, the few witnesses. But impulsively, Cynthia kicked off her boots and allowed the nurturing energy of the earth to seep up through the soles of her bare feet. She closed her eyes, letting the sun burnish her thoughts to a golden hue.

  At long last, she took Roger the steward’s arm, giving it an affectionate squeeze, and they walked slowly forward through the gate, along the leafy path toward the man she was about to marry.

  It was an intimate wedding, here in the lush quiet of the garden. The feast afterward, of course, would be enormous. The retinues of both de Ware brothers, her own castle folk, and the nearby villagers were invited to partake of a week’s worth of festivities, including, at Cambria’s insistence, a grand tournament. Elspeth had slaved for days organizing the great event. And Linet had wielded her creative authority, ordering the attire for the bride and groom with a practiced hand.

  But the wedding ceremony itself was of Cynthia’s design.

  Beneath the leafless peach tree, Prior Thomas from the monastery, Bible in hand, beamed at her. Near him, Elspeth blubbered into a linen kerchief. And on either side of the path, Garth’s closest kin stood, their faces a sweet blend of encouragement and acceptance.

  Cynthia, however, only had eyes for Garth.

  He wore a surcoat of rich, deep gray velvet overlaid with a fir green tabard that perfectly matched the smoky hue of his eyes. Around his neck hung the wooden cross proclaiming him a man of God. But it was the first time since he was a boy that Cynthia had seen him attired in clothing befitting the son of a noble. The silver link belt slung low on his hips caught the folds of fabric in a manner that accentuated his bold, lean figure, tripping her heart and turning her knees to pudding.

  Cynthia swallowed hard. Were it not for the half dozen witnesses present, she might well have thrown herself at him, so intense was the wave of desire that washed over her as her handsome hero captured her gaze with his own.

  She nervously fingered the soft material of the gown Linet had made up for her. It was of her finest Italian blue, Linet had said, claiming it set off Cynthia’s eyes like two pale sapphires set in a summer sky. At the moment, Cynthia didn’t care if it glowed with starlight. She didn’t plan to be wearing it long after the ceremony was over.

  As if scolding her for impure thoughts, the babe inside her suddenly aimed a hearty kick at her ribs. She gasped, then giggled as five faces showed instant concern. How sweet it was, she decided, to garner such affection from those who’d shortly be her kin. She’d known them less than a fortnight, and already they looked after her like a baby sister. Linet fussed over her clothing as if Cynthia were a queen. Duncan flattered her mercilessly with odes to her virtues. Holden stood guard over her like a mastiff. And Cambria taught her the history of her own Gavin clan, of which she insisted Cynthia would soon be a part. Cynthia couldn’t be happier.

  Roger guided her to her betrothed, and Garth held a beringed hand out to her. She glanced at the insignia. It was the Wolf de Ware. It was right that he wore it, she thought. It would remind him that though he also wore the cross of peace, the warrior wolf was always within him.

  He took her hand, and Prior Thomas began the solemn rite of marriage. The moment seemed enchanted as the words fell from his lips in an elegant rhythm, their magic echoed even more powerfully by the man beside her. Even as Garth spoke, the sun peeped from behind a silvery cloud, spraying its rays through the bare limbs of the tree and down over his head like the halo of a saint in a cathedral painting. She sighed. How magnificent Garth was—beautiful and honorable and noble—and how lucky she was to have him.

  She hugged his forearm and stepped a pace closer.

  Suddenly, something wiggled beneath her bare foot. She shifted her weight. It wiggled again. Nay, she thought, holding her breath. It couldn’t be…not in October.

  She didn’t mean to scream. It was just such a surprise. And such an unpleasant one when she’d been drifting along on such lovely thoughts.

