That’s what he was doing at the moment.
He was pacing the edges of Narborough’s hall, hands behind his back, seemingly lost in thought. But he had a shadow; right beside him, Royce was pacing as well, hands behind his back and mimicking every move Bric made. When Bric would stop and look at the child, the child would stop and look up at him. Bric would sigh heavily and resume his pacing with Royce right beside him.
Bric and his little shadow.
“You are going to pace a trench right into the floor, Bric,” Daveigh said from his seat at the feasting table. “Come and sit. Have some wine. Relax.”
But Bric shook his head. “I cannot,” he said as he continued his pacing. Then, he came to halt near the hearth. “Does it always take this long?”
Daveigh grinned, looking at Pearce and Manducor, who were sitting at the table with him. As he shrugged and took a drink of his wine, Manducor spoke up.
“It can take days or hours,” he said. “My children took hours.”
Bric sighed again, heavily, but it was a gesture of impatience as well as concern. “Her pains started this afternoon,” he said. “It is well into the night now. Surely something can be done to hurry it along.”
“I am sure Weetley is doing all he can, Bric,” Daveigh said. “You must be patient.”
But Bric didn’t want to be patient. He wanted to see his son and he wanted his wife to come through unharmed. That was perhaps what was frightening him most – if his son did not survive the birth, he could bear it. It would be devastating, but he would recover. But if Eiselle did not survive, then his world would be ended.
There would be nothing more for him.
He glanced at Manducor as he resumed his pacing, thinking of the man’s dead family. He didn’t want to become Manducor, a man who was still trying to find his place in the world after he lost everything. But he knew he couldn’t go on without Eiselle, so what would be left for him? But he shook himself, fighting off the morbid thoughts, praying to a God he didn’t speak to very much that his wife would survive childbirth. As he made another round about the room with Royce beside him, Keeva suddenly appeared.
Having come down the spiral stairs from the chamber Bric and Eiselle shared, Keeva had on an apron and her hair was pulled back, tied behind her head. The front of the apron had faint bloodstains on it, indicative of the work she had been doing. When Bric saw her, he practically ran to her.
“Well?” he demanded. “Has my son arrived?”
Keeva shook her head, reaching out to take his hand. “You must come with me.”
Bric felt a stab of fear as he’d never felt in his life. “Why?” he breathed. “What is wrong?”
Keeva shooed Royce away when the boy tried to follow, sending him back to sit with Daveigh. She pulled Bric into the stairwell before speaking.
“We need your help,” she said quietly. “Your son is turned around in Eiselle’s womb and cannot be born without help.”
Bric felt lightheaded. “What does that mean?”
“It means that you must hold your wife steady while Weetley tries to turn the baby around, so that he comes head-first.”
They had reached the top of the stairs and Bric came to a halt. When Keeva turned to him, she could see the tears in his eyes. He was absolutely terrified.
“God, no,” he breathed. “My wife…”
Keeva tugged on his hand, pulling him along. It was like towing a barge. “Eiselle is in good spirits,” she said. “She is not in terrible distress, but the babe must be turned.”
Bric struggled to calm himself. “Will it hurt her?”
Keeva pulled him all the way to the door, pausing before she opened it. “I am sure it will not be pleasant, which is why we need you to hold her steady.” She put a hand on Bric’s cheek to comfort him. “You must be brave, MacRohan. Your wife needs your strength, not your fear. If you show any measure of it, I will throw you out of the window. Is this in any way unclear?”
He swallowed. “It is clear.”
“Good.”
With that, Keeva opened the door into the chamber Bric was so familiar with. It smelled strongly of peppermint, thought to ward off the evil tidings of childbirth, and as he stepped into the chamber, his gaze immediately found his wife.
Eiselle was sitting on a birthing chair near the hearth. She looked weary, her face sweaty and her beautiful hair pulled away from her face, but her expression lightened when she saw her husband. Bric went to her, choked up with emotion in spite of Keeva’s threat. He went to his knees next to the chair, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her head to his lips for a tender kiss.
