Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  Cynthia let out a breath of self-disgust. She shouldn’t be impatient with the woman. Elspeth was so excited to have a new charge on the way. She couldn’t help it if her enthusiasm was occasionally annoying.

  Still, Cynthia was in labor. It was painful and, though she’d delivered dozens of other women’s babes, having her own was strangely frightening.

  “Please…get them.”

  Elspeth bent near, whispering as if to a child. “My lady, I know the de Ware men have a certain history around the birth of their babes, but truly it isn’t appropriate for a husband…” Then she frowned. “Why do you want Father Paul?”

  Jeanne turned to the maids and explained. “Sometimes at this stage of the birth, the mother gets confused and—“

  “Listen!” Cynthia snapped. Quickly, before the rising wave of pain could incapacitate her, she hauled Elspeth to her by the front of her surcoat. Elspeth dropped her rag, and the maidens stared in surprise as Cynthia spat out her demands. “I need Father Paul and Garth, and I need them now!”

  Elspeth’s perplexed face blurred as the dull ache in Cynthia’s back sharpened, forcing her attention to her labor again.

  Elspeth tapped the shoulders of two of the maids. “Go to the chapel. Garth and the Father are likely there, praying.”

  They scurried off to do her bidding.

  The pain surged to a peak, and then fell away slowly, like the swell of the sea. Cynthia shut her eyes and focused, trying to envision her fate, willing the familiar images to come, but it was useless. The door that usually swung open for others as easily as a wattle gate was closed upon her own destiny.

  “Is she all right?” whispered one of the maids.

  “She’ll be fine,” Elspeth murmured, though Cynthia could hear doubt in the maid’s voice.

  She opened her eyes, silently cursing herself for letting things wait so long. She should have taken care of the matter the night Linet had her babe. But at the time, the household had been in a tumult, and then Garth had distracted her with that divine body of his. After that, she’d shared three months of utter bliss with him—cuddling away the long winter evenings, planning the Christmas feast, working together to convert the spare chambers of Wendeville into a magnificent teaching infirmary—and somehow the whole issue had slipped her mind.

  She glanced at the young women gathered around0 her. It was little wonder the infirmary had occupied her thoughts so completely. The place was nothing short of wondrous. And these maidens were a testament to the miracles that occurred daily. None of them had witnessed childbirth before. But with Jeanne the midwife’s help, they would learn today how to deliver and care for a newborn.

  Garth and Cynthia had turned Wendeville into a refuge, a place of hope for the spirit and the body. Since they’d opened their doors, they’d managed to restore the faith and the health of nearly every patient admitted, as well as providing trained physicians for Charing and the village.

  Garth was too busy now with secular duties to devote himself fully to the chapel, but he’d found a good chaplain for Wendeville in Father Paul. Though Garth was never seen without his sword, he still wore his wooden crucifix as a constant reminder of his faith.

  Another contraction claimed Cynthia. This time, all her panting did nothing to assuage the pain. She dug her fingers into the bed while Elspeth stroked the hair back from her tossing head.

  But it, too, passed, and she heard El speaking softly to the maids. “It’s helpful,” she said, “to remain quiet and calm while she’s laboring.” Then she took Cynthia’s hand and bent to whisper frantically against her ear. “Sweet Jesu, my lady, why do you call for the chaplain? Have you foreseen your death?”

  “Nay,” she said with an incredulous laugh. But her levity was interrupted by the onslaught of another contraction. She squeezed Elspeth’s hand and huffed out shallow puffs of air. An irresistible urge to push overwhelmed her. But it wasn’t yet time. She refused to birth this babe until the chaplain came. Until Garth stood by her side. She held back, breathing faster until the desire passed.

  There was little time between pains now. Scarcely did one wave subside when another began. If the Father was delayed…

  “You must watch for the head to crown,” Jeanne explained to the women.

  The maids peered solemnly between her legs, as if they expected the arrival of the Holy Grail. If she hadn’t been so consumed with pain, Cynthia would have laughed.

  Just as she thought she might succumb to the need to push, the two maids returned with their quarry. Garth had turned as pale as vellum. Father Paul furrowed his white brows. “You called for me?”

