The Warrior and the Wildflower

by Gregg, Everley

  “Aye, she lives.”

  “Are you well?”

  Her mossy green eyes flashed up at him and one eyebrow arched. “As well as one can who’s had a veritable army wage war between one’s legs.”

  Someone behind him giggled, one of the handmaidens. Was it funny? Mathieu was strung too tight to catch his wife’s humor, but he forced himself to smile.

  “May I hold her?” he asked.

  Eva shimmied herself up taller against the pillows and pinned his gaze, her lips pressed flat. “What you want to do first is to see her, not hold her. Is that right?”

  Flashing a glance at the duchess, Mathieu noted the smile she was struggling to suppress. Hesitantly, he turned back to his wife and nodded. Was it wrong of him to want to see his child?

  “All of her. Is that right?” Eva pressed.

  Mathieu stared at her, uncertain what to say. It had crossed his mind a time or two when he discovered Eva was with child—he couldn’t deny it. What if the child was flawed? He knew he’d love the babe anyway, just as he did its mother.

  His love for Eva was all-consuming, blinding him to all of her flaws—and she, like he, had a few. He even loved her beautiful, unique twisted ankle, one that gave her curvy hips a sensuous sway when she walked . . .

  He shook his head to try and clear it. How long had he been awake? Eva had gone into labor not one, but two nights ago. Two long nights and one long day he’d paced and prayed and waited.

  Now he could barely hold his eyes open.

  Without a word, Mathieu held out his arms and waited. Eva tipped her head to one side, and her eyes softened. With one hand she stroked his cheek. “You’re beyond sparring with me, aren’t you, my gallant warrior?” she whispered.

  Dumbly, he nodded.

  Instead of handing him the swaddled babe, however, she sat forward and laid the bundle on her lap. Lifting first one side of the wrapping, then the other, she revealed their child. Their daughter.

  One who, in reaction to the sudden chill, promptly began to bellow at the top of her lungs.

  Mathieu didn’t flinch. His eyes widened as the miracle before him proceeded to scrunch up her face like an apple left too long in the sun. A red apple. The louder she wailed, the redder she became.

  He ran his fingers over her petal-soft skin, as pale and perfect as her maman. With trembling hands, he counted them off: five tiny fingers on the left hand, five on the right. Five round, plump toes on one foot, and five on the other—

  And two ankles as perfect and straight as arrows. He met Eva’s eyes, his own spilling over.

  “She is wondrous, my love.”

  “Well, she is marked, you might say.” Raising one eyebrow, Eva gently turned the babe over to reveal her round buttocks, white as peeled eggs.

  Save for the heart-shaped birthmark on the right cheek.

  “Guess your love is so strong, it spills over onto your children,” Isabella said, laying one hand on Mathieu’s shoulder. “What shall you name her?”

  Not waiting for her husband to answer—even though the right to choose a name was his, and his alone—Eva spoke up.

  “Why, Meadows, of course. Don’t you agree, Mathieu? ’Tis a lovely name. Meadows are where the wildflowers grow.”

  Mathieu covered his face with both hands and swallowed hard. So much had gone right that could have gone wrong in his life. He could have died the night he tried to save Meadows, yet he did not. He could have died the day he took Knape to the ground in the bailey, yet he did not.

  The trumpets he’d heard as he hit the dirt that day were not those of the angels. They were from Philip’s party, coming home with La Laing and all the fine colts from Barreau’s farm.

  He could have been cast out by the duke for marrying Eva, then for nearly killing his Captain of the Royal Guard. Instead, Mathieu had been promoted to second in command of Philip’s cavalry, and was named Admiral La Laing’s right hand. Soon, although not a knight, Mathieu would be inducted into Philip’s Order of the Golden Fleece.

  “Her name, husband? Does our daughter’s name not please you?” Eva’s gentle words jolted him out of his head.

  “Meadows.” He tasted the name on his tongue, and it felt right. “Aye, my beloved wife. ’Tis a lovely name indeed.”

  *

  Afterthoughts . . . from the Author

  So. The tale is finished. But is it, really? Of course not. Eva and Mathieu have just cemented their love for one another, and are only beginning their lives with their precious new daughter, Meadows. I do hope you have enjoyed sharing their journey thus far.

  What of Captain Knape? He did not die by Mathieu’s hand. Was he made to pay for his crimes? Who will take over as Captain of the Royal Guard?

  And what of the other Forgotten Flowers? Alys and Rutger . . . will their life be filled with children and happiness? And what of poor Beverielle?

  What of poor Beverielle? The Scottish lass whose future, it appears, will not lead her back to her homeland, to Scotland? She will not be permitted to pursue her interest in the big Scottish knight, Ròidh Keegan.

  Or will she?

  Their stories continue, and I hope you will sign up for my newsletter so you are the first to know when Book Two of The Forgotten Flowers of Flanders will be released. I will be posting sneak peeks and updates about The Knight and the Rose on my website, www.everleygregg.com, as well as on Facebook and Twitter.

  My sincerest thanks go to the most talented author of medieval fiction I’ve ever known—my idol, Kathryn LeVeque, and her amazing team at Dragonblade Publishing. Without them, this series would not have been made possible.

  Please know this: an author’s most treasured inspirations come from their readers. I’d love to hear from you!

  Everley

  EverleyGregg@yahoo.com

  About the Author

  Everley Gregg is in love with medieval history. She’s always been mysteriously drawn to Flanders, the area of the world now encompassing France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. If she ever gets to go back in time, 15th Century Flanders is where she’d want to be.

  In this life, Everley resides in Massachusetts with her husband of over 40 years (she’s an expert at happily-ever-after). Her other loves are raising Persian cats, riding dressage horses, and reading. Everley earned her MFA in creative writing from Lesley University in Cambridge, MA., and also writes award-winning supernatural suspense and women’s fiction as Claire Gem.

  Everley loves to hear from her fans! Sign up for her newsletter at www.everleygregg.com.