Clad in a woolen brat that surrounded her shoulders, and a cloak to protect her gown, she stepped out into the freezing cold. Snowflakes whipped against her face, and she could hardly see beyond a few feet in front of her.
Beyond the outer bailey wall a blanket of snow covered the hills of Erin. As she studied the horizon, she wondered what Hugh’s intentions were. Not for a moment did she believe he had given up his pursuit.
She had been at Laochre for only a few days, and yet she could not let go of her fear. She sensed she was being watched, though the idea was foolish. At night she awoke at the least sound, imagining an unseen assailant. It bothered her to know that she was behaving like a coward even now. She despised the way Hugh controlled her, even in his absence.
Though she had escaped his physical presence, his grip upon her emotional state angered her. Gritting her teeth, she took a few steps forward. Then a few more, until she stood at the entrance to the outer wall.
‘It is not wise to venture forth in such a storm,’ the guard said, blocking her path.
‘I will only go to the bottom of the hillside,’ Genevieve promised. Only far enough to face her fears. She had remained inside the fortress, hiding from the threat of Hugh’s men. Though he was not here, she still felt his controlling presence.
‘I’ll not venture beyond where you can see me,’ she promised. With that, the guard relented.
Genevieve trudged through the thick snow, the hem of her gown growing damp. There was a peacefulness here, the muffled silence of winter’s beauty. She saw a single tree, its branches laced with a snowy covering. All around her the green of the hills had fallen beneath a glistening mantle of white.
No one was here to threaten her. She inhaled deeply, breathing the scent of freedom. Snow danced across her face, and she thought of the feast yestereve, when Bevan had kissed her.
Though he did not seem to hate her, was it even possible to gain his friendship? She disliked the idea of escaping one marriage only to endure another prison.
Their alliance would prevent a battle over Rionallís, but only if her father and Bevan agreed. Although Patrick claimed he could command his brother to wed her, such would only increase Bevan’s animosity. He would grow to resent her presence, unless she could convince him she would be no threat to him.
The idea rooted and began to blossom. If she persuaded Bevan to wed her knowing that she held no expectations from him, it might not be so bad. They could marry and maintain their distance from one another.
The more she considered the plan, the better it seemed. She was afraid of his reaction. But perhaps if she presented it in a way that offered him complete freedom, he might understand her reasoning. The arrangement would protect her family, which was of the greatest importance. Her former dreams of wedding a husband who would love her had faded into reality. She had learned the hard way not to trust her heart.
In the distance, Genevieve heard a faint noise like the call of a bird. It was the only sound to break the stillness. She nearly turned away, but then heard it again. Frowning, Genevieve moved in the direction of the noise. She studied the landscape, searching for the source.
When she heard the cry for a third time, it dawned on her what she was hearing. She picked up her skirts and raced towards it. Ignoring the needles of snow falling against her skin, she fought her way towards the sound.
A small pond crusted with ice and snow lay just at the base of a hill. Spindly cattails danced in the wind, revealing a deep crevice in the centre of the pond with floating chunks of ice. She spied a small head bobbing beneath the surface. Her heart pounding, she prayed that she would not be too late.
When she reached the pond, she couldn’t tell if the surface of the ice would support her weight. She spread herself out on her stomach, inching towards the child, who struggled to free himself from the water’s death grasp.
‘Hold on, love,’ she called out in Irish. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
The ice splintered beneath her weight, but she kept on at a steady crawl. The boy’s sobbing heightened her determination to get him out. When her fingers touched his hand, she pulled with all her strength.
The ice shattered, and Genevieve fell into the freezing water. She gasped, half-choking as she came up for air, her arms gripping the child. She would not let him go.
The water was not deep, but she struggled to free herself from the ice. Her skirts dragged her down with the weight of the wool.
The child lay still in her arms. He breathed, yet his body was cold—terribly so.
‘Help!’ she called out to the guards, hoping they could hear her.