  “Why did you call for the chaplain?” Garth demanded, his voice weak with fear, pushing his way past the women to come to her side. The terror was naked in his eyes. “Are you…is the babe…?”

  A wave of incapacitating pain prevented her speech, but Elspeth answered, “She’ll be fine.”

  “Please,” Cynthia gasped, clutching at the chaplain’s sleeve. “Hurry.”

  She couldn’t resist the desire to push this time. It was strong than anything she’d ever felt. She bore down, clenching her fists, holding her breath.

  “I see it!” a maid yelled excitedly. “The babe is coming!”

  Cynthia sucked in a fast gulp of air and seized a fistful of the chaplain’s cassock.

  “Now!” she panted. “Before the babe is born!” She groaned with the need to bear down.

  Garth sank to his knees beside her. Anxiety creased his features as he clung desperately to her arm. “Oh, God, what is it, Cynthia?”

  “For the love of all that’s holy,” she gasped at the chaplain, “marry us! Marry us quick!”

  “What!” Garth exploded.

  “We…never…”

  It was the most challenging thing she’d ever done, spitting out the words of the marriage rites as labor pains exerted their control over her body. But somehow she did it. And somehow Garth managed to gasp out his own part of the covenant.

  By a narrow miracle, their babe was born not a by-blow, but the legitimate heir to Wendeville.

  Little Sir Arthur, with gray-green eyes and chestnut hair tipped with the color of marigolds. With a gift for healing, a talent with the quill, and the spirit of a knight. His grandfather le Wyte’s stubbornness and his grandmother de Ware’s wiles. The noble, healthy, squalling son of Lady Cynthia and Lord Garth de Ware. The beginning of a litter of pups that would become the next generation of the Knights de Ware.

  Excerpt from LADY DANGER

  By Glynnis Campbell

  (writing as Sarah McKerrigan)

  Book 1 in the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch Trilogy

  “So. Where is the third wench?” Sir Pagan murmured casually, feeling far from casual as he and Colin du Lac hunkered behind the concealing cloud of heather, spying upon the two splendid maids bathing in the pond below.

  Colin almost strangled on his incredulity. “God’s breath, you greedy sot,” he hissed. “Isn’t it enough you have your choice of the pair of beauties yonder? Most men would give their sword arm to—”

  Both men froze as the blonde woman, gloriously drenched in sunlight, sluiced water up over a creamy shoulder, rising above the waves enough to bare a pair of perfect breasts.

  The blood drained from Pagan’s face and rushed to his loins, making them ache fiercely. Lord, he should have swived that lusty harlot in the last town before he came to negotiate such matters. This was as foolish as shopping for provender with a full purse and an empty gut.

  But somehow he managed an indifferent grunt, despite the overwhelming desire disrupting his thoughts and transfiguring his body. “A man never purchases a blade, Colin,” he said hoarsely, “without inspecting all the swords in the shop.”

  “True, but a man never runs his thumb along the edge of a sword presented him by the King.”

  Colin had a point. Who was Sir Pagan Cameliard to question a gift from King David? Besides, it wasn’t a weapon he chose. It was only a wife. “
Pah.” He swatted an irritating sprig of heather out of his face. “One woman is much the same as another, I suppose,” he grumbled. “‘Tis no matter which of them I claim.”

  Colin snorted in derision. “So say you now,” he whispered, fixing a lustful gaze upon the bathers, “now that you’ve laid eyes on the bountiful selection.” A low whistle shivered from between his lips as the more buxom of the two maids dove beneath the glittering waves, giving them a glimpse of bare, sleek, enticing buttocks. “Lucky bastard.”

  Pagan did consider himself lucky.

  When King David first offered him a Scots holding and a wife to go with it, he’d half expected to find a crumbling keep with a withered old crone in the tower. One glance at the imposing walls of Rivenloch eased his fears on the first count. And to his astonishment, the prospective brides before him, delectable pastries the King had placed upon his platter, were truly the most appetizing he’d seen in a long while, perhaps ever. His stirring loins offered proof of that.

  Still, the idea of marriage unnerved Pagan like a cat rubbed tail to whiskers.

