by Alexa Aston
Geoffrey took Odo’s sword, grasping it with both hands. “Be sure when you use both hands that one rests close to or on the pommel. It gives you better control.”
He handed it back to Odo and both men adjusted their grips. Herman swung the sword several times and nodded with satisfaction.
“The balance is better this way,” he said.
“Let me see one again,” Geoffrey said and took Herman’s this time. “Half-swording still allows you to use both hands except, this time, rest one hand on the hilt and one on the blade.” He demonstrated for the two.
He handed the sword back and Herman frowned. “Why, Lord Geoffrey?”
“That position will give you better control as you thrust and jab.”
Both men tried again and Odo beamed. “I like it.”
“Keep practicing both ways. The half-swording will also aid you as you use spears and polearms.” He started to step away and then added, “You can also utilize the pommel and cross in battle. The cross, in particular, can be used as a hook to trip or knock your opponent off balance. Try that.”
Geoffrey demonstrated the move and noticed several pairs of fighters nearby had stopped to view the lesson. He watched for several minutes and Herman and Odo mimicked what they’d learned.
“Good work,” he told both men and then circulated among those who’d viewed the demonstration, working with individuals to ensure they’d grasped what he taught.
Satisfied, he joined Gilbert on the platform again.
His captain smiled broadly. “It’s so very good to have you back at Kinwick, my lord.”
“It’s good to be home and back to good health and full strength,” he replied.
Geoffrey helped another pair working with maces after that and then signaled Gilbert to call a brief halt so the men could rest a few minutes. Some plopped down from where they’d stood while others went and sat in groups. A motion on the far side of the yard caught his attention. He noticed it was Ancel and one of Kinwick’s pages dueling with wooden swords.
Heading in their direction, Geoffrey saw his son bear down on Timothy, forcing him back. The page tripped and fell to the ground, shouting, “You’re not even a page. You’re only allowed in the training yard because you’re Lord Geoffrey’s son.”
“Timothy, come here,” Geoffrey said sternly.
The boy glanced over his shoulder, fear in his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet and reluctantly ventured closer, his body quaking as he came to stand before his liege lord.
“Timothy, you are training to be a knight, are you not?”
Confused, the boy answered, “I am, my lord.”
“That training involves years of hard work. Not only physical activities, such as learning how to use various weapons and building your body’s strength, but also understanding the tenets a knight holds dear to his heart.” He paused. “A knight is kind to others and protects those weaker than he is. You were not very kind to Ancel now.”
“I’m not a knight yet,” Timothy said stubbornly.
“Nay, but as I said, every day is one of training. You’ll grow in knowledge. Build your character and work hard at learning to read and write. You won’t wake up on the day of your Order of the Knighthood Ceremony and simply become a knight that day. You will have been a knight in your mind, body, and heart for years before that. The ceremony is merely affirmation that you have attained your goals and met with success.”
He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Work hard every day at each lesson, Timothy. Think of the man you want to be and then be that man each day. Treat others with respect. Be willing to push yourself farther and test your limits.”
Timothy’s head dropped in shame. “I was unkind to Ancel.” He raised his head. “He’s already better with a sword than I am. I’m . . . I’m jealous of him.”
“Ancel is tall for his age. Lord Raynor spent hours with him, tutoring him on swordplay. I have done the same. Ancel is eager to become a soldier. That enthusiasm spurs him on. I want the same for you. Learn from each other and those around you, Timothy.”
Determination filled the young boy’s face. “I promise I will work harder, my lord. I will become the knight I’m meant to be.” He hesitated. “May I speak to Ancel?”
“Go ahead.”
Timothy went to Ancel and offered his hand. As the boys shook, Timothy said, “You are very good with your sword, Ancel. I want to work as hard as you have and learn from you. Will you teach me?”
His son grinned. “Of course, Timothy. You’re my friend.”
Pride burst within Geoffrey. Merryn had done well raising the twins during his absence. He was glad he was now home and could see Ancel and Alys reach maturity, helping to guide them along in their journeys. It made him wonder about the babe he and his wife had made. What would it be like? Ancel closely resembled him, while Alys was the image of Merryn at that same age. Would the new child favor either of them? Geoffrey knew this babe had been made in love. He and his wife had reached deep within themselves and despite all the trials and tribulations they’d been through, come together, bound by the strength of the love that had always remained between them. The child she carried was the result of the depth of their affections and held the promise of their future, as did Ancel and Alys.
Geoffrey turned and saw that his men prepared to commence training again. He returned to Gilbert’s side to observe, satisfied in the life he led and the family that was his once more.
*
Daralys wiggled her numb fingers. She held the reins tightly because she hadn’t ridden much. Fortunately, the mount provided to her was an older one and had a gentleness about it. Still, she’d been nervous ever since she’d left Vauville Castle. For one, the child seemed to have no room inside her and constantly kicked and stretched. Riding for hours had made her even more uncomfortable. Her back and thighs screamed in agony. She’d also eaten the last of the bread and cheese she’d brought with her and had no coin to buy more. The cold wrapped about her, swallowing her whole, and darkness would soon fall. She needed the warmth of a fire and something in her belly if she were to be able to push on toward Kinwick.
Pausing in the road, she caught the smell of burning wood and decided to follow it. It led her off the path and to a cottage, where smoke curled and spiraled from a chimney. Daralys slid off the horse and gripped the horse’s mane as her tired legs almost gave way. She stomped her feet, trying to bring feeling back into them and her legs, and was rewarded with a burning sensation that traveled from the ground up, stinging her as the blood began circulating again.
She took the reins and guided the horse to the cottage. Seeing nowhere to tie the animal, she kept the reins in hand as she knocked on the door.
An old woman answered it, her hair stark white. Deep wrinkles creased her face. She smiled through slitted eyes.
“Who are you, little one?”
“I’m Daralys Marillac, a traveler in need of a warm fire. Might I share yours for a few minutes?”
The woman looked about. “You’re alone?”
“Aye,” she confirmed.
“Can’t be too careful these days. Come in.”
“My horse—what should I do with him?”
“You can bring him around back. Here, I’ll show you.”
The woman led her behind the cottage and Daralys saw a shed partially covered. She led the horse inside and tied him to a post. A bale of hay stood nearby and the horse began munching greedily.
“Wait here,” the woman instructed.
She stroked the animal while he ate. She didn’t have the strength to remove the saddle and if she did, she would never be able to get it back on the creature. There was so much she hadn’t thought of when she’d ventured from Vauville yet something inside her urged her on. She’d always heeded that inner voice in the past and only hoped it wouldn’t let her down this time.
The woman returned with a bucket of water and the horse paused to lap at it.
“Your animal will be fine. Come inside, Daraly
s. You look chilled to the bone.”
She followed the stranger and stepped into the tiny cottage. Warmth enveloped her. A chicken flew by, squawking, and landed across the room. Another chicken pecked at the floor. A goat wandered about and came to stand next to her, butting its head against her thigh.
“You . . . keep them inside?”
The woman cackled. “They’d freeze if I didn’t.” She studied Daralys a moment. “You’re of the nobility, else you’d know the poor live with their animals in winter. You’ll tell me why you’re here and where you’re going. I’ll feed you in return. If I like how you respond, you can stay the night.”
“Might I ask your name?” Daralys asked timidly.
“Griselda. Sit.”
She indicated a stool by the fire and Daralys eased onto it. Holding her hands out, she soaked up the heat coming from the blaze. Gradually, she warmed enough to untie her cloak and slip it from her shoulders. In the meantime, Griselda removed a bubbling stew from the hearth and dished up a serving for each of them in two bowls. The old woman handed Daralys one and then gave her a wooden spoon.
“Thank you.” She took a bite. “Oh, this is delicious.” She dug in with enthusiasm.
Griselda seated herself on the remaining stool and took slow, careful bites. Daralys noted this and reined herself in until she matched her hostess bite for bite. The woman placed her bowl on the floor next to her and stood.
“I forgot the bread,” she said, and retrieved half a loaf. Tearing off a good chunk, she kept it for herself and passed the rest to Daralys. She did as Griselda and pulled off a portion, returning the rest to the woman.
She dipped the bread into the bowl and sopped up the last bits. The stew’s gravy tasted good on the bread. When she finished, she placed the bowl at her feet.
“You’ve had a chance to thaw and your belly’s full. Now, tell me your tale. Why is one of the nobility here with me in the middle of nowhere on a cold winter’s night? No companion. No escort.” The woman paused. “And with child. Do you have a husband?”
“Nay,” Daralys said softly. “I was once betrothed but he passed away.”
“Is he the father of your babe?” Griselda quizzed.
Daralys shook her head. “This babe has no father.”
The peasant’s eyes bore into her. “Every babe has a father. Someone dipped his wick into you and left you with child.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She had tried to forget that night and what had happened months ago. She’d told no one, not even Lady Anne, for she knew nothing would come of it.
Kindness filled Griselda’s eyes. “Mayhap if you share with me, it won’t seem so bad.”
Daralys mopped her eyes with her sleeve. “I have spent half a score fostering with Lord Harold and Lady Anne. She has been as a mother to me. My own mother died so long ago that I have no memory of her.” She stopped, her throat swelling with emotion.
“What happened to you, child?”
“Lord Harold had guests arrive. They were headed to a wedding and stopped for a day and night at Vauville to break up their journey. One of them . . . he . . . came to my bedchamber. I had seen him in the great hall when we supped. He kept staring at me as we ate and while the troubadour entertained.” She shivered. “I didn’t like him. His eyes. They were hard. Cold. As if he assessed me and found me lacking in every way.”
She lifted her hand to her mouth and sank her teeth into what was left of her thumbnail. After the incident, she’d begun biting her nails until they were down to the quick. It seemed the one thing she could manage when everything else had spiraled out of control. She drew blood now and pushed her hand into her lap, pressing tightly to stop the bleeding.
“I woke and found him atop me. His hand covered my mouth, muffling my screams. He told me he only liked pretty girls and that I wasn’t one of them. That what he did to me was a favor for no man would like coupling with me.”
Daralys found her insides churning as she spoke, much as they had when the babe had started growing months ago. She’d had trouble keeping food down and a burning in her chest caused a foul taste to back up her throat into her mouth. She swallowed and waited out the feeling. It passed and she continued.
“He hurt me, Griselda. I thought I was being torn in half. He climbed off me and warned me never to say a word about what had occurred between us, as if I would. Shame filled me. I worried what I had done to make him think I wanted him to do that to me.” She shrugged. “I washed away the traces of blood between my legs and never mentioned it to anyone. The party left the next morning after mass.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I never even knew his name.”
She wrapped her arms tightly about her. “So, you see, there is no father. Even if I knew who this man was, I would never tell him—much less let him claim the babe as his. He was evil and I want this child to only know good.”
“You will keep it?” Griselda asked gently.
“Nay. I head to a place called Kinwick Castle. Someone there will add this child to their family.”
“All in this area have heard of Kinwick. ’Tis a great estate that lies just to the south of here, no more than half a day’s ride. Its countess, Lady Merryn, is a healer of some renown.”
“Kinwick is near my own father’s estate. I suppose I shall return there after I give this babe away.”
Griselda stood. “You are welcome to stay the night and share my blanket, Daralys Marillac.”
Chapter Four
Merryn reached the cottage and climbed from Destiny’s back. Ellison must have heard her arrive for the abode’s door swung open immediately. He rushed over and untied the case hanging from the saddle.
“Thank you for coming, my lady. Riola’s pains are great. I’ve put the water on to boil as you did last time.”
“It’s a good sign that she has carried the baby for this long.”
