Lords of Eire: An Irish Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  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, B
ric.”

  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

  Copyright 2014 by Kathryn Le Veque

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Printed by Kathryn Le Veque Novels in the United States of America

  Text copyright 2014 by Kathryn Le Veque

  Cover copyright 2014 by Kathryn Le Veque

  Library of Congress Control Number 2014-011

  ISBN 1496029151

  “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.

  Fortunately, the sea wasn’t particularly deep. The woman struggled to find her footing and her he
ad broke the surface as she gasped for breath. Coughing, she labored against the strong sea and wind to make her way to the rocky shore. She could see it several feet away, trying to keep away from the surging boat. It was pitching violently and she was sure she would be crushed if she drew near it. So she scrambled across the rocky sea floor, drawing on every last ounce of strength she had to reach the shore. She fell at some point, cutting her knees on the sharp rocks, and the salt water stung the open wounds. Just as she reached ankle-deep water, she was grabbed from behind.

  Exhausted and terrified, she hadn’t lost her fight. She began to kick ferociously, swinging her fists until her abductor managed to grab her arms and pin them. He made his way onto the shore, staggering when she kicked at his knees, but he maintained his grip. The woman was shrieking now, struggling to break his hold on her as he carried her off. She could only imagine what horrors awaited her and she was determined to fight for her life. No Irish bastard was going to rob her of her innocence, perhaps her very life, and expect an easy target. She was going to give him hell.

  He trudged off the shore and into the land beyond. There was so much rain and wind from the storm that she couldn’t see where he was taking her. Water was in her eyes, lashing her, and her hair was now sticking in great wet clumps across her face. She couldn’t see through the soaked hair and bad weather, but she could smell the dark Irish earth and the scent of wet grass with a hint of mold. The salty smell of the sea was mingled with the storm.

  The man slugged across muddy ground and eventually, they were moving up a hill; she could feel the change in elevation, in the angle of the ground as he struggled to gain traction. Although she was growing increasingly weary, she drew deep on her inherent strength and began to fight him in a new round of struggles. It was like a lamb fighting against a bull, the pathetic struggle of a weary woman against a bear of an Irishman.