“You were skilled in herbs. You also learned much from Alyce.”
Afraid to lie, Meg nodded.
“What did my wife take?”
“Isabel was young and afraid of childbirth. She took an herb that Alyce told her would prevent conception.”
“What did my wife take?” Warwick repeated grimly.
“It was hellebore,” Meg whispered.
Guy closed his eyes and thanked the saints that Jory had only been given pennyroyal. Hellebore was a deadly poison. Meg had wanted Jory to lose her child; she had not tried to kill her.
“You are complicit in the death of my first wife. Let us move on to the second. You poisoned my son’s mind about his mother, telling him of her faithlessness and urging him to follow her.” He stopped himself before he said too much. The tragic outcome of that makes you complicit in the death of my second wife.
“I loved Rickard like he was my own son!”
“Aye. You coveted him, and that adds to your sins.” Warwick glanced at Mr. Burke, who looked outraged at the revelations. “Now you will explain why you put pennyroyal in Jory’s ale.”
“Rickard is your rightful heir! Her child would soon replace Rickard in your affections. She’d set one son against the other.”
“Your opinion of me is abysmal. I might be hard and cruel and insufferably arrogant but, before God, I am not evil.”
“I don’t think you evil. I love you! I too have de Clare blood. When Isabel died, you should have made me your countess!”
Warwick recoiled. Holy God, you were jealous of my wives! Jealousy blackens the soul. No one knows that better than I. “You cannot remain here. I am returning you to the de Clares in the Welsh Border. Pack your belongings.”
That evening, the Warwick knight who had discovered Meg’s secret hiding place in one of the castle’s many turrets came down with a fever, and a tale quickly spread among the servants that Meg was a Welsh witch. Because she had been banished, the reasoning went, she had cast a spell on the unfortunate man, and his sickness was bound to spread throughout the castle like a plague.
Mr. Burke brought the tale to Guy de Beauchamp as everyone gathered in the Great Hall for the evening meal. Warwick cursed under his breath and held up his hands for silence.
“It has come to my ears that a tale of witchcraft is being bandied about. The serving woman, Meg, has been sent back to Wales on my orders. She was an odd female with strange ideas, but she was not a witch. Belief in spells is superstitious nonsense and I want none of it at Warwick! Do I make myself clear?”
Warwick’s fierce glance swept over everyone in the hall. “John Montecute has a fever and a sore throat, most likely brought about by standing guard duty in the pouring rain. A dose of borage and clary will cure his affliction.”
Guy gave orders to his steward. “Make sure Montecute is put in quarantine; if his fever spreads, witchcraft rumors will be rife.”
At midnight when Warwick retired, he knew he would have another sleepless night. His worry about Jory was so intense, he feared it would drive him mad. His wife could not bear to be near him, but he could not bear for her to be out of his sight.
He flung back the covers and quit the lonely bed. He paced to the window and gazed out. Lightning still streaked through the dark sky, though it had moved off some distance. His thoughts were filled with Jory. He knew she would be able to hear the storm at Windrush and hoped she wasn’t afraid.
Of course she’s afraid! Not of the storm, but of the ordeal she will soon face. She will not be able to banish the thought that her mother died giving birth to her. Neither can I.
He left the window and began to dress. Christ Almighty, I can’t go to her until I’m sure there’s no contagion here.
He heard a scratch at the door and opened it to admit Brutus. His wolfhound gave him a knowing look and Warwick went back to the window and smote his fist against the stone sill. He felt covered with shame that he had not eased Jory’s mind about Robert Bruce.
“Don’t look at me like that!” he growled. Brutus growled back. “I was going to tell her over dinner in our private dining room. I went down to the kitchen for ale so we could drink a toast.” Aye, you wanted to make a grandiose announcement that you’d decided to spare the Bruce, so Jory would think you noble. “What a self-righteous swine I am!”
Brutus nodded his agreement.
She begged me, and all it did was fuel my jealousy. He clenched and unclenched his fists. When I actually saw him and spoke to him, my jealousy disappeared and was replaced by a feeling of rightness—that Bruce was fulfilling his destiny.