Within moments, one of them came down the hillside. He ordered another guard to come and assist him, and soon Genevieve was supported by the two men as she struggled back up the incline. Her skin had never felt so freezing. The numbness in her legs made it difficult to move, but the soldiers kept her from collapsing.
Her teeth chattered as she continued up the path, holding the body of the young boy. He could not be more than three years of age. His face was a bluish colour, which frightened her. If he was to live, she would have to get him inside soon.
She reached the outer bailey, and it was not long before a group of people surrounded her, all talking at once. Genevieve cuddled the boy closer, but did not answer the flurry of questions.
At long last she reached the Great Chamber. Isabel gave orders for hot water and dry clothing. She had started to bring Genevieve above stairs when Bevan appeared.
‘What were you doing?’ he demanded, grabbing her arm.
Genevieve could barely speak, but she managed to answer. ‘The child fell through the ice. I could not let him drown.’
‘You should never have left the fortress in weather like this. Not for anything.’
‘He would have died,’ Genevieve insisted. ‘Look. He lives yet.’
‘And you could have died. I’ve seen men drown in less water.’
Genevieve started to argue again, but realised there was concern behind his words. ‘I am all right, Bevan. But I cannot say what will happen to this child. He’s hardly more than a babe.’
Bevan took the child from her, his face grave. ‘Go with Isabel and dry yourself off. I will care for the boy.’
‘No. I’m not leaving him.’
‘I know how to care for a child.’ Bevan’s expression was furious. ‘And you need to warm yourself. Do it now. Unless you want me to drag you up there.’
She stepped back, but only because she saw the way he cradled the child, as though the boy were his own. ‘All right. But I will come and help you with him.’
Isabel led Genevieve back to her chamber, where a fire blazed upon the hearth. She helped her strip off her clothes, wrapping her in a warm blanket and drying her briskly.
‘You can bathe later,’ Isabel promised. ‘You need to get some feeling back into the skin before that.’
Genevieve succumbed to Isabel’s ministrations, accepting a fermented drink that burned a path down her throat.
Her skin burned with a searing ache, and her limbs felt heavy as she dressed in a dry léine, then wrapped a warm brat about her shoulders. She did not dwell upon her own discomfort, thinking only of the child.
‘Do you know the child’s parents?’ Genevieve asked. ‘They should be brought here.’
Isabel bowed her head. ‘His father was one of the soldiers who went to Rionallís with Bevan. He has not returned. I will send word to the tenants to bring his mother to Laochre.’
Genevieve started for the door, but Isabel held her back. ‘Before you go, know this. Bevan lost his daughter to a fever while he was away in battle. She was about the age of this boy when she died.’
Genevieve stilled. She had not known he was a father. No wonder he had been insistent upon tending the child himself.
‘Take me to him.’
* * *
The healer had helped Bevan massage warmth back into the child’s limbs, swaddling him tightly in a bl
anket. Bevan held the sleeping boy in his arms, closing his own eyes. The soft cheek rested against his forearm, the child’s rasping breath the only sound besides his own.
Don’t die, he prayed silently. The fragile band of his control strained. He had pushed away the anguish of losing his wife and child for so long he did not know how much longer he could bear it. Not once had he visited their graves at Rionallís. As long as he kept far away, he could handle the numbing pain that had haunted him for the past two years.
Now, holding this child in his arms, it was as though he held his daughter again. He stared at the flickering fire on the hearth, forcing the grief away.
The door opened, and Genevieve entered. She started to speak, then stopped. Instead, she closed the door and walked over to the bed. Without a word, she sat down beside him, drawing her hand across the child’s dampened hair. Together, they held the boy.
He felt something pressed into his palm. Unfolding it, he saw the frail scrap of linen Genevieve had returned to him at Ennisleigh.
‘Where did you get this?’ he managed.
