Forbidden Night with the Warrior

by Michelle Willingham

  Her words slid through him like another embrace, and the strength of her love humbled him. He held her close, pressing a kiss against her hair. ‘I was angry with you for keeping secrets. But that was in the past, and I will not let anything happen to you or to this child.’ He rested his forehead against hers. ‘I love you too, Rosamund. And I will see to it that Owen never bothers you again.’

  She braved a smile through her fear, resting her hands upon their baby. ‘Pray that it will be so.’

  A noise outside interrupted their reverie, and he moved his hand to his sword. Seconds later, soldiers invaded the tent. Warrick shielded Rosamund, unsheathing his blade at the sight of them. There was no sign of Bennett or Godfrey.

  ‘You are commanded to come with us, Warrick de Laurent,’ one said. ‘By order of the king.’

  Three other men tried to surround Rosamund, but he shoved them away from her. ‘Leave my wife alone. She is with child.’

  ‘We are under orders to bring her as well,’ another replied. ‘Under charges of adultery.’

  Damn Owen for this. Fury blazed through him, and Warrick fought against the men who tried to seize his wife. It was impossible to wield his sword in such a small space without risk of hurting Rosamund. He smashed his fist against one man’s jaw when he heard his wife’s scream, and he swung another blow at a second soldier’s nose. But there were too many of them. He kept his sword aloft, trying to protect her, but the men surrounded them on all sides.

  A hard blow caught his skull, and Warrick dropped to his knees.

  And then there was only darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When the men brought Rosamund into the king’s presence, she could feel the cramping ache within her womb. She was terrified that she was losing this baby, just as she had before. Please God, let him live, she begged. The prayer was for both her unborn child and for her husband.

  Warrick had regained consciousness by the time the men dragged him across the ground. His face was bleeding, and she saw another wound across his ribs. Several men had gathered, and she was not surprised to see Owen de Courcy among them. But she was grateful to see the familiar face of Father Francis. He stood at the back of the gathering, his simple brown robes blending among the other guests.

  Henry Plantagenet stood with his arms crossed. The king was a stocky man with red hair and his stare held no mercy whatsoever. Another soldier spoke quietly to him, but Henry did not appear to care what the man had said.

  ‘We have little time for this matter,’ the king argued. ‘But we have been asked to dispense justice over the man who killed Alan de Courcy. There is also the question as to whether Lady Pevensham was with child prior to her husband’s death, which means the estate cannot be settled as of yet. Owen de Courcy claims that her child was conceived in adultery and that her child has no right to Pevensham. We will discover the truth this day.’

  The king stared at Rosamund, and she felt his cold anger down to her bones. Owen’s claim, that he would see her burned for adultery, terrified her. She longed to flee this place, to surrender everything to protect her unborn baby.

  And yet, what would that accomplish? A dawning realisation took hold, and she understood that she had been behaving like a pawn all her life. First, her father had manoeuvred her into a marriage she had never wanted. Then her husband had commanded her to obey his order to conceive a child with Warrick. Now, Owen de Courcy wanted to threaten everyone she held dear.

  The man’s expression was smug, as if he fully expected both of them to die.

  No. She could not stand by and let this happen. She had to stand up to him and fight for her loved ones and for the life she wanted. And even more, the people of Pevensham needed her to fight for them—for any ruler was better than Owen.

  Alan had made sacrifices to protect his estate and the people. He had brought back the man his wife had loved, ensuring that she would wed Warrick upon his death. Did she not owe it to him, to do whatever was necessary to guard Pevensham and its people?

  The king turned his stare to Warrick. ‘You have been accused of strangling Alan de Courcy. What have you to say for this?’

  ‘Owen de Courcy was responsible for his brother’s death,’ Warrick interrupted. ‘He hired his brother’s commander, Fitzwarren, to kill Alan. He has no right to take Pevensham with blood on his hands.’

  ‘He speaks lies, my lord and king,’ Owen interrupted.

