by Sarah Hegger
The guards snored softly, crumpled over their dice as Guy slid past. He could only ruminate on what Bridget might have given them to induce sleep. She would contrive to keep his escape secret for as long as possible, but there was no time to tarry.
Titan waited for him outside the keep where risk of discovery would be minimal. There would be no huge army riding under snapping pennants. The bastard deserved no open combat, no chance to meet him on the field of honour. Ewayne had picked from the men the toughest and most battle hardened warriors. This would be a brutal clash of two savage beasts, intent on rending each other asunder.
Helena.
He couldn’t even picture her or he would lose what little control he possessed. She needed him to remain steady, to put his love and his fear for her into a place deep within and keep it locked away until he’d done what needed to be done. When he found her he would tell her he loved her. He should have done so before. Women liked that sort of thing and Guy prayed he would have a chance to do so.
Jesu, if she were dead, he would sink his hands in Ranulf’s entrails and drain his life-blood.
“Guy?” Crispin touched his shoulder. “We are ready.”
Guy nodded, grateful Crispin rode with them. He mounted Titan. The men around him were solemn and silent in the predawn dark. They kept their thoughts to themselves, but their loyalty belonged to him.
They would give their all for him and his lady.
Chapter 28
“Surely you jest?” Helena prayed for Rosalind to laugh and tell her just that.
Instead, Rosalind grimaced and continued her quiet pacing about the tight confines of their prison.
In the full dark, all was quiet from the men outside. They must have fallen asleep. The two women had managed to feed the man in the bed and now he was awake and lucid, but still pitifully weak. He hadn’t told them his name; it didn’t seem to matter.
“Rosalind?”
“Nay.” She panted slowly through her teeth. “I wish it were a jest, Helena. The babe is coming.”
“But it cannot.” Tears of helplessness flooded Helena’s eyes. Rosalind couldn’t have her babe here, in this foul prison. She clenched both hands at her side as the enormity of the situation rose up to choke her. She wanted to rant and rail at the other woman and make it not so.
A moan escaped Rosalind’s throat and her hands gripped her distended belly as if to mock Helena’s fears.
“You must sit or lie down.” She gestured hopelessly around the filthy floor. “I will do what I can.”
Rosalind had been blowing hard through her teeth, making a strange ‘shushing’ noise with her breath. Now she said, “I have done this before.” She continued slowly dragging her cumbersome body a few steps forward at a time. “I will tell you what to do and you are going to have to see to it.” Her eyes locked with Helena’s.
“For this alone, I could kill Ranulf with my bare hands,” Helena ground out between her teeth, as Rosalind kept pacing. No matter how she longed to deny the truth, to pretend it was not real, Rosalind needed her.
Helena straightened her spine. “What should I do?”
“I will have to do most of it,” Rosalind responded with a wry laugh as she stopped again and made her ‘shushing’ noise. “I am walking because it speeds the birthing.”
Helena must have been wearing a horror-stricken expression, because Rosalind managed another soft laugh. “You are about to receive an education, Lady Nell. I will need somewhere to recline when it gets closer.” She motioned to the debris on the floor. “And some hot water. We will need cloths, too.” She turned a sharp eye on Helena. “There will be blood and you must be prepared for it and not faint.”
“I have never fainted,” Helena declared stoutly. Yet. She strode over to the door and pounded on it, unleashing all her apprehension against the solid wood. “Let me set my ‘swain’ to work.” She pounded harder.
The door flew open and her odiferous admirer appeared in the doorway, leering at her. “What now?”
“I will need water, lots of it, and some cloths.”
The man’s eyes raked her insolently, lingering on the swell of her breasts. “What will you do for ‘em?” He stretched out his filthy hand to touch her, but Helena held her ground. She refused to flinch beneath his crudeness.
“I am about to birth a babe,” she said with all the arrogance she could muster. Saying the words aloud made her want to panic anew.
His fingers stopped short of her bosom and he paled, just as Rosalind staggered into sight, hissing through her teeth, and bent over her belly as a birthing pain ripped through her. Confronted with such a womanly issue, he visibly shook.
“Unless you would like to do this yourself?” Helena arched a brow.
Moments later, she got her water and a ragged collection of hastily gathered cloaks. She picked through the bunch for the cleanest. The sound of voices broke the silence. Their captors were arguing amongst themselves.
“You will need some for the babe,” Rosalind instructed her between pains.
“My chainse,” Helena said. It would be cleaner than the cloaks provided by the men.
She got to work, sweeping an area clean before the fire. Selecting the filthiest cloak, she dropped to her knees and scrubbed the area as best she could. Ranulf’s men were still arguing as she dropped the muck into the fire. It smoked a bit then caught, small flames flickering back to life.
As the hours passed, Rosalind paced the small confines of the cottage, Helena at her side. They began counting steps between pains as a way to mark the progression of the birth. It seemed to be taking a very long time. The night wore on and still they walked.
Dawn broke, light seeping through the cracks in the wall and the holes in the roof. Rosalind’s steps grew heavier, her pauses more frequent. The morning heat became trapped in the airless room and clung to them. Sweat stuck to Helena’s hair and clothes and Rosalind’s gown was plastered to her body in places, her face streaked with dirt and perspiration.