“Why did I let her leave without easing her mind? Why the hellfire did I let her leave at all?”
Brutus hung his head in remorse.
The next sennight crawled by as Guy de Beauchamp kept watch on the health of everyone at Warwick. Two servants who had come in contact with John Montecute came down with fever and they were immediately quarantined along with the knight while Warwick held his breath and strived to keep up everyone’s morale.
If the days seemed to crawl, the nights seemed to stop altogether and the hours became endless tests of his endurance. A haggard Warwick looked into the mirror and finally admitted to himself that fear stared him in the face. Nay, fear was a pale thing beside the stark terror for Jory that was relentlessly building inside him. He vowed that if no others had fallen ill come morning, he would ride hell-for-leather to Windrush.
Warwick checked on his knight’s health just after dawn and, much to his relief, Montecute’s fever and other symptoms had abated and no others had come down with the malady. He packed his saddlebags, told Mr. Burke where he was going, and admonished, “Keep Brutus from following me.”
Rickard de Beauchamp was in Windrush Castle’s courtyard when he caught a glimpse of his father riding in. He darted into the stables and joined Roger Mortimer, who was saddling up for a hunt.
“Father! He has the eyes of a hawk—I think he saw me.”
Warwick thundered up to the stables, dismounted, and strode inside. “What the hell are you two doing here?”
Rickard avoided his father’s piercing black eyes.
“Why did you leave London?” he demanded. Giving no time to answer, he shouted, “Why did you leave the king’s service?”
Roger answered. “Edward recalled Gaveston. He took my wardship away from Mortimer of Chirk and gave it to his lover.”
Rickard found his voice. “The strutting Gaveston and his friends from Gascony made it untenable. We left in protest.”
“Then you can turn around and go straight back to Court. You are the king’s highest young nobles. You cannot leave the field to foreigners.”
“I won’t go,” Rickard said flatly, demonstrating a deal of courage by defying his father. Though he tried to mask his embarrassment, his face turned crimson.
Warwick’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly happened?”
“We brawled with the Gascons,” Roger declared.
Warwick turned to Mortimer with raised eyebrows.
“Rickard was within a heartbeat of slitting Gaveston’s throat.”
“The cocksucker dared to touch you?” Warwick demanded.
“I fought them and had my knife at his gullet. I would have killed him if Roger hadn’t stopped me,” Rickard confessed.
“Edward would have thrown Rickard in the Tower and executed him if he had harmed his bedmate.”
“Christ Almighty! Edward Plantagenet decreed in his last will and testament that Gaveston could not be recalled without the consent of Parliament,” Warwick declared.
“Edward Plantagenet is dead, Father. England has a new king who rules by divine right and thinks he can do no wrong.”
“The barons will soon disabuse the young cocksucker of his delusions of grandeur and rid him of his Gascon bum-fucker!”
Rickard changed the subject. “You have come to put things right between you and Jory, I hope.”
“I should never have allowed her to le
ave Warwick. I’ve made some damned stupid mistakes. One was keeping Meg around all these years to create havoc in our lives.”
“I’ve known since I was a boy that she couldn’t be trusted.”
“I sent her back to Wales. She dosed the ale with pennyroyal so Jory would miscarry. Fortunately she didn’t drink any.”
“Lady Marjory wouldn’t tell me what the trouble was. She said it was a private matter.”
“Jory thinks I did it because I don’t want another child.”
“She was right—it is a private matter. I hope you can resolve it, Father.” Rickard hesitated, then warned, “Go gently. You can be very intimidating at times.”
“Here, take care of Caesar for me. I’ve been worried to death about Jory. I want to see with my own eyes she’s all right.” He removed his saddlebags and strode purposefully toward the castle.
When he encountered the steward of Windrush he greeted the man and moved toward the stairs.
“I should announce you, Lord Warwick.”
“I’ll announce myself.”
“Begging yer pardon, my lord. Windrush belongs to Lady Warwick…I think it best that I announce you,” he said bravely.
