By the time Leila’s water had broken and the midwife arrived, she had done just that and could not fail to see how the tale satisfied her husband.
Her cry at the next powerful contraction, however, did not.
* * *
It was just as he had dreamed.
Fergus sat in the solar late that night, holding the tiny miracle that was his son. Leila’s labor had been short and fierce, and though the midwife had warned him that it might be thus, he had been terrified by her ordeal. In truth, he could not have endured it much longer and he marveled at her strength.
She slept as he rocked the babe, and he was glad that they were once again alone in the solar. The candles burned low and the coals glowed in the braziers. The shutters were closed tightly against the chill of the night, though Fergus had liked that the night was clear and the sky filled with stars. The keep had fallen silent at this hour, particularly after the excitement of the heir’s arrival.
The babe stirred and fussed a little, and Leila seemed to sense it. She awakened in almost the same moment and sat up. Her hair had grown longer this year and spilled over her shoulders, though her smile was as warm as ever. “Let me try to coax the milk again,” she said and lifted her hands.
“He is so tiny,” Fergus said as he laid the precious burden in Leila’s arms. She smiled and nestled the babe close, offering her breast to him.
Fergus smiled at the sight of the babe’s dark auburn hair. The color had only been discernible once his hair dried, but proved Fergus’ forecast true. The boy’s skin was palest gold, lighter than Leila’s and darker than Fergus’ own. He watched, wondering how many other traits he would notice over the coming years, in which the boy took a bit from Leila and a bit from him to make his own way.
The babe caught the nipple in his mouth and sucked with such vigor that Leila caught her breath, then she smiled at Fergus.
“And he is strong. I was so afraid that Stewart had damaged him.”
“He is perfect.” Fergus sat beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders. This was the scheme he had envisioned so long ago, Leila nursing a child. The boy opened his eyes and they were of clear blue, as vivid a hue as those of Alasdair. “Which grandfather is more proud, do you think?”
Leila laughed. “It is impossible to say.” Her eyes were shining, as if lit by stars in the way that he found most enticing. “I think his father is most smitten of all, though.”
“If only because his lady wife is hale,” Fergus said and kissed her brow. “I see how he makes you happy.”
Leila nodded. “I would adore him even if you did not need an heir. We should have another.”
“And a daughter,” Fergus agreed. “I would like to see if she, too, would resemble Saffirah.” He sobered then. “I wish she had been here to see your joy, and your cousin, too.”
“Aziza will see it in Venice, when we meet, and I am certain that Karayan has been compelled to tell her of Killairic over and over again.” Leila smiled. “As for my mother, I felt her presence this day, as if she meant to aid me.”
“A guardian angel on your shoulder?”
“A loving one,” Leila said, her voice husky. “Who will never be forgotten.”
Fergus held her tightly, and eased away her tears. “I have a gift for you this Yule, but would give it to you now, when we are alone together.”
“It is a little soon for that manner of gift, husband,” Leila teased.
Fergus chuckled and retrieved the parcel. As she was holding their son, he had to unwrap it for her. It was the psalter he had bought, with no clear idea at the time of why. “It was not intended for Isobel,” he said before she could ask. “I knew she would not value it. But I thought it so pretty and I could envision it in a lady’s delicate hands as she made her prayers.”
Leila smiled up at him. “Any particular hands?”
“These ones,” he said and lifted one to his lips. He kissed Leila then and they sat in silence, admiring their son as he dozed. Fergus could imagine no finer way to spend this night. “He has need of a name, this son of ours,” he murmured finally to Leila and was relieved when she smiled again.
“You must have a family name to bestow.”
“My family will bestow much upon him, including the tradition of his mother choosing his name.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. The decision is yours.”
Leila stared down that the boy, her finger caressing his cheek. “Then I would name him for his guardian angels, his grandfathers both by blood and by honor.”
“One on the left and one on the right.” Fergus smiled, for he thought it a perfect tribute. “In what order?”
Leila considered it, then chose. “Alasdair Calum Hakim,” she said. “It sounds best that way.”
“And so it shall be thus,” Fergus agreed and kissed his wife again. The shadow of doom was dispelled, the future was assured and he was happier than he had ever imagined he might be.
And it was all because Leila had put her hand in his. He would spend the rest of his days and nights ensuring that she never regretted her choice.
He would spend the rest of his life ensuring that Killairic was the home she had been determined to make her own. “Are you too tired to tell me a story, Leila?” he asked as he tucked himself into the bed beside her. “I believe that last night you were telling me a tale of three apples.”
“Indeed, I was,” Leila agreed, then smiled up at him. “And what shall you do when I reach the end of Scheherazade’s tales?”
“What did Shahriar do?”
“He confessed that she had won his heart and his admiration, and he revoked his law to have his queen executed in the morning. He asked her to be his queen in truth and she agreed.” Leila’s eyes danced. “I believe they lived happily ever after.”
“But you are already my lady and my wife, for my heart and my admiration are both conquered,” Fergus said, pretending to consider this as a puzzle. “Perhaps, you could start at the beginning again and tell Scheherazade’s tales to our children. Alasdair will be old enough to listen after another eight hundred nights or so.”