  Of course, once shescreamed, Elspeth shrieked in turn. Garths’ eyes narrowed dangerously, and the poor prior backed away in alarm. Cynthia heard three swords unsheathe behind her. But all she could do was hop about on one foot, trying very hard not to curse as the pain of the bee sting throbbed under her toe and even harder not to laugh as she beheld the de Wares—Duncan, Holden, and Cambria—with swords drawn to fight the insect foe.

  Decorum was eventually restored. As the prior dabbed at his brow, Garth used his dagger to gently dislodge the barb, murmuring with a smile that the task seemed somehow familiar. Elspeth’s heart resumed its normal pace under the calming ministrations of Roger the steward. The de Ware swords returned to their sheaths and the prior to his post.

  Later she’d apply a poultice of lemon balm and mint to the swelling. But for now, she wanted to continue with the ceremony. The clouds had thickened ominously, and she could smell rain in the air. Besides, Garth’s palm cupping her bare foot had done little to assuage the desire surging through her veins. Her body was unmistakably eager to consummate the marriage.

  She spoke her vows sincerely but hastily, halting just once when the babe again pressed a sharp heel against her rib. She was over halfway through them when she heard the breeze begin to rise lazily through the boughs of the willow. She supposed that was why she didn’t notice the other sound earlier—the soft wheeze coming from behind her.

  But there was no overlooking the quick, furious whisper that came moments later. That was followed by a long sigh, then a quicker, more furious whisper. Soon there were whispers from all sides and something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Finally, she couldn’t ignore them anymore. She stopped mid-sentence and wheeled around.

  Everyone was gathered around Linet. Her face was strained and as white as birch bark, and she staggered against Duncan.

  “What the devil?” Garth said.

  “Oh, shite!” Cynthia cried, picking up her skirts and rushing to Linet’s side. “It’s the babe, isn’t it?”

  “Oh…Cynthia…” Linet puffed, “I’m…sorry.”

  Cynthia waved away her words. There was neither reason nor time for apology. By the looks of her, Linet might well deliver her babe before she could get inside the keep.

  “Duncan!” she ordered, snapping into action. “Spread your cloak on the grass here. Help her lie down.”

  “On the grass?”

  “Aye! There’s no time! Holden and Cambria! Fetch hot water from the kitchen! And Elspeth—“

  “I’ve got it,” the trusty maid called, already on her way. “Primrose, yarrow, and raspberry infusion. I’ll bring them all. Roger, come along to fetch linens!”

  Cynthia briskly rubbed her hands to
gether and crouched beside Linet, laid out now upon the sod. She smiled at the huffing woman in reassurance.

  “It’s your second child, aye?”

  Linet nodded vigorously.

  “Then we’d best hurry.”

  A first babe nearly always took half the night, but a second…there was no telling how quickly it would come. Cynthia blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes and glanced at the sky. Lord—she was so ill-equipped outside, and the heavens looked ripe to loose their burden any moment. It was ludicrous. She needed a bolster, linens, hot water…and a midwife. It took more than one person to properly deliver a babe.

  “What I really need is a midwife.” She peered speculatively up at Garth and Duncan.

  “I’ll go,” Duncan said sternly, ready to spring to his feet to fetch her. “Where is she? In the castle? In the village?”

  “There’s no time,” Cynthia replied.

  Garth understood at once. He placed a hand on his brother’s arm. “Us. She means us.”

  “Us?” Duncan said in horror. “But we’re not… We’ve never… It’s Holden who helped birth—“

  “What do you need?” Garth asked, undaunted, kneeling before Linet and pushing up his sleeves.

  Cynthia nodded her thanks. Heat glowed between her palms now as she rubbed them together. “Lift her knees and look beneath her skirts to see—“

  “What? Oh, nay, you don’t!” Duncan roared, shoving Garth aside. He pushed up his own sleeves and knelt, grumbling, before his wife. “Don’t worry, Linet,” he muttered. “After this is over, I’ll beat Garth for his impertinence.”