“Will it be all right?” he asked worriedly.
“I cannot promise anything, Ellison. You know that.”
His head bobbed up and down. “I do. It’s just that we want a child so much. Riola and I both come from large families. We love one another but still have so much love to give. If we had a child . . .” His voice trailed off.
She squeezed his arm. “We must accept God’s will. He has a plan for you and Riola. Now, I want you to stay outside.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me?” he asked, anxiety causing his left eye to twitch.
In truth, Merryn could use an extra pair of hands but Ellison was already nervous. His fears would merely cause Riola to worry—and she would already be suffering enough pain and doubt as it was.
“Nay, Ellison. I will summon you if that changes.”
He handed over the satchel that contained her herbs and supplies and she entered the cozy cottage. She removed her cloak and draped it over a chair and then crossed the room to where Riola lay atop a blanket resting on a bed of straw. The peasant’s face was flushed with exertion and possibly a fever. Sweat glistened along her forehead and cheeks and dampened her limp hair.
“My lady! You came.”
“Aye, Riola. You know I help deliver all babies born at Kinwick.”
The woman groaned, her face scrunching up. Her hands flew to her swollen belly and a cry erupted. Merryn held Riola’s wrist firmly with one hand and stroked her arm with the other.
When the labor pain subsided, she said, “I need to see if you’ve made any progress.”
Merryn lifted the heavy skirts the woman wore and saw no crown had appeared.
“It’s just the two of us. Let’s get these clothes off you. You must be burning up.”
Helping Riola to her feet, she undressed the peasant and then guided her back to the ground. The woman lay down and Merryn covered her with the chemise they’d just removed.
“This will keep you from getting cold. I’m going to give you something to drink. Do you have any vinegar?”
Riola told her where it was and Merryn mixed sugar into it and had the wom
an sip on it while she rubbed rose oil onto her flanks and belly. Several times, Riola tensed up, her belly going rock hard, and her cries grew louder. Over the next several hours, Merryn bathed Riola’s face and used some of the boiled water to steep yarrow. She had Riola drink the concoction, hoping the medicinal herb would bring down the woman’s fever.
The two women held hands and prayed to Saint Margaret, the patron saint of childbirth, asking her to ease the labor pains and bring about a safe delivery. As the hours wore on and no progress was evident, Merryn begin to doubt the child would be born alive. Twice, Ellison stuck his head inside the room and she shook her head. He’d shut the door quickly but she’d still seen the growing sadness on his face.
Finally, Riola’s screams softened, becoming like a mewling kitten as she grew weak. Merryn lifted the chemise again. Riola’s feet were flat and Merryn parted the woman’s thighs.
“I see the head. The babe is crowning,” she said, tempering her enthusiasm. “You need to push.”
Riola looked at her with glassy eyes. “I am too tired, my lady.”
As Merryn massaged the swollen belly, she said, “You must. Think of how you and Ellison want this child. Push, Riola.”
“I can’t,” she sobbed.
Merryn rose and went to the door. Ellison lurked just outside. “I need your help.”
He followed her into the cottage. “What should I do, my lady?”
“Kneel behind her,” she instructed. “Lift her slightly and let her back rest against your thighs.”
He did as she asked, holding his wife’s hands and brushing a kiss upon her brow.
“Ellison is here. He is holding your hands, Riola. Feel his strength flow into you. You must do this. Push. Push as hard as you can. Push!” Merryn commanded.
Both Merryn and Ellison urged Riola on and she rallied, bearing down, grunting as she did so. The babe’s head slipped out and Merryn placed her hands under it.
“A little more, Riola. That’s all I ask.”
“AAAYYIIOOWW!” she screeched.
The shoulders emerged. Merryn took a clean cloth and pinched it about them with her thumbs and forefingers and gently pulled. The babe slid out and she wrapped the cloth about it and set about cutting the cord. No noise had come from the infant and she held him against her and tweaked him with three fingers on his backside.
