Page 105 of My Hero
Elspeth tapped the shoulders of two of the maids. “Go to the chapel. Garth and the Father are likely there, praying.”
They scurried off to do her bidding.
The pain surged to a peak, and then fell away slowly, like the swell of the sea. Cynthia shut her eyes and focused, trying to envision her fate, willing the familiar images to come, but it was useