The Silent Love (41 page)

Authors: Diane Davis White

BOOK: The Silent Love

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She wanted her silent lover this night, and she wanted him in the dark, as they had begun those few short years ago.

David tamped the coals out—throwing the shadowed room into inky darkness—and shivering, went to the bed. It was coming on winter, and he could feel the chill in the air, but he was soon warmed at the thought of what awaited him beneath the coverlet.

He came to her, his heat scorching her as he slid beneath the quilt, and he gathered her close with a low growl. She answered with a soft moan. They spoke, in their silent language, for the remainder of the night.

When daylight had come and the cock had crowed and their son had breakfasted and gone to the village to see his grandfather Strongbow, they awoke slowly, facing one another on the pillows.

"Am I allowed to speak now, my temptress?" David leaned over her and rubbed his nose against hers as he spoke, his mouth coming down, open and warm, before she could answer.

Epilogue

The small graveyard on the hillside was full of mourners. David and his mother stood close, his arm about her as she looked down at Gillian's casket. Next to her, Hannah held four year old Hanorah by a small hand and Clay held two-year-old Allison in his arms as the child slept.

A fidgeting Honor stood between them. The vicar intoned his prayers and when he had done, David threw in the customary clod of earth.

A wind whipped up of a sudden, though the day was still and calm. On that wind, a howling sounded, but only two people could hear it, and both mother and son looked up as the leaves fluttered and swirled above their heads, the sound vanishing on a long soft note.

A small drift of cloud wafted upward, passing high over their heads and Clay nearly dropped Allison in his excitement as he leaned forward to tell his grandmother, "Aunt Mary, look there. 'Tis Grandfather Strongbow's spirit going to God."

The minds of children are vast receptacles that forget little. Clay, along with Mary, remembered another day not so long ago.

Hannah let go her daughter's hand suddenly, grasping her swollen belly. "David, we need to get home. I fear the babe is coming." She leaned against her husband as he led her to the carriage. "What would I do without you, David? You are ever taking care of me."

"It is what I was born to do, Hannah, love. I vow, it is
all
I was born to do." David looked down at her, leaning heavily against his side and put a hand over the bulge that was the child. He grinned at her. "I think Hannah, that every time you make me keep silent and love you in the dark, we make a babe. Mayhap, we'll have to stop doing that."

"Never." She smiled at him in such a special way David resigned himself to a child a year until he was in his dotage, but declined to say so.

* * * * *

Lord Gillian Athol Strongbow Larkspur was born not an hour after his parents arrived home. He was a strong, lusty child and opened his amber eyes almost immediately and the first person he looked at was his big brother Clay.

Clayton was so happy that he wanted to hug the baby right then, but was held back by his Aunt Mary who told him he would have to wait a few days, "For babes are delicate and you would not want little Gil to come to any harm, now would you lad?"

Shaking his head solemnly, Clay stepped back, but his hands fisted and un-fisted as they itched to grab his brother and hold him. His brother—another male in the house at last.

The village was wild with celebration at yet another new life in the manor and though sad to see old Gillian Strongbow laid to his final rest, they were glad when they heard the new child had been named for him.

A few knew of Athol Strongbow, who was reputed to be a great wizard and healer, and they smiled their secret smiles as they detected that name among the list.

From the moment the child drew his first breath of life, a light began to glow in the cottage in the woods and in several cottages just like it around the countryside.

Near Stonehenge, another small cottage was swathed in a thick curl of fog and seemed to glow within, despite the fact that no one was about.

A swooping owl hooted as it came to rest on the gabled roof then soared again, though it was still daylight, and everyone knows that owls only hunt at night.

Diane Davis White w
rites historical, contemporary and fanciful stories filled with romance, and the occasional bit of whimsical fantasy. Diane creates her own book covers and book videos. She loves to hear from her readers, and can be contacted at: