“Aye, my lady, over the ridge. Joseph—Frida’s husband, that is—is going to fetch her. But first he come here to get me, and you, too, my lady.”
“But what can I—”
“I don’t know, my lady, and that’s the God’s honest truth! Joseph doesn’t know, either, except maybe Frida thinks you know everything.”
“I wonder how she came to have that impression,” Rheged said, his eyes on the rafters above as if addressing the angels.
Hildie ignored him, and so did Tamsin. “Joseph, bless his heart, is near frantic. He come with his wagon to take us. Please, won’t you go to her, my lady? Just to say a few words to ease her mind, if there’s naught else you can do?”
“Of course,” Tamsin said. Although she’d never attended a birth before, if her presence could ease the poor woman’s suffering in any way—
“Unfortunately the lady is forbidden to travel,” Rheged said. “Her leg—”
“Isn’t in such terrible condition that I can’t ride a short way in a wagon. I can see the mill from the upper window, so I know it’s not far.”
Rheged knew better than to protest again when he saw that look in Tamsin’s eyes.
Chapter Twelve
“Does it usually take this long for a baby to come?” Rheged asked Sir Algar as they sat by the hearth in the hall much later that night.
The evening meal of eels cooked in ale, leek soup and bread had been served long ago, and the tables cleared and taken down. Several of the soldiers had already bedded down for the night on their straw-stuffed mattresses, snoring and snorting and trying to ignore the hounds snuggling in the rushes beside them.
“I gather it can,” Sir Algar replied, refilling Rheged’s goblet with more mulled wine.
The Welshman cupped the goblet in his strong, lean fingers. “She said she knew nothing of childbirth, so why hasn’t she returned? Surely the miller would have brought her back by now if all was well.”
“She’s probably staying until the child arrives. She’s a woman, after all, and women are always excited when babies come.”
“That may be,” Rheged said as he got to his feet, too impatient to wait any longer, “but I’m going to the miller’s cottage anyway. I want to be sure the journey wasn’t too much for her.”
“Go, then, if it will set your mind at ease.” Sir Algar sighed and shook his head. “Sadly, it won’t be long before she must go on a longer journey, back to her uncle and the marriage that awaits her. The more I get to know her, the more I agree with you that that marriage would be a terrible thing. But there’s still the matter of the agreement, and the king. And the lady’s own wishes, of course. She is as adamant as you would be if you had given your word, even if you later came to regret it.”
Rheged didn’t want to think about regrets, either now or in the past or in the future. The lady had made up her mind, and there was nothing neither he nor Algar could do.
Whatever the future held, though, he would first make certain she hadn’t overtaxed her strength today.
He threw on his cloak and left the keep, crossing the yard with swift strides, no longer having to sidestep holes from missing stones. He had never known his hall to be so comfortable, either. Tamsin had worked miracles in the short time she’d been there. Who could say what she might accomplish if she could... ?
But she couldn’t and it was pointless to think otherwise.
He ordered the guards at the gate to open the wicket door while, with his free hand, he took the torch from the sconce at the left side of the thick oaken gate.
The flame flickered and flared as he made his way along the dark street of the village, the moon hidden behind the scudding clouds. The wind whipped his cloak about him, and the air smelled heavy with rain. It wouldn’t be long before it started. A lone dog barked somewhere close at hand, and a dim light shone through the shutters in the last cottage where the fishmonger lived.
Soon he heard the mill wheel making its slow circle in the river, and he could see the shape of the mill and the cottage beside it. The window of the cottage facing the road was dark, and no sound broke the stillness, as if all within were dead.
Dead like his parents, the day he’d come home from begging and found their bodies in the hovel that had been their home, too hungry and weak to ward off the ravages of the coughing sickness.
Dead like so many who’d fought beside him battle.
Rheged quickened his pace.
Dead like that poor family of peasants he’d found murdered by outlaws on his way to a tournament three years ago.