“How do you feel, mo chroí?” he asked softly. “Keeva tells me that our son is being difficult.”
Eiselle put her hand on his face, chuckling. “Do not look so worried,” she said. “Weetley simply needs to turn him so that he is facing the right way.”
She was being incredibly brave, far braver than he was. Bric nodded, unable to speak because he was genuinely trying not to weep. He was as frightened as he had ever been in his life and trying very hard not to show it.
“Then I will help however I can,” he said, sounding surprisingly calm. “I am anxious to meet Conor.”
Eiselle smiled. “As am I,” she said. “He will be here soon, I am certain. You needn’t worry.”
“I won’t.”
That was as much of a greeting as Keeva would allow. Things needed to happen and they needed to happen quickly, and there was no time for sentiment, not if this baby was going to be born any time soon. She began waving her hands at Bric.
“Get in behind her and put your arms around her shoulders,” she said. “You must hold her as still as you can while we attempt to turn the baby.”
Bric summoned his courage. For the fearless warrior, this was something of a very new experience for him, but he did as he was told. As he stood up and moved to the back of the chair, Weetley flipped up the bottom of Eiselle’s shift, revealing her enormous belly. Truth be told, Bric was well-acquainted with that belly, for he had slept with it nightly for the past several months, and his lip prints were all over it as a result of speaking to his son on a regular basis.
All he could see was Eiselle’s belly and her legs as they rested on a chair that was made for childbirth. He really couldn’t see anything else, which was fine with him. He didn’t want to see the birthing process in the least, mysterious and terrifying thing that it was. As he knelt down behind the chair and wrapped his arms around Eiselle, pulling her into his powerful embrace, Weetley began greasing up Eiselle’s belly.
From that point, Bric didn’t want to see anymore. He held on to his wife as he felt her body jerked around by whatever Weetley was doing. Eiselle grunted and gasped, but she never emitted anything more than that. With all of the buffeting going on, it must have surely been excruciating, but she never cried out or wept. She simply held on to Bric’s arms as he held tightly to her. Bric’s face was pressed into her back, eyes closed as he held on and prayed.
More greasing and more turning. Bric could hear Weetley and Keeva as they worked in tandem to move the child. Zara and a female servant stood behind them, ensuring they had enough pig fat to grease up Eiselle’s belly, and ensuring Weetley had everything he needed in order to ensure the safe and healthy delivery. More grunting and groaning from his wife and Bric was ready to explode but, mercifully, it came to a halt before he could.
“The child is turned as much as we can move him, my lady,” Weetley said in his thin, high-pitched voice. “With your next pain, you must push as hard as you can.”
Eiselle was breathing heavily from the pain of trying to turn her child around. For Bric’s sake, she’d kept as quiet as she could because the pain was more than she had anticipated.
“I will,” she gasped. Turning her head, she whispered to her husband. “Do not let me go, Bric. Hold me tightly.”
It sounded like a plea to him, and a frightened one. Tears popped out of Bric’s eyes,
wetting the back of her shift where he had his face pressed against her.
“I will not let you go, I swear it,” he said hoarsely. “I will not leave you.”
That seemed to give Eiselle a great deal of comfort. When her next pain came, as they were very close together now, she was able to bear down and push with all her might. With every pain she would push again, as hard as she could, as Weetley and Keeva encouraged her.
But it seemed to Bric that Eiselle had been pushing for quite some time with little results. His arms were around her shoulders and he could feel her entire body tensing up every time she pushed. It was agonizing to feel her work so hard for something that was very slow in happening. But through it all, she maintained her composure, grunting and even growling as she pushed almost angrily sometimes. Just when Bric thought he was surely going to lose his composure, Keeva gave a shout.
“I see him, Eiselle!” she cried. “Push very hard the next time, sweetheart. Push!”
