Margo Maguire (5 page)

’Twas heaven, and likely the closest she would ever come to mothering a child. Her heart tripped as she looked into the bairn’s bright blue eyes and felt his perfect hand upon her breast. This was nothing like feeding one of Soeur Agnes’s lambs. He was so tiny…with skin red and wrinkled, and a shock of black hair that seemed too thick and unruly for his newborn head. He sucked hungrily and Kathryn felt a surge of maternal protectiveness for this bairn, for this son of Lady Cecily.

Kathryn recognized Edric’s wife. The abbey de St. Marie was a prestigious religious house, and many of the daughters of King William’s vassals spent months or years there for one reason or another—usually for safety, or as a punishment. Cecily was one who’d come more than a year ago, before her marriage. Though Kathryn had barely
spoken to her, she had a clear recollection of Cecily and the reason for her banishment to the abbey. The lady had been exiled there until she’d consented to marry the man chosen for her. Apparently, Cecily had finally capitulated to her father’s command, since Kathryn had not heard of her since.

Until now.

No doubt Lord Edric had been besotted with Cecily from the moment he’d laid eyes upon her. She was tall and stately, easily the most graceful and comeliest of maidens.

Edric stood with his feet braced solidly on the floor, his thick, muscular arms crossed against his chest as he spoke to the steward. Kathryn could not fathom how he must feel, with his brother lying gravely wounded somewhere within his hall, his wife dead, and a tiny new son holding on to life by a tenuous thread.

When he finished with his steward, the man departed the chamber, leaving Kathryn alone with the formidable lord of Braxton Fell. Crouching down before her, he watched his child drink from the false nipple.

In spite of the thick whiskers that shadowed the Saxon’s jaw, Kathryn could see that his mouth was pressed into a hard line, and a muscle in his jaw flexed tightly. His loss touched Kathryn deeply,
but she felt ridiculous sitting there beside poor, dead Cecily, nursing the woman’s child…feeling the unexpected and unwelcome pull of attraction for the woman’s husband. She had to get away from there. Away from Braxton Fell.

“He is so…small,” Edric muttered to himself, as if Kathryn weren’t even there. He touched the bairn’s forehead.

“Aye,” she whispered. Edric’s hand was huge and dark against the child’s wrinkled skin. His awe at the sight of his son was nearly palpable. A spike of pain pierced Kathryn’s breast when the realization struck her once again that she would never share such a moment with her own husband.

Lord Edric startled her by standing abruptly and walking to the opposite side of the room. Kathryn blinked away tears she knew he would not want to see. ’Twas presumptuous of her to grieve for his loss, being little more than a stranger here, and an unwelcome one at that.

The oaken door suddenly crashed open and a fierce little man entered the bedchamber. With eyes as black as his hair was white, he took no notice of Kathryn, but strode with purpose directly to the far side of the room to face Lord Edric. Sir Drogan followed right behind him, an expression of consternation upon his face.

“Edric of Braxton Fell, you who scorn tradition, God will avenge and cast you into a pool of fire!” cried the old man.

“Cease, priest,” said Edric, his voice low and threatening. “Prepare for my wife’s Requiem upon the morrow. In the meantime, offer intercessions for my brother’s recovery.”

“Look at the disasters you have wrought,” replied the white-haired priest in a venomous tone. “’Tis your unholy alliance with all that is evil—”

Edric held up one hand, palm out, effectively warding off the priest’s words. “Father Algar, I am of no mood to listen to another of your tirades. What’s done is—”

The priest whirled away from Edric so abruptly that he startled Kathryn, and she gathered the bairn closer to her heart. The old man pointed one bony finger at her. “You!
Norman
offal again!”

Kathryn’s throat went dry, but she raised her chin defiantly, even though she possessed no confidence whatsoever. The priest’s curses frightened her, for ’twas true that the young lord’s injury was upon her conscience.

“Father Algar…” Drogan’s tone was one of warning, but the priest ignored him.

“Even this bairn is cursed by—”

“I said enough!”
Edric roared. “You know naught of what you speak, priest.”

Father Algar kept his silence for the moment, but his beady eyes shifted between Kathryn and Lord Edric, then to the bairn.

“Drogan,” Edric said, “take the Norman maid to the nursery.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“And get her some clothes.”

