A Lord For Haughmond Part 32

The stillness of the bedchamber overwhelmed him. No cry, no whimper, no moan of pain. Hastily he secured the wooden bar behind him, all but slamming the door in Anne's startled face when she tried to follow him. Stepping to the bed, he gazed down at his sleeping wife.

Katherine's cheeks were pale and her brow was damp with perspiration, but her breathing was regular and no longer labored. She looked as though she had come through her ordeal in good health. But he had learned long agone things were not always as they seemed.

"Is she well?" he asked, struggling to get the words out.

"Aye, m'lord," came the familiar cracking voice of the midwife. "She sleeps peacefully."

In relief, he let loose a sigh. She was so beautiful, so desirable. Hesitating, he bent and pressed his lips lightly against hers. Her breath, from betwixt parted lips, wafted into his mouth. Agony and regret ripped through him as he straightened.

"I did as ye instructed," Muriel continued, withdrawing a small vial from her pocket.

Dafydd took the draught of poppy syrup and deposited it within his hauberk. "And the child?"

"He sleeps peacefully." She indicated a wicker basket beside the bedstead.

A boy!

The chamber spun. He leaned against the bed for support. Taking a halting step, he saw a tiny face. 'Twas red and wrinkled beneath a wisp of golden down. Pulling aside the blanket, he rea.s.sured himself that all was perfect. Ten toes, ten fingers, round fat cheeks, dimpled arms, and miniature manly parts staring at him so boldly betwixt little legs. A beautiful and perfectly formed baby boy, whose tiny chest rose and fell in shallow steady breaths.

"You did not give him too much?" he whispered.

"Only a drop, as ye instructed," she replied in kind.

Staring another long moment, he finally lowered the blanket. "Dusk has fallen. 'Tis time we made the switch." Yet he stood immobile, his eyes glued to the babe's tiny face.

Only when the midwife tottered over to the farthest corner of the chamber and returned with the pile of linens she had brought earlier, did he stir.

"Be swift, m'lord."

Aye, swift and silent, else his world would end.

Swaddling the babe, Muriel gently laid him in Dafydd's arms.

His breath faltered. With a frown, he looked into the small sleeping face, felt the weight of the little body molding against his arms, so helpless and fragile.

Would Katherine ever forgive him?

He had bargained with the devil. Would he be d.a.m.ned, evermore?

Muriel draped a cloak over his arm that held the babe and opened the door. Stepping into the corridor, he followed it to the stairs leading up to the wallwalk. Through the dark, skirting the length of the bailey, he finally came to the east wall tower.

His heart pounded. Was he alone? He canted his head, heard a sound. A figure moved toward him. Bless the saints, 'twas Will.

He handed off his burden, gingerly moving the tiny limp form into the waiting arms. He yearned to give a word of advice, yet dared not. Will turned to leave. Dafydd gripped his arm like a vice.

Will seemed to understand, for he nodded before he hurried down the stairs.

Dafydd watched for as long as he dared. Finally, with a heavy heart, he retraced his steps.

In the upper corridor, where the steward had no reason to be, he almost collided with Gilbert.

"Beggin' your pardon, m'lord," the man exclaimed, leaping out of the way.

Shaken to the soles of his boots, Dafydd hurried on to Katherine's chamber.

Dafydd sat by the brazier, quietly feeding it to keep the chamber warm when Katherine awakened. Behind him, Muriel's voice, low and soothing, drifting across the chamber, was cut short by a sharp cry from the bed.

Laying another piece of wood in the fire, he tried to still his trembling heart. He and he alone, was the cause of Katherine's agony. Without moving, sitting like stone, he prepared himself to endure it. Whatever she suffered, he must bear the same. Mayhap the future could be different betwixt them.

But not this day.

He shifted on the stool, turning to look at Katherine. The midwife had given her the dead babe they had purchased. Propped up against a pillow, with tears on her face, she held the babe with a mingled expression of love and sorrow.

Quieting his riotous emotions, he took a calming breath and rose to his feet.

Aware of him at once, watching him warily, she cringed.

He stepped toward her.

"Stay away," she cried, her voice wavering, her arms tightening around the swaddled bundle.

The frantic entreaty stopped him short of the bedstead. "I will not touch your child. I come to console you, my lady."

Katherine shook her head and clutched the babe tighter.

The tiny head with dark hair showed above the blanket. He swallowed down his trepidation, praying the dead child would not contaminate Katherine.