Eiselle did. Summoning her dwindling strength one last time, she gave a big push when the next pain came and, suddenly, the baby dropped out right into Weetley’s waiting hands.
Relief was almost instant, and Eiselle collapsed against the back of the chair, against Bric, breathing heavily.
“Is he well?” she demanded. “Keeva, is he well? Why is he not crying?”
A thin wail pierced the air and Eiselle burst into happy, exhausted tears, as did her husband. He was holding her so tightly that she could barely breathe, but Eiselle could feel Bric behind her, weeping into her back. She patted the arms that were locked around her.
“He is well,” she assured Bric, as if he was the one needing comfort. “Do you hear him? He is well.”
Bric lifted his head from where it had been pressed between Eiselle’s shoulder blades. His cheeks were damp but there was a huge smile on his face as he kissed Eiselle’s cheek over and over. Meanwhile, Keeva took the baby from Weetley as the man tended to the afterbirth and held the child up for the exhausted and elated parents.
“Look at him,” she said joyfully. “Look how big he is!”
Eiselle and Bric got their first glimpse of the fat, lusty baby, now screaming loudly in the warmth of the room. It was, indeed, a boy, as they could see, and Eiselle held out her arms for him.
“Give him to me,” she begged. “Oh, please give him to me.”
Keeva complied, handing the child over to his eager mother, standing back as Eiselle carefully cradled the squirming infant against her breast. Overwhelmed with the first touch of her son, Eiselle started weeping again.
“Look,” she sobbed, holding up his little fist. “He is so perfect. Look at his hands, Bric.”
Bric was hovering over the pair, his eyes alight with wonder. “I cannot believe he is finally here,” he said. Gently, he put his enormous hand on the baby’s head, dwarfing it. “Eiselle, he is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”
He kissed his wife again as she cradled the baby, both of them watching their newborn son with wonderment. For all of the anticipation they had felt towards this moment, nothing could do it justice. Bric felt as if he’d been born anew the moment his son had made his way into the world, because every hope and dream he’d ever had for his child somehow became a reality. A strong son to follow in his footsteps and a wife who had come through the birth unscathed.
He had so very much to be grateful for.
“He already looks like you,” Eiselle said. “Look at his ears – they have a little point on them like yours do.”
Bric smiled at the sight. “Blame my father,” he said. “He has those ears, too.”
“I think they are beautiful ears.”
He laughed softly, putting timid fingers on those tiny baby ears. “He is perfect,” he said, kissing Eiselle on the cheek. “Like you. Thank you, mo chroí. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
Eiselle tore her gaze away from the baby, looking up at Bric and accepting his tender kisses of gratitude and adoration. But Keeva was lingering just behind them, interrupting their tender moment, although she was loathed to do it.
“Let me take the baby,” she said. “He must be cleaned up and swaddled, and mother must be returned to her bed. Let me take care of them, Bric. You have done your duty.”
Bric looked crestfallen. “But I want to stay.”
Keeva shook her head, pulling him away from Eiselle and the baby. “You may return in time,” she said. “But we must clean Eiselle up and put her to bed. She needs to rest now. You must go and tell the men that you now have a fine, strong son. You have received the greatest gift this night, Bric, and I am happy for you. So very happy.”
Even in the midst of his own delight, Bric took time for Keeva, realizing this was a moment she had always wanted to experience but never would. He kissed her on the cheek to thank her for everything she had done, leaving her with a smile as he headed down to the great hall to inform his friends that, indeed, his son had been born this night.
Conor Dashiell Bentley Sean Rhys de Gael MacRohan had finally made his grand entrance. And, no… he’d never considered shortening the name, not once.
There was much joy at Narborough that night as the birth of the High Warrior’s son spread among the men, and Bric brought out eight barrels of fine ale he’d purchased just for the occasion. As the night went on, men toasted the newest MacRohan son, offering their congratulations to the new father who prowled the grounds of Narborough that night as his wife slept, spending time with his men and drinking to Conor’s good health.