E
dric’s eyes burned as if he’d spent the day toiling over a smoky cook fire. He tried to focus his sights upon Bryce, who lay deathly quiet in his bed, but he could barely keep his eyes open.

“My lord, mayhap you should seek your own bed and sleep some,” said Drogan. “With Lady Cecily’s funeral upon the morrow, it might be best if you had some rest.”

“They say it comes in threes.”

“What does, my lord?”

“Death.” Edric rubbed his eyes. “First Cecily.
With Bryce so sorely wounded, and my son so small and fragile…”

“So, Father Algar is not the only superstitious one?”

“Do you think either of them will survive?”

“You heard Lora yourself,” said Drogan. “Bryce’s wound is the kind every warrior should pray for—Robert’s sword sliced through muscle and not much else. As to the bairn…”

“He has no name, Drogan,” Edric remarked, aware that his thoughts were jumping from one subject to the next. He’d never felt so scattered in his life, except perhaps during the weeks after Siric and Sighelm, Oswin’s sons, had been slain in battle.

It seemed a lifetime ago that he and Bryce had run freely as lighthearted lads with the steward’s sons. Siric and Sighelm had been like brothers to Edric and Bryce. They’d been inseparable throughout their early years, and their deaths in battle against the Normans had hit Edric nearly as hard as it had their father. Now Bryce lay near death, and Edric’s son’s life was in the balance, too. If the bairn died, Edric’s year of marriage to Cecily would come to naught.

Was he to lose all that he cared for?

“Give him your father’s name,” said Drogan. “Lord Aidan was a powerful warrior and a
fair-minded lord. The lad could do worse for a namesake.”

Edric gave a vague nod. Aidan he would be, but the bairn seemed too small to survive. Edric had been certain that Cecily, with her Norman stubbornness and foul disposition, would deliver a hearty child, in spite of Lora’s warnings. The woman had never missed an opportunity to berate him for his barbarian ways…and for causing all her misery.

“Never again.” Edric rose to his feet, went to a window and opened a shutter to gaze upon his ruined lands in the twilight.

“My lord?”

He turned to face Drogan. “I will not marry again.” He had no use for a wife—certainly not another Norman wife, the only kind King William would permit. Edric was going to rebuild Braxton Fell and take no Norman help to do it. “If the bairn survives, he will be my heir,” he said coldly. “If not, then Bryce will inherit my father’s lands.”

Drogan nodded. “Your son has taken to Kate. ’Tis fortunate he will feed from her hand.”

How easily Edric could imagine her feeding the bairn from her breast. “Aye, but ’tis the only Norman assistance we will accept.”

“I don’t under—”

Edric shook his head and went to the door. He
knew he was making no sense. Drogan was right. He needed sleep.

Braxton’s keep was as new as Castle Kettwyck, and Kathryn thought it might even be somewhat larger. Its great hall was huge, with bare floors and walls, and a massive fireplace carved into one wall. In the flickering light of the wall sconces, ’twas a cold and cheerless place, a fair match to its cold and cheerless lord.

The keep rose three levels above the ground, and there were multiple staircases, a maze of rooms, and servants in every direction Kathryn turned. In spite of them, there were no rushes upon the cold floor, nor wall hangings to insulate the chilly stone walls. ’Twas an empty shell, certainly not home to a Norman lady.

Kathryn had been given a bedchamber on the second level near the room where Lady Cecily lay dead, and now she had all the peace and privacy she could want. Yet what was she to do with the bairn? She’d had little exposure to children, but since this one seemed content to sleep in her arms, she went to the only chair in the room and sat down.

When a light knock sounded at the door, Kathryn arose to answer it, afraid the noise might wake the child. A young maid entered, with red-haired
Lora right behind her, carrying a bundle of clothes and blankets. The midwife was a much younger woman than Kathryn had supposed when Drogan had first mentioned her.

“Lay the fire, Wilona,” Lora said, then turned to Kathryn. “I brought you a few things…You must have had quite an ordeal, being stolen from your home. Rushton, was it?”

Kathryn nodded, but could not speak of her abduction. Not yet.