"Leave me to my grief. You had your way. You took my babe." Her eyes-the pathway to her soul-led him straight to her broken heart.

Barely able to breathe-from her pain, from his fears-he did not move. How much did she know? He threw a startled glance at the midwife.

"There, there, m'lady," Muriel soothed, stepping forward. "Just 'cause ye fainted from the pain, ye mustn't accuse yer husband of any wrong doin'."

"You drugged me." The harsh accusation stabbed the air. "You murdered my babe!"

"Muriel did not kill your child," Dafydd interjected, glad for his meager honesty.

Katherine turned her glare upon him.

Such malice, such loathing, such depth of agony he had never observed.

How could this be honorable? It was the most dishonorable deed he had ever committed.

But what choice was there? 'Twas better than Sir Geoffrey flinging Katherine's precious babe off the battlements or Adela ministering a potion of hemlock at some terrible point in the future.

Turning, his shoulders sagging in defeat, he left the chamber in search of the village priest. The sooner this child was interred, the sooner Katherine would grow beyond her pain.

Chapter Twenty-eight.

'Twas the seventh day following her babe's birth. 'Twas the fifth since he was laid to rest in the chapel beside his grandmother. 'Twas the first day in over a week she had entered the hall.

Days marked by pain.

But time had brought healing, thereto. Katherine's discomfort from childbirth began to ease. Her engorged b.r.e.a.s.t.s, hard and sensitive, that wakened her in the night whenever she moved, no longer leaked, nor were they as tender. But she bled as though from an open wound. Having no one else to turn to, she sought out Sibyl.

"'Tis naught unusual, m'lady. 'Twill ease in a few weeks, by the time of your churching." The servant smiled in encouragement. "If you are distressed, you should speak to the priest. He will know what to do."

Forsooth, she would not speak to Father Martin on the matter. He would say 'twas her punishment for fornication, that she must bestow an offering and prostrate herself upon the village church floor. She had done so, yet she bled buckets. Thereto, 'twould require she enter the village. Children bided there. Even if it meant she bled to death, she would not go, not when she must hear their happy laughter.

Christmas fast approached. Grateful for the distraction, she checked the larder and discussed their provisions with the pantler. Haughmond must see its duty to provide for the welfare of the church. In the ledger, Gilbert deducted a crate of chickens and a haunch of venison from the castle inventory then went off to arrange for their delivery to the village priest, along with two tins of honey cakes.

The villagers contributed to the yearly offering as well. Even the meanest peasant rendered up some small gift, everyone concerned for the welfare of his or her soul.

'Twas two weeks agone since her husband had departed. Two weeks more and her flow finally ceased. She presented herself to Father Martin for her churching.

Reciting a psalm and a prayer of thanksgiving, he sprinkled hold water over her. "Enter into the temple of G.o.d that you may have eternal life," he intoned and led her into the church. She was pure once again and ready to submit to the duties of a wife. 'Twas sobering that G.o.d expected her to resume her marital obligations when He knew what lay in her heart. How glad she was her husband had gone awarring.

Anne and she settled in a routine some would consider l.u.s.terless. She did not object. 'Twas familiar and did not trouble her overmuch.

The task of spinning wool into yarn kept her sequestered in the solar. A menial task, she preferred it to sewing. Haughmond's storerooms held great quant.i.ties of wool, spinning and weaving being the tasks of winter. Hooking the distaff under her arm, twirling her spindle and pulling the twisted wool into strands of yarn, the ch.o.r.e kept her hands busy when her mind screamed with memories.

"Could you not smile just once?"

Her sister's pitiful request startled Katherine from her reverie. With her needle aloft, Anne sat frowning at her.

How could Anne understand? Only a mother would understand the ache of empty arms.

"Everyone is sorrowful and dreary. The Yuletide is nigh upon us and we are morose. Sibyl wants to know if they will be allowed umble pie. Could you not smile, put the castle in a festive mood?"

Katherine bent to her task, blinking back sudden tears. Forsooth, she did set the tone for Haughmond. She must needs sh.o.r.e up her blighted spirit.

"Why do you work so hard?" Anne's frown persisted. "You are not long out of childbed. No one expects you to labor so."

'Twas not her sister's fault. She was young and could not recognize a mother's grief. Katherine swallowed her tears and forced a pleasant tone into her voice. "I intend for Haughmond to prosper, despite the war with Wales. The trade with the continent brings added wealth." Concentrating on the task, she tugged the woolen strands betwixt her thumb and fingers, and bore her patience with greater fort.i.tude.

