WindWarrior

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  "If you're thinking of slipping over the side and swimming for a rowboat, you'd best think again, cuz,” Jules cautioned. “I believe they are there to make sure you don't do just that."

  "Fuck ‘em,” Dek said. “I've had about all of his shit I intend to take."

  Once the Céirseach docked and the gangplank was lowered, Dek was the first one off, making a beeline to the man he recognized among the mercenaries.

  "Welcome home, Your Grace,” Damian said, bowing. “His Beatitude...."

  "Stow that crap,” Dek snapped. “I know what the hell he wants.” He walked right past Damian and started up the long, twisting cobblestone walk that led to the keep.

  Falling in behind the Baron, the AnÉilvéis guards—there were six of them other than Damian—formed a close phalanx around Dek. The significance of their maneuver was not missed and was rewarded with an enraged growl from the Laird of Drogh-gheay. He snapped his head around to glare at Damian.

  "Did he attempt to see my lady?” he demanded.

  Damian's lips twitched in what was obviously a smile attempting to be restrained. “He did, Your Grace, but he was turned away.” The mercenary gave Dek an admiring look. “He was not happy about the situation but did not press the issue."

  "He's smarter than I thought,” Dek muttered.

  "If you will pardon me for saying so, Your Grace, but His Beatitude is very fond of the lady in question,” Damian commented.

  Dek grunted but did not remark on the statement. By the time he reached the keep, he was in no mood to do anything save head for the library and the strongest goblet of Chalean whiskey he could find. He was in the act of finding the potent potable when Damian cleared his throat at the door.

  "The Patriarch asked that he be awakened as soon as you arrived home, Your Grace,” he informed the Baron.

  "Oh, by all means, wake him up,” Dek said before tipping the goblet back. “Let's get the show on the road."

  "As you will, Your Grace,” Damian said, bowing.

  Dek had just long enough to polish off the first goblet of whiskey before the Patriarch appeared in billowing cashmere robe and velvet slippers. His corpulent bulk stretched the lush material to bursting over his ponderous girth as he hobbled into the room.

  "So you're back,” Dek grumbled. He was sitting with a leg hooked over the arm of a very comfortable chair, sipping more of the fiery Chalean whiskey.

  "We are, indeed, Deklyn,” the Patriarch replied and took a seat across from the younger man. “You had a pleasant trip home, we hope."

  Dek looked around the room then back at the Patriarch. “Tell me: how many people do you see in this room?"

  His Beatitude the Ecumenical Patriarch Keish Buillovvee's lips tightened. “We do not understand your question, Deklyn."

  The Baron smiled nastily. “It's an easy enough question. How many people are in this room?"

  "Two."

  "Me and you?"

  "Unless you know something we don't."

  Dek took another sip then lowered the glass to rest it on his thigh. “There's just one of you and one of me, is that correct?"

  "It is."

  "Then stop with that shite when you're talking about yourself,” Dek snapped. “It is an affectation that wore thin long ago."

  The Patriarch's porcine eyes narrowed. “You are being especially rude tonight, Deklyn. We...."

  "I!” Dek yelled. “There is no we. There is only you!"

  For a moment the older man said nothing, and then he shifted in his chair and—with some difficulty—crossed his legs at the ankle and settled back in the overstuffed comfort of the seat.

  "I don't like your tone, young man. Pray do not forget to whom it is you are speaking,” he chastised.

  "I will grant you all the respect you are due, Your Beatitude, but if you continue to speak of yourself in that royal nosism, I am going to leave you here to talk to the other people in your head,” Dek told him.

  A thin eyebrow rose above the small eyes of Keish Buillovvee. “Will you indeed?” His mouth twisted in a tight smile. “Do that and I will install your arrogant little ass in your own dungeon until such time as you beg—on bended knee, nay on your belly!—for my indulgence and forgiveness.” He leaned forward. “Do we understand one another, Deklyn Yn Baase?"

  Rubbing a hand across his forehead, Deklyn sighed heavily. “Why are you here?” he countered. He had no doubt the Patriarch would attempt to have him thrust into a cell but there would be hell to pay if he tried it.

