A Lord for Haughmond

by K. C. Helms

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  On Saint Winifred’ s bones, she did not believe a word of it. Rhys was not dead.

  Yet Katherine’s chest ached, felt as though it would explode, as she sat with bowed head at the high table. Had she lost him? Was the staggering tale soothfast and she could do naught to change it? Was this crippling agony to be with her evermore?

  The chef had amassed his underlings to create a grand feast for Sir Dafydd. Slabs of venison arrived at the high table and the carver placed the choicest slices on the silver plate her husband insisted they share.

  ’Twas of no consequence. Her stomach did protest the sight and smell of the offerings presented by Haughmond’s eager pages. Her spoon yet rested upon the white tablecloth beside her untouched napkin.

  Platters of whole roasted swans decked out in their lush feathers and served with chaudron, the sharp sauce she usually adored, were paraded past. Stuffed piglets, raised pies of mutton, mashed turnips with onions, dried fruits and three puddings did follow—everything the lord of the castle would expect.

  She ate none of it. Even her goblet of sack went untouched. Sir Dafydd tried to tempt her with a sotelte in the shape of an eagle but she declined.

  Laughter erupted at the back of the hall. Katherine threw a scowling glare at the soldiers. Dirty and tired, they had wolfed down the hearty meal and were indulging Haughmond’s knights with tales of Welsh combat, tales that both unsettled and exhilarated the listeners.

  Sitting beside her husband, she ignored him and his comments, wrapped up completely in a world of her own making—of despairing hopelessness.

  She shifted awkwardly, seeking a comfortable position in her high-backed chair. Beneath her aching heart the babe in her womb stirred. ’Twas a common occurrence with the birth so near. She winced from a sudden harsh kick, yet she welcomed the pain. It distracted from her greater suffering.

  To be sure, ’twas a boy, with such strength.

  Rhys’s son.

  Sorrow swept over her. This child was all that remained of her beloved. She slid her arm beneath her swollen belly, drawing comfort from the energetic movements coming from within her womb, and held her babe.

  Rhys’s babe.

  A heavy hand descended upon her shoulder. She started as though scorched by a burning ember. It took a moment to realize her husband awaited her, his extended hand nigh beneath her nose. She stared at the work-worn hand a long moment. Then, with a stuttering breath, she placed her fingers—ever so slowly—within the large calloused palm. She hated that Sir Dafydd was here and Rhys was not. She hated her position as Sir Dafydd’s lady. She hated his strength, that he breathed and moved and—spoke.

  “Come, my lady, ’tis time we retired.” He pulled her to her feet with a gentle tug.

  A servant hurried forward with an ewer and basin. Dragging her hand through the water, she followed the rinsing habit without purpose.

  Hampered by her ungainly shape, her feet shuffling in a slow and awkward gait, her face flamed with embarrassment. ’Twas impossible not to be aware of her husband’s men-at-arms and their sidelong stares. The lively conversation ground to a halt, left the chamber silent.

  She must needs not fear them, for were they not all good Christian men, who had vowed before God to bestow their protection on the vulnerable? The beggars and cripples of society, women—

  And helpless babes.

  She struggled to breathe, as much from the fulsome panic crowding her thoughts, as from her heavy burden. Were these knights the selfsame warriors who had ruthlessly murdered Welsh women and babes in arms? She averted her gaze, swallowing down her terror.

  In the course of ascending the long circular staircase, Katherine slowed all the more. Unexpectedly her husband’s hand settled on the small of her back, gently urging her upward.

  How strange, his touch did not dismay. Rather, it calmed her tattered nerves.

  In the upper corridor she paused to catch her breath. Beside her, Sir Dafydd awaited her pleasure.

  Heartened by his kindness, a small measure of bravado bolstered her. “I—I would speak of a matter most dear to my heart.” She forced herself to turn and face him. “How fares Rhys of St. Quintin?”

  “Tush, Katherine.”

  The harsh affront came as a shock. It should not have. No son of Sir Geoffrey could be expected to demonstrate any degree of compassion. Unbearable grief erupted within her at her husband’s cruelty. Any other time she would have stomped down the corridor and slammed the chamber door in his face.