  “God’s eyes, I can’t decide which I’d rather swive,” Colin mused, “that beauty with the sun-bleached locks or the curvy one with the wild tresses and enormous…” He released a shuddering sigh.

  “Neither,” Pagan muttered.

  “Both,” Colin decided.

  Deirdre of Rivenloch tossed her long blonde hair over one shoulder. She could feel the intruders’ eyes upon her, had felt them for some time.

  It wasn’t that she cared if she was caught at her bath. The sisters suffered from neither modesty nor shame. How could one be ashamed or proud of having what every woman possessed? If a stray lad happened to look upon them with misplaced lust, it was no more than folly on his part.

  Deirdre ran her fingers through her wet tresses and cast another surreptitious glance up the hill, toward the thick heather and drooping willows. The eyes trained upon her now were likely just that, belonging to a couple of curious youths who’d never seen a naked maid before. But she didn’t dare mention their presence to Helena, for her impetuous sister would likely draw her sword first and ask their business afterward. Nay, Deirdre would deal with their mischief later herself.

  For now she had a grave matter to discuss with Helena. And not much time.

  “You delayed Miriel?” she asked, running a palm full of sheep tallow soap along her forearm.

  “I hid her sais,” Helena confided, “and then told her I’d seen the stable lad skulking about her chamber earlier.”

  Deirdre nodded. That would keep their youngest sister busy for a while. Miriel allowed no one to touch her precious weapons from the Orient.

  “Listen, Deir,” Helena warned, “I won’t let Miriel sacrifice herself. I don’t care what Father says. She’s too young to wed. Too young and too…” She sighed in exasperation.

  “I know.”

  What they both left unspoken was the fact that their youngest sister wasn’t forged of the same metal they were. Deirdre and Helena were their father’s daughters. His Viking blood pumped through their hearts. Tall and strong, they possessed wills of iron and skills to match. Known throughout the Borders as the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, they’d taken to the sword like a babe to the breast. Their father had raised them to be fighters, to fear no man.

  Miriel, however, to the lord’s dismay, had proved as delicate and docile as their long departed mother. Whatever warrior spirit might have been nurtured in her had been quelled by Lady Edwina, who’d begged that Miriel be spared what she termed the perversion of the other two sisters.

  After their mother died, Miriel had tried to please their father in her own way, amassing an impressive collection of exotic weapons from traveling merchants, but she’d developed neither the desire nor the strength to wield them. She’d become, in short, the meek, mild, obedient daughter their mother desired. And so Deirdre and Helena had protected Miriel all her life from her own helplessness and their father’s disappointment in her.

  Now it was up to them to save her from an undesirable marriage.

  Deirdre passed her sister the lump of soap. “Trust me, I have no intention of leading the lamb to slaughter.”

  The spark of battle flared in Helena’s eyes. “We’ll challenge this Norman bridegroom then?”

  Deirdre frowned. She knew that not every conflict was best resolved on the battlefield, even if her sister did not. She shook her head.

  Helena cursed under her breath and gave the water a disappointed slap. “Why not?”

  “To defy the Norman is to defy the King.”

  Hel arched a brow in challenge. “And?”

  Deirdre’s frown deepened. One day Helena’s audaciousness would be her undoing. “‘Tis treason, Hel.”

  Helena puffed out an irritated breath and scrubbed at her arm. “‘Tis hardly treason when we’ve been betrayed by our own King. This meddler is a Norman, Deirdre…a Norman.” She sneered the word as if it were a disease. “Pah! I’ve heard they’re so soft they can’t grow a proper beard. And some say they bathe even their hounds in lavender.” She shuddered with distaste.

  Deirdre had to agree with her sister’s frustration, if not her claims. Indeed, she’d been just as outraged upon learning that King David had handed over Rivenloch’s stewardship, not to a Scot, but to one of his Norman allies. Aye, the man was reported to be a fierce warrior, but certainly he knew nothing about Scotland.

  What complicated matters was that their father had launched no protest. But then the Lord of Rivenloch hadn’t been right in his mind for months now. Deirdre frequently found him conversing with the air, addressing their dead mother, and he was ever losing his way in the keep. He seemed to live in some idyllic time in the past, where his rule was unquestioned and his lands secure.

  But with the crown resting uneasily on Stephen’s head, greedy English barons had begun to wreak havoc along the Borders, seizing what lands they could in the ensuing chaos.

  So for the past year the sisters had hidden their father’s infirmity as best they could, to maintain the illusion of power and to prevent the perception of Rivenloch as an easy target. Deirdre had served as steward of the holding and captain of the guard, with Helena as second in command, and Miriel had overseen the household and the accounts.

  They’d managed adequately. But Deirdre was wise enough to know such subterfuge couldn’t last forever. Maybe that was the reason for this sudden appointment by the King. Maybe rumors of their father’s debility had spread.

  So Deirdre had thought long on the matter and finally come to grips with the truth. While Rivenloch’s knights were brave and capable, they hadn’t fought a real battle since before she was born. Now, land-hungry warmongers threatened the Borders. Only a fortnight ago, a rogue English baron had brazenly attacked the Scots keep at Mirkloan, not fifty miles distant. Indeed, it might serve Rivenloch well to have the counsel of a warrior seasoned in combat, someone who could advise her in her command.

  But the missive that had arrived last week bearing King David’s seal, the one Deirdre had shared only with Helena, also commanded the hand of one of the Rivenloch daughters in marriage to the steward. Clearly, the King intended a more permanent position for the Norman knight.

  The news had hit her like a mace in the belly. With the responsibility of managing the castle, the furthest thing from any of the sisters’ minds had been marriage. That the King would wed one of them to a…foreigner…was inconceivable. Did David doubt Rivenloch’s loyalty? Deirdre could only pray this compulsory marriage was his attempt to keep the holding at least half in her clan’s hands.

  She wanted to believe that, needed to believe it. Otherwise, she might be tempted to sweep up her own blade and join her hotheaded sister in a Norman massacre.

  Helena had ducked under the water, cooling her wrath. Now she sprang up suddenly, sputtering and shaking her head like a hound, spraying drops everywhere. “I know! What if we waylay this Norman bridegroom in the wood?” she said eagerly
. “Catch him off guard. Slice him to ribbons. Blame his death on The Shadow?”

  For a moment, Deirdre could only stare mutely at her bloodthirsty little sister, whom she feared might be serious. “You’d slay a man unawares and accuse a common thief of his murder?” She scowled and grabbed the soap back. “Father named you rightly, Hel, for ‘tis surely where you’re bound. Nay,” she decided, “no one is going to be killed. One of us will marry him.”

  “Why should we have to marry him?” Hel said with a pout. “Is it not loathsome enough we must surrender our keep to the whoreson?”

  Deirdre clutched her sister’s arm, demanding her gaze. “We’ll surrender nothing. Besides, you know if one of us doesn’t wed him, Miriel will offer herself up, whether we will it or not. And Father will let her do it. We can’t allow that to happen.”

  Deirdre stared solemnly into her sister’s eyes, and they exchanged the look of unspoken agreement they’d shared since they were young lasses, the look that said they’d do whatever it took to protect helpless Miriel.

  Helena bit out a resigned curse, then muttered, “Stupid Norman. He doesn’t even have a proper name. Who would christen a child Pagan?”

  Deirdre didn’t bother to remind her sister that she answered to the name of Hel. Even Deirdre had to agree, however, that Pagan was not a name that conjured up visions of responsible leadership. Or honor. Or mercy. Indeed, it sounded like the name of a barbaric savage.

  Helena sighed heavily, then nodded and took the soap again. “‘Twill be me then. I will wed this son of a whelp.”

  But Deirdre could see by the murderous gleam in Hel’s eyes that if she had her way, her new husband wouldn’t survive the wedding night. And while Deirdre might not mourn the demise of the uninvited Norman, she had no wish to see her sister drawn and quartered by the King for his murder. “Nay,” she said. “‘Tis my burden. I’ll marry him.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Hel shot back. “I’m more expendable than you. Besides,” she said with a scheming grin, rubbing the sheep tallow soap back and forth between her hands, “while I lull the bastard into complacency, you can marshal forces for a surprise attack. We’ll win Rivenloch back from him, Deirdre.”