by Alexa Aston
How could he kill a babe?
Rodric didn’t have it in him. He’d killed on the battlefield. Done things he wasn’t particularly proud of—especially when cleaning up the multitude of troubles Sir Gregory left behind. But he had to draw the line at murdering an innocent child. His code as a knight prevented it. He’d vowed to protect the weak, including women and children.
Yet, he knew he couldn’t go against Sir Gregory’s wishes. Somehow, he would have to find a place for the babe along the way before they reached Sturnwick.
And lie to the mother about what happened to her child.
Returning outside, he climbed into the back of the cart. Lady Celia lay there, looking even more ashen than before. So far, she’d been able to nurse the babe but he worried that time might soon run out.
“Let me have her,” the noblewoman begged.
“You are too weak, my lady,” he warned. “I will place the basket next to you. She will be fine.”
Rodric knew how ill Lady Celia must be for she didn’t argue with him. He nestled the basket against her side and then covered the babe with a portion of the blanket and then her mother with another one.
“Call out if you need anything and I’ll stop the cart right away,” he said cheerfully, trying to placate her.
“All right.” She gave him a sad smile. “Thank you, Sir Rodric. For everything. I know how much Gregory counts upon you.”
“That he does, my lady. Don’t you worry. I’ll get you to Sturnwick, safe and sound,” he promised.
“And my child.”
He gave her a tight smile and a nod—but couldn’t force himself to speak an untruth.
Rodric climbed into the driver’s seat and steered the horse through the busy London streets. It would take almost a week to reach Sturnwick. That gave him time to decide what to do.
As the days passed, he realized Lady Celia would not reach her childhood home alive. She grew punier by the day and the babe had trouble nursing at her breast. He’d thought to tell the mother that her child had died and he’d stopped to bury it while she slept but realized he might not have to lie to her—for she would be the one who passed on.
He stopped in a village and bought some bread and cheese and a jug of ale at a tavern. While waiting for the maid to gather up what he’d purchased, Rodric listened to a conversation occurring next to him because he heard the name de Montfort mentioned. He had met a couple of the same name at court, Lord Geoffrey and Lady Merryn. He’d been impressed by the pair’s intelligence and kindness and obvious affection toward one another. Others at court had nothing but good to say about the two and how devoted they were to each other and their children.
As he listened, he learned the very same couple’s estate lay not far from this village, in the direction he now headed. A plan began to form in his mind.
Rodric thanked the maid and gave her a coin and returned to the wagon. He drove it through the village and down the road two leagues until he spied the castle on a hill up ahead. He stopped the cart and climbed in the back. Lady Celia had begged to hold her child when they’d stopped at the village. He’d taken the girl from her basket and handed her to the mother to nurse and allowed the babe to remain with her mother.
Glancing down, he saw the little one was wide awake, a small dribble of her mother’s milk on her chin. Rodric wiped it away with his finger. The babe cooed at him. He lifted her and placed the girl in her basket. Turning to Lady Celia, his jaw dropped.
The lady looked at peace though her eyes stared up at the sky above. He touched his fingers to her throat and found no pulse beating within. Brushing his hand over her eyes, he closed the lids. Lady Celia seemed to wear a small smile of thanks.
Rodric jumped from the wagon and reached for the basket. He lifted it and walked to the edge of the woods near the road. His fervent prayer to the Virgin implored Her to intercede and have someone from these lands find the babe and take her in. Setting the basket on the ground, he saw the babe look up at him with her large eyes, as if she questioned his actions.
“’Tis the best I can do for you, my little lady,” he said softly. “I hope you will find a home near here and happiness, as well. I will take your sweet mother to her own home to be laid to rest.”
A thought occurred to him. Quickly, he strode to the cart and, with trembling fingers, removed the brooch that Sir Gregory had gifted to Lady Celia. She had worn it each day next to her heart, telling Rodric how that kept her love close to her.
Returning to the basket, he opened the blanket. Not trusting his fingers in fear of pricking the babe, he slipped the piece inside the blanket, pushing it to the bottom, then folded the blanket again so that it wrapped snuggly around the child. He pressed his lips to the babe’s head.
“Godspeed, Child. May the Good Christ watch over you and bring you peace.”
With a heavy heart, he returned to the cart and brought the blanket over Lady Celia’s face, tucking it underneath her to secure it in place. Rodric climbed into the driver’s seat and lifted the reins. He would see Lady Celia home.
And pray every day he lived for her daughter to be happy and safe.
Chapter 1
Suffolk—May, 1395
Marcus de Harte tried to ignore the uneasy feeling rumbling inside him. He looked across at Sir Rand Trammel, his closest friend, who stood surveying the late spring evening. They had spent many nights on sentry duty together, from their days of fostering through the past couple of years as members of King Richard’s army. The two men had been part of the force that had swept away rebellion in the north, and then traveled across the sea to Ireland to appease the Irish chieftains, who had many grievances against their absentee English landlords. The king had treated these so-called “High Kings” of Ireland with kindness and shown them respect, which awed the Irish leaders who’d trekked to Dublin for the series of meetings.
