Page 20

T HE MIST WAS SO THICK , Ranulf couldn’t see the gate until he was nearly there. As he marched forward, droplets of moisture clung to his face, his hair, his beard. The torch spluttered but mercifully stayed alight as he passed the startled sentries and continued along the road toward the village.

As he neared the cottages and shops, the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise, just as Bea had described.

His discomfort could be because of the fog, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that the thick mist was hiding something more sinister than buildings and the sea.

His steps slowed and he drew his sword, every sense alert for anything that seemed unusual or out of place.

The sound of clucking penetrated the gloom and, through the fog, he spied a woman feeding her chickens scratching in the rocky soil. She stared at him as he approached, and no wonder. The castellan hurrying through the village carrying a drawn sword wouldn’t be a reassuring sight.

He made no explanation as he strode swiftly onward toward the widow’s cottage. If there was trouble here, it would be better for that woman to wonder and worry, and go back inside.

He heard another sound and paused to listen. And then relief, as strong as his dread had been, washed over him. He knew that happy sound as well as he knew his own voice. Somewhere close by, Bea was laughing.

He started forward again and soon reached Wenna’s small stone cottage. He doused the torch in a trough near the door and took a moment to catch his breath. He smoothed down his tunic and ran a hand through his damp hair.

God’s blood, he hadn’t even put on a cloak, he thought as he knocked on the wooden door before settling his expression into its usual mask of calm detachment.

Maloren opened the door, and the smile on her face died when she saw who was standing there. “Oh, it’s you.”

Obviously, and no matter how she’d been acting toward him lately, she still didn’t like him.

“Ranulf!” he heard Bea cry with genuine delight, making him smile in spite of Maloren’s unfriendly greeting.

“Wenna, may he come in and see the baby?” she asked.

It was like Bea to ask a peasant if the castellan could enter her cottage. By right, he didn’t even have to knock.

Peering into the cottage that seemed full of women, he saw a bed in the corner, where Wenna must be, and a crude cradle beside it. A fire burned in the hearth and candles—too expensive for a peasant, so likely provided by Bea—lit the low-ceilinged building.

Then Ranulf saw Bea standing beside the cradle and forgot everything and everyone else.

She held Wenna’s babe in her arms as if it were her own, and as he looked at her, a longing more powerful than anything he had ever felt before seized him. He yearned to see Bea with their child in her arms, a baby with golden hair and bright blue eyes.

Wenna murmured something and, smiling, Bea said, “You’re welcome to come in, my lord.”

He ducked under the lintel and the women made way for Bea to approach him. She was plainly dressed as usual, and her hair was in one long braid. Although her eyes sparkled with happiness, she looked as if she hadn’t slept all night.

“Here he is, my lord. Isn’t he lovely?” she said, raising the infant for him to see.

As far as Ranulf could tell, the child looked like most newborn babies, except that this one was completely bald. “Yes, he’s a very fine baby,” he agreed, once more imagining their child in her arms.

“He’s going to be called Gawan, after his father,” Bea said softly.

Ranulf wanted to vow then and there, in the hearing of Bea and all these women, that Gawan’s murder would be solved and avenged. But he wouldn’t promise what he couldn’t guarantee.

Instead, Ranulf went to Wenna, white and thin under the sheets, her belly still swollen from the pregnancy.

After asking her leave to sit, he perched on the side of the bed.

“Your son looks to be a very fine and healthy boy, Wenna. In time to come, I’ll need a page.

I would be pleased to offer your son that place. ”

And, it went unsaid, then he could become a squire and, quite possibly, a knight.

The dark-haired woman regarded him with wide, wondering eyes, although what he offered seemed little enough to him.

The babe had lost his father, a fine fellow by all accounts, such as Ranulf’s had never been.

“I need good men, and from what I’ve heard of your husband, your son should serve me well and be a credit to his family. ”

Wenna burst into tears.

As Ranulf rather awkwardly got to his feet, the other women likewise started sobbing, and even Maloren surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes. Bea, however, looked at him as if he were an angel bringing glory, her eyes shining with happiness and a smile on her lips.

He was no angel, as he knew all too well.

“You must be tired, my lady,” he said to her. “Let me take you home.”

