Blackheart

by Tamara Leigh

  She arched, threw her arms out, and gripped the coverlet on either side of her.

  Gabriel slammed his gaze to the midwife's bowed head. "Can you do naught for her pain?"

  Exasperation put sparkle in her aged eyes. "Henbane would ease her labor, my lord, but if I am to give a live babe into your arms, I shall need her help in pushing it forth."

  A whimper parted Juliana's dry lips.

  Gabriel bent and cupped her face between his hands. "I am here, Juliana. Hold to me."

  She opened her eyes and searched his face. "Always... I shall," she whispered through chattering teeth.

  Pain lanced Gabriel's breast, spilled something from him that he had too long denied. But before he could embrace it, Juliana gasped and threw her head back.

  "I die! Surely I die!"

  "Nay!" He shook her. "You do not! Now hold to me and 'twill soon be done—I swear it."

  Breath shallow, she lowered her chin and searched his gaze, then reached up and gripped his shoulders. "Our son... is he... ?"

  Their son. He pressed his lips to her brow. "He is well."

  A scant smile touched her face, but in the next instant it was supplanted by yet more suffering.

  "My lord?"

  Gabriel looked to the midwife. "Aye?"

  "Must I choose between mother and child, who would you have me spare?"

  Gabriel felt as if run through with a sword, and nearly roared his pain and anger that it be spoken that Juliana might hear.

  "My lord, I must know."

  "Spare her," he said in a growl. "Spare Juliana." She returned to the birthing. "Nay," Juliana panted, "the babe." Gabriel looked into her weary eyes and shook his head. "For naught will I lose you. Naught!" "He is your heir. He—"

  "He I do not yet love." He rushed the words to her before he could examine them.

  Her lids lifted further. "Love?" That single word was more beautiful on her breath than ever he had heard it spoken.

  He loosed his vised jaws and nodded. "Aye, love."

  She closed her eyes as if to savor what he'd bared, for one moment looked serene, then sucked air.

  "Push, child," the midwife commanded. "Now!"

  Clutching Gabriel as if he were all there was in the world, Juliana obeyed with a strength he had not known she possessed. And a dozen times more. The setting sun cast its last rays through the open windows when the babe slid slippery and wailing from her womb.

  "God has given you a son, my lord," the midwife said, "and he looks to be of good health." She cut the cord, tied it, then motioned Lissant forward.

  A blanket over her arms, Lissant stepped to the old woman's side and the two swathed the babe.

  "You are a father, my lord." A smile put a glimmer of extinguished youth to the old woman's face as she lifted the bundled infant for Gabriel to see.

  He stared at the little one who continued to fill the room with his cries. A father. His son? But the old woman said he was of good health when a child born three weeks early—

  "I would hold him," Juliana croaked.

  Gabriel looked at where her head rested in the curve of his arm. Never had one looked so weary, yet so beautiful.

  "You are not done, my lady," the midwife said. "There is still the afterbirth."

  "I shall hold him."

  "Your son must needs be bathed, his palate rubbed with honey and—"

  "Bring him to me!"

  The old woman looked to Gabriel.

  He nodded.

  She snorted, but passed the babe to Lissant. "For a moment only."

  As if the howling child were poured of the most fragile glass, Lissant bore him the scant distance to his mother. "Your son, my lady." She eased the bundle into the crook of Juliana's arm.

  Juliana stared, so still he was certain she had stopped breathing. Then she smiled. "Oh," she crooned, and touched the babe's brow, nose, and lips. As if her touch were enchanted, he quieted. Juliana looked up, something very different about the eyes she laid to Gabriel. They were deeper, warmer. "Our son," she said softly as if to a beloved husband. "Ours, Gabriel."

  He longed for it to be so, but it did not seem likely. Still, he reached forward and touched the tiny fist that rooted past the swaddling. It was soft. His heart leaped, but the midwife's impatience stole the moment.

  "My lady, you must bear down one last time." She gestured for Lissant to take the babe. "Your maid shall tend him that he might return to your arms when the birthing is done."