Helena had ripped a small section of her bliaut and secured Rosalind’s hair away from her face in a thick tail down her back. Wet tendrils clung to her face and neck as she laboured and her breathing became more difficult.
They stopped more often and for longer periods. Rosalind remained silent despite her pain; her only reaction a tight grip on Helena’s hands, squeezing her fingers until they were bloodless. Helena endured the pinching ache, knowing what Rosalind suffered must be worse.
“How long does this take?” she pondered aloud.
The stranger on the bed spoke for the first time. “It is her first?”
In the midst of another pain, Rosalind groaned deep and guttural in the back of her throat. “This is my fourth,” she finally gasped after she regained her breath. “It will come fast.”
The stranger looked so appalled that first Rosalind and then Helena laughed. It brought a small moment of relief before Rosalind commenced her pacing once again.
One of their captors pushed food through the door at some point. Helena carried some over to the stranger, but Rosalind waved away any offer of nourishment. Helena couldn’t force a morsel past her throat. She tucked it neatly into the hearth. Later, when this was over, Rosalind would need the food to regain her strength.
A huge pain must have ripped through Rosalind, because it drew an agonized growl from her throat. Her weight dropped forward and Helena braced, lending support. It seemed to last forever before Rosalind’s breathing returned to normal. Her skirt was soaked; more water spilled into a puddle near her feet.
Sweet Lord, let that not mean what she thought it meant.
“It is time,” Rosalind muttered. “I need to push.”
“You have not been pushing?” Helena yelped at her.
“Nay,” Rosalind grunted. Anot
her pain seized her as Helena helped her to the ground. Rosalind jerked up, grabbing her raised knees. A scream tore through her clenched teeth.
What to do? She was helpless.
“Her skirts,” the stranger rasped. “You must free her from the skirts.”
Helena didn’t question him, desperately relieved that he seemed to have some knowledge. Gingerly she raised Rosalind’s skirts to her waist, angling her own body to provide as much modesty as possible. Rosalind didn’t seem to care as she released her knees and sank back again, breathing hard, her face pale and sweaty.
“Water,” the stranger barked.
“I am occupied,” Helena snarled at him.
“Not for me. Give her water, wet her lips.”
There was no cup or dipper. She ripped a clean section of her chainse and soaked it in water, then squeezed a dribble of water into Rosalind’s chapped, dry lips. Rosalind’s tongue came out and lapped up the water eagerly. Helena berated herself for not thinking of water sooner.
“Not too much,” he cautioned. “You do not want to drown her.”
“Would you like to do this part?” Helena snapped from where she crouched between Rosalind’s knees.
The stranger immediately quieted and lay back down.
“The head,” Rosalind panted. “I think the head is coming. You must look.”
“Look?” Helena’s stomach heaved. She peered cautiously between Rosalind’s raised knees. Dear Lord. She went faint, before her brain made sense of what her eyes beheld.
“I see it,” she whispered.
And it was awful. Blood and fluids streaked down Rosalind’s thighs. Helena could barely imagine the pain of what was happening to the woman’s body, yet it was riveting.
A sense of wonder overtook Helena’s fears. “What must I do?”
Rosalind’s howl shook the cottage as she bore down. The crown appeared and Helena instinctively held out her hands. Another mighty push and the babe’s shoulders appeared. She caught the tiny bundle as it emerged, warm and slick from Rosalind’s body.
“Hold the head,” the stranger instructed. “It will come fast now.”
With a final, almighty heave from its mother, the babe slid free. Helena tightened her grip around the slippery little body. It was covered in blood and a sticky, pale substance, but it was the most marvellous being she had ever beheld.
“It is here!” she exclaimed. The bundle in her arms gave a strange cough and then a wail that seemed far too large for such a tiny mite.
Rosalind held out her arms and Helena handed over the babe.
“A girl,” Rosalind murmured wearily, folding the wriggling scrap to her breast.
Helena echoed in wonder, “We have a girl.”
Chapter 29
Crispin had turned away as Guy slit the man’s throat. His brother was too much the priest to condone killing. Guy didn’t have that luxury, not with Helena’s life at stake. The man was a link to Ranulf and a risk.
Guy had been riding ahead of the party for most of the night and well into the morning. They kept the horses at a steady pace, conserving their strength, but stops were inevitable.
With each hour that passed the mood amongst the men grew grimmer. Not even Crispin attempted conversation.
Although the man they caught had been well hidden, Guy had unearthed him along the trail. After a few well-placed threats, he confirmed that there were two women with men who owed fealty to Ranulf, and they were not at Dartmoore. Guy drew no satisfaction in being right.
Crispin left the campsite as the man began to scream.
It took Guy ten long minutes to convince the man to surrender a location. After learning the women were hidden to the west of their current position, Guy mounted and the rest of his men followed.
He scoured the trail, chafing at the slower pace. They’d lost half a day to misdirection. They could risk no more mistakes.
Ranulf didn’t know where they were, their only advantage. Guy dispatched two men to make sure there were no other unwelcome watchers in the trees.