He broke into a run, covering the distance as fast as his long legs could take him until he drew near the miller’s house.
There was a light inside. The shutters had been tightly closed and the light shone through only the narrowest of cracks in the door, but it was light nonetheless. Then he remembered that the house had two rooms, one at the front and one at the back where the miller and his wife slept, and where no doubt their baby would be born.
He pushed open the door and stepped into an oven, or so it seemed. The place was as hot as the smith’s forge in high summer. Steaming pots and pans of water stood near the hearth in the extremely clean and tidy cottage. The furnishings were plain, but well made, and Frida’s loom stood in the corner, a length of weaving half completed on the frame. Two cloaks hung on pegs beside the door, a plain one that was likely Hildie’s and a darker one with a fox fur collar.
Hildie was pouring a bucket of water into another pot, perspiration dripping from her glowing face, while Tamsin sat near the door leading to the back room, her leg propped up on a cushion, her expression like that of a general waiting for word of enemy forces. She looked exhausted as well as anxious, as if she were the one giving birth.
He was about to speak when Hildie saw him standing there. “My lord!” she gasped.
Tamsin started and looked at him with surprise. “What are you doing here?” she demanded while a low moan issued from the back room.
Now that he knew Tamsin was all right, he wished he’d stayed in his hall. “I came to see why you hadn’t returned.”
He walked closer and doused the torch in one of the buckets of water.
“Don’t!” she cried, too late. “We might need that water!”
“You have plenty and Hildie can fetch more if it’s needed. Can I get you something to drink? Is there wine? Have you had anything to eat?”
Another terrible groan filled the air. Hildie sat heavily on a nearby stool.
“I just want it to be over,” Tamsin replied tensely, her eyes full of dread, “and well over!”
“The midwife is here?”
“Yes, and Sarah seems to know what she’s doing.”
“Then surely there’s no need for you both to stay.”
“I can’t leave now, not until I know the baby’s arrived safely,” Tamsin protested. “I’d never be able to sleep a wink anyway.”
Another loud cry, more like a scream than a groan, came from the back room. They all stared at the closed door until a baby’s cry, loud and hearty, filled the silence.
“Oh, thank God, thank God!” Tamsin murmured.
She looked more beautiful in her relief and joy than any woman Rheged had ever seen.
Hildie rose with her hands clasped like a woman beholding visions. “I knew she’d be all right!”
“Aye, thank God,” Rheged said as he marched to the shuttered window, thinking they could all use some fresher air.
Tamsin got up swiftly and started toward him with barely a limp. “No, you can’t! The night air—”
“Has never been harmful to me,” he interrupted, both happy and sad to see her move so easily. “I’ve slept under the stars many a time and, as you can see, haven’t suffered for it. And you’ve been out and about after dark, too.”
In your uncle’s courtyard, where we kissed.
“We’re grown. I won’t take a chance with a baby.”
Again Rheged saw that stubborn look in her eyes. He was cl
osing the shutters when Joseph, usually a dour fellow, came bounding out of the back room. “Hildie! My lady! Did you hear him?” the thin man exclaimed. “He’s a healthy one and no mistake! And a son! God save me, I’m the happiest man in England—a fine healthy boy and Frida come through fine, too.”
He saw Rheged, stumbled and righted himself. “Oh, my lord! What brings you? You can’t have heard so soon.”
“I came to escort the lady home,” he replied. “I congratulate you on the birth of your son.”
“Thank you, my lord, thank you!” Joseph spun around like some sort of entertainer. “Where’s the wine?”
Smiling broadly, Hildie handed him the wineskin and patted him on the shoulder.
He grinned at her, then handed the wineskin to Rheged. “You’ll have a drink with me, my lord, won’t you? To celebrate? What a baby! What a boy! He’s got a full head of hair, too—black as his mother’s. Frida came through it like a veteran, the midwife says. Going to be fine and likely to have ten more as easy as jumping a log! By God, it’s hot in here!” he finished as he crossed to the window and threw open the shutters before Tamsin or Hildie could stop him.
