by C. C. Wiley
Terrwyn squared her shoulders and pushed against his chest with the flat of her hand. “I don’t require anything from an Englishman.”
“And would you accept my help if I were Welsh?”
“The only thing of Welsh I see before me is the wool that covers your legs.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Terrwyn felt her face flush. She had no reason to notice how his clothing covered his limbs. She dutifully ignored the way the corner of his mouth twitched before he spoke.
“I don’t think my mother would find your comment amusing. Now, heed the common sense. If you required my help minutes ago, you’ll require it now.”
Terrwyn wanted to deny him. The desire to slam the door on his face rushed through her veins. How could she admit he was right? “You think I don’t show wisdom?”
“I think you Welsh are a prideful, stubborn lot.” He took a step in, closing the gap between them. “Now use your head and let me help you.”
Terrwyn’s thoughts raced to her mother. She should be at Mam’s side. Not arguing with this irritating stranger.
A common soldier trotted up. Breathless, he touched his touched his forehead and bent an awkward bow. “Sir James, the villagers are waiting for your attention to the targets.”
“Sir James, is it?” Terrwyn bristled. “Ah, aye, a fine Welsh name indeed.”
Spying a familiar face, she shouted to the sheepherder’s son striding across the path. “Gareth, come assist your lord’s daughter.”
With her feet planted square and firm, she nodded to the scowling man before her. “Go to your men, Sir James. I have no need for your help, nor will I ever.”
Chapter Three
The birthing chair stood on the bare path in front of Dafydd ap Hew’s cottage. It may as well have been a village crier, announcing the coming of their lord’s child. Terrwyn felt the eyes of the villagers, who were sure to notice her cowering by the door. She cringed when she saw the gray form rush toward her.
“How fares your mother this day, Terrwyn?” Valmai called out as she shuffled across the dirt path. The smell of infused violets wafted across the yard. The combination of Valmai’s last meal of onions and the scent of her favorite flower made a pungent odor often found in a moldering garden. “Your mother will be thankful she has you girls to lend a hand. I will say a prayer in the chapel for Gwenhwyfar.”
“My thanks, Valmai.” Terrwyn turned her head and pulled in a breath of fresh air.
“And you?” The old woman bent forward, her pointed beak almost touching the tip of Terrwyn’s nose.
“Me?” Terrwyn said, barely controlling the awkward squeak in her voice.
“Aye. Have you heard word of your brother, Drem?”
“Nay, Valmai. I vow when we do, you would be among the first to learn of it.”
Valmai’s lips pursed together as if she held something distasteful on her tongue. “What of your night visions? Have you seen him?”
“Hush.” Terrwyn glanced back at the cottage, hopeful no one heard what Valmai said. “You know we don’t speak of such things.”
The old lady pulled her gray shawl tight around her thin arms. Her glare flashed and then passed as quickly. “You deny God’s gift? When it would lead you to what you seek?”
For six years, Valmai had asked her these same questions. Terrwyn wondered if a time would come when she could give her a different answer. It would be a fine day when she told the old nursemaid that her favorite charge was found. Until then, she would suffer Valmai’s punishment.
“Hmph,” the old woman snorted in response to her silence. “Shameful! A gift untended is a gift soon lost.”
Terrwyn prayed Valmai’s warning was correct this time. Sooner or later, the night visions had to disappear. She had tried ignoring the dreams. She had even plugged her ears with wool to keep out the sounds. Though little good it did her. About as effective as trying to keep her eyelids open with pinesap. Hope rose in her chest as regularly as the tide. Maybe today would be different.
Valmai poked a finger into Terrwyn’s shoulder, effectively burrowing into her thoughts. “Tell me. What will you do without a midwife?” Her nail dug into the woolen bodice. “Of course, not that I need to tell you, but Isolde’s boys are not being truthful about her whereabouts.” She cast a furtive look over her shoulder. “I saw it with my own eyes, I did. Isolde didn’t lose her way in the mountains. Oh no! She rode away to the great house on the hill.”
