Serilda moved to pick his braccas up off the floor, handing them over. Della frowned at the familiar action. Brant grumbled in irritation, but tugged on the clean wool, glad to finally be rid of the lice and filth of Blackwell. He saw how intimate the action looked to his wife and would have been pleased by her jealousy if she wasn’t so sick. He wondered what was wrong with her when an idea finally struck him. Suddenly he smiled.
“What is wrong with you, barbarian?” Della hissed. Her voice was weak, but her words were poisonous nonetheless. “Methinks you have gone mad, Brant the Thorn.”
Brant ignored her ire, too happy for the moment to pay it much heed. Hopeful, he asked, “Serilda, do you know what ails Lady Blackwell?”
The midwife understood his meaning and motioned her hand toward the bed.
“Della, methinks you should let Serilda tend to your illness,” Brant said when Della began to speak. “We can discuss this misunderstanding later.”
“Nay.” Della’s features were set, as if she tried not to sway on her feet. “I will not have that woman touch me again. I care not what you do with her, only leave me alone.”
“Be still, Della.” He motioned Serilda to the bed, hiding how Della’s words stung him. “I will not leave until you do so.”
Della frowned. “Fine, but only because I am too tired and too nauseated to argue with you any longer.” She moved toward the bed, only to stop and grab Serilda’s hand tightly in her own. Twisting the midwife’s fingers back, she threatened, “Treat me as you did last time and I will have your fingers broken and your battered, naked body thrown into the moat for all the men to enjoy.”
“Yea, m’lady,” was Serilda’s not-too-meek reply.
Brant smiled at that. His wife had a lot of fight to her, even when sick. It would also seem she was not going to be as silent as her last inspection.
“Turn away,” Della told him. “I do not wish to see your face.”
Brant nodded and did what she wanted, too excited not to comply. In his head he counted the days since their first lovemaking. It was not too soon to tell if she was with child. His child. His heir.
After a few moments, he heard Serilda stand from the bed and turned in excitement. The midwife bit her lip and gave a funny look to Della, who had closed her eyes and curled into a ball.
In a not-too-quiet hush, the woman said, “It is only a sickness of the stomach. It will pass within a sennight. Give her broth to eat and let her rest.”
“Are you sure?” Disappointment unraveled inside him.
“Fairly sure, though it could be too early to tell.” Serilda backed toward the door. “I am usually right, though. I don’t think it’s that.”
“What?” Della asked without opening her eyes. “My head is spinning and I don’t have time for this nonsense. What did you think it was? The plague? An outbreak? Has there been news of others? Is that why you seemed so happy? You thought I was to die on you?”
“M’lord thought you may be with child,” Serilda answered unceremoniously.
Brant wanted to slap the impudent woman, but instead he ran his fingers through his wet hair. To his annoyance, he discovered there was still lice soap in his locks. Frowning at Serilda, he realized the soap didn’t burn at all.
“I’m sorry, m’lady. You are not.” Serilda left the chamber.
Brant watched the door close quietly behind the midwife.
“Go ahead. Go after her.” Della eyed him wearily. She rolled away from him in disgust.
Brant didn’t like the dejected tone of her voice. While he talked, he leaned over to once again rinse the soap from his hair. “Naught happened, Della. She was applying healing draughts.”
“Nay, do not call it that. I saw you with my own eyes.” Della refused to sit up. “Take your lies elsewhere, barbarian.”
“Della—” Brant dried his wet hair with the discarded towel and moved to the bed.
“It’s all right,” she broke in. Brant stepped closer to hear her better. “I said you could leave for Blackwell and live there with your mistress. Serilda is a fine choice. She cannot bear a child of her own.”
“I’m not leaving Strathfeld.” Brant sat on edge of the bed. He reached to touch her hip in a light caress. She didn’t move under his hand. He wondered if the jealousy he thought he’d seen was imagined. “I have reason to stay.”
“Oh, yea, I know your reason. You wish for an heir.” Della inched away from him. Her voice fell into a low murmur. “Would you really have me perform marital duties now? I’m likely to vomit on you.”