Medieval Master Swordsmen(441)

Mair put a sympathetic hand on her forehead. “Do not be troubled,” she said. “Sleep, now. There will be time later for recollection.”

Derica didn’t particularly want to sleep, but she remained on her pallet. When she shifted to get more comfortable, sharp pains echoed through her lower torso. She gasped softly, putting her hand against her lower abdomen to rub away the pain. Mair saw what she was doing.

“I am sorry,” she murmured. “The child did not survive.”

Though Derica could remember little else, she had remembered the child. She touched her belly, feeling it soft where once she had known it to be rounded and firm. Tears instantly sprang to her eyes.

“No,” she whispered. “Please… no.”

Mair stroked her forehead again. “’Twas a blessing, my lady.”

Derica sniffled. “Why would you say that?”

“I meant no harm. When we found ye, I would think that someone had beat you and thrown you in the river. Mayhap your husband. Any man that would beat his pregnant wife… ‘tis a blessing, I say, not to bring a child into a world such as that.”

Derica’s tears were fading in lieu of her shock. “Why would you think someone has beaten me?”

“Because you are bruised all over your body. Someone thrashed you soundly, I would say. Do you not recall any of this?”

She didn’t. But within the mists of her mind, she couldn’t honestly recall if anyone had taken a hand to her, ever. Bits and pieces of a large castle and men who loved her came to mind, but she couldn’t recall the names. Just faces. She closed her eyes and silent tears fell again.

“There, there,” Mair said softly. “Sleep now, sweetheart. All will be well again.”

When she turned away to prepare some manner of sleeping drink for Derica, the little boy with the black hair and dark eyes moved in to be a closer look. He had a sweet little face, his striking eyes gazing curiously at Derica. A tiny hand lifted and he resumed stroking Derica’s head where his mother had left off. Derica sobbed deeply at the gentleness of his gesture, the longing for her own son that she would never know.



***



He was too old to be attending battle, but he was doing so nonetheless. The Marshal had never missed a battle; he was an old soldier, and they knew little else. If there was war waging, most especially his war, his presence was required.

Newark Castle was a small structure in a strategic location. William had arrived a few days ago to await word on the fate of Lincoln Castle and plot his next move. Two days ago had seen him receive word of victory in one breath and the loss of Garren le Mon in the next.

He had wept privately at the news, though he refused to feel guilt. Garren was a warrior and the vocation went hand in hand with death. Garren had known what his fate could be the first day he drew a sword. He had lived longer than most. Still, his passing had been a horrible blow, both personally and professionally.

Hoyt de Rosa had joined William at Newark. The man had abandoned his family and had joined Richard’s cause in full. He had arrived a few months ago, pledging his service with a sudden strong loyalty that the Marshal was suspicious of, but that suspicion was lifted when he saw Hoyt in battle. The man was ferocious. The elder de Rosa had fought with Garren, and had been there when Garren had fallen. It had been Hoyt who had brought Garren’s body to the Marshal. One look at the face and skull disfigured by a morning star, and William had ordered the body interred in the chapel at Newark with full honors.

William felt tremendous guilt for the state of their relationship when Garren had passed. It had been strained, though in William’s estimation that could not have been helped. Still, he would have liked to have known that Garren harbored no permanent ill will. William had hoped that the marcher lordship of Buckton would have eased any hardship. The lordship came with two castles and a large chunk of land, something Garren deserved. Now that he was no longer in the land of the living to accept it, William could think of nothing else but granting it posthumously to his wife. Perhaps by making amends to Garren’s widow, it would right things between them in the next life.

That was his guilt talking. He hated feeling the strange stirrings of indecision and regret. Hoyt had been at his side constantly since his return and the two of them had sparred with their philosophies on life and death. Even tonight, they shared a blood-red wine and discussed a variety of critical subjects, and the important subject, Lady le Mon’s future.

“I never asked Garren where she was,” Hoyt muttered, staring at the liquid in his cup. “In all of the months I fought at his side, I never asked. I did not want to know, as I thought it was best considering the circumstances. But you must know.”