Terrwyn glanced to the horizon. Her last hopes of Isolde’s imminent return began to fade. “I’m certain Bran and Maffew know where to find her. They’ll fetch her home in time.”
“Foolish to expect them back so soon.” Valmai tapped the arching back of the wooden chair. “You know the womenfolk would help if your mother would accept it. However, she was mighty clear on her wishes the last time.”
“I’m sure she meant no harm by what she said.”
“Understand, girl, we have no bone to scratch with you.” Valmai sniffed. “Our quarrel is with your mam, not the children. Nor do the sins of the parents rest on your shoulder. As I see it, there are two ways for you to dig yourself out of this hole. Figure out a way to make the baby stay in your mam’s belly. Or prepare to bring another soul into this sorry land.”
With her parting advice delivered, she turned and left Terrwyn standing by herself. Alone. The weight of what was expected resting on her head.
No matter how hard she tried, Terrwyn could not bring herself to step indoors. The bundle of herbs pressed against her side. She shifted the red flannel so the hard edge of pottery no longer poked her ribs. The mouth of the doorway sealed off the unknown. It was the portal between life and death. She rested her cheek against the cool wood of the doorframe. Listening to the sounds within, she knew from the times before that the birthing would continue for quite a while.
Dafydd opened the door and stepped outside the cottage. His tight smile did not reach his eyes. He held his hand out, drawing Terrwyn from her hiding spot. His strong fingers gently squeezed her shoulder. “She needs you.”
“Isolde—”
“Nay, this day you must be midwife.”
“What if I cannot remember?”
Dafydd shook his head. “It matters not to that babe if he is the first child you help draw from his mother. And sooner than later, your mam will not care about anything but holding him in her arms.” He paused and then added with a wry smile, “And saints help us if it is not a healthy boy.”
Terrwyn gripped her father’s hand, which rested on her shoulder. The weight of it felt as heavy as the mantle that had been thrust upon her. “I shall do all that I can.”
“Then we shall pray that you do more than you can.” He placed a hasty kiss on her cheek and turned to follow the path that led past the alehouse.
“Wait! You’re leaving? Mam—”
Dafydd held his hand up for silence. “I cannot help your mam bring me a son to replace the one that is forever lost.”
“Drem will return to us.”
“No one knows what has become of your brother.”
“I can find him.” Terrwyn gripped his sleeve before he turned away. “Father, I dreamt of him. Saw him. Handsome and strong.”
Dafydd smoothed her hair. The rough calluses ridging his fingertips scraped across her cheek. “Terrwyn, I cannot allow you to place your hopes on dreams. We have waited for word of your brother for so many years. How long must we hope?”
“As long as it takes!”
“Sadly, that time has passed. ’Tis the very reason your mam tries so hard to bring another son into the world. For me, there is naught I can do but spend my time with the English. I’ll listen to their tales and hope the memory of your brother stands out among all the others who were taken so long ago.”
Resolved to meet the task she was given, Terrwyn squared her shoulders. “Seems to me we all must look to the saints for miracles.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “’Tis certain we need their help.”
James paused beside the
wooden contraption blocking the path to Dafydd ap Hew’s home. Although the house was not as small as the rest of the villagers’, it by no means represented the lifestyle of a Welsh lord. Instead of strong thick walls made of fieldstone and mortar, the walls were little more than stacked logs. Straw and wattle were stuffed between the cracks to keep out the cold and inevitable rodent.
He ran his hand over the smooth wooden back of the chair. The wooden hoops reminded him of the stirrups that hung from his saddle. The broad wooden seat was unpadded and stained with wear. Leather straps were knotted at the arms. God help him if he allowed his mind to unravel its use. This was not a chair to sit beside the hearth and enjoy the crackle of the fire. ’Twas furniture which earned its keep.
So why did it stand neglected outside the home? Where was the too-delicate young midwife? A knot of suspicion gnawed at his gut. Could it be a ruse to turn his attention from gathering able-bodied men?