Towards the early morning, he finally returned to his chamber, fairly drunk, to find Eiselle awake, breastfeeding their son as Keeva stood by to lend a hand. But Keeva departed once Bric entered, leaving the new family alone, and Bric lay down on the bed beside his wife, his head on her shoulder as he watched her feed their son for the first time. If there was a heaven, he knew he’d found it.
It was the best moment of his life.
The little boy with the name longer than he was would go on to do great and heroic things, mentored by a father who had become a legend in his own time.
The High Warrior was, indeed, immortal.
* THE END *
Bric and Eiselle’s children:
Conor
Avaleen
Corey
Quinn
Kevin
Kira
BLACK SWORD
An Irish Medieval Adventure Romance
By
Kathryn Le Veque
“Wilt thou come to my home, fair-haired lady? To dwell
In the marvelous land of the musical spell,
Where the crowns of all heads are, as primroses, bright,
And from head to the heel all men’s bodies snow-white.”
~ The Courtship of Etain (translated from The Heroic Legends of Ireland, 1905)
CHAPTER ONE
Leinster Coast, Wicklow County, Ireland
March, 1323 A.D.
The invasion had been a disaster from the beginning.
Waves crashed and thunder rolled. The English never stood a chance as the vicious storm bashed them against the rocky Irish coast. More than that, an entire army of five thousand angry Irishmen had been waiting for them, boarding the foundering ships and killing anything that moved. As the Irish forged deep into the belly of the rolling vessels, even the rope boys and cooks were targeted, one raggedy rope boy in particular. But this boy wasn’t a boy as much as it was a young lady in a very bad way.
Slammed against the hull of the lurching ship, the sharp movement gave her enough of an edge to duck the big fist that was flying at her head. She tried not to scream, knowing that the Irish rebels would hear her woman’s voice and focus on her like flies to honey. They would discover she was a woman and the moment they pulled off her disguise, they would quickly figure out that she was a very beautiful one. It would give them cause to do unspeakable things and, at this moment, she was very much coming to regret stowing away on Kildare’s invasion fleet.
It had been a bad decision. But she was in the habit of making bad decisions. As the Irish warrior with the red ochre smears across his face made another swipe at her, she fell to her knees and crawled between his legs, escaping the hand that grabbed at her ankle. But she’d been forced to kick at him to keep him away and the woolen Montgomery cap on her head came loose, spilling forth long golden-red hair. When she realized that tendrils of curls were tumbling down the right side of her head, she panicked and tried to shove them back under the cap.
The woman began to run, thrusting herself between fighting Irish and English, dodging blades that were cutting through flesh and bone. She stumbled over dead bodies, becoming covered with their blood as she fell, scrambling to her feet and sprinting through the dark hold of the ship in her desperate quest to reach the upper deck. Perhaps she could throw herself overboard when she drew near the rail. She knew for a fact it was her only chance to escape this hell she had put herself in the middle of.
The ship she had stowed away upon was nearer the shore than some of the others. It had been one of the first attacked by the waves of angry Irish waiting for them. The rain was pounding when she reached the deck, gangs of men fighting on the wet wooden planks with blood running in rivers off the side of the boat. She could see the boat rail through the driving rain and she made her way towards it, terrified, slipping on the blood beneath her feet and trying not to get hit by the thirty pound broadswords that were swinging around her. She had no idea if the big Irish ruffian was behind her but she wasn’t going to take time to look; the rail was within her grasp and she reached for it.
The wood was wet and slippery. She had a good grip on the rail but her hold was violently broken when someone grabbed her around the waist, tightly, swinging her up into the air. As she kicked and struggled, the boat lurched heavily to the starboard side and everyone seemed to roll in that direction. The woman and her attacker rolled with the ship, surrounded by the pounding rain and the sounds of battle, and both were pitched off the side of the ship and into the swirling surf.
Brides of Ireland: A Medieval Historical Romance Bundle Page 36