The midwife, a plump woman of late middle years, gray-haired and wrinkled around her eyes, appeared at the door of the back room, a bundle in her arms and a smile on her pink-tinged face. “I thought the lady’d like to see him, seeing as she waited so long.” Sarah checked her steps when she saw Rheged. “My lord?”
“I’d like to see the child, too, if I may.”
With a nod and a smile, the midwife came forward. Instead of just folding back the blanket to show the child’s face, though, she shoved the baby at an obviously startled Tamsin and rushed toward the open window.
“By the Blessed Virgin, who opened the shutters?” she demanded as she pulled them closed. “We’ll all catch our deaths!”
Rheged heard the words, but his attention wasn’t on the angry midwife closing the shutters, or Hildie standing nearby, or Joseph taking a long pull at the wineskin. He was looking at Tamsin’s face as she held the babe, her expression one of joyful amazement, as if the child with the tuft of dark hair had magically appeared in her arms.
Rheged had never really thought about having children, except as something vaguely desirable when he got his castle and a wife. But now, when he saw Tamsin holding a baby, a powerful yearning took hold of him—a yearning not just for a child of his own, but for a child with Tamsin. A boy like him, or a girl like her, it didn’t matter, as long as it was theirs.
The baby’s bow-shaped mouth opened like a bird’s, and then he scrunched up his face and started to wail.
“What did I tell you?” the miller cried with delight. “Healthy as a horse—a herd of horses!”
“Aye, he’s a healthy one,” the midwife agreed with a smile. “And now it’s back to his mother to eat,” she said, lifting the child from Tamsin, who held him a moment longer than necessary before she gave the baby up to Sarah and watched her carry him away.
Rheged recognized that expression on her face, for he knew the feeling: longing for something feared unattainable, the desire for a future that might not come to pass.
“Here, my lady, have a drink to my son’s health!” Joseph cried, his eyes glowing both with joy and the effects of the wine as he shoved the wineskin at Tamsin.
She accepted and took a sip, then passed it back to the miller, who thrust it at Rheged. “And you, too, my lord! Have a drink to my son!”
Rheged took a gulp of the thin wine before handing the wineskin back to the excited father. “I think it’s time the lady returned to the castle.”
“First I’d like to take my leave of Frida, if I may, my lord,” Tamsin said.
The miller’s face fell and he flushed. “She’s asleep, my lady, and the chamber...well, it’s not put back to rights yet.”
“Then please pass on my good wishes to her. Hildie may stay here tonight, and tomorrow, too, to help you.”
“Thank you, my lady!” the miller and Hildie cried in enthusiastic unison.
Rheged put Tamsin’s cloak about her, then held out his arm to escort her to the door. She hesitated a moment before she laid her hand on his forearm, her touch as light as goose down but thrilling nonetheless.
“Thank you for coming, my lady,” Joseph said, following them to the door. “It helped Frida, knowing you were here.”
Tamsin gave him a smile as Rheged closed the door.
“I’m glad I could be of some use,” she said. They made their way to the horse and wagon now in a small byre by the mill. “Although I really did nothing. Hildie and Sarah did all the work. And Frida, too, of course.”
Despite her cloak, she was shivering, no doubt the result of coming out of that overheated cottage into the cooler night air. Rheged took off his cloak and, before she could protest, wrapped it about her as well, enveloping her in its warmth. Then he swept her up in his arms.
It seemed Tamsin wasn’t so very tired after all. “Put me down!” she demanded, struggling. “I can walk!”
“You’re exhausted.”
“But—”
“Oh, for the love of God, woman, can’t you just accept my help and be thankful?”
He waited for her to answer, then felt her relax. “Oh, as you will,” she conceded, her arms slipping around his neck. “If you’re going to be stubborn about it—but I’m fully capable of walking.”
“I don’t doubt you’re capable of nearly anything, my lady,” he replied truthfully.
