A Love for All Time (81 page)

His arm clamped about the girl, and his knife pressed against her throat. “Do not scream, wench, or the baby is dead. Do ye understand me?” He rubbed the blade of his weapon threateningly over Wenda’s neck.

“A-a-aye,” she said, and her voice was shaking, her knees dissolving with fear beneath her. “Wh-wwh-what do y-ye w-w-want?”

“My man is in the underbrush, and he’s a bow aimed at yer charge, so do not think to run when I release ye. Walk over to the baby, and wrap her up well. Then yer to come with me. Do you understand? Not a word, wench, or ye’ll both be dead!”

Wenda nodded, too terrified now to even speak, and Cavan slowly releasing his grip on her, shoved her toward the spot where Valentina St. Michael lay dozing the warm summer’s afternoon away. Cavan watched as the nursemaid wrapped her charge, and lifting her up carried her over to him. He had been correct in his assessment of the wench. She was not particularly intelligent, and she was used to obeying authority. This was a girl who would come with him without question for fear of both her life, and the child’s for she was unquestioningly loyal to her mistress.

Lifting the blanket he looked down on Conn and Aidan’s daughter, and for the briefest moment his hard gaze softened. The little one reminded him strongly of Bevin. Reaching out he gently stroked the rosy cheek, and he was amazed at its softness. This was no enemy. The little wench could be very useful in contracting a match with the son of an important family. Yes, better to keep her for she was really an asset.

It had been two days since he had overheard young Harry in the village inn. Conn had gone yesterday to Hereford. Aidan had ridden across this field this morning in the direction of
Queen’s Malvern.
It would be nightfall before Wenda and her charge were found to be missing, and the first search the following day would concentrate in the area of
Pearroc Royal.
It would be several days before his note would be delivered to Aidan St. Michael, telling her where she might find her little daughter. It would be then she would send for Conn, but she would follow after him immediately.

His captive in tow Cavan FitzGerald headed south over the Malvern Hills to Cardiff. For some hours the child was quiet as they rode, but then she began to wail. For some minutes Cavan attempted to ignore the infant’s howls, but finally he turned on Wenda, and snarled,

“What the hell is the matter with the bairn?”

“Sh-she’s hungry, sir.”

“Then give her yer tit, and shut her up,” he snapped.

“I c-can’t, sir!”

Cavan FitzGerald drew their mounts to a stop, and glaring at Wenda demanded, “Why not?”

“I’m not a wet nurse, sir! M-m’lady would allow n-no one b-but herself to f-feed the b-baby.”

“Jesu!”
The oath exploded from his mouth with such force that Wenda cringed, and the horses shied nervously. This was something that he had never even considered. He had assumed that a fine lady like Aidan would not nurse her own children. He had assumed that Wenda was the baby’s wet nurse. What the hell good to him was the brat if she was dead before they reached Cardiff? He needed to think, and up ahead was a rather ramshackle-looking inn, but night was coming, and it would do.

Valentina St. Michael was now howling at the top of her little lungs. She was wet, and she was hungry, and she was chilled. Where was the warm, sweet-smelling breast with the milk that soothed her? She missed the soft voice that spoke so gently to her, and sang soft songs to her as she nursed. Something was not right in her world, and she knew it which caused her to cry all the louder.

The inn in which they sought shelter was surprisingly clean though it was plain and simple. There were some very good smells emanating from the regions of the kitchen in the rear of the building, and the innkeeper welcomed them with a smile which turned to a look of distress as he heard Valentina’s cries.

“Here now, what’s the matter with the little lass?” he said.

“Me wife died in childbirth,” said Cavan quickly, “and I’m on my way to Cardiff for I’ve bought a shop there, and now here’s the wet nurse gone dry on me. I pray me bairn won’t die. She’s all I’ve left of my Kate.”

“Polly!” the innkeeper bawled at the top of his voice, and a large, fat woman hurried from the kitchen.

“What is it then, Harry?”

The innkeeper explained, and a smile wreathed the woman’s face as he came to the quick end of the tale, and said, “Would ye be willing to help’im, wife?”