“I brought some clothes for you, and some things for the bairn. If you’re to be his nursemaid, you’ll need—”

“But I am no nursemaid. I…” What could she tell of herself? She knew ’twas best not to let anyone know who she was or where her true home was, for they would send her back to Kettwyck to face the scorn of her family and her peers.

Lora looked at her quizzically, but did not press her to continue. When she spoke, her words were firm, but not unkind. “You must serve as nurse to Edric’s son until we can find another. The bairn was born too soon…and he refused all sustenance until you arrived. You are his only hope, at least for now.”

Kathryn nodded, coming to grips with what she must do. Besides, how could she object? The bairn was as helpless as he was beautiful. And if
Kathryn was the only one who could feed him, who was she to argue? A few days at Braxton Fell would change naught.

Lora took the bairn from her and placed him in the small cradle next to the bed. “Now let me look at you.” She became the healer then, placing her hands on either side of Kathryn’s head and turning her this way and that, feeling her scalp for cuts and bumps. “You have a nasty abrasion here. Any other injuries? Did they…did any of the Scots…rape you?”

Kathryn shook her head. She wrapped her arms ’round herself and turned away. “But it was a near thing. The Saxons—your Lord Edric and his men—appeared just in time. The leader—”

“That would be Léod Ferguson. He’s a measle, but his son is worse. Drop the blanket and let me see your back.”

Kathryn did as she was told and when Lora had finished examining her, she picked up a canvas pouch containing some salve, and placed it upon a table. “I thought you might need this. Use it after your bath.”

“Bath?” Kathryn’s heart nearly leaped at the word.

Lora laughed. “Aye. Wilona will bring the tub, and grooms have already been ordered to carry water for you.”

Tears welled in Kathryn’s eyes at the woman’s kindness. She gestured toward the plain blue kirtle and bliaut, the woolen hose and shoes, and the undergarment lying on the bed. No noble princess could have had finer attire. “My thanks to you. You’ve been very kind.”

As promised, the bath was provided. When Kathryn was finally alone, she let Sir Drogan’s blanket slide to the floor, removed the filthy rag that had once been a delicate chemise, and stepped naked into the tub near the fire. All her various cuts and scrapes stung as she sat down in the water, but her bruises practically sang with joy.

Closing her eyes for just a moment, she leaned back and let herself drift in the heat and comfort of her bath. Her hips and thighs were sore from two days on horseback, but she felt the tension ease from them as she reclined in the hot water.

It had been naïve of her to think Lord Edric might be unmarried, and to have entertained such wild musings about him. She’d gawked at his muscular form and his glossy hair, had daydreamed about his big, square hands and the masculine sprinkling of dark hair upon them. Cecily was easily the comeliest woman in all of England and France. And though she might be dead, Kathryn did not doubt her husband would compare every other woman to her.

Her eyelids fluttered closed and she sank down in slumber, only to be shocked awake some time later by a piercing wail and freezing cold water. She had no idea how long she’d slept in the tub, but the infant’s cry was enough to wake all who dwelled in the keep. Quickly, she climbed from the tub and wrapped herself like a sausage into Drogan’s blanket. Tucking one corner of the wool under her arm, she bent over and picked up Cecily’s child just as the door to her chamber burst open.

“What commotion is this?” Edric demanded.

Kathryn felt her cheeks flood with color. She walked to the door, flustered at being caught in such dishabille. “Please, sir,” she said, holding the bairn to her breast, pushing the door wide open as a broad hint for him to leave. “’Tis not necessary for you to—”

“’Tis my son’s cries that brought me here.”

“He is just…just hungry, my lord.” She curled her toes as though that would help to cover her naked legs, yet it was strangely thrilling to feel his gaze upon her.

And entirely indecent.

“I will feed him and all will be well.”

Lord Edric did not make his exit, but closed the door behind him and glanced ’round the room. “Is that my son’s milk?” He went to the hearth, picked up the crock of milk Lora had
placed there earlier, and poured some of it into the bairn’s cup.

“It might be too hot.” Kathryn attempted a demure mien, one that a simple maid would affect. “I’ll just—”

“Show me how this is done.”

The room felt much too small with the Saxon lord in it. His attire was the same battle-stained tunic and hose he’d worn the past two days. He was stunningly male, impossibly intriguing. In perfect detail, Kathryn recalled how safe and secure she’d felt after he’d killed the boar, when he’d held her against his strong chest. She knew now that it had been naught but a reflexive action, for he’d believed that his comely wife awaited him here.