It hadn’t hurt that Richard had brought along an army over eight thousand strong in a show of force. Marcus thought that had helped speed along the concessions made by the Irish as much as anything the monarch had discussed with them. Thankfully, the king had accomplished all of his objectives and the borders of English rule were firmly established once more.
Because of it, Marcus now led his men home to Hartefield. They had parted ways with what was left of the king’s army, as various groups pulled away and headed toward their homes as the mass of soldiers journeyed across England. Only a core group would return to the Palace of Westminster with the king.
Marcus thought of the ten men who had accompanied him two years ago when they’d left Suffolk. Eight of them now returned and seven of those had bedded down for the night. He and Rand usually took the first watch, liking to see everything settled before they caught a few hours of sleep.
A restlessness came over Marcus. He looked to his companion, whose eyes swept across the area. Night had settled, though the full moon shone brightly.
“What have you missed most about home?” he asked his friend.
The corners of Rand’s mouth turned up. “It’s a toss-up,” he declared. “Part of me says ’tis Cook’s roasted boar that I’ve missed most, for it always makes my mouth water. No one can prepare a boar like Cook.”
“I agree,” Marcus said. “And the rest of you?”
Rand now grinned mischievously. “I am eager to see if your sainted mother has hired any new serving girls for the great hall. I will give them my famous tour of every nook and cranny found within Harte Castle and continue on to places along the way throughout the estate.”
Marcus shook his head. Rand could charm the skirts off of any woman—and frequently had from the time the two had been strapping young lads on the cusp of manhood. While Marcus indulged his own appetite now and then with various women in the nearby village of Little Morrholm, Rand plowed his way through every female at Hartefield and beyond. Never one to commit to a single woman, Rand would die a happy, old man someday—one who’d never acquired a wife but had plenty of stories
to tell about his many female conquests.
On the other hand, Marcus would need to wed to provide at heir. As an only son, he knew once he returned home that it would be expected. He’d been betrothed years before but the girl had died and his father hadn’t found a suitable replacement before Marcus left to join the king’s army. He already dreaded listening to his father discuss betrothal terms, much less the physical characteristics of women for Marcus to wed. While Lord Charles de Harte had never raised a hand against his wife, Lady Margaret—and those surrounding her—had listened to an earful of complaints made by her husband since she hadn’t produced any more children after her son’s birth.
At least any who lived.
Marcus knew of five miscarriages his mother had suffered although he suspected there might have been more. Of those Lady Margaret managed to bring to term, none survived. Three children, all females, had been stillborn. Two other girls had each lived less than a day, mewling softer than newborn kittens before they succumbed to death.
That had led Lord Charles to rage against his wife, sometimes for hours at a time. The baron complained about how delicate his wife was. How her narrow hips failed her when it came time to give birth. How even the children she did produce were dreaded girls. Lady Margaret always kept calm during these tirades and would finally point out that their firstborn was a magnificent male—tall, broad of shoulders, healthy, and strong.
With each birth, his mother had grown weaker and less animated, which concerned Marcus. Fortunately, his father turned his attentions elsewhere, deciding his wife would never produce another child—much less a son. Consequently, Marcus now had a smattering of half-siblings throughout the surrounding area.
All female.
He wondered if the fault lay in his father, but would never be bold enough to point that out to Lord Charles, nor would he voice that opinion and hurt his mother. Despite the bitter tirades the nobleman went on, his wife continued to love her husband beyond measure. Unfortunately, the love was one-sided. Marcus had seen how desperately his mother loved her husband, to the point he pitied her. He swore he would never love a woman. He wouldn’t want to experience the desperation his mother did. Marcus would protect his heart above all else.
“And what have you missed most about home?” Rand asked him in return.
“My mother,” he said without hesitation. “I long to see her. Next to you, she is my best friend. She has taught me much about managing an estate. In truth, I believe she knows more about it than my father does.”
“We all have missed Lady Margaret’s sweet smile and even disposition,” Rand confirmed.
“I still worry because I haven’t heard from her in so long,” he shared.
“’Tis hard to get a missive through to an army on the march, Marcus. You know that.”
“Still, I did receive one from her soon after we left. If Father cared enough, he would have sent a determined messenger who could have found me and delivered any missives Mother had written.”
“Your father?” Rand snorted. “Don’t get me wrong. You know I would do anything for you or your mother, just as I would defend the people of Hartefield with my life.” He paused. “But though I am loyal to Lord Charles, I think little of him.”
Marcus’ eyes widened and Rand held up a hand.
“I know. ’Tis treasonous to speak in such a manner but if I cannot speak plainly to you, my closest friend, then when can I say it? No one likes your father, Marcus, least of all you. We all know our place, though, and would never utter our thoughts aloud. I only share them with you and I hope you will forget what I’ve said. Only know this—everyone awaits the day when you become the new baron.”
Marcus knew his father would never be one to have the love of his people. Charles de Harte was much too harsh and unyielding. But despite his personal feelings, he would never wish for his father’s demise. Still, the inklings within him had grown stronger as he and Rand talked. Marcus wanted to be home. No, needed to be home.