“And me with milk enough for six? Here, girl, give me the bairn.” The innkeeper’s wife reached out, and took the screaming Valentina, and without another word opened her blouse right where she stood to heft out an enormous breast. Smelling the milk Valentina homed in on the nipple, ravenous, and not caring now that it wasn’t her mother. “If yer staying the night,” said Polly, “I’ll keep the bairn with me, and see she’s fed until ye leave. She’s a hungry little wench, and maybe yer wet nurse just needs a day’s rest. Yer too thin, girl,” she said to Wenda. “No wonder yer having trouble with yer milk.”

In the morning before they left the innkeeper’s wife presented them with a stone bottle. “I’ve filled it with me milk, and a relief it is to have me tits empty for the first time in months. I had twins eight months past, but we lost one of the lads two weeks ago, and his mate couldn’t take everything I was producing. I’ve always been a good producer.” She turned to Cavan. “Ye’ll have to sacrifice one of yer riding gloves, sir. If ye’ll let me I’ll poke a few holes in it with me needle. When the little lass is hungry just fill the finger with the milk, and use it like a tit. She’ll last till ye get to Cardiff, and find another wet nurse.”

Cavan thanked her, and pressed a piece of silver into Polly’s hand to reinforce his gratitude. Polly’s milk wouldn’t last forever, but perhaps in Cardiff he could find a wet nurse who would come to Ireland with him, and he would send Wenda back to
Pearroc Royal
with his message to Aidan.

Cavan had been correct in his assessment of Wenda’s intellect. She was not particularly bright, but she was deeply loyal to the St. Michael family. Her family had belonged to their family for several generations. It did not please her to leave her little mistress, but she was a practical country girl, and she knew that Valentina could not survive without food. She considered herself lucky to get off with her life. So clamping her legs tightly around the fat pony she had ridden from
Pearroc Royal
she began her return journey bearing with her a written message she was incapable of reading for Lady Aidan. The wicked man who had taken them had not harmed them, and he promised her he would not hurt little Mistress Valentina. He had even allowed her to choose the wet nurse for Wenda knew a diseased woman could pass on her weakness to the baby. Luck had been with her, and she had found a country girl who had come to the city to escape the shame of her stillborn bastard. The girl was clean, and healthy, and grateful for the opportunity offered even if it meant getting onto a sailing vessel, and sailing to Ireland.

Wenda drove her pony fiercely covering the distance between Cardiff and
Pearroc Royal
in two and a half days’ time. As she suspected everyone was in an uproar over their disappearance although Lady Aidan had not yet sent for her husband. Her return was hailed with joy until it was discovered that Valentina was not with her. She would speak to no one until she had been ushered into her mistress’ presence where she poured out her tale, ending it by handing Aidan the message that Cavan had entrusted her with.

Aidan had listened white-faced to the nursemaid’s tale. She was in an agony of fear for her child, but she thanked God that Wenda’s loyalty had preserved Valentina as far as Cardiff. Snatching the folded parchment from the girl she opened it up and read:

The signature was as she had expected it would be, had feared it would be.
Cavan FitzGerald!
She had instinctively known that he would come back to haunt her, but suddenly the fear she had felt all these months was gone, and in its place was a deep anger. What had she ever done to Cavan FitzGerald that he should seek to hurt her so? Why would he not leave her alone? Well he was going to leave her alone! she decided furiously. She was going to Ireland, and she was going to retrieve her child, and she was going to put that damned bastard upstart in his place, and if her mealymouthed old grandfather, Rogan FitzGerald, didn’t help her, she’d put him in his place too.

Rogan FitzGerald had abandoned her mother when he had sent her to England to marry Payton St. Michael. Aidan had never met him in her entire life, and his sudden interest in her had rung false to both her and to Conn. Remembering some of the things her mother had said of Rogan FitzGerald Aidan realized with deep certainty that her grandfather was probably involved in whatever plot her cousin Cavan was attempting to hatch, using her child as bait. Well, they were going to regret it! Aidan thought to herself.

“Beal!” she shouted, and the butler came running.

“M’lady?”

“Send for young Beal. He is to carry a message to my husband this very afternoon. Then fetch me yer younger son, Harry.” Aidan bent over her desk even as the butler hurried from the room to carry out her orders. She dipped her quill into ink and wrote her message to Conn upon the smooth parchment.