Steeling herself against the influence of his male potency, she picked up the false nipple and joined him near the hearth. Surely, once she quieted the bairn with his milk, Edric would leave and she could breathe easily again. “I’m to tie this to the crock, then shake a few drops upon my hand.”

His expression turned dubious. Kathryn took note of the deep circles under his bloodshot eyes and realized the man was so weary he probably did not even realize she was undressed, or that it was wholly improper for him to be in her chamber.

Or that he hated her.

“This is what Lora said I should do to be sure of the temperature.”

Edric proceeded to tie the nipple onto the cup. When Kathryn held out the back of her hand to him, he took it and turned it over, shaking a few drops of the milk upon the inside of her wrist. “Is this not a more sensitive spot?” he asked.

“’Tis p-perfect,” Kathryn replied, though she felt an arrow of heat shoot up her arm. And ’twas not the milk that caused it.

Ignoring her racing heart, she took the cup, gathered the bairn close to her breast, and drew away. She sat down on the soft chair at the opposite side of the room while the child cried for his meal. Reaching for the blue kirtle, Kathryn drew it over her legs and wished she could crawl into the bed and cover herself completely.

“
Merci,
er…Thank you for your assistance, my lord,” she said, waiting for him to go. “We’ll manage now.”

But he did not leave. Instead, he took a seat upon her bed. She should be outraged at his incursion here, but she could not muster any anger, not when he leaned his elbows upon his knees and let his hands dangle between his powerful legs.

“I…I apologize for letting the bairn wake you.”

“He did not wake me.” His voice was as blunt as the thick veins that lined the backs of his hands and arms. His feet seemed huge, encased as they were in soft leather boots. He watched her intently, waiting to see if the child quieted, and Kathryn felt inept and clumsy under his harsh scrutiny.

She put the nipple to the bairn’s mouth, but he rejected it and turned toward her breast, finding only the wool of the blanket she’d wrapped around herself. He let out a series of heartrending whimpers.

“’Tis your soft skin he seeks.”

Embarrassed and conscious of her own awkwardness, Kathryn fumbled with the cup, trying to get the child to accept the nipple. Soon he began to bawl again, and in the midst of the clamor, Edric leaned close. He slipped one finger under the edge of the blanket.

And pulled.

Everything went silent in Kathryn’s ears. No longer did she hear the infant’s squalls, but only a faint humming as the blanket came loose, pulling away just enough for the bairn’s cheek to rest against her bare skin while her own nipple remained concealed beneath the soft wool.

She dared not look up at Lord Edric, but managed to slip the false nipple into his son’s mouth
this time. The child suckled greedily as Kathryn savored the sensation of Lord Edric’s touch against her sensitive skin. She doubted the intimate touch meant anything to him, but tension gathered in her loins, nonetheless. Her pulse pounded in her throat as he caressed his son, inadvertently stroking the fullness of her breast. Kathryn closed her eyes, and and ’twas all she could do to hold in a wanton whimper of pleasure.

Edric suddenly withdrew his hand. He made a gruff sound of annoyance, then stood and left the chamber without another word, closing the door behind him.

Kathryn took a shuddering breath and looked down at the beautiful, tiny bairn in her arms. “We both know I am a pale substitute for your poor
mère,
do we not?” The child broke away from the cup and trained his eyes upon her, and Kathryn wished she had her own child to love and nurture.

And a husband who could make her quiver with longing. A man like Edric of Braxton Fell.

’Twas well past dawn, yet the workmen who were charged with making Norman improvements at Braxton Fell were quiet, out of respect for Lady Cecily.

In the early morning light, Edric looked out over his lands. Ever since the fires set by the Fergusons,
more than half his woodlands resembled stands of white-gray sticks. The fields were still black and sooty, their autumn yield paltry. The mill at the river’s edge stood silent, its wheels quiet without sufficient grain to grind.

Had Edric and Bryce remained at home two years before, rather than haring down to York with half of Braxton’s fyrd, Léod Ferguson would never have had the opportunity to cause such damage. Oswin was right. With their excessive demands, the Normans had brought naught but death and destruction to Braxton.