  Juliana's reluctance was as a great weight upon Gabriel, but she deferred to Lissant.

  It took more than the midwife's "one last time" to expel the afterbirth, but finally it was done. A short while later, Juliana sank into a deep sleep, the babe suckling at her full breast.

  Gabriel sat silent beside her, captivated by the sight. How had he believed he could take a child from its mother? His son or not, they belonged together. And when Bernart came? Finally he let himself go to that place he'd eschewed throughout Juliana's labor, and was torn by it.

  "You would hold your son, my lord?"

  He pulled his gaze to the midwife, who had come to stand beside his chair, entertained how like a witch she looked with torchlight flicking her sharp nose and chin, lighting her brittle gray hair. He had thought the same when she'd dressed his scored ribs a short while ago.

  "He lies awake," she prompted.

  Gabriel looked to the babe whose cheek was pressed to Juliana's breast and found his gray gaze upon him. Or was it? It was as if it went through him. "How fares Lady Juliana?" he asked, as he'd asked a dozen times since the delivery.

  "Not as poorly as I believed she would, but come the dawn we will know better." Then, as if to reassure, "She is a strong one, my lord, and will likely bear you many more."

  More children...

  The midwife turned again to the babe. "He has the look of his mother—and you, my lord."

  Gabriel sharpened his gaze on the old woman, then the child. Aye, hair like Juliana's, brown warmed through with red, but no other resemblance did Gabriel see—not even to Bernart.

  He looked around the room. The women servants having withdrawn, Lissant was the only other occupant. She dozed in a chair near the brazier.

  "The child was born early?" he asked the midwife.

  Her eyes narrowed as if she considered her answer with care. It could not be the first time she'd been asked to assure a father a newborn babe was his get. "Mayhap. Though he is healthy and of good weight and length, he is somewhat small to be bom of a man your size."

  Bernart was not as tall or broad... "If early, how many weeks?"

  Her brow rippled like puddled rain. "I cannot say, my lord."

  "And if he had remained in the womb a fortnight or more?"

  She pursed her lips, then gruffly conceded, "He could not have passed. But your lady is small. Sending the babe early is oft God's way of preserving mother and child." She broke gaze with him. "Now hold your son, my lord."

  Bernart's son. The child had to be. That Gabriel's recently confessed love for Juliana could not overcome. Such unutterable pain, not only for his loss of the child and, thus, Juliana, but for his needless revenge—the pain he had caused her, Alaiz, and now Blase. He shook his head. "The child is content where he lies."

  She heaved a sigh. "You are certain?"

  He looked longingly at the infant. "Nay, I am not."

  The midwife leaned near him and spoke so softly her old voice revealed a bit of the woman she must have been thirty years past. "All know 'tis good for a father to hold his child soon after birth—especially a son."

  But he was not Bernart. "Aye"—he met her gaze—"I would wish it for him, but 'tis not for me to do."

  Weariness settled deeper into her face, aged her beyond her years. "As you will, my lord." She turned away and hobbled toward the straw pallet the women servants had placed near the hearth for her. "I pray you shall not regret it."

  Already he did. Since he had learned Juliana was with child he'd believ
ed the babe to be of his seed, and in that belief had been made a father. He closed his eyes, finally granting admittance to that skulking in the back of his mind: he'd wanted this child for more than revenge, wanted it nearly as much as he wanted Juliana. Now there was naught to hold either to him.

  He looked to Juliana. Though she was spent from labor, there was a radiance about her that made him touch her cheek, then the slightly turned corner of her mouth. This day she was changed. No longer was she simply a woman. She was a mother. Regardless whether or not she outlived her offspring, she would be a mother to the grave.

  It was not so with fathers, as Gabriel knew well from his own sire's rejection of him nine years past. Lacking the certainty of parentage granted to women through the womb, it was easy for a man to deny a child, be he right or wrong.

  Bitterness of old crept in, but ere it could settle, the babe snuffled.

  Was he uncomfortable? Scared? Hungry? Gabriel glanced at Juliana. Should he awaken her? Nay, she needed sleep. The midwife? He looked over his shoulder.