Leila laughed with a merriment that made Fergus smile. “I think that might ensure that we all lived happily ever after,” she said, and Fergus could not argue with that.
The Crusader’s Handfast
Read on for an excerpt.
A pilgrimage to Jerusalem with her mistress has left the maid Radegunde determined to live every moment to the fullest. She dreads the return to routine and her inevitable marriage to a reliable man, so convinces the warrior Duncan to make merry with her while their respective masters linger in Paris. Dancing and singing are not the sole revels in Radegunde’s plans, for she means to taste passion with this man who snared her attention in Venice. Duncan is convinced his own heart is lost forever, but Radegunde’s allure cannot be denied. When he surrenders to her seduction, Duncan suggests a handfast, knowing that even this honor is far less than she deserves. Radegunde, however, is not interested in half-measures, and resolves to win Duncan’s love, no matter what the cost. Will she succeed in her quest? Or will their paths part forever, and do as much too soon?
* * *
Excerpt from The Crusader’s Handfast ©2016 Deborah A. Cooke
* * *
Paris—August 24, 1187
* * *
Radegunde leaned back against the wooden door to her lady’s chamber, listening to the laughter from within the room. Lady Ysmaine’s merriment was followed by the rumble of her lord husband’s chuckle, and the combination made Radegunde smile.
She was fiercely glad that her lady had found happiness after all the trials she had endured. Widowed twice yet still a maiden, Ysmaine had embarked upon a pilgrimage to Jerusalem with Radegunde by her side, only to be robbed by the men hired to defend her. The two women had been left impoverished. Such was the lady’s will that they had continued to the Holy City. Though it had been an arduous journey, they had arrived there after a year of
hardship.
Radegunde had to believe that the pilgrimage had achieved its objective, for Lady Ysmaine had been lifted from her knees in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre by Gaston, a Templar knight who left the military order to return to France and claim his inherited holding. Radegunde had liked the knight from the outset, for he saw Lady Ysmaine’s merit even when she was at her lowest spirits and dressed in rags. He had been kind, and though Radegunde had been vexed with his refusal to consult with his wife on their journey west, all had come right in the end. It was clear to Radegunde on this night that the pair shared an affectionate match, and one that could only grow more ardent over the years to come.
While she was happy for her lady, there could be no more stark contrast with her own life than this. Radegunde had no man and no prospect of true love. Worse, almost two years of adventure had made her former life pale in comparison. While Lady Ysmaine embarked upon the life she had been raised to expect and did so with enthusiasm, Radegunde had little enthusiasm for her inevitable fate.
She knew her duty was to escort her lady to her new abode and that there she would undoubtedly be wed to some alemaker or other peasant perceived by her lord to be a good man. Radegunde had no doubt that Lord Gaston would take a man’s measure correctly, but the remainder of her life would be spent within miles of her birthplace. Instead of adventure and travel, her life would become monotonous, as it had been before the Lady Ysmaine had resolved to visit Jerusalem. Radegunde doubted that love was in her future, merely duty and perhaps, comfort.
This left her discontent.
Radegunde supposed that Châmont-sur-Maine was slightly different from Valeroy, but not enough to satisfy her. She could return to her family home instead of continuing to serve Ysmaine, but that had even less appeal. In Valeroy, she would be at the command of her mother and brothers, and her destiny would not be much different than with Lady Ysmaine.
She would not be in command of her own future, either way. Once a comfortable life wedded to a good man would have pleased her well.
Now Radegunde yearned for more. Far more. She might have died several times over on their pilgrimage, which only increased her resolve to savor each and every moment of her life, however long it might be. She wished to journey afar, even though she had fallen so ill in Jerusalem. She wished to dance and fall in love with a man similarly discontent with a routine life. She also wished to find that joy abed her lady seemed to enjoy with her husband, or even shout with pleasure as the courtesan Christina had done in Venice. She wished to awaken each day, alive to the promise of new experience.
On this night, Radegunde felt particularly restless. It had been a day to remember, to be sure. She had aided in saving the sacred reliquary of Saint Euphemia! In the last moment, the prize had nigh been snatched away. She had ridden with all speed through the streets of Paris, entrusted with the priceless treasure herself, to see their party’s goal achieved. She had ridden like the wind, fast by the side of the Templar Wulfe on his enormous destrier as he shouted for the road to clear. It had been more thrilling than any deed she had ever done, a feat fit for inclusion in a jongleur’s tale.
Then she had been allowed to kiss the reliquary during the mass at the Paris Temple.
To retire contentedly now was impossible. Indeed, her lord and lady celebrated triumph in a most intimate way. Radegunde did not wish to quietly sleep outside their door. Not on this night! She yearned for revels and celebration.
A stolen kiss.
Dancing!
Some reckless deed committed in the company of an alluring man.
She closed her eyes, knowing precisely which man she would choose. Aye, the knight Fergus had a stalwart companion, one Duncan MacDonald, a warrior whose blade swung true and who was well wrought. Duncan missed little, and his eyes oft gleamed with humor. Radegunde liked how he smiled, how there was a little silver at his temples, how he kept his counsel and seemed always to anticipate those matters which surprised others.