“So much for being intimidating,” Guy muttered with irony.
The steward hurried upstairs and knocked on Lady Warwick’s chamber door. Catherine Mortimer opened it and learned the rather alarming news. “Wait here,” she admonished him.
Jory, who had been enduring a nagging backache on and off for the past twelve hours was sitting on her bed, propped up by pillows and sipping on a concoction of barley water and fennel that Maggie had brewed for her.
“Not only will it ease yer pain; it will increase yer milk. The babe will be here by this time tomorrow,” Maggie predicted.
Catherine came to the bed. “Lord Warwick is here.”
Jory’s eyes widened. “I don’t want to see him!”
“I’ll tell the steward, my lady,” Catherine murmured.
“No! Warwick will overrule the steward. Go down and tell him that I don’t want to see him.”
“Me, my lady?” Catherine whispered with dismay.
“You stay here with Lady Marjory. I’ll go and tell the earl,” Maggie declared bravely. She opened the door and told the steward, “Lady Marjory won’t see Lord Warwick. Come, we’ll tell him together. I don’t have the courage to face him alone.”
The pair found the earl at the foot of the stairs. “Lady Marjory asked me to plenish a chamber for you, Lord Warwick.”
Maggie, who knew better than to lie to the earl, cut the steward off. “She said no such thing, my lord.”
“What did she say?” Guy asked quietly.
Maggie swallowed hard and raised her chin. “I don’t want to see him, were her exact words, my lord.”
“Is she well?” Guy demanded.
“As well as can be expected. Lady Marjory hasn’t gone into labor yet, but there are signs,” Maggie said cryptically.
Guy made an effort to control the panic that assailed him. “I’ll take the chamber you offered,” he told the steward.
The manservant led Warwick to a small room on the second floor, next to the ones that Rickard and Roger were occupying. “I’ll fetch you some water and towels, my lord.”
“Can you get me a piece of parchment and a quill? I must send my wife a message.”
“I can tear a page from the sheep tally.”
“That will do fine. Hurry, please.”
To Guy, the man seemed to be gone for an hour, when in actuality it was only minutes before he returned. Guy grabbed the sheet and the piece of charcoal and tried to convey the message in as few words as possible. He folded the note and handed it to the steward. “Would you be good enough to deliver this to my wife?”
Ten minutes later, Jory opened the note that Catherine brought to her. A lump came into her throat as she read Warwick’s words:
Robert is alive and well. Bruce is the rightful king. I should have told you immediately to ease your mind.
Jory’s eyes flooded with tears and she began to sob softly.
Catherine was alarmed. “What is wrong, my lady?”
“Nothing whatever is wrong…My husband seems to love me.”
Jory’s bout of sobbing precipitated the onset of labor. Her midsection was gripped by an agonizing contraction that caught her by surprise. The pain was so severe that she cried out and pressed her hands to her rigid belly until the pain let go.
“I’m sorry, Maggie. I won’t scream again,” she promised.
“Don’t make promises ye can’t keep, my lady. I’ll go and fetch Mary. Don’t be afraid—nothing’s going to happen right away.”
“Thank you, Maggie. I know first labors are long and painful.”
A minute after Maggie left, the door burst open and Warwick strode in. Catherine retreated to the bed in a futile attempt to protect Jory from the powerful male force that swept into the chamber.
“It’s all right, Catherine.” Jory looked up at the dark face towering above her and glimpsed fear in her husband’s eyes before he could mask it. “The pain has gone, Guy. I won’t scream again.”
He covered her hand to reassure her. “You can scream Windrush down if it helps you get through this, Jory. Catherine, bring her a nightdress. She needs to get out of these clothes.”
Happy to be given a task, the girl found a white cotton night rail and brought it to the bed.
