‘I know now that she was trying to starve her daughter. Analise wanted only sons.’ He let out a sigh. ‘She told my father that I dropped the babe and killed my own sister.’
‘Dear God...’ Rosamund breathed. ‘And your father believed her?’
‘He did. I was punished for it when they branded me with the hot poker and sent me away. But before I left our lands, Analise warned me that if I ever dared to tell anyone about what I had seen, she would hurt Rhys. I stopped talking for a number of years, because I was afraid of her.’
Those years had been a blur of nightmares, and he had found it easy to obey her command. There was nothing at all to say—not when his own father refused to accept the truth. Warrick finished by saying, ‘My father believed Analise when she told him I was simple-minded and unworthy of being his son.’
‘I cannot believe he could not see her for what she truly was—a liar and a murderess.’ Rosamund held him tightly, and her embrace soothed the ache.
‘She died from a fall on horseback and broke her neck. Thank God, or else she might have found a way to hurt any other daughter she might have birthed.’
It was strange, but telling Rosamund what had happened had lightened the burden of the past. He drew his hand over her shift, down to her flat stomach. ‘It seems cruel to lose a second infant girl, one of my blood.’
She covered his hand with her own, letting it rest upon her womb. ‘I waited for a time to tell my husband about the babe, but he admitted last week that he knew I was with child when we wed. My father had told him, and Alan agreed to wed me, in spite of it. Or perhaps because of it.’ She laced her fingers with his. ‘I was surprised at how pleased Alan was, but I later understood it was because he believed he could not sire children. He told everyone of my pregnancy and was so very proud.’
Rosamund told him more, of the changes in her body and the time she first felt movement. ‘I was lying down in bed and I felt the barest touch, as if a tiny hand reached up to me.’ She smiled, but he heard the slight hitch of emotion in her voice. ‘It was so very precious, a part of you that remained within me. And as the months passed, Alan brought me gifts for the baby. A wooden rattle and silk for her clothing.’ She tightened her grip on his hand. ‘We became friends, and I could not be angry with him.
‘But a few weeks after Owen visited us, I lost the baby. I went into labour and delivered her stillborn. She was small enough to fit into my hand.’ Rosamund rested her face against his chest, and he could feel the hot tears spilling on to his skin. She wept for the loss of their daughter, and his own grief welled up inside him.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. But the words were useless in the face of such a tragedy. It would not bring the child back.
She grew quiet, tracing the outline of his face. ‘I have not ever conceived a child since I lost her. And never a day goes by that I do not think of her.’ Tears spilled over her face, and she murmured, ‘I named her Anne.’
His eyes burned, and he could not bring himself to mourn. A part of him ached with jealousy, that at least she had been able to look upon the face of their child. She had held their daughter before Annehad been buried and had even given her a name. Whereas he had never been given that chance.
With the greatest effort, Warrick pulled back the ragged emotions and steeled himself. He brushed away Rosamund’s tears and bade her, ‘Rest now, and I will bid you farewell in the morning.’
She gripped his hand in hers and drew it to her waist. ‘Will you not lie with me and share the hours we have left?’
He couldn’t. Not now, not with the weight of grief shadowing him. Better that he should leave his wife in peace and spend the last few hours in his own solitude. He brushed his mouth against hers in a light kiss before he left.
Just as he started to close the door to their chamber, he saw her curled up on her side, her shoulders racked with sobs. And her anguish echoed within his own heart, though he would never let her see it.
Chapter Thirteen
It had been four months since she had last seen her husband, and Rosamund could not suppress the fear that Warrick was dead. She had sent at least three missives to him, but no one had found him. He had sought an audience with King Henry in Normandy, but her messengers had all returned, admitting that Warrick had not been found among the king’s men. It terrified her to wonder if something had happened to him.
There was no doubt now that she was pregnant, but what startled her most was the size of this child. It appeared that she was much further along than she had imagined, which was impossible. But perhaps it was because she had given birth to a child before.
Owen had attempted to see her on numerous occasions, but her father had turned him away, even when the man had brought half of his forces. Not once had he allowed de Courcy to enter their gates. Rosamund was grateful for Harold’s protection but knew it could not last. What worried her the most was Warrick’s disappearance.
For that reason, she had begged her father to seek his own audience with the king. And now they were on their way to Canterbury, where Henry was rumoured to be travelling.
After they stopped, Rosamund rose from the litter, holding her back as she stood. The July sun was hot, and her body ached from the miles of their journey. Her father was near his horse, speaking to one of his men. She approached Harold and asked, ‘Are you certain the king will be here?’
‘I have it on good authority he has come to seek penance for the death of the archbishop.’ Harold sounded confident, but Rosamund was not so certain. The cathedral at Canterbury had been damaged during a fire, and the men were working to restore it.
‘Has there been any word from Warrick?’ His absence was an ache within her, for she could not help but fear the worst.
Her father hesitated a moment. ‘I learned he was taken prisoner by the king’s men. They are bringing him here, along with Owen de Courcy, as a witness. He has accused Warrick of murdering his brother.’
Her blood chilled at the thought of her husband being held captive. ‘When did this happen?’
‘A few weeks ago. I only just learned of it last night.’ Her father studied her a moment and added, ‘You are looking pale, Rosamund. You should sit.’
‘My husband has been a captive for weeks,’ she retorted. ‘Sitting is the very last thing I want to do. I need to see Warrick. You must find him for me.’
Harold shook his head. ‘It is not possible. I brought you here for an audience with the king, so he would see for himself that you are with child. If he believes Alan’s testimony that you were already pregnant before he died, you can return to Pevensham. Then, if you bear a son, the land will belong to him.’
She had no desire to fight for Pevensham any more. The land was lost to her, and she had no right to claim it—especially now.
‘I beg of you—please find my husband and arrange for me to see him.’ Though she had kept up the façade that this was Alan’s heir, Warrick deserved to know of her pregnancy. She wanted to mend the breach between them, for it wounded her heart to be parted from the man she loved.
Harold reached out for her hand, and his gnarled palm closed around hers. ‘There is a rebellion happening, Rosamund. King Henry’s sons and his own wife are rising up against him, and we know not who will win. These are dangerous times.’
‘But my husband has been falsely accused. I cannot let him remain a captive.’ Warrick mattered more to her than all else. She would not even consider abandoning him.
‘And you would endanger your child by interfering with men who want to overthrow the king?’ her father mused. ‘There is no danger of Warrick dying, for the king has not granted him a trial yet.’
‘I do not trust Owen de Courcy. He will do everything in his power to lay the blame at my husband’s feet.’
Her father turned to face her. ‘I know you are afraid, Rosamund. B
ut you must think of Alan’s heir first.’
Harold’s demeanour towards her had altered greatly over the past few months, and he had softened at the sight of her pregnancy blooming. There was still a rift between them, of a father who demanded obedience and a daughter who held her own power. But he had made an effort to be kinder, and it had not gone unnoticed.
She rested her hands upon her swollen womb. There was a ripple of movement, the barest touch of motion. Her heart ached for this unborn child, and as much as she was afraid of losing it, she would never risk the baby’s life.
‘I love Warrick,’ she reminded her father. ‘And if he is endangered in any way, I will do whatever I must to save him. He matters more to me than all else. And I have not forgotten how you had him punished or how you forced me into a marriage with Alan.’
Her father grew sombre. ‘I was angry with him for stealing your innocence. If ever you bear a daughter of your own, you might some day understand how you could easily kill someone for daring to harm your child.’
She stilled at this, for already she felt a strong bond with this unborn baby. Her father was right—she would indeed fight with her last breath for the sake of her child. ‘I do understand,’ she said at last. ‘But Warrick and I spoke vows to one another on holy ground before I gave myself to him. He took nothing from me that I did not give willingly.’
Her father blanched at that. ‘Do not speak of such things, Rosamund. Let no one hear you say that.’
She kept her expression serene. ‘Because you fear I will lose Pevensham. What we had was a true marriage, was it not? Which would make my marriage to Alan invalid.’
‘Do not be a fool,’ her father gritted out. ‘What’s done is done and cannot be changed. But you may be able to save Warrick’s life and keep Pevensham if you do as I ask.’
Rosamund was weary of lies and deception. When she said nothing, her father added, ‘I do not deny that I made mistakes. I was an angry father who wanted you to have a castle of your own.’
‘And you cared naught for what I wanted.’
‘You were a girl.’ He sighed. ‘How could you know what you wanted in a husband?’
But she had known from the first moment she saw Warrick. ‘You had no right to do what you did.’
He looked as if he wanted to argue with her, but instead, he kept silent. ‘Whether you believe it or not, I do want you to find happiness, Rosamund—despite all that has happened. Have I not travelled across England to help you in this?’
She didn’t know what to believe. He had manipulated her life, punished the man she loved, and exerted power over her.
He let go of her hand and said, ‘I will speak to the king on Warrick’s behalf. But I can make no promises.’
She could hardly believe what he had said. And yet, it did appear that time had softened the edges of this man. As much as she resented all that he had done, it seemed that he was trying to bridge the distance between them.
‘I would be grateful,’ she told him. ‘But if anything happens to Warrick, I will not stand back and do nothing. I will fight for his life.’
Her father reached out and brushed his knuckles against her face. ‘Just as I would fight for you and your happiness.’
* * *
‘We’re going to die,’ Bennett muttered. Warrick eyed his friend with disinterest. They had fought alongside Henry’s men near Alnwick Castle, only to find it besieged by King William of Scotland and thousands of Flemish mercenaries. The soldiers had decamped several miles south, keeping a clear distance of the enemy while they decided upon their strategy. ‘There are eighty thousand men, so I’ve heard,’ Bennett continued. ‘We’ll be caught in the midst of a slaughter.’
‘There are not eighty thousand,’ Warrick corrected. ‘The Scottish king wants the people to believe that, but it’s not true.’ The power of exaggeration could provoke fear, and that was what William wanted.
Warrick wondered if his brother Rhys was involved in this battle and hoped not. An unexpected war could be a curse or a blessing. He knew his men wanted to escape their bindings and flee, but he could not join them—not until he brought justice on Owen. The man had accused him of murder. If he dared to attempt an escape from this captivity, it was as good as admitting guilt.
Bennett fell into silence, and so did Godfrey. Both of his men had refused to abandon him when he’d gone to seek Henry in Normandy. And because of their loyalty, they had joined him in captivity.
God help him, he missed his wife. Warrick had parted ways with her, unable to let go of his resentment for the past. He had finally allowed himself to grieve for his daughter, and time had made him see that Rosamund had made her choices out of fear. He knew not if he would ever see her again, and the burden of regret shadowed his mood. But if he had the chance to look upon her face once more, he would tell her how much she meant to him.
Bennett let out a heavy sigh. ‘It matters not how many men there are. The problem is that we cannot fight, if we remain imprisoned.’
‘I will ensure that you both are released,’ Warrick swore. ‘You are not to blame for any of this.’
Godfrey rested his bound hands upon his knees. ‘We could offer to fight for King Henry,’ he suggested. ‘It would prove our loyalty to England.’
‘You’re daft. They’ll never give us weapons,’ Bennett argued back.
But Warrick wasn’t so certain. He had already fought for the king in Normandy, after Rosamund had married Alan. ‘There may come a time when they need every fighting man.’ He shot a wry look at Bennett. ‘Especially against eighty thousand who are not really eighty thousand.’
Though he tried to keep their spirits up, he felt the shadow of death resting upon his neck. Although he was a prisoner now, he had brought Father Francis with him as a witness. The priest had avoided captivity, and had promised to speak on their behalf at the trial.
* * *
Around mid-morning, one of King Henry’s commanders approached him. He eyed Warrick and said, ‘My men have seen you fight before. You joined our forces in Normandy two years ago, did you not?’
Warrick nodded. ‘I did.’ He had hired his sword out, fighting for England wherever he was needed. The constant marching and the haze of battle had made it possible to endure each day.
‘They called you the Blood Lord.’ The commander studied him, as if wondering if it were true. ‘You slaughtered Henry’s enemies.’
He gave a nod of assent. The truth was, he hadn’t cared whether he lived or died. When Rosamund had married Alan, Warrick had welcomed the thought of death. Every time he swung his sword, it was a means of fighting back against both of them.
‘You want me to fight again,’ he stated. And so he would—but this time, he would fight for his future with Rosamund.
‘You were imprisoned because you were accused of murdering Alan de Courcy of Pevensham. But none of that will matter if we don’t survive this battle.’ The commander drew closer, unsheathing his blade. He sliced through the ropes at Warrick’s ankles but kept his hands bound. ‘Your reputation among our men has saved you. Come and fight alongside us.’
Warrick didn’t move. ‘Free my men, and they will join with your army. They are strong warriors as well.’ It was a grave risk, but if they survived this battle, his loyalty to the king would stand true.
And it was the only means of seeing Rosamund again.
Two weeks later
‘Your father bid me to say that the king has not answered your request for an audience, my lady.’ The young serving lad bowed and was about to leave when Rosamund stopped him.
‘Wait, please.’ She was not surprised that the king had ignored her pleas, but she had another tactic in mind. Only a day ago, she had spied a familiar face among Henry’s knights. ‘Send word to Sir Ademar of Dolwyth that I wish to speak with him. I understand he is here
, fighting with the king’s men.’
‘He is, my lady, but...’ The boy’s words trailed off with confusion.
‘I have my reasons,’ she said. ‘Send word that Rosamund of Pevensham, wife of Warrick de Laurent, has need of him.’
The boy hurried away, and Rosamund went to sit for a moment. Ademar had been an adolescent boy when he had attempted to help them escape. She knew he had been forced to betray their location against his will. And now, he might want to make amends for it. They needed allies, and she hoped Ademar could help them.
The baby kicked within her, and she rested her palms upon her swollen middle. Her back ached, and she tried to calm the worries rising inside her. If anything happened to Warrick, she could not return to Pevensham. And she knew not if her father had the power to help them.
While she waited, she spent time embroidering a length of white linen for a baby gown. The white thread created a raised pattern, and she passed the time by stitching with her needle. As morning stretched into afternoon, her serving lad eventually returned with Sir Ademar.
He was still very young, perhaps sixteen, but he had been knighted on the battlefield by the king himself. He had grown into the height of manhood, and he wore chainmail armour. For a moment, he was silent, waiting for her to speak.
‘Was it you who betrayed Warrick and me?’ she asked quietly. Rosamund was careful to keep the anger from her voice, for she did not blame the lad for what had happened.
He gave a single nod. ‘N-n-not by choice, m-my lady.’ He tightened his lips as if trying to hold back the stammer.
‘I understand this. We both know it was not your fault.’ She took a breath. ‘But Warrick and I have need of your help. He is the king’s captive, and Henry will not grant me an audience to plead for my husband’s release.’ Without waiting for him to speak, she plunged forward. ‘I want you to try to free my husband. He has done nothing wrong.’
Forbidden Night with the Warrior Page 21