He narrowed his eyes to discern movement from behind closed shutters. Today was not the day for the lord to keep himself hidden from sight. The archery contest, if one could truly call it so, had been an utter failure. The whole lot of them had either been too young to pull the string on their bows or too old to survive the trek to France. Only a handful held promise. And yet he overheard them discuss the skill of one remaining archer in the village. It was his hope that the famed Welshman would present himself. He did not wish to order his men to change the archer’s mind.
This visit to the village wedged between Monmouth and Abergavenny awakened dark memories from his youth. Yet here he was again, six long years later. Only this time, a sworn vow to his king had brought him. If not for the message left for him in the friary at Dunstable, he would have found a means to avoid returning. The threat of imminent war had a way of helping you justify your decisions.
He glanced at the shuttered windows. Aye, he would have this fine archer added to Henry’s army whether he readily showed himself or not. But how to gain his trust? Ever since he and his men set foot in this tiny village, they had been thwarted in every angle. Welsh hospitality was spread mighty thin. Even a pint of ale was hard to come by.
A keening moan slithered through the cracks between the shutters and under the door. Determined to gain an invitation to cross their cottage threshold James gripped the arms of the chair and hauled it to his chest. “What sane man would turn away a gift of help when needed?” he reasoned under his breath.
Thoughts of the proud and haughty midwife came to mind. Perhaps sanity would not be the question to examine. Another moan slid through the air.
“Ah.” James advanced toward the door. “Mayhap desperation is the key.”
Holding the chair as if it were a shield, James shoved through the doorway and was assaulted by the musky odor of sweat and stale air. At first glance the long narrow room appeared to be empty of its inhabitants. The flames in the hearth flickered, casting twisted shadows on the wall. The lid on a round-bottomed kettle rattled. The contents of scorched lentils sputtered and spit into the fire.
James let the chair thump to the floor. Throwing open the wooden slats that sealed the window, he let fresh air seep into the room. He grabbed the nearby poker, hooked the pot and swung it away from the flames. The lid slipped back into place and the room began to clear of the ruined meal. Satisfied the cottage would no longer burn down around his head, he approached a half-opened doorway.
“Dafydd ap Hew, ’tis I, Sir James Frost, who comes in the name of King Henry. Show yourself now.”
A delicately shaped back straightened as if jabbed with a stick. A mane of brown hair drooped over the midwife’s shoulders as she turned quickly from her patient. The bucket she held to her chest sloshed its contents on the floor. Her flushed cheeks reddened to a deeper hue. Dark brown eyes snapped and glittered back at him.
“You won’t find him here!”
“’Tis a pity. I require his assistance. I have heard your village contains an archer who cannot be outdistanced in skill. King Henry commands his presence for the reclamation of France.”
Sweat slid down her forehead and dripped off her chin. James tipped his head and attempted to ignore the young woman’s dampened bodice. He knew he was staring at the V formed in the middle of her chest. Right there in between her rounded breasts. He licked his dry lips and searched for something intelligible to say. Shifting his eyes, he met the gaze of a female who lay upon the bed. She panted heavily, her protruding belly filled with the child fighting to be born.
“As Terrwyn told you,” she said between gritted teeth, “my husband is not here.”
The woman she called Terrwyn threw down the rag she had been wringing out. “Have you been banged too many times in the head? Can you not see there is a woman birthing a baby?” Her tirade was echoed by a loud groan coming from the bed. She jerked a heavy drape across the alcove to give the woman privacy.
James finally recovered. “Perhaps, if you could direct me—”
“Mindless English dog!” Terrwyn shoved the bucket into his chest. She smiled wickedly as water splashed over the rim, landing on his newly shined boots. “Find him yourself,” she said as she propelled his back toward the door.
Only one other female had ever intimidated him and that was when he was eight years old. And by damn, he was not about to let it happen to him once more. He moved his feet carefully so that his boots would not suffer her wrath again. He pushed back on the rim of the bucket and watched a single drop of water land on the ridge of Terrwyn’s jaw.
Giving into temptation, his thumb scraped over her smooth skin. He felt her tense before she jerked her head out of easy reach. Her eyes widened at the sight behind him.