‘From among your things,’ Genevieve said. She covered his hand with her own. ‘It belonged to your wife, didn’t it?’
He clenched the tiny bit of fabric and nodded. ‘It belonged to both of them. Fiona carried it on our wedding day. Later, she sewed it into a bonnet for our daughter’s baptism.’
Genevieve saw the pain etched in the lines of his face. She wished that she could somehow ease it, but words would not be enough. Instead, she touched her palm to his cheek. The scar had become a harsh red line, but she sensed there were far worse scars Bevan carried inside.
His pain was almost a tangible thing, and her eyes clouded with tears. Long moments passed between them. Genevieve did not ask questions, but she brought his hand to her lips. ‘May God ease your grief.’
His fingers tightened around hers, and together they kept vigil over the child. Hours later, Bevan lay down beside the boy, his breathing softened into sleep. Genevieve drew a strand of hair out of Bevan’s face, studying him in the firelight.
Tonight she would not leave him, nor the child. She cared not what the rest of the household might think. She would stay beside this man and the child they had saved.
It was dangerous, thinking about him the way she did tonight. The walls of her heart crumbled against the knowledge of what he had suffered. And she feared what he would say when she offered to become his wife.
* * *
Bevan sat at one of the trestle tables in the Great Chamber. Outside, the sky remained dark, and much of the household was still abed.
Although the boy had lived through the night, his breathing was laboured. He coughed frequently, his small body shuddering at the effort.
Had his daughter suffered like this? Had Fiona tended their child in this way before Brianna had breathed her last? He could not forgive himself for being away in battle. War had robbed him of the last chance to hold his daughter. They had buried her before he had returned.
This morn, Bevan had awakened to find Genevieve beside him, her arms curled around the boy. He had tried to deny to himself how good it was, waking beside a woman once more.
After a while, he saw Patrick approach. ‘Walk with me a moment, Bevan,’ his brother said.
Bevan accompanied Patrick outside. The weather was crisp and frigid in the dawn. The moon lay hidden behind a mist of clouds, but a thin haze shone through. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they walked along the inner bailey.
‘I have sent word to the High King, Rory Ó Connor,’ Patrick said. ‘He has summoned you to Tara.’
Bevan tensed. ‘For what purpose?’
‘The Norman King is there. Ó Connor informs me that he and King Henry will pass judgement on the matter of Rionallís.’
Bevan glowered at his brother. It should have been a simple matter of prior ownership, but Patrick was allowing politics to dictate the future. He knew what the Brehon judges would say.
‘You still want me to marry her,’ he said flatly.
‘Tá. It is the simplest solution, and both kings will be satisfied.’
‘I cannot.’ The words came out too quickly. But he meant them.
At first it had been his vow never to betray Fiona’s memory. Now it was because of Genevieve. Were it any other woman, he could keep his distance. But not with her. She tempted him, alluring in her innocence.
He imagined a blue-eyed babe, with dark hair and Genevieve’s smile. The crushing reminder of his own daughter’s death stiffened his resolve. He could not marry again and face the prospect of losing another wife, possibly another child.
‘You may not have a choice,’ Patrick said. ‘I have received an invitation to meet with King Henry, along with the other kings.’
‘Will you go?’
‘I’ve not decided. Isabel thinks I should. As a Norman herself, she believes it would be a strong gesture towards peace.’ Patrick turned back to the donjon, nodding to a kinsman as they passed. ‘The Norman King may demand your marriage to Genevieve.’ He added, ‘And I may demand it of you.’
Surprise and resentment filled him at the words. ‘You’ve no right.’
‘I am your king.’ His brother’s voice assumed an air of authority. ‘And you are risking the lives of my people. I have been lenient in allowing her to stay, knowing the abuses she suffered. But if it comes to war—’
Bevan recognised the unspoken promise. But he would not allow anyone to force him into marriage. Not even his brother.