  But not this day. She could barely walk with the weight of her babe and her sorrow. When Sir Dafydd took her arm, she did not fling aside his hand. When he guided her into their chamber, she followed meekly. He left her side and drew a chair closer to the warm brazier. She rubbed her upper arm, trying to remove the lingering pressure of his fingers and struggled to keep the tears at bay. She should not have made the request. It had angered her husband and she could do naught to protect herself should he grow vengeful.

  But how was she to live, without knowing what had befallen Rhys? She wallowed in her misery, breathing heavily, her laced fingers tucked beneath her belly to support the pressing weight.

  “Pray be seated, my lady.” Sir Dafydd spoke over his shoulder while he dragged forth another chair.

  Her babe began to kick, steadily and vigorously. Her ungirdled woolen bliaud undulated above the hearty kicks. She winced at the growing discomfort.

  “My lady, will you not allow me to rest my weary bones?” Her husband beckoned to her.

  Katherine shot a glance at him. Sir Dafydd stood looking at her with a quizzical frown. Forsooth, what did he want of her? She spied the two chairs, cozily placed near the warmth of the brazier. To indulge him in a convivial conversation? To pretend to be a happy couple?

  A great weariness descended upon her shoulders. Alas, she had no strength to fight his edicts.

  She groped her way toward the chair. Levering herself down, she was much aware of how closely her husband studied her. His patient, calm manner gave her courage. She lifted her chin and met his gaze.

  “Tell me of Rhys.”

  “It pleases me not to distress you, my lady.”

  “Am I not already distressed?”

  “My tale does not make for happy memories.”

  “Happiness is beyond my grasp.”

  Her husband heaved a weary sigh. Sliding into the chair opposite, resting his elbows on his knees, he slowly commenced his tale. In a stilted voice he told her all he had witnessed.

  Her heart raced at the hideous image of soldiers and horses swept off the bridge, floundering in the surf beneath a rain of arrows.

  Such an inglorious end.

  Hearing the pain twisting his voice, she bowed her head, not wanting to meet his troubled eyes, not wanting his sympathy. At the base of her belly, beneath the weight of her child, her entwined fingers grew moist.

  “Can you withstand this tale, my lady?”

  Forsooth, for she must know. “Tell me of Rhys.”

  She bit her lip. Had he drowned? Was he murdered by an arrow as he tried to swim? Could he swim? She knew so little of him, had so few memories to comfort her.

  “He never returned to camp.”

  Her eyes snapped open. She stared at her husband’s bowed head. “His body was not recovered?”

  “Many were not.”

  “He may yet live?” Hope soared within her breast.

  “Nay!” Sir Dafydd’s head jerked up. His sharp denial drowned out her eagerness. “He did not survive. He never returned to camp. Hear me—Rhys is dead!”

  Tears blurred her vision. Grief filled her heart.

  “My apologies, dear Katherine.” Sir Dafydd cleared his throat and fumbled with his words. “I—I am trained to war. I do not know how to be gentle, my squire tells me. Would that I could ease your pain. But you must be made to understand—Rhys of St. Quintin is no more.”

  * * *

  Muriel arrived the following
morn.

  Old and bent, with wisps of white hair escaping untidily from beneath her short linen wimple, the woman possessed twisted and bony claws for hands. Never a smile cracked her set lips or her deeply lined face as she hobbled to the hearth on Sir Dafydd’s arm. Introduced as her husband’s childhood nurse, Katherine knew the hag had come to Haughmond to oversee the birth.

  Fear stabbed through her when the old crone’s eyes settled upon her, so overwhelming, it nigh suffocated her.

  She fled to the chapel in her slow, shuffling gait, with Anne hot on her heels.

  In these last weeks, her sister refused to allow her out of her sight. She did not mind Anne’s company, though she did not encourage it. Her mind was so shot through with unhappiness there was little room for anything but agony.

  With Anne’s helping hand, Katherine lowered herself to her knees upon the chapel floor. Bowing her head, she clasped her hands in fervent prayer. ’Twas her justice that she must needs repine. ’Twas her fault Rhys had perished. God punished her for this forbidden love. The devil had tempted her with love for a man she could not have. She had not been sufficiently strong to fight that love. ’Twas a high price to pay.