“You,” she said with a whisper. “You brought that in?”
“I did offer my assistance earlier.”
“I did not—”
Emboldened by her flustered state, James pressed his finger against her lips. The heat in her glare blazed back at him. He snatched his hand away before she had a mind to take a bite. “Think nothing of it.” Offering his widest smile, he added with a jest, “Where I come from, those who are gifted must offer something of themselves in return.”
Anger glittered through her soot-colored lashes. “I tell you now, Sir James Frost, there is nothing of myself that I willingly give to you.”
James leaned in, closing the space between them. “More’s the pity. Then I shall tend to my broken heart and settle for Dafydd ap Hew’s whereabouts instead.”
Terrwyn’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the bucket tighter to her chest. The tip of her tongue felt along her lips as if tasting where his touch had been. “More than likely you’ll find my father in the alehouse. The Sheep’s Glen is an easy building to spot.”
James could no longer resist the urge that had been with him since the first time he set eyes upon her. Leaning in, he ignored the shield between them and brushed a kiss against her rose-pink lips.
The tips of her dark lashes fluttered over her cheeks. She took a hasty step back. The water sloshed out of the bucket, leaving a damp trail down her bodice. Her mouth moved, but no words came out.
A harsh cry from the woman in the alcove sliced through the charged air. “I need you now, daughter!”
James turned to leave. He paused, his hand resting on the latch. Terrwyn had already returned to her mother’s side.
“Until we meet again, sweet Terrwyn,” he murmured softly under his breath. “Until we meet again.”
Mam’s lips were swollen from when she bit down to keep from crying out. The simple act of holding her son to her breast made her tremble from the exertion. She kissed his head, counted his toes and smiled. “Thank the saints, your brother’s birth will hold what is left of our land. Catrin, come tuck the flannel around Padrig.”
While the tiny boy grunted and rooted, searching for his mother’s breast, Terrwyn tried once more to hold the wooden cup to Mam’s mouth.
Mam shook her head and turned away. “Fetch your father. Tell hi
m—tell him he has a healthy son to take Drem’s place.” Her breath caught, her chest rose and fell slowly. Her fingers relaxed and she wearily closed her eyes.
Terrwyn moved past the homes standing along the path. An amber glow seeped through the cracks around the windows. Behind the doors, flames flickered and wavered. One by one, doors were opened, unfurling a river of light. Faces anxious for news lingered in the shadows. They held their distance, respectfully waiting.
Had it not been for the dusk pushing away daylight, she would have never guessed the time. Nor did she know if day or night had passed since first braving the unknown and stepping over the threshold between life and death.
Raucous laughter rent the silence of the night, mocking the memory of her mother’s anguish. A flute spat out a tune while someone battered an accompanying beat. Large warhorses were tethered outside the alehouse. Small mountain ponies, tied nearby, kept their distance from the monsters. She eyed the glow from within and searched out the shape of her father’s shadow.
What was it the midwife once told her? With celebration came a price. Even now, she did not trust her mother had the ability to cling to life a moment longer.
Gathering what little courage she had left, Terrwyn pulled open the door and entered the overcrowded room. Tables were littered with empty pitchers and mugs half-filled with ale and watered-down whiskey. Bare heads, in various shades of brown and red locks, gathered in male revelry. Her father held court in the middle. His storytelling was known far and wide, perhaps as well as his reputation with his fists.
The man standing closest to Dafydd’s side lifted his face and his head of silky black hair caught the firelight. Recalling her previous run-ins with the Englishman, she dutifully ignored the way her pulse began to accelerate. Her breath caught as his sky-blue eyes flashed with recognition. A slow smile crept over his mouth. He raised an eyebrow in her direction and bent to speak to her father.
Terrwyn’s anger ignited as if her heart were dry tinder. It burned through her veins when she noticed the familiar way he placed his hand upon her father’s shoulder. He whispered something, this time in her father’s ear. Her father’s laughter stalled and the room slowly quieted as if directed by an unseen hand.