  Cynthia was too busy laying her hand on Linet’s damp forehead to see the glower Garth gave his brother. She closed her eyes. Almost at once she received a brilliant picture…a healthy girl infant, a smiling mother—but no herbs. She frowned. She should at least see primrose. She took a deep breath and relaxed her mind. Nothing—not a single leaf. She pursed her lips in frustration. Why would there be no…

  “Faith!” she exclaimed, popping her eyes open as it suddenly became clear. “Has the babe crowned already?” She nudged Duncan aside to see for herself. Sure enough, a patch of fuzzy black the size of a crest medallion appeared. There’d be no time for herbs. “All right, Garth, move behind her. Help her to sit up and push with the next—“

  Linet groaned. Sweat stood upon her fair brow, and she screwed up her features in a grimace of determination.

  “That’s it,” Cynthia encouraged as she moved her palms over the laboring mother’s belly. “Squeeze Garth’s hand. Push hard. Duncan, what’s happening?”

  Concern etched his brows. “It’s…it’s coming out. Nay, it’s going back in. I can’t…”

  Linet panted as the wave passed.

  “All right, in a moment, we’ll try again,” Cynthia said.

  She glanced at Garth. He held Linet’s hand with true de Ware fortitude, though his knuckles were squeezed bloodless.

  Linet sucked in a few deep breaths, then bore down again. The cords of her neck stood out in relief as she pushed with all her might.

  “That’s it!” Duncan said. “That’s it! I can see it! I can see… Damn! Lost again.”

  “Breathe slowly,” Cynthia told Linet. “You’re working very hard. You must rest between.” She carefully unpinned the veil about Linet’s head and pressed it into Garth’s hand. “You can use this to mop her brow.”

  “But…” Linet puffed. “That’s…silk from—“

  “I don’t care if it’s the Golden Fleece,” Duncan muttered anxiously. “Go ahead, Garth, use it.”

  Garth swabbed the cloth across her forehead.

  “Of course…you don’t care, Duncan,” Linet complained. “You didn’t have to…bargain for it with…” Her indignant retort was interrupted by the wave of another contraction.

  “One long push now,” Cynthia said, laying a healing palm upon Linet’s furrowed brow.

  “I see it,” Duncan said as Linet groaned with strain. “It’s increasing. Aye. It’s large as a plum now. And now an apple. Aye…aye…nay.” He looked up in disappointment. “It’s slipped back in.”

  Linet pounded a discouraged fist on the ground and slumped back against Garth’s chest.

  “It’s all right,” Cynthia told her. “You rest now.” She chewed at her lip. She’d seen this before, when the head of the infant was too large for the mother. Linet was strong. She was pushing with far more power than most. It would weary her soon. But she was getting nowhere. Too long a delay might harm the infant. And, to add more fodder to the fire of her troubles, the first fat drops of rain began to pelt the ground.

  “Let’s try something,” she decided, rubbing her hands together and placing them atop Linet’s belly. “Duncan, get ready.”

  “Ready?”

  “To catch.”

  Cynthia caught a glimpse of terror on Duncan’s face just before Linet gulped in a quick breath, then squeezed hard. As she pushed, Cynthia laid the full weight of her arms over the top of the bulging mound and pressed down.

  “Aye!” Duncan cheered. “Aye! It’s coming now. I can see the brow. And the nose. And…Lord!” His voice cracked with fear, and he suddenly dove between Linet’s legs. “Got him!” he cried in victory. But his look of triumph soon turned to wondrous terror as he held the bloody, squirming, squalling bit of humanity.

  Cynthia rocked back on her heels and winked at Linet, who lay breathless but smiling in relief against Garth’s chest. “Men,” she said, shaking her head. “Him indeed.” Then she whispered, “It’s a girl.”

  She tore a sizable swatch from her own wedding gown, ignoring Linet’s weak protests, and, taking the tiny girl from Duncan, swaddled her appropriately in Linet’s “finest Italian blue.”