‘I will travel to meet with the High King,’ Bevan said. ‘And when the matter is settled Genevieve will return home to her family.’ He turned his back on Patrick, focusing his mind on the journey preparations.
* * *
Genevieve sponged cool water on the boy’s forehead. Despite their efforts the entire day, no one had been able to find his mother. She had tried to get him to drink some broth, but to no avail. His forehead felt hot to the touch, and he still laboured to breathe.
The healer had tried different poultices, but nothing seemed to relieve the boy’s breathing. Genevieve could only hold him in her arms, praying that somehow he would survive. Since they had been unable to find his mother, she felt all the more protective.
Bevan returned to the chamber, his face shadowed with worry. ‘He hasn’t improved?’
Genevieve shook her head. ‘I fear we may have to send for the priest. I do not think he has enough strength left in him to survive another night.’
Bevan reached out and took the boy into his arms. With a nod, he dismissed the healer. The child whimpered, but Bevan lifted him upright. ‘Bring me a basin.’
Genevieve complied, and Bevan instructed her to pour some hot water inside. Supporting the limp body with one arm, he placed a cloth around the child’s head, allowing him to inhale the steam.
‘Will that help, do you think?’
‘It can do no harm. One winter it helped my daughter, when she had trouble breathing.’ His face grew tender at the memory. ‘Fiona and I never left Brianna’s side for a moment. I don’t think either of us slept for three days.’
When the steam had cooled, Genevieve refilled the basin with fresh hot water. ‘And Brianna was better afterwards?’
‘One morn she woke up and informed us that she wanted honey cakes to break her fast. I think we would have given her anything she wanted, so thankful we were. She demanded that I take her out riding that day.’
‘And did you?’
‘No. Though I considered it.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair, smoothing a stray cowlick. ‘Isabel told me they haven’t found his mother. I ordered some men to search the pond.’
Genevieve winced at the thought of them finding a body. She couldn’t conceive of how such a young boy would be alone, or why. He had been dressed warmly, as though for a journey. From the manner of his clothing he was not of the noble class, and yet not a slave either.
‘His father was one of my men,’ Bevan said. ‘I can only as
sume he was captured with the others, at Rionallís.’
Genevieve shivered. No doubt the boy’s father was dead by now. Hugh would not allow a single enemy to live, nor any man to threaten him.
‘Are you going after them?’
‘My brother Connor has already left with a group of soldiers. I asked to go, but it seems I must go to Tara instead.’
He didn’t look at her, and Genevieve recognised his resentment. Were it not for her, he would be back at Rionallís. ‘What if Hugh attacks your brother?’
‘He can take care of himself. Connor’s fighting skills are strong. He’ll not be taken captive.’
She reached out and touched the child’s shoulder. Her eyes met Bevan’s. ‘I know you want to be with them.’
‘I know my duty.’
But beneath his tone she heard the underlying meaning. He believed his duty was to his men, not being forced to wed a woman he didn’t want.
She drew back from him and took the basin, forcing herself to concentrate on the child’s needs. She emptied the cooled water and refilled the container with hot water. They kept up the pattern, not knowing whether their efforts were in vain. After a few hours, Genevieve reached out for the boy. ‘I’ll keep trying the hot steam. If you like, you may retire.’
Bevan shook his head. ‘No. I’ve a need to be here.’
Though his words were purely for the child’s sake, she became aware of Bevan, of the contrast between strong warrior and tender father. His fighting spirit fascinated her, just as it frightened her. He could easily be as dominant as Hugh, taking whatever he wanted. And yet he had never asked more of her than she had given.
His kiss had been gentle, though it had drawn out such yearnings within her. She sensed that he guarded his feelings, locking them away inside. If he were ever to release them, she wondered what sort of man would lie beneath the surface.
Genevieve rose and brought the basin back to the table where Bevan sat. ‘When are you leaving for Tara?’ she asked.
‘In three days. The High King intends to settle the property dispute of Rionallís there.’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 62