  The old woman lay on her pallet, back to him, narrow shoulders evidencing a steady rise and fall.

  Gabriel fought himself, and would have fought longer and harder if not for the babe's impatience that put a stronger whimper to the air. He stood, then gently lifted the bundle from Juliana's side. He held the babe out from him a long moment ere bringing him into the crook of his arm.

  How strange it felt to hold him, to feel their bodies meet as if they were not one without the other. As if connected. Would that they were...

  Juliana's son blinked and whimpered low.

  What should he do? Walk him as he'd seen mothers do when an infant turned fretful? Gabriel crossed the room, then crossed back.

  Shortly, the babe's whimpers turned to a gurgle, as if he grew content. Unfortunately, the sound was nearly as loud as the other.

  "Shh," Gabriel breathed. "I am here, little one." He stroked the babe's small fist, and an instant later found his finger grasped tightly. Something inside him began to melt.

  The babe yawned wide, showing pink gums and tongue, then closed his eyes and tucked his chin.

  Gabriel grinned, turned at the door, and started back to the bed. But he did not return the infant to Juliana's arms. A few more times around the room, he told himself, just to be certain the babe was fully asleep.

  The old woman smiled on her pallet. It was good for a father to hold his newborn child.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  A son, and with an appetite she would not have expected of one who ought to be sickly. Though he'd come three weeks early, the midwife said he was as healthy as if he had remained in the womb till due. Juliana smiled. God had blessed her.

  She looked from the suckling babe to the chair Gabriel had filled throughout the birthing. The joy of holding her child dampened at the sight. The chair was empty, as it had been each time she'd awakened this new day. Would Gabriel return, or leave her summons unanswered as he'd done the past fortnight? She must speak with him, must tell him the truth of Bernart.

  "Lissant," she addressed the maid, who bent to her needlework.

  Lissant looked up. "My lady?"

  "I would have you go again to Lord De Vere and tell him I must speak with him."

  "My lord has said you are not to be alone, my lady."

  Unfortunately, the midwife had departed a half hour past to tend a birthing in one of the villages. "Mayhap you could send the guard, then."

  "I could, but word was brought Lord De Vere hardly an hour past." She smiled reassuringly. "Do you not worry, my lady, he will soon come."

  Juliana was not so sure. Though Gabriel had professed his love for her—the words he'd spoken forever inscribed upon her mind—he likely regretted speaking them. But Lissant was right. She must give him time. An hour more, then, but that was all. If siege was to come to Mergot, Gabriel needed the weapon that only she could provide.

  On that last, she considered Lissant, who had returned to her needlework. "The people of Mergot are made busy these past days," she probed.

  "Aye." Lissant continued to concentrate on her needle.

  "Think you Lord De Vere can hold against a siege?"

  Lissant stilled, then raised her gaze. "We pray he shall do so."

  Juliana ached for having guessed correctly. "Who comes against your lord? Baron Faison?"

  She shook her head. "I know not his name, my lady, only that he soon crosses the channel to make war upon Mergot."

  Bernart Kinthorpe was his name. No other. Juliana stared at the one Bernart thought to steal from Gabriel.

  The babe suckled a moment longer, then loosed her breast with a loud smack.

  She chuckled past her pained heart. "Full, little one?"

  He blinked; a moment later he started at the creaking of the door.

  Juliana looked around.

  Gabriel hesitated on the threshold ere stepping within. "How fare you, Lady Juliana?"

  Why did he no longer call her Isolde in Lissant's presence? Had he called her Juliana on the day past? Aye, when he'd told the midwife to spare her over their child, revealing his feelings for her ere he'd spoken them.

  "I am sore and tired," she answered, venturing a smile that was not returned, "but the midwife says I shall recover fully."

  He halted alongside the bed. " 'Tis as she told me. The child continues to do well?"

  The child, not my son. Her misgivings lurched. Though the midwife had told her Gabriel had walked the babe last eve, had held him long into the night, he thought the child's early birth meant he was of Bernart. True, it was as Juliana had tried to convince him these past months, but no more could she lie to him. Once they were alone, he would know the truth. "Your son"—she emphasized the words—"is hale and satisfied, my lord. You would hold him again?"

  From the darkening of his face, he either did not like the child to be named his, or had not wanted her to know he'd held him. Likely both. He leaned down and lifted the bundle from her. As he settled the babe close to his chest, he glanced at the little one. Though he looked quickly away, emotion struggled across his face, causing him to look again. Jaw softening, he drew a finger across the backs of their son's hands.

  Relief eased Juliana against the pillows.

  "Lissant," Gabriel summoned.

  The maid dropped her needlework and hastened forward. "My lord?"

  "Deliver the babe to the donjon."

  Dread wended through Juliana. Regardless of his profession of love—mayhap she had only imagined it?—he would take their child from her as he'd vowed. Even though he might not believe he was the father.

  Gabriel passed the infant to the maid. "A cradle has been placed in Lady Juliana's chamber."

  "Nay!" Juliana labored up from the pillows and grasped Gabriel's sleeve. "Pray, do not—"

  "Go," he ordered Lissant.

  The maid passed a look of apprehension to Juliana, but turned to the door.

  A hole opened up within Juliana. "Do not take him from me, Gabriel!"

  He came back around and laid a hand over hers where she gripped his arm. "I do not." His voice was not unkind. "You shall be together again shortly."

  Did he speak true? She searched his face, and found there only what looked to be sorrow.

  "If you are ready," he said, "I shall carry you to your chamber."

  He did love her. Though he might not speak it again, she was in his heart. She nodded. "I am ready."

  He reached forward and tugged the bodice of her chemise over her exposed breast.

  Strange, but she felt no embarrassment at having bared herself—as if she belonged to him. And in her heart, she did.

  He pulled the coverlet up to her chin, then gently lifted her from the bed.

  She winced at the discomfort between her thighs. "I have hurt you?"

  She shook her head and took a breath of his scent that she would recognize among a hundred men—nay, a thousand. "I am tender, 'tis all."

  His gaze held hers, then
drifted to her mouth, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her. Instead he turned to the door.

  Not until they ascended the steps of the donjon amid the soft flutter of snowflakes did Juliana break the oppressive silence. "Before Lissant you called me Juliana."

  His gaze did not waver from their ascent. "I did."

  "Why not Isolde?"

  "Because you are no longer she." His jaw tensed. "You are Lady Juliana Kinthorpe... of Tremoral."

  A chill swept her. Did he mean to return her to Bernart? And what of their son? Desperation gripped her. "I must speak to you about Bernart."

  He stepped past the porter who held the door, then glanced at her. "What is there to speak of?"

  "More than you can know."

  "Not here."

  "Then my chamber."

  As he carried her through the hall, Juliana was struck by the changes there. True, the great hall was not grand, but in her absence the blackened walls had been painted and the hole in the far wall repaired.

  She smiled—until Gabriel started up the stairs that resounded with their son's cries.

  No sooner did they step within the chamber than Lissant rushed forward. "He will not be quieted, my lord." She gestured to the cradle from which the cries issued. "Methinks he wishes his mother."

  "Or his father," Juliana said.

  Mouth pinched, Gabriel stepped past the cradle and lowered her to the bed.

  "Bring me our son, Gabriel," she said as he straightened; then to Lissant, she added, "I must speak with Lord De Vere in private."

  The maid nodded, backed out the door, and closed it.

  Gabriel stared at her absence, then bent and lifted the babe from the cradle. Without pause, he passed the fitful bundle to Juliana.

  "There," she crooned, but the babe would not be calmed.

  Gabriel turned toward the door.

  "Do not leave," Juliana called above the cries. "Stay and hear what I have to tell."

  He held his back to her, but finally came around.

  It took several minutes for the babe to calm, but at last he hiccuped, nestled against her breast, and lowered his lids.

  Juliana looked up and found Gabriel's gaze upon their son. "You will sit beside me?"