There was a man accustomed to adventure, and one who would make an excellent companion when facing any such peril.
Sadly, he appeared to be smitten with Christina, the courtesan who had joined their party in Venice but had abandoned them earlier in Paris. Lady Ysmaine was convinced that Christina and the Templar Wulfe must be safely together this night.
Radegunde had not been able to discern Duncan’s reaction to that before the party had separated. Fergus had accepted accommodation in the Paris Temple with his squires and Duncan, while Lord Gaston had taken a room at an inn for himself, his lady, his squire, Bartholomew, and Radegunde.
Would she see Duncan again? Radegunde supposed not and was disappointed by the realization. Fergus rode home to Scotland for his own nuptials, and surely Duncan would remain with him.
Indeed, Radegunde did not have to wait for her life to become dull again. It already had.
Still, she could not and would not sit alone.
Bartholomew was in the stables of the inn along with the steeds. Perhaps he would talk with her. Perhaps he would tell her more of Châmont-sur-Maine.
And its alemakers.
Radegunde wrinkled her nose, knowing a compromise when she heard it. Although Bartholomew was more taciturn than most of the men, he was better company than none at all.
The hour was not so late, although it was dark. Radegunde had smelled winter in the coolness of the evening air. Even though they stayed at an inn and Paris was said to be filled with vice, she had her small eating knife and was not afraid to defend herself. She pulled the knife from her belt and descended the shadowed stairs warily, though she doubted that many were awake. The inn catered to travelers and she knew well enough that after a day’s ride and a hot meal, a warm pallet could be most enticing.
Radegunde was on the last flight of stairs, when she realized that someone was yet awake in the darkened kitchen. The doorway to that room was at the base of the stairs and to the right. There was a door opposite the stairs and she knew that portal led to the small courtyard between the inn and its stables.
She gripped the hilt of her knife, watchful, but proceeded at the same steady pace. There was little to be gained by letting whoever it was know that she was aware of his or her presence. After all, there was no light in the kitchen. It seemed whoever lurked there did not wish to be discovered.
Radegunde’s heart skipped a little when she reached the second-to-last stair. Could she hear the breath of another? Was she being watched?
She supposed she was having the adventure she desired.
Radegunde descended the last steps boldly and reached for the door handle with her free hand. She managed only to lift the latch before she heard movement. A man seized her from behind even as she tried to spin in his grasp and shout.
She managed to emit only a small sound before he clapped a meaty hand over her mouth to silence her. He locked his other arm around her, trapping her arms against her side. When she writhed in his grip, he lifted her bodily from the floor. To her dismay, he was much larger and stronger than she.
And she could feel his erection against her buttocks.
Aye, she knew his intent well enough, but he would not find her to be easy prey. Radegunde deliberately shuddered, as if terrified, and let herself go limp. Let him think himself triumphant.
He did.
“Good fortune is mine this night,” he whispered into her ear, his tone gloating. “For the finest prize fairly steps into my grasp.” He chuckled even as his grip loosened slightly. Radegunde hoped he would become even more careless. She felt his fingers caress her cheek. “Perhaps our thoughts are as one. Perhaps you came to seek me out.”
Radegunde stifled her revulsion. He smelled dirty and there was ale on his breath. She guessed that he was the man who had watched her from the shadows of the stables when their party arrived, for she had not liked the look of him even then.
“You need not fear that you will be sleepless once we have savored each other,” he promised and made to haul h
er toward the kitchen.
But Radegunde had heard sufficient of his plans.
She bit his hand in the same moment that she drove her heel upward and into his groin. She stabbed backward with the knife and though it was small, she buried it into his torso hard enough that he howled in pain. He loosed his grip as he stumbled back into the kitchen. Radegunde twisted the knife before she spun out of his grasp.
“Bitch!” he cried, evidently shocked that she might spurn his charms.
Radegunde hauled open the door to the courtyard. Before she could step through it, her attacker roared and lunged after her. She spun to face him and lifted her knife again, more than ready to mar his face for so abusing her. Instead, she was seized from behind again. Someone grabbed a fistful of her kirtle and flung her bodily into the courtyard.
It was Duncan!
Radegunde nearly shouted in her delight. There was no other man she would have been more gladdened to see. Aye, there was something about Duncan, about his level green gaze, that sent a thrill through Radegunde and doubly so in this situation.
Duncan punched the astonished offender in the face, and Radegunde was most pleased to see blood spurt from that man’s nose. He leaped toward Duncan with outrage in his eyes, but Duncan nimbly kicked the man’s feet out from beneath him. The assailant fell heavily to the ground, hitting his head hard on the stone threshold. By the time he opened his eyes, Duncan was sitting upon his chest, a blade at his throat.
He was as quick as she had believed, and as unafraid to do what had to be done.
Radegunde decided she owed Duncan a kiss for his gallantry on this night.
If not more.
“Step aside,” her attacker snarled. “The wench is mine. I saw her first.”
Duncan laughed. “You should wish it to be so. This lass has been mine these three months, since first I glimpsed her in Outremer.”
The Crusader’s Vow: A Medieval Romance Page 35