  ‘We did not give you leave to speak,’ Henry retorted. ‘This matter will be decided quickly, and with witnesses. If you cannot maintain your silence, you will be flogged.’

  Rosamund knew that the king would see it done. But she could not yet know whether justice would be met this day, especially given the violence towards Warrick when he was first brought here. She felt lightheaded, her knees trembling, but she forced herself to remain standing.

  ‘We will hear the priest’s words first,’ the king said, beckoning for Father Francis to come forward.

  The priest walked slowly among the people, and he did not even look at her. Rosamund felt her skin grow icy, and the room seemed to sway. She leaned against a soldier, and it felt as if the voices in the room echoed through a tunnel.

  She barely heard what Father Francis was saying, but he produced a document for Henry to see.

  ‘I am not convinced this is real,’ the king argued. ‘Although Lady Pevensham might have been with child, as Alan de Courcy claims, I cannot imagine he would demand that his wife marry Warrick de Laurent upon his death. Not without a dozen witnesses to sign it. And furthermore, there is no way to prove that the child was his.’ He waved his hand in dismissal.

  At that, an older woman stepped forward and knelt before the king. Rosamund had never seen her before, but there was a familiar cast to the woman’s face. ‘Your Grace, I have come to offer myself as a witness.’

  The king studied her as if she were an insect. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am the queen’s midwife,’ she replied. ‘I have assisted your lady wife at every birth.’

  At this, King Henry’s demeanour shifted. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I can examine this woman and tell you how long it will be until she gives birth. I have assisted with hundreds of women, and this may be of help.’

  The king grew thoughtful at this. ‘And how can you be certain?’

  ‘If she conceived during her second marriage, it would be too soon for me to feel movement. If she was already pregnant by Alan de Courcy, this would be obvious.’

  ‘It would not,’ Owen blurted out. ‘My brother—’

  His words broke off when Henry backhanded him with a fist. ‘The next man who dares to interrupt his king will have his tongue removed.’ The king’s tone held fury, and he regarded each of them. ‘My own sons have risen up in rebellion, and that requires my attention.’ He nodded to the midwife. ‘Examine Lady Pevensham and tell me if her child is legitimate. If it is, then she will return to Pevensham to await the child’s birth.’

  The midwife bowed, but before she could take her to be examined, Rosamund dropped to her knees before the king. She did not dare to speak before she was given permission, but after a moment, the king touched her shoulder. He tilted her face up to look at him. ‘At last, we see a woman who knows her place. What have you to say?’

  Rosamund took a breath. ‘My husband was very ill for a time, my lord, and we learned that he was being poisoned by a servant. The servant confessed to me that she was under the orders of Owen de Courcy. And the night my husband died, we learned that Owen hired Fitzwarren to strangle Alan.’ She rested her hands upon her womb and pleaded with the king, ‘No matter what becomes of my child’s inheritance, I beg of you, do not let my husband’s death go without justice. If Owen returns to Northleigh, he will only threaten my unborn baby once again.’

  The king eyed her but there was no me
rcy in his gaze. ‘We will think upon this while you are examined by the midwife.’

  She bowed her head, and the older woman helped her back to her feet. There was no way of knowing what judgement the king would pass, but Rosamund hoped he understood her fears.

  The older woman took her back to a smaller chamber and closed the door behind her. Rosamund remained standing, not knowing what the midwife would want of her.

  ‘Lie back upon the pallet over there,’ the older woman bade. Her voice was kind, and she picked up a small stool and brought it over to sit beside her. She moved her hands over Rosamund’s womb and pressed upon her. Then she said quietly, ‘We both know this child could not possibly be Alan de Courcy’s. The man was incapable of siring children.’

  ‘How could you know this?’ Rosamund asked. The woman had never even met her first husband.

  Her gaze fixed upon Rosamund, but she did not answer the question. ‘I will tell the king that you will give birth to this child by All Saints Day or near to that.’

  Rosamund was already shaking her head. ‘I do not think—’

  The midwife touched a finger to her mouth. ‘You saved the life of my daughter. And so I shall save your life and the life of your child in return.’