“Come in,” she called to the knock upon the library door, and both younger Beals entered into the room, their caps in their hands. “Peter,” she addressed the elder of the two who was known about the estate as young Beal since he bore his father’s Christian name. “I want ye to take this message to his lordship at the Hereford Horse Fair with all possible speed. Don’t stop until ye reach him. Take with ye a dozen armed men, and tell his lordship not to bother coming home, but to go directly to Cardiff to embark.” She folded the parchment, dripped hot sealing wax upon it, and pressing her personal cipher into it handed the message to young Beal. “Godspeed,” she said, and taking it from her young Beal turned and departed.

“Harry,” she continued speaking to the youngest of the Beal sons, “yer coming with me to Ireland. Pick two other men to come with us. Good fighters, but clever as well. Do ye understand me?”

“Aye, m’lady,” said Harry Beal with a grin.

“Then go,” she ordered him. “We leave within the hour.”

“Not without me, ye don’t,” snapped Cluny as he entered the library. “Ye ain’t going nowheres unless I come with ye. Master Conn would never forgive me, and besides I know Ireland, and ye don’t. Yer safe enough aboard one of Lady de Marisco’s ships for every seaman in her employ is O’Malley loyal, but once we land in Ireland, ’tis a very different matter, m’lady. Each damned mile of the land is controlled by some chieftain or another, and not one of them really friendly to the others. Yer grandfather’s holding is inland, and I’m not certain where we’re to land so ye’d best be prepared, and I’m the man to prepare ye.”

Aidan didn’t argue. She knew that Cluny was right, and she was grateful for his help. “Can ye be ready in an hour?” she asked, and he grinned cockily at her.

“I’m ready now, m’lady!” he said.

Mag cried and fussed when Aidan told her of her plans.

“This is madness, my chick! Wait for his lordship,” she begged her mistress.

“Nay, Mag. Every minute counts now. My baby needs me! Don’t fret so. His lordship will no doubt be in Cardiff ahead of me, and we’ll embark together.”

Mag sniffed, but Aidan’s words reassured her. “What shall I pack for ye?” she worried. “How can ye carry trunks if yer riding? Is the baggage cart to go with ye?”

“Nay,” Aidan replied. “I shall ride astride as Skye does, and wear one of those special skirts she gave me for doing so. We can make faster time if I do. Pack my saddlebag with an extra skirt, two shirts, and some stockings, the heavy kind I use when I wear boots. I’ll need my hairbrush, and a warm cape with a hood. ’Twill do me quite nicely, dearest Mag.”

“Ye can’t go to visit yer grandsire in such clothing,” protested Mag. “What will the old man think of ye.”

“ ’Tis not a friendly visit, Mag,” said Aidan. “I believe that my grandfather may be involved in this matter.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me none,” remarked Mag. “The old man was always a bit of a robber, even in his younger days, and well I remember it. Yer mother was fortunate to escape when she did, and I certainly never regretted coming with her. Ye be careful, Mistress Aidan. Rogan FitzGerald’s an old devil, and he always was.”

Aidan rode out across the fields for
Queen’s Malvern,
her four men at her back. Reaching her sister-in-law’s home she hurried to find Skye and Adam who were dining early that day. Seeing her dressed so, Skye immediately knew that Aidan was off to seek her daughter.

“Tell me,” she said without any other preamble.

Aidan recounted Wenda’s story, finishing with, “I’ve sent young Beal and twelve armed men off to Hereford to fetch Conn. I’ve told him to go directly to Cardiff. I’ll not wait for him if he is not there when I get there. I want to get to Ireland as quickly as possible. What if those damned FitzGeralds mean my baby harm?”

“That isn’t wise, Aidan,” Adam put in. “The FitzGeralds aren’t going to hurt Valentina. They’re using her as bait to lure ye to them for some purpose or another. Wait for Conn to go with ye.”

“I wouldn’t wait for Christ himself!” Aidan declared vehemently. “My baby needs me, Adam!”

Adam threw up his hands in frustration, and looked to Skye.