She nodded her agreement. “Maloren, come take little Gawan,” she said. “Please stay here and help Wenna.”

Bea suddenly seemed uncertain as she glanced at Ranulf. “Unless you want us to leave Penterwell today?”

“Not today,” he said firmly. Not ever . “You’re much too tired.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, as if he were doing her a great favor.

If she only knew how much he wanted her to stay!

“I’ll make sure she rests,” he said to Maloren, and to prevent Maloren from insisting on going with them. “I’m sure there’s no one better suited to look after a baby than you.”

He gave the other women a courtly bow. “Although I’m also sure you’ll not lack for willing and experienced helpers,” he added.

As the other women blushed, exchanged pleased looks and whispered among themselves, he fetched Bea’s cloak and wordlessly opened the door. Surprisingly, she said nothing. That told him she must be very tired indeed.

He saw at once that the fog was lifting, and they could easily make their way without a torch. They walked back toward the castle in silence. No doubt later, after she had rested, Bea would have much to say about the birthing.

Before she went back to Tregellas.

She tripped over a rock, stumbling forward. Without thinking, he caught her and swept her up in his arms, holding her close.

“What…what are you doing?” she asked as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“You’re exhausted. I’m going to carry you back so you don’t hurt yourself.”

“I can walk,” she protested, albeit halfheartedly.

“I don’t think you got much sleep last night.” And I like having you in my arms .

“No,” she confessed. “It wasn’t an easy birth, and more than once I feared we were going to lose the baby.

I had to turn him.” She clung to Ranulf more tightly.

“Oh, Ranulf, I was so afraid I was doing it wrong, although I was fairly certain I was rightly remembering what Aeda said when I asked her about such things. But I’ve never even witnessed a breech birth. ”

Neither had he, and it sounded complicated and painful.

“Of course I couldn’t let Wenna or the others know how frightened I was, so I simply had to pretend that I knew what I was doing and hope for the best. Fortunately, once he turned, everything went quite quickly—or at least it seemed to—and there weren’t any more problems.”

With a weary sigh, she laid her head against his broad shoulder.

“It was a good thing you were here to help,” he said, thinking it would be a wonderful thing if she could always be there to help.

“Yes. Thank you for letting me stay.” She raised her head. “I must be heavy. Perhaps I had better walk.”

“It’s all right, Bea. I don’t mind.”

She nestled wordlessly against him, close and soft and warm, and in another few moments, she was asleep.

As he looked down at her, he saw her for the beautiful, competent and—yes—talkative woman she was, and felt a warmth, a tenderness, a joy and fierce protectiveness wash over him.

His Bea. His little Lady Bea. How much he liked her “buzzing.” He enjoyed hearing her describe things that other men might find mundane, or unimportant, but that spoke of simple domestic joys and security to him—things he had never really known.

He loved the way her voice rose and fell with her enthusiasm, like a song.

He liked to watch her mobile features, which could tell a story all their own, even when she didn’t speak —although silence was rare with her.

When Bea was quiet, he always feared she was ill and, usually, she was.

How worried he’d been on those few occasions! How thankful and relieved he’d been to learn her illness was nothing serious.

He didn’t want her to leave Penterwell. He didn’t want her to leave him . He wanted to be with her always, to have her for his wife, the mother of his children. He wanted to make Bea happy and keep her safe for the rest of his life, if she would give him that honor. If she would let him love her.

He’d tried to turn her away. He’d tried to make her hate him. Yet in spite of all his efforts, she still seemed to like him. Perhaps she really did love him.

It could be that God was truly merciful, allowing him to find happiness and contentment and love at last. It might be that God had forgiven him, despite what he’d done. Perhaps he could have lasting happiness with a wife he loved. With Bea.

If so, perhaps Bea would not despise him if she found out what he’d done. Maybe her respect, admiration and affection were strong enough to see beyond his past to his remorse and regret.

Maybe, he thought with a sudden flash of hope as well as self-recrimination, he was belittling her by thinking that she would see him for a monster, and not a man who had sinned and suffered and earned a chance for redemption.

One thing seemed certain as he held her in his arms: he could no longer continue this way, trapped between desire and dread. He had to find out, one way or the other, if Bea could forgive him his past. He must tell her everything and let her decide whether he was worthy of her, or not.