  But Rhys had paid a higher price.

  Tears overflowed her eyes. She had tried not to love him, had fought the feelings valiantly. But, alas, she loved him still. Awash with guilt and sorrow she confessed her sins.

  “Katherine, you must cease this supplication. ’Tis not good for your babe.” Anne came to her feet and tugged on her arm. “I beseech you, come sister, we needs return to the hall before you catch the ague.”

  “Leave me to—to my prayers.” Her teeth chattered violently. Though her knees ached and she was chilled to the bone, she dared not pause. “This penance is required of me.”

  She tried to prostrate herself upon the floor, but her distended belly did not allow it. Lying on her side instead, her head drooping on her bent arm, she clasped her hands and continued to pray.

  “Katherine!”

  She squeezed her eyelids together, shutting out the sight of her sister’s worried frown.

  Anne’s rapid footsteps echoed across the chamber then disappeared into the corridor.

  Some moments later heavy footfalls came from the corridor, drew nearer. The whisper of shifting chain mail drifted down from overhead. She tried not to react, tried not to show her fear. But her heart raced and her teeth chattered and the tremor came again, traveling the length of her frame, making even her feet quiver within her soft leather shoes.

  Hands took hold of her. She opened her mouth to scream but she could only gasp as she was swept up in the air within her husband’s muscled arms. Her linen wimple fell to the floor. She caught a glance of his bushy profile, saw his large hand descend to her face.

  Blessed Mary, he meant to strike her! In desperation she grabbed at his hand but it merely brushed her face, forced her head down upon his shoulder. She went limp with relief as he carried her from the chapel.

  * * *

  Awakening the following morn, Katherine found the chamber empty. Never had she been so weary. It had taken her most of the night to settle into a comfortable position and find blessed repose. As she lay abed, shadows played across the room, created by the fire in the small brazier. Long and thin and human-like. ’Twas easy for her imagination to run riot, to imagine the presence of loved ones. Her mother. Aunt Matilda. Rhys.

  Always Rhys, with his golden hair and laughing blue eyes. She was lonely but never alone.

  ’Twas past midday when she stirred and made her way down to the hall. Amid a loud commotion, a group of women stood near the entry. Sibyl was shouting and waving her arms.

  “Begone from here, ye shrew of hell. Ye’ll not darken these walls with yer poisons and magic.”

  “What ails you, Sibyl?” Katherine called, moving toward the group.

  Anne whirled to face her. “Hold, Katherine, come no closer!”

  Looking past her sister’s shoulder she saw the cause for alarm. Wrapped within a heavy woolen mantle, Lady Adela, the herbalist, stood by the door. She eyed Katherine with a dark and haughty gaze.

  Aunt Matilda’s warning came back with a vengeance. ’Twas not childbirth that did kill our Constance. ’Twas Sir Geoffrey and his mistress.

  Katherine’s mouth went dry. Lady Adela’s presence meant but one thing. Her husband intended to poison her child.

  Whirling, with her hand clutching her throat in terror, barely able to breathe, she made for the stairs. Halfway up she stumbled.

  Twisting to protect Rhys’s child, clasping her swollen belly with desperate hands, she fell.

  With loud shrieks, Anne and Sibyl came running.

  At the bottom of the stairs she sat up, expecting pain. But none came. Her thudding heart beat and her frantic panting filled her ears. Her womb tightened. But ’twas naught more than she had experienced in the weeks past. Her child kicked most vigorously. He was not harmed.

  With Sibyl’s help she tried to rise. ’Twas then she sensed hot liquid betwixt her legs. ’Twas then pain ripped through her so sharp and hard she collapsed back onto the floor.

  ’Twas then she screamed.

  * * *

  When Dafydd returned with his father and the other knights from their daily hunt, he found the hall deserted.

  Where was Sibyl? The lookout had announced their arrival. She always greeted them with brimming horns of ale. His men would expect a liberal libation to quench their well-earned thirst.

  He looked around the hall. Naught appeared out of the ordinary. Yet unease twisted through his gut, the same as happened just before battle.