  "You know perfectly well why I am here. Do me the courtesy of not pretending otherwise."

  Draining the goblet, Dek twisted around to place the crystal drinking glass on the table beside him. “I will not give up my woman so if you came here with that in mind, we're going to have trouble, me and you."

  "You and I,” the Patriarch corrected the younger man. “And that was not my intention."

  Dek looked over at him with brows furrowed. “No?"

  "No,” the Patriarch replied. “Since last we.... “He pursed his thin lips. “Since last I was here, I have learned some things in relation to your lady-wife that makes the contract susceptible to a different kind of interpretation of religious law."

  "You learned she prefers girls to boys, eh?” Dek said with a mirthless laugh.

  "That is part of what we learned,” the Patriarch replied then held up a hand to forestall any complaint. “We, as in the clergy of the Archtribunal in Bergen. I am sure you know we took the witch woman back with us when we left the last time."

  "Maire mentioned it, aye."

  "Well, in questioning the witch, we learned something that disturbed us greatly and were not the Baroness now carrying the heir to the Tarryn throne, would have nullified the marriage contract forthwith."

  The puzzlement intensified on Dek's face. “I'm sorry but I don't understand. What could you have learned that would have made you consider setting the marriage aside? Surely, you already knew about her sexual proclivities and the trucking with heretics before you left Drogh-gheay. I don't...."

  "The witch informed us—after a very strenuous bout of questioning—that she had performed an abortion for the Baroness,” said softly. “An abortion of your child."

  Dek's jaw sagged open with disbelief. He stared at the Patriarch, unable to speak.

  "Not only did she perform that abomination, but she provided the Baroness with herbs and potions designed to keep your lady-wife from conceiving. It was not until you brought the lovely Maire home to Tarryn that the Baroness came to the witch and asked for her help in aiding her to conceive an heir. It is our opinion—that of the Archtribunal—that she did not wish to lose neither the title of Baroness nor the lands she brought to the marriage."

  "I gave her those gods-be-damned lands back!” Dek said. “I don't want or need them!"

  "I believe the title is of more concern to her than the lands, Deklyn. She does not wish to become a person of disinterest to the people of Tarryn. To have the title taken from her would be to have her declared a nobody in her eyes."

  "She is a nobody,” Dek snapped. “The people despise her almost as much as I do."

  "This is true and had she not conceived, I would have gladly set aside your marriage to her but now?” He spread his pudgy hands. “Now, I can do no more than instruct your Tribunal to look the other way when you are with your Cochianglt."

  "You would do that?” Dek asked.

  "I will do that, Deklyn,” the Patriarch stated. “The perfidy your lady-wife perpetrated against you and the people of Tarryn was long before you found Maire again. It was she who broke the covenant, not you. Were it possible to divest you of this unhappy marriage, believe me, I would do so but, unfortunately, our hands are tied now there is a child on the way."

  Relief spread through Deklyn's soul. He put a hand to his temple where a wicked headache had started.

  "You should get to bed,” the Patriarch suggested. “It is late and you want to look better than you do at this mome
nt when you give Maire the news on the morrow."

  There was moisture in the young Baron's eyes when he looked at the Patriarch. “Thank you, Your Beatitude."

  "I am not your enemy, Deklyn,” the overweight clergyman said. “I never have been.” He waved his fingers. “Now, shoo! Get some rest."

  "May I see you to your chambers, Your Beatitude?” Dek asked.

  "Nay, I think I will sit here a moment to consider prying myself out of this very comfortable seat. Run along now."

  Realizing he was being dismissed, Deklyn went to the Patriarch and genuflected, bowing his head in respect. “Forgive me for my earlier rash behavior, Your Beatitude,” he asked.

  Keish Buillovvee laid his palm on the young man's bent head. “There is nothing to forgive, Deklyn. We love you as the son we never had."

  Dek raised his head to find the Patriarch grinning at him. He returned the smile then got to his feet. Although he knew he climbed the stairs to reach his chambers that early morn he would have sworn his feet never touched the treads.