"You will wear yourself to the bone," Anne exclaimed.

"Fret not, I do not- "

Her sister flung down her sewing. "What becomes of me should you die?"

Ah, Anne's fears made her querulous. Katherine answered lightly, "You will be the chatelaine of Haughmond, dear."

Anne shook her head violently. "But only until your husband remarries."

She gave her sister a sideways glance, perplexed at the course of the conversation. "I do not think I shall die this day."

"Forsooth, you shan't. I do not wish to be responsible for this castle. The king would not allow me to wed Simon, elsewise. A mere squire would not be allowed to reach so high."

Another time Katherine would have been hurt by such uncharitable considerations. But of late, Anne looked to the future. 'Twas good. Filled with hope, she no longer quaked in despair and fear. Within Haughmond's walls, her sister had blossomed.

She let the feeling of relief wash over her. If naught else, that much she had accomplished.

Hefting the drooping distaff back into place, letting her spindle twirl yet again, she continued her task. Soon they would grow weary. Soon Anne would pull out the Merrills board and encourage Katherine to play, for 'twas her favorite game. Anne would quickly form her colorful stones into a mill and then she would grow impatient with Katherine's lack of compet.i.tion.

She fidgeted in her chair. Mayhap she would seek out Gilbert and plague him with a new request. Never did he refuse her, but his eyes did show his reluctance. She had not forgot Rhys's reservations about the steward. But Gilbert's young lads had become invaluable to Old John. They spent as much time with him as the apprentice, Alwin. Last summer the cooper had taught the three boys the art of angling, and because of their skills, many a tasty trout had found its way to the castle kitchen.

She concentrated on the happy memories, trying to keep the others at bay, but it was a constant struggle.

Owing to the dull and quiet days that had become their routine, Katherine panicked when the trumpet sounded, heralding Sir Dafydd's return. Her vision of a comfortable winter's respite from the tribulations with her husband disappeared in a flash of anger.

But more than tribulations arrived with Sir Dafydd. His party had been ambushed this side of Chester, while crossing the River Dee. He had taken an arrow in the thigh, which had wounded his destrier as well.

Robbed of her anger, Katherine was not sure of her feelings when the cart bearing the wounded creaked to a halt before the keep. But when her husband's new young squire raced to her, exclaiming, "I've no glad tidin's, m'lady. Your husband's sore wounded. I don't think he'll survive," Katherine felt her world spinning out of control. Yet another death lay at her feet?

G.o.d continued to punish her for her sins.

Gingerly, Sir William swung his leg over the pommel of his saddle and dismounted, favoring his left leg. A b.l.o.o.d.y strip of woolen cloth encircled his right thigh. "Shut your maw, Milo. Do not distress our lady."

Craning her neck toward the cart, she spied her husband and two others sprawled amid dirty straw. His great helm rested in his lap, while his chain mail coif covered his head, wreathing his face. 'Twas the first good sight she had had of him. Though pale, he possessed a handsome visage-a straight nose set above a strong jaw. All else was difficult to tell, with his dark drooping moustache hiding most of his mouth and face.

She shook herself to action. "Take him to our chamber."

Sir William limped toward her and slung his arm over her shoulders, forcing her to steady him. Together they shuffled toward the keep. "We will attend your wounds, thereto, Sir William."

"I doubt me 'tis a good idea that you physick your husband." His sudden chuckle startled her. "Mayhap we should send for Lady Adela. She possesses much knowledge of herbs-and suchlike."

Aghast, Katherine stared up at him. He tried to shrug but grimaced in pain.

"I would not wish it for him," she said sharply.

Concentrating on the steps of the keep, he gave her his profile. "'Twould ease your difficulties, lady, if she attended your husband. A few pieces of silver would rid you of your plight."

Beneath his weight, Katherine scowled, realizing his implication. "Do you think I wish to slay my husband? I, and no other, shall attend him."

"Dafydd isn't like to thank you for it." Sir William's arm tightened about her shoulders. "Adela would do less harm than your cold regard."

She gasped at the unfair charge. But at that moment her husband, carried betwixt two burly men-at-arms on a litter, pa.s.sed by. Blood flowed freely from his injury. She snapped her mouth shut. Ducking away, she ran into the hall, leaving the knight to his own devices.

Sibyl and Joan came running. "Make haste," she commanded. "See pallets are prepared by the hearth. Tear linen strips and set water aboiling. Have the fire stoked here and in our chamber."