Page 29 of Her Noble Groom
Chapter twenty-three
T he warm August sunshine filtered through the trees, dappling the dusty roadway. On either side, ripe rye swayed in the breeze, heavy heads ready for harvest. Thomasse had hesitated when James invited her to the St. Lawrence Faire, but now she was happy she had accepted.
Over the past several weeks, they had gradually worked through their misunderstandings, returning to a companionable relationship. Conversation flowed easily between them, reminiscent of earlier days when they first pledged themselves to one another.
Hot, her feet tired, Thomasse said, “Let us rest a while.”
They sat on the low stone wall beside the roadway. She took a long draught from James’s leather costrel, the water cooling her parched tongue. She handed it back, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.
The love in his eyes made her heart flutter, and she slipped her hand into his. The babe kicked, and she placed his hand on her belly which now protruded like a ball. “Did you feel it?”
The babe kicked again, and James grinned. “I long for the day when we welcome our child into the world.”
Her heart swelled at his words, that he would acknowledge this child as his own. “What do you wish for? A boy or a girl?”
He kissed her cheek. “Either will be a blessing, although a girl with blond curls like her mother would surely steal my heart.”
Thomasse smiled. “You mean to flatter me, and I will not protest. I have decided if it is a girl, I shall name her Joanna, after my mother. If it is a boy, I will name him Robert, after my brother.”
“Lovely names,” James said. “I would like to ask Philippe to be the godfather. ”
“What a wonderful idea!”
James stood and proffered his hand. “Let us continue on lest we miss the faire.”
As they approached, the crowd grew denser and faint strains of a hurdy-gurdy floated on the breeze.
Brightly colored booths lined the field and the aroma of roasted mutton and goose filled the air.
Thomasse’s stomach rumbled, and the babe squirmed, probably as eager to sample the food offerings as its mother.
Vendors hawked their merchandise: fabrics, pottery, candles, and exotic spices. How pleasant to handle the soft silks, velvets, and furs again, to rub lotion into her hands, and look at the latest fashion in shoes. But, aside from replenishing her jasmine oil, she would only look.
Handling such luxuries, her thoughts flitted briefly to the friends she had left behind. She wondered if Eleanor and Arthur were happy, and what had become of Maud now that King Henry and Queen Margaret were in exile.
She looped her hand through James’s arm and pressed in close to his side, so the jostling mob could not separate them. They feasted on roasted goose legs and sipped spicy mulled wine while they watched men play at bowls. Moving on, they cheered the men and boys competing in archery.
But what delighted Thomasse most was the puppet shows and the troubadours singing tales of chivalry and love. Wandering hand in hand, she sensed the bond deepening between them. Most gratifying was the pride he took in introducing her as his wife.
The sun hung low in the western sky, signaling the need to depart if they wished to reach St. Ouen before darkness fell.
The path passed the animal yard. Pigs snuffled in their pens, and cows lowed in the barn.
A group of men, engaged in boisterous conversation, stumbled out and gathered near the trough.
A voice rang out above the din of the crowd. “Hoy, James. Still chasing after that harlot?”
Thomasse froze mid-step. Hareford. That voice would haunt her forever.
The crowd hushed; all eyes on them.
James’s grip on her hand tightened. “Do not speak of my wife thus.”
Hareford lurched toward them, the stench of ale heavy on his breath. “Your wife!” His lip curled. “I will see hell before I let some country churl raise my child.”
Her stomach knotted, and her face burned. She shrank back, clutching her belly—a futile attempt to hide what all could plainly see.
James grabbed Hareford’s tunic. “You filthy knave—”
Hareford guffawed. “Fool! Mark my words, I will take what is mine.”
James shoved Hareford. “Stay away from her!”
Hareford jabbed a finger in James’s face. James bit down hard. Hareford yelped and tumbled backward into the trough. “Fie! He bit my finger.” He flailed and sputtered, sloshing water onto the ground. “Get me out of here or there will be hell to pay.”
Laughter erupted from the crowd.
James raised his fist. “You are right where you belong—with the swine!”
Determined to escape the gawking crowd, Thomasse lifted her skirt and ran. Due to the awkwardness of her large belly, her progress was slow and clumsy. The blood pounded in her head. Never would she allow that man to touch her precious child.
Rapid footfalls sounded behind her. “Thomasse, wait!” James called.
She whirled about, her body trembling. “Why is that man here?”
“How should I know?” James reached for her.
“Do not touch me!” Thomasse said. “I have never been so humiliated. I wish we had never come!”
James’s face fell. “I am sorry. Had I known—”
Her breaths came fast and heavy. “He is going to take my child.”
He caught her arm and turned her to face him. “I promise that will not happen. You are protected, not only by me, but also by the seigneur.”
His attempt at reassurance did not quell her distress. They walked in silence for over an hour, the air crackling with tension. Sweat trickled down her neck; her tired back and feet ached, but she refused to ask to rest.
As they neared St. Ouen’s Parish, a sharp pang curved across her belly.
She pursed her lips and exhaled sharply, certain it was just one of those strange sensations that came when carrying a child.
Several minutes passed when another, stronger pain gripped her.
She moaned and doubled over, waiting for it to pass .
James wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “Something is wrong.” He lifted her in his arms and carried her the remaining distance to the bay-side cottage.
“Not here,” Thomasse gasped as another pain began.
“Would you prefer the stable?”
She shook her head.
James carried her inside, laid her gently on the mat, and covered her with a blanket. “I shall fetch water.”
She grabbed his hand. “Do not leave me.”
He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I shall make haste.”
When he returned, his costrel refilled, she took a long draught. Another pain crossed her back. “My hour has come,” she panted. “Hurry! Fetch Madame de Beauvoir.”