  * * * *

  Having lost the meal she had consumed at suppertime and now experiencing a terrible bout of heartburn, Ynez was pacing her room when she heard the door to her husband's chambers open and close. She put a hand to her burgeoning belly and rubbed lightly.

  "It seems your bastard of a father is home, little one,” she said. In her mind, it was a precious little girl who was nestled in her womb and when she spoke to ‘her', she often called her by the name she had decided to call her—Angelique.

  Another round of nausea suddenly hit her, and she turned, sprinting for the chamber pot, gagging horribly as nothing but hot bile trickled from her gasping mouth. She strained and strained until she was exhausted then stumbled back to her bed, collapsing on the mattress with an arm flung over her eyes.

  "You had best be a girl, Angelique,” she said. “If you turn out to be a boy, I'll drown you in your bath...."

  The moment she felt it, Ynez knew precisely what it was. Her child had kicked her! She sat up with a gasp, staring wide-eyed at her belly. Once more, the babe moved inside her and for the first time in her life, Ynez Arabach was overcome by an emotion she had reserved only for Miriam. Hand shaking, she put it to her belly and almost immediately, the child flexed in her womb.

  "Oh,” Ynez said, tears gathering in her eyes. She rubbed the spot. All she could think of was to share this glorious feeling with someone—anyone! Her eyes went to the wall that separated her room from her husband's. She hesitated. She truly had no desire to see Deklyn, to speak to him, but this monumental thing that was happening to her—and it happened again!—was causing such strange emotions inside her, she felt an overwhelming urge to share.

  Pushing up from the bed, she left her room, not even bothering to knock on Deklyn's door but barging in and going straight to him. He was in the process of taking off his belt when she intruded and shot her a nasty look.

  "I'm in no mood for your infernal shite, Ynez, I...."

  "Feel!” she said, hurrying to him and grabbing his hand, wrestling it toward her with more strength than he knew she possessed to lay his palm on the rounded expanse of her stomach.

  Slightly disturbed that she was showing already, he tried to pull his hand back but the babe took that moment to kick forcefully against its mother's stomach, and he stilled, a look of stunned surprise shifting over his tired face.

  "Did you feel it?” Ynez asked, pressing his hand tighter to her belly.

  He lifted his gaze from her slightly protruding stomach to her face and blinked. She had an ethereal look about her that shocked him as much as feeling the child move. Her face was glowing, her eyes alive with an emotion he had never seen her exhibit.

  "Deklyn, did you feel it?” she insisted.

  "Aye,” he whispered for the babe moved still again beneath his palm. His fingers tensed on her belly.

  "She's going to be a lively one,” she said.

  He eased his hand from hers, still feeling the sensation of his child moving under his palm. “You've decided it's a girl,” he said.

  "I have all the signs,” she said. “According to the midwife.” She lifted her chin. “I have decided to name her Angelique for she will be my little angel.” Once more tears came into her eyes. “I will be a very good mother to her and teach her everything I know."

  He was afraid she would. “What if it's a boy?"

  Ynez shook her head, flung out a dismissive hand. “It will not be.” She turned to go, dismissing him now that she had what she wanted.

  Dek watched her leave with mixed emotions of his own. One part of him was overjoyed at having felt his child move for the first time, to know the babe was alive and well inside its mother's belly. Another part of him was filled with sadness that the child was not Maire's.

  He went to bed with a headache and spent the remainder of the night staring up at his ceiling.

  * * * *

  "Will you be riding out this morn to visit your leman?” Ynez asked him at the breakfast table the next morn.

  Dek's jaw tightened. “Don't call her that, Ynez."

  Ynez cocked a shoulder. “I will call her what I will."

  "Not in our presence, you won't,” the Patriarch stated, sending her a stern look from the head of the table.

  "I am entitled to my opinion,” Ynez defended.

  "Aye, you are, but it will be hard to speak with a broken jaw,” Dek said softly as he scored the ham on his plate. He looked up to give her a hard look. “Or without a tongue."