Guy unfastened Jory’s gown and helped her remove it. Then he lifted her shift over her head. Before he pulled the fresh cotton garment down over her shoulders, he gazed at her body as if he were spellbound. Her creamy skin was stretched taught and smooth over her rounded belly and her breasts were full and lush. He was amazed to see that her delicate beauty was enhanced by the changes it had undergone. He was gripped by an overwhelming desire to protect her, and the knowledge that he would not be able to keep her pain at bay filled him with frustration.
Maggie returned with Mary and the pair took the earl’s presence in stride. He was the infamous Warwick, whose power was only slightly less than God’s in their eyes. If the countess had changed her mind about wanting him at her side, they had no desire to deny her.
Mary asked, “How many pains have you had, my lady?”
“Just one.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than her midsection was gripped by another paroxysm. Jory gasped, and grabbed Guy’s hands to keep from screaming.
“Half an hour apart,” Mary estimated. “We’ve a way to go yet.”
“Let’s prepare by putting some extra sheets under her. As they get soiled we can remove them without changing the entire bed and disturbing her.”
The women brought five large sheets and folded them in quarters, making twenty layers. Guy lifted his wife in his arms while they put the sheets on the bed. He held her against his heart and kissed her temple. Jory weighed so little he began to worry that she was too frail to survive the ordeal.
He took Mary aside. “She’s so small,” he murmured.
“Small is good, Lord Warwick. Big, fat women have a devil of a time in childbirth.”
Mary urged Maggie and Catherine to go and rest because they might be needed in the night. When they left, Mary sat down before the fire and pulled a ball of lambswool and a crochet hook from her smock and started to make a baby blanket.
Christus! If the woman expects to finish a blanket for the baby, this is going to be the longest day of our lives.
Guy sat down on the bed. “Lean against me and get some rest, love. Close your eyes and try to let my strength flow into you.”
During the next few hours, he was surprised that Jory did drift off to sleep between labor pains. Then he began to worry that it was taking so much out of her, she was becoming exhausted.
When darkness fell, her contractions came closer together and lasted longer. As she’d promised, Jory didn’t scream and tried to not even whimper. It tore at Guy’s heart. Between bouts of pain, he massaged her feet and
her back, determined to distract her. He gave her drinks, but she could not face food so he stopped trying to tempt her. He bathed her hands and face every hour and told her tales about when he was a boy. He talked about breeding horses and she clung to him and listened with fascination.
At dawn, Maggie and Catherine returned, and shortly after Jory’s water broke and she went into hard labor. The women immediately removed the wet sheet from beneath her and encouraged her to push.
Catherine found a linen towel in which to wrap the baby when it made its appearance and Guy reluctantly moved back, allowing the two experienced midwives to control the situation.
It took the better part of an hour before the child’s head presented itself. To Guy, that hour seemed longer than the previous twelve that Jory had been in labor. Suddenly, she screamed and her baby was delivered.
“Oh, no,” Mary whispered.
Immediately, Guy stepped forward, his face tense. He saw that the baby was blue because the birth cord was wrapped around its neck. His heart was in his mouth as he watched Maggie carefully unwrap the cord, and then Mary bound and cut it.
Guy snatched the linen towel from Catherine and took the child from Maggie’s hands. “Take care of Jory.” One swift glance into his wife’s eyes revealed the stark fear that gripped her.
“My baby isn’t crying!” Her voice was filled with anguish.
“Catherine, get whiskey from the steward. Run!” he ordered.
Guy carried the silent little bundle before the fire and carefully unwrapped it. His heart melted when he saw the tiny female. Though he was desperately worried about Jory, he knew the most beneficial thing he could do for her at this moment was make sure that her baby survived. When a breathless Catherine returned and handed him the whiskey, he poured some into his palm, warmed it at the fire and began to rub it directly on the baby’s skin.
Guy began at the tiny rib cage and then turned the baby over and massaged its little back. With gentle fingers he rubbed his daughter’s arms and legs, then massaged her tiny buttocks. Suddenly the baby began to choke. He quickly smacked her narrow little back, terrified that she had drawn her last breath. All at once a lump of mucus dislodged from the infant’s throat. He wiped it away with the towel and immediately the baby began to wail. Guy felt weak with relief.