  Then his gaze landed on the woman sitting by the hearth. Her dark beauty and grace were frightening familiar.

  “Adela!” With a broad smile, Sir Geoffrey strode past him, taking the herbalist’s hands within his, kissing both her cheeks. “You arrived promptly.”

  His fear rising with each heartbeat, Dafydd turned and ran toward the kitchen, clasping his rattling scabbard against his thigh.

  “Sibyl!” The name split the air just as the servant came scurrying through the recessed doorway and nigh collided with him. She backed away, her fright overwhelming and pulsing toward him.

  Fear burgeoned within his breast. “Where is your mistress?”

  “In her chamber, my lord. She fell.”

  “God’s— ” The large tapestries on the walls seemed to reel above his head. He turned and bolted across the hall. “Anne!”

  “Lady Anne is with her, my lord,” Sibyl called after him.

  Taking the stairs three at a time, he came up hard against the barred chamber door.

  “Open the door, Katherine," he shouted, pounding on the portal.

  “Leave us be,” came Anne’s frantic voice.

  Another sound followed. A moan? His chest tightened. “Katherine? Are you well? Anne, open this door!”

  The only response was a sharp cry that sent chills down his spine and terror through his heart. Racing to the stairs he shouted for the guards. Four men-at-arms came charging up with Sir Geoffrey in their wake. Another command brought the steady pounding of axes. Soon the heavy door was split in twain.

  Forcing his way through the splintered opening, he stumbled to a halt. Katherine lay on the bed with her eyes closed and gasping for breath. Her dark hair lay in disarray about her shoulders. Perspiration beaded her forehead, while her face twisted in agony.

  Betwixt them stood Anne, wielding a sharp lance.

  “She’s hurt!” Dafydd peered at his wife anxiously. “See you she’s in pain.” He stumbled forward.

  “Hold,” warned Anne, swiping the air with the lance. “You won’t harm this child.”

  “The child comes?” The walls spun again. He shook his head. Behind him, the broken pieces of the door crashed to the floor as Will and the castle soldiers surged forward with drawn swords.

  Another cry rose from the bed, anguished and frightened. Anne’s gaze shifted to her sister. He lu
nged, grabbed the lance and wrenched it free.

  “Don’t touch her,” Anne cried and threw herself in his path.

  He wrapped his arm around her waist and swung her out of his way. “Your sister needs your strength, not your hysterics.”

  “She needs my protection,” Anne responded, running after him

  “Not from me.”

  “Rhys?” Katherine whispered. Her eyelids fluttered open.

  From behind, Sir Geoffrey bellowed, “See how your wife insults you.”

  “Empty this chamber.” Dafydd did not wait to see his command followed, focusing instead on Katherine, noting her fingers digging into her swollen belly, the grimace on her lips, the damp hair plastered to her face. He plucked hair from her mouth and brushed her face clear then reached for her nearest hand and held it tightly. She frowned as he leaned closer.

  “Have you sent for the midwife?” He had to look sharply at Anne before she answered with a shake of her head and a defiant glare.

  “That old crone is not to be trusted.”

  Again he flung a shouted order over his shoulder. “Will—Will, fetch Muriel!”

  His friend’s reassuring answer came quickly, “I’ll see it done.”

  “I can be of service,” said Sir Geoffrey, stepping forward, speaking over the noise of the departing soldiers.

  “Will!”

  “Fear not, Dafydd, Lady Adela shall remain in the hall.”

  Heaving a sigh of relief, Dafydd leaned over the bed, barely aware of the sound of retreating boots. “Katherine, hear me?” Desperate, he searched her twisted face.

  A moan was his only answer.

  Anne, on her sister’s far side, held her arm and scowled at him with a distrustful glare.

  His grip tightened. He felt the daintiness of delicate bones, felt the clammy skin, felt her trembling. He felt, thereto, the unnerving helplessness within himself.

  ’Twas mere moments when Will returned with the midwife, yet it seemed hours.

  “’Twas sure I was that yer lady’s time had come. But they prevented me from attendin’ her.” The old woman slowly limped toward the bed, burdened down with an armful of linens that neigh hid her sagging chin.