  Ynez pursed her lips. “You talk a good fight, Deklyn, but we both know you would never...."

  "He might not, but we are a different matter,” the Patriarch told her. “We are not your friend, Baroness. Were you not carrying the Baron's heir, even now you would be in our dungeon awaiting trial for your heretic crimes.” He speared her with a look colder than Dek's. “We suggest you hold your tongue else be relieved of it. A tongue is not needed to be Baroness or mother."

  Raising her chin, she pushed back her chair. “I find I have lost my appetite,” she said. When neither man rose to assist her, she looked around for a servant but none was in sight. Clenching her teeth, she got out of the chair, and as soon as she did, a sudden wave of dizziness hit her. She grabbed for the chair back, her face pale.

  Dek glanced at her, looked down at his plate then did a double take. Lines formed between his brows. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  A cold sweat having broken out all over her body, Ynez felt the first cramp squeeze her belly and pressed her hand there. Her eyes widened as the pain increased. “Deklyn?” she questioned. The next pain doubled her over, and she cried out, staggering. Had she not had a death grip on the chair, she would have fallen.

  Scrambling from his chair, Dek raced around the end of the table in time to catch her before she collapsed.

  "Get the healer!” he shouted, scooping Ynez up in his arms and sprinting for the door.

  The Patriarch had difficulty getting out of his chair but his roaring voice brought servants running into the dining room. He ordered the healer fetched.

  Racing up the stairs with his wife, Dek carried her into her room and laid her gently on the bed. She was writhing in agony—holding her belly—and he was at a loss to know what to do.

  "Deklyn, do something!” she pleaded with him, her face stark white beneath a sheen of sweat.

  He looked about him then ran into the bathing chamber to get a cold cloth. It was all he could think to do for her. Bringing it back, he sat down on the mattress and placed the cloth to her face.

  "Daragh will be here soon,” he said.

  Ynez grabbed his arm—digging her nails into his flesh. “It hurts!” she wailed. “Deklyn, it hurts!"

  He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Try to lie still,” he said, feeling helpless. Such things were a woman's domain and he was completely lost within it. He looked around as Daragh came hurrying into the room.

  "Out,” Daragh ordered.
He had brought a midwife with him, and she took the Baron's arm and urged him to the door, closing it in Dek's face.

  The Patriarch had hobbled up the stairs—huffing and puffing, bending over with his hands on his pudgy knees in order to catch his breath. “I should be in there,” he gasped. “Just in case."

  Dek stared at him. “In case?” he repeated but the Patriarch waved him aside and entered the chamber with Archbishop Mongey close on his heels. Once more, the door closed, shutting Dek out.

  The sounds coming from behind the door made Dek's flesh crawl. Ynez was howling as though the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. He paced in front of the door with guilt riding him with razor sharp spurs. With every wail, he flinched, feeling regret and shame in equal measure. He knew she was losing the baby, and he could not help but wonder if his indifference to the child had helped cause its destruction.

  Pressing his back to the wall, he slid to the floor and covered his face with his hands. One part of him was feeling overwhelming remorse while another felt intense relief. The war between those parts unmanned him and tears flooded his eyes.

  "What kind of man would feel relief that his child is dying?” he whispered.

  When the howling stopped, Dek lowered his hands halfway down his face. He listened carefully but there were no sounds coming from the room. The door opened and Daragh came out drying his hands on a towel.

  "There was nothing I could do,” Daragh said. “She aborted the fetus."

  "Is she...?” He stared up at Daragh, glanced at the Patriarch who slipped past the healer. Archbishop Mongey followed behind like a little dog at his master's heels.

  "She lost a great deal of blood and is still bleeding.” Daragh told him. “My guess is there is a tear in her womb that opened up with the baby's kicking last eve. I've knocked her out and will go in to do a hysterectomy now. I wanted you to know."

  Dek's forehead creased. “A tear? How? Surely the babe's kicking wasn't that powerful."

  "I'm told she had an abortion a few years ago,” Daragh said. “The womb might well have been punctured then and was weak in that spot. I won't know until I have a look at it."