“I am leaving at once,” he told his friend. “For Hartefield.”
“What? Now?” Rand looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “Marcus, we’re less than a day from reaching Hartefield. Wait until dawn breaks so that we may all ride together.”
“Nay. I will ride ahead.” He grinned. “And let Cook know that you and the other men are on their way.”
Rand frowned in displeasure and merely said, “If you insist.”
“Don’t worry, old friend,” Marcus said. He gripped Rand’s forearms. “Just think. This time tomorrow we will be home in front of the fire in the great hall. Our bellies full. Our beds awaiting us.” He grinned. “Mayhap, you will have a woman—or two—ready to share yours.”
He went to where they’d hobbled the horses and found Storm. Freeing him, Marcus swung into the saddle. With a wave, he trotted away from the camp of sleeping men and hit the open road. Though he longed to gallop, he would not risk Storm in such a manner. At least the bright moon helped him keep a steady pace. As Marcus rode, he cherished this time alone. He’d always been someone who treasured privacy, which rarely came to a soldier. He couldn’t think of a single time in the past couple of years when he’d truly been alone, with only himself for company. Everywhere he turned, other men had formed about him. He couldn’t even relieve himself in solitude.
That’s what made these last few hours before he reached Hartefield special. Tension had built in him for days after they’d parted from the king’s troops and made their way toward Suffolk. Marcus fought the rising panic that seemed to ooze from every pore. Something seemed very wrong the closer he came toward home. He only prayed that these pricklings proved foolish. That he would arrive at Harte Castle and find nothing amiss.
The first pale streaks of pink tinged the sky as he rode up to the gates. The gatekeeper called out a cheery greeting, which Marcus returned. He informed the retainer that his men would follow later that day and to be on the lookout for them. Riding to the stables, he awakened a slumbering stable boy and asked him to give a double measure of food to Storm and rub the beast down thoroughly.
At last, he headed toward the keep. No one stirred yet but soon the castle and its inhabitants would spring to life. Marcus pushed open the door and climbed the stairs two at a time, hurrying along the dimly lit corridor toward the solar. Without bothering to knock, he slipped through the door. No candle burned in the outer room. That surprised him. His mother had a fear of the dark and always left a candle burning in the bedchamber and out in this room, as well.
He left the door open so he could see to reach the inner chamber. Opening the door, only darkness greeted him. His senses went on high alert.
Something was definitely wrong.
He slipped carefully into the room, pushing the door wide. Making out the large shape of the bed, he inched toward it, his father’s loud snores reverberating throughout the chamber. He neared the bed and reached out his hand, only to find it brushed the bed curtain. Now, Marcus knew something was amiss. His mother never drew the curtains on her side of the bed, not as long as he could remember. She feared being trapped and always wanted a way to escape quickly should disaster strike in the middle of the night.
Easing his hand forward, he located a warm lump. He ran his hand up it and found a shoulder, which he gently shook.
“Mother?” he asked in a whisper, as he caught the smell of milk.
A piercing scream sounded in the darkness. It was quickly joined by the wail of a babe.
Had his mother finally given birth to a child who had survived? At her age?
Movement rippled in the bed as another child somewhere in the room began to cry.
Two children?
The snores finally ceased and his father began bellowing. Stunned, Marcus stumbled from the room into the solar’s family room, his heart beating fast.
Then a tiny female toddled from the bedchamber, her dark hair askew. She came toward him and reached her hands out. Instinct took over and Marcus lifted the ch
ild in his arms.
“What’s your name?” he asked gently.
“Livia,” the girl said, promptly jamming her thumb in her mouth and sucking loudly on it.
Movement caught his eye and Marcus turned to the bedchamber door. A young woman barely a score old appeared, a squalling babe in her arms as she balanced a lit candle. She pushed it toward Marcus and he took it.
“Hush,” she said, guiding the child’s mouth to her bare breast. Greedily, the babe latched on to it and drank, immediately calming.
“Who are you?” the woman asked, her brow knit in confusion.
“I am Sir Marcus de Harte. Who are you?” Marcus demanded as he set the candle down on the nearby table.
The woman gasped. Her eyes widened, shock evident upon her face. Before she could reply, his father appeared in the doorway, his hair much sparser than it had been only two years ago and now totally gray.
“What is one of your whores doing in your bed? Where is Mother?” Marcus demanded.
“Your mother is dead,” Lord Charles said, his voice flat. “She died a month after you left for the rebellion in the north.”
Numbness shot through Marcus, followed by a searing anger. “Why didn’t you get word to me?”
His father’s eyes narrowed. “And why should I? You accompanied the king. You represented Hartefield. You and the men in your command had a mission to accomplish. Believe me, I agreed with most of those rebels in the north. The king should not be suing for peace with those French bastards. Not after all the time and effort and money that have been involved in this bloody war. But you answered the king’s call. Even if you had known of her death, you wouldn’t have been free to race home. Your mother would have already been in the ground, so what good could have come by you knowing she had died?”
Rage boiled within him. “And how long has this whore warmed your bed?”