Rosalind slept, her face pale but restful, the babe tucked securely within the crook of her body. Helena tiptoed over to see the slumbering infant. With pale down covering her soft pate, she resembled a wizened old man. Helena chuckled softly at her own thought.
Breaking off a corner of the bread, she sat by the hearth and rested. The magic of birth dissipated under the weight of their circumstances, imprisoned in the filthy cabin. Caught up with Rosalind as she laboured, it had been easy to push their peril to one side. It all flooded back to Helena as she attempted to force the dry bread down her throat.
Suddenly, the situation seemed even direr. Into this, they now had a small, hopeful life to protect. They might die here, all of them. Guy might not reach her in time. She never questioned whether he would come or not, but what if he did not reach them soon enough?
A sudden sound broke the quiet. Hoof beats approached the hut, coming fast. She strained to hear the activity outside, holding her breath as a horse stopped before the cottage. A man’s voice—and a few mumbled responses—made her blood ran cold.
Ranulf had come. His was not a voice she was likely to forget. Fear held her immobile as she stared at the door.
The murmur grew louder, and then Ranulf flung open the door to their prison. Light limned his frame in the doorway.
Rosalind stirred in her sleep, but didn’t wake.
“Good day, Nell.” Ranulf’s smile was cordial.
Helena rose to her feet. Beneath her bliaut her limbs held a tremor.
Ranulf’s eyes came to rest on the sleeping woman. “Du Basson has been peering under every bed he finds looking for his faithless wife.” He gave a short laugh. “And she was hiding at Lystanwold all the while.”
“What do you hope to gain by this?” Helena demanded. She clasped her hands together to stop their shaking.
Ranulf’s triumphant smile sent a fresh spike of terror through her. “Hope to gain?” His grin broadened. “Nay, sweet Nell, I have already gained.”
He strolled into the cabin. Helena shrank back against the hearth, but Ranulf strode to the cot. His lips twisted contemptuously. “I do not believe I will need you after all. It has become more troublesome to keep you alive.” The figure on the cot remained silent as he added, “You will, of course, allow me to deal with the ladies first.”
Ranulf’s glance swept her from top to bottom. “Ah, Nell.” He shook his head regretfully. “What to do with you?”
Helena dared not move as Ranulf took the few steps separating them. He examined her face as if he were searching for some truth not yet apparent. “You lied to my men,” he chided her softly. “Did you think I would be merciful with an infant?”
“I did not lie,” Helena replied hoarsely. “The child is Guy’s.”
“The child may be Guy’s. Then again, that whore spread her legs for most of Stephen’s court.” Ranulf shrugged. “It could be anyone’s and Guy will not come for her. So, you see, Nell, you have only gained her a reprieve long enough to birth her bastard.”
Dread locked around her chest. It was difficult to draw breath. Completely without any trace of remorse, Ranulf watched her as a wolf chooses its prey, enjoying her fear. “It could have been so different for you and me.”
Over Ranulf’s shoulder the bundle on the bed stirred.
Be still. She sent the silent plea to the man buried under those ragged bed clothes. He wouldn’t stand a chance against Ranulf.
Ranulf’s boots touched the edge of her gown. Helena could retreat no further as the wall met her back. “Did I not court you, Nell?” he asked softly as he gripped her chin. “Was I not patient and were my intentions not of the most noble?”
Ranulf’s twisted mind horrified her.
The
babe made a soft, mewling noise, unnaturally loud in the cabin. Helena dared not glance in the child’s direction.
“You were unwed for all of those years, an insult in itself. Then he married you to that whoreson, rutting bastard.” Ranulf’s grip on her jaw tightened.
The knot of fear grew in her throat. She didn’t want to die here in this filthy hut, never to see Guy again . . .
“You are mine. Lystanwold is mine. I have waited for it patiently all this time.” Ranulf’s tone softened, but his hold on her face remained punishing.
She grasped his wrists to loosen his hold. His fingers tightened. Tears stung her eyes.
There was no reason to him, just bottomless rage.
“He took what is mine and now I will have it back. You, however, present a problem. I thought if I kept you hidden somewhere, I could have my fill of you, but I can see now that was merely foolish sentiment.”
He loomed closer, forcing her head up and back. “Such a clever, clever wench you are, Nell.” His eyes scoured her face.
Helena couldn’t compel her eyes to move from him. He held her life fully in his grasp.
“Even now you would stand before me with a lie on your beautiful lips. You would say what I wanted to hear to win time for that cur to find you, would you not?”
“I—”
“You would tell the devil you loved him to save your precious skin.” Effortlessly he caught her wrists in his free hand and held her immobile. His strength was terrifying.
Powerless, her limbs weakened.
“We are alike in this, sweeting. We will do what we must to win the day.”
“Please . . .” Her jaw ached from his grip and it was difficult to form words around the steadily increasing pressure of his fingers.
“What a perfect woman you would have made me, but I cannot trust your word. I cannot believe anything that trips from that treacherous tongue of yours. I have not slept, Nell.” He shook her like she was a poppet, crowding her further against the wall.