  By the time she cut the cord and delivered the afterbirth, a veritable deluge pounded the sod. Duncan and Garth, on speaking terms again as they tried to out-brag each other regarding their part in the delivery, shielded their women and helped carry Linet to shelter. Once inside, Elspeth made raspberry infusion for the new mother while Roger comforted the shaken Prior Thomas.

  It wasn’t till much later, when the prior returned to the monastery, when Linet was tucked comfortably into bed beside her new babe, when the skies cleared and the harvest moon shone golden through Cynthia’s window, upon the marriage bed she shared with Garth, that Cynthia realized they’d forgotten something.

  “Garth,” she crooned, slipping one bare leg over him and running a finger along the sensuous swell of his shoulder.

  “Aye, wife?” He arched against her thigh and nuzzled her hair. It felt divine.

  “Do you remember,” she said, slightly distracted, “at the wedding…”

  His lips curved into an irresistible smile that she naturally had to kiss. And then, when she found he tasted of mulberry wine, she had to kiss him again.

  Chuckling, he lapped at her mouth with a delicate tongue, taunting her, enticing her, until she could wait no longer. Completely forgetting what she meant to tell him, she threw her arms around his neck and clambered atop his fine-muscled body. Heedless of her own sinful abandon, she kissed his forehead, his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, settling again on his delicious mouth. Her low-slung belly brushed his, and he stroked her softly there, lingering awhile before he cupped the heavy weight of her breasts. She gasped. Her breasts prickled as his fingers grazed the distended nipples.

  He laved her tongue languorously with his own, making deep, primitive sounds in his throat as she rocked against his warm, naked flesh.

  Just as she thought she would burst with need of him, he lifted her hips and settled her down slowly onto his lap, filling her sweetly.

  Their dance was subdued now. Her girth allowed only gentle movement and soothing rhythms. But it was exhilarating beyond belief to feel Garth’s sweet restraint, to watch the ecstasy crease his features as he mastered his own release. And it was empowering to ride astride him, setting the cadence, choosing the tide, quivering with rapture as her
body edged closer to the precipice.

  This time, she leaped over the edge first. A hundred tremors shook her on the wondrous journey down. She cried out his name, squeezing him between her thighs, clutching at his broad shoulders. Her hair shivered over her breasts, which tingled almost painfully. And then she was floating.

  He followed her almost at once, thrashing his head across the pillow, bucking against her like an untamed stallion, groaning as if he endured unimaginable torture. And then he, too, was still.

  She continued to straddle him, too exhausted to move, yet almost asleep sitting up.

  “Now,” he inquired silkily, grinning, “what were you saying about the wedding?”

  She peered at him through nearly closed lids. It was hard to remember anything in the presence of that captivating crooked smile. “Nothing that can’t wait,” she said, slipping languorously aside to snuggle against him.

  They had a lifetime ahead of them—mellow autumns, cozy winters, vibrant springs, sultry summers. Their love was firmly rooted in fertile soil now. The stock was strong and hardy. And the growing season had just begun. Contentment, the warmth of Garth beside her, and the soft rhythm of their mingling breath lulled her to sleep.

  EPILOGUE

  “It won’t be long now, my lady,” Elspeth said, swabbing Cynthia’s brow with primrose water.

  “Breathe,” Jeanne the midwife bade her with irritating calm. “That’s it. Slow and steady.”

  “Get,” Cynthia ground out. “Father. Paul.”

  “As you can see,” Jeanne continued, ignoring Cynthia’s temper to lecture the eight maidens gathered around her heaving belly in various states of interest and disgust, “it’s helpful to have at least two individuals attending the birth. One stands here,” she said, moving to the foot of the bed, “to monitor the progress of the birth…”

  “Bring…Garth,” Cynthia panted.

  “And one here,” Elspeth added, indicating herself, “to comfort the laboring—“

  “El!”

  “Aye?” Her eyes were suddenly sweet and concerned.