He thought he felt her smile as she laid her head against his shoulder. “So long as you understand that I’m not helpless,” she said before she yawned.
“You are the least helpless woman I’ve ever met.”
When she didn’t answer, he glanced down to see that her eyes were closed and her mouth was ever so slightly open as her breasts slowly rose and fell.
A wave of tenderness swept over him, inexpressibly sweet and yet awe-inspiring, too. For in that moment, he knew that he could never give her up to Blane, or any other undeserving man.
Even if he could never be worthy of her himself.
* * *
With a sigh, Tamsin stretched and opened her eyes, realizing at once she was in the big bed in the upper chamber of Cwm Bron. She couldn’t tell whether it was day or night, though, because the only light was the feeble flame of a rushlight, and the shutters were closed.
Wondering how long she’d slept, she rolled onto her side—to see Rheged seated on a stool on the far side of the room, his back against the wall, his legs straight out in front of him, his arms crossed and his chin on his chest. It looked like he was deep in thought or...sleeping?
She glanced at the closed door. How long had he been there?
The last thing she remembered was Sir Algar helping her up the steps while she told him about the baby. One of the other maidservants—Elvina, the quiet one—had helped her get into the bed warmed with a heated stone wrapped in linen.
She also remembered Rheged carrying her to the wagon at the mill. She should have kept insisting he put her down. She shouldn’t have given in to the impulse to relax in his strong arms, no matter how safe and protected she’d felt.
Nor was it wise to recall how he looked when he appeared in the doorway of the miller’s house holding that torch, like Prometheus bringing fire—tall and strong and powerful.
Or when he watched her holding the miller’s baby, a look of such longing in his eyes. She must forget those things, or she would never be able to leave here.
She sat up and discovered she wore only her shift beneath the covers. She grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to her chin as Rheged, with something that sounded rather like a snort, abruptly raised his head. “You’re awake,” he said.
“How long have you been there?”
He rolled his shoulders, uncrossed his arms and stretched them over his head, his movements as smooth and sinuous as a big cat’s. If he had been trying to make her aware of his strength and athlet
ic grace, he couldn’t have done so in any better way.
“Awhile. How do you feel?” he asked, getting to his feet.
“Quite well, thank you. Why are you here?”
“To make sure you haven’t taken ill.”
“What o’clock is it?”
He walked to the window and opened the shutters. “I make it barely past dawn.”
Since his back was to her, she grabbed the blanket to wrap around herself and got out of bed. Ignoring the chill of the stone floor on her bare feet, she hurried to close the shutters, lest people see him there.
“Since it’s morning, there’s no need to fear the night air,” he said as she backed away.
“It’s not that,” she said, feeling the heat of a blush. “My reputation has already been seriously damaged, and I would rather not compound the harm by having all and sundry know that we’re alone in your chamber and that you’ve been here for at least a part of the night.”
Rheged’s dark eyebrows rose, and unless she was mistaken, a smile lurked at the corners of his lips. “If it’s your reputation that concerns you, perhaps you shouldn’t have gone to the window dressed in little more than a blanket.”
“I don’t like to be mocked, my lord.”
The amusement left his features. “Nor do I,” he admitted. “And that is poor recompense for your kindness to the miller and his wife, so I hope that you’ll forgive me, my lady.”
He sounded so sincere...and she shouldn’t have been so harsh. After all, he’d been there—and sleeping on a stool—because he was worried about her health. And she, of all people, knew how ingratitude could sting.
She gave him a smile that she hoped would show that she regretted replying with annoyance. “I wonder how Joseph is feeling this morning.”
She was relieved to see the hint of a grin return, as well as the sparkle of laughter to his brown eyes. “No doubt his head aches, at the very least.”
“Frida is an excellent weaver, my lord. You should buy whatever she can make and sell it at Shrewsbury, or even London. I’m sure you’d turn a good profit.”
“If you’re sure, I will. You’re a very shrewd and clever woman.”
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