  It was then that she realised who the woman was. ‘You are Berta’s mother.’

  The old woman inclined her head. ‘I am. And she asked me to come on your behalf.’ The midwife patted her hand. ‘I will give you a tea to help you stop the bleeding. You need not worry—your children are safe.’

  Rosamund blinked at that. ‘Children?’

  ‘Did you not wonder why you were breeding so large? It is because you were blessed with two instead of one.’ The midwife smiled. ‘But you must be careful, for twins are often born early. Should you wish it, I can come to Pevensham and help you.’

  Rosamund felt the emotion gather up in her throat. She had doubted herself for sparing Berta’s life. But now it seemed she had made the right choice. And in return, the midwife would bear witness for her sake. ‘I do wish it. Thank you.’

  * * *

  When the midwife returned with his wife, Warrick was glad to see that the colour had returned to Rosamund’s face. ‘She is indeed many months pregnant with Alan de Courcy’s child,’ the old woman told the king. ‘There is no doubt of it. She will give birth near to All Saints Day.’

  Henry stared hard at Rosamund and Owen. ‘And how long ago did Warrick de Laurent arrive at Pevensham?’

  ‘A little over four months ago,’ Owen admitted.

  With a shrug, the king said, ‘Given that Alan de Courcy acknowledged the child before his death, and the midwife has stated there is no doubt it is his heir, then you may manage your late brother’s estates until the child is born. If it is a girl, you will remain the heir. If it is a son, you may act as his guardian until he comes of age.’

  Warrick tensed at the king’s judgement. He could not allow Owen to be anywhere near Pevensham—especially with Rosamund’s pregnancy. His greatest concern was their welfare.

  Owen stepped forward. When the king gave permission for him to speak, he said, ‘There is still the matter of my brother’s death. It cannot go unpunished.’

  The king paused a moment and said, ‘Both of you have said the other man is responsible for Alan de Courcy’s death. We will let God decide who is the true murderer.’

  Warrick relaxed, for this would be a matter of trial by combat. He could easily defeat Owen de Courcy, and justice would be served.

  ‘It is clear who the true murderer is,’ Owen countered. ‘Warrick de Laurent and Lady Pevensham found my brother’s body. I have no doubt of this, and my servants will give witness.’

  The king turned a cold look upon him. ‘We must not doubt that God is the highest witness of all. If you are innocent, as you say, then you shall prevail.’ He let his gaze pass over Warrick and Owen. ‘I gave penance for my grievous sins, and God granted me the victory at Alnwick. If either of you wishes to confess your guilt and offer penance, this trial will be lifted from you.’

  Warrick held his silence, for he had done nothing wrong. Owen’s face was bright with anger, but the man refused to confess anything.

  ‘So be it,’ the king said. He eyed each of them and said quietly, ‘This trial will not be decided by combat.’

  An uneasy feeling washed over Warrick. He didn’t like the look in Henry’s eyes, which was of a man who believed he was omnipotent. It was as if he already knew the judgement he would pass.

  Warrick met Rosamund’s gaze, but her face held stark fear. She tried to move closer to him, and this time, the soldiers allowed it. Her fingers were like ice as she threaded her hand in his, gripping him hard. ‘I love you,’ she whispered.

  In answer, he squeezed her palm, letting her know without words how much he loved her. This woman was his life, his reason for being alive. And if he was asked to choose between protecting her and their child or accepting a false judgement, he would do whatever was necessary to shield them.

  A sly smile crossed Henry’s face. ‘Since the murderer was also responsible for the poisoning of Alan de Courcy, we believe this is the truest test of finding the man who committed this crime. Thus, we will have both men drink from a poisoned cup. He who is innocent will be spared by God.’

  Owen was aghast at the idea. ‘Both of us will die if we drink. It is impossible.’

  Perhaps that was what Henry wanted. A man as powerful as the king cared little for two lives. Warrick gripped Rosamund’s hand, and she was shaking her head in horror. ‘No.’ But her denial was silent, her lips forming the word she could not bring herself to speak.

  Tears spilled from her eyes, and she buried her face in his chest. A deep ache spread throughout his body, at the thought of leaving her behind. His hand spread into her hair, stroking it as he drew her to look at him.

  ‘I love you, Rosamund.’ He kissed her softly and then turned back to look into Henry’s shrewd eyes. It was then that he understood what this was—a true test of character.

  Warrick stepped forward and said, ‘I am not afraid to face God’s judgement. I know of my innocence.’ He spoke quietly, but he could not deny the pounding of his heart. There was a strong risk that Henry did intend to poison both of them.

  ‘And what if God judges that it is his will for you to die?’ the king demanded. ‘Will you freely drink from the cup?’

  ‘I know that I am not responsible for Alan de Courcy’s death,’ he said. ‘And if God chooses to take my life, I trust that you will ensure that my wife returns to Pevensham without the threat of Owen de Courcy or his men. Rosamund will give birth to Alan’s heir and remain under the protection of her people.’ He knelt before Henry. ‘I have shown you my loyalty by fighting among your men. Whatever cup you give to me, I will drink from it.’

  He lowered his gaze, not wanting to see Henry’s response. There was no way to know what decision the king would make. But blind obedience was the only choice, even if it meant his death. He did believe Henry would protect Rosamund, especially after the midwife had given her testimony.

  A part of him had suspected his life would always come to this—death, before he would ever have land of his own. But in Rosamund’s eyes, she saw someone more, a man she loved. Her words of quiet faith had struck him to the bone. And he loved her enough to give his life to protect hers.

  ‘And what of you?’ Henry turned back to Owen. ‘Will you drink of the cup and trust in God?’

  Owen blanched and took a step backwards. ‘I—my liege, I have done nothing wrong. I swear it to you.’

  ‘But you are afraid of God’s judgement.’

  ‘Any man would be afraid to drink poison.’ Owen shook his head. ‘It is not necessary, my liege. I can bring any number of witnesses who will swear to my innocence.’

  The king’s express
ion remained stoic. ‘One man is willing to test God’s will, while another is not.’ He gestured to his soldiers. ‘Seize Owen de Courcy and bind him. He may have nothing to eat or drink, save the cup of poison that we give to him.’

  To Warrick, Henry said, ‘As for you, you have proven your innocence before all. Any man willing to drink of a cup of poison, with no fear of meeting God’s judgement, is not a murderer.’

  A weight seemed to lift from Warrick’s shoulders that he would not be asked to drink from such a cup. Rosamund went to kneel beside him at the king’s feet. She took his hand in hers and bowed before the king. ‘You are most wise, my king. Pevensham and its people will always remain faithful to you. As will my son or daughter.’ She raised a shining face of joy to Henry, who rested his hand upon her forehead. There was kindness there, and a wry sense of knowing that he had passed judgement correctly.

  ‘Go in peace,’ he bade them. ‘And if we have need of your alliance, we will call upon Pevensham’s soldiers.’

  ‘They are at your command,’ Rosamund answered. At that, the king helped her to rise, and Warrick took her in his arms. He kissed her hard, and many of the soldiers erupted in cheers. The taste of her mouth was the sweetness of love, with the promise of hope for their future together.

  She held him close, and he whispered in her ear. ‘I love you, Rosamund. And we were meant to be together from the first.’

  She touched his cheek. And in her smile, he caught a glimpse of Heaven.

  Epilogue

  He came to her late, at twilight, when the moon was just beginning to rise. Rosamund was feeding their son when she heard the door open. As soon as Warrick entered their chamber, their daughter began to cry from her cradle. Warrick picked up the infant, soothing her as she sobbed against him.

  ‘Is Mary hungry?’ he asked. ‘She is trying to eat my shoulder.’

  ‘She is teething, just like her brother,’ Rosamund answered. Their son Stephen had slackened against her breast, milk dribbling from his mouth. She lifted him up to burp the infant, and after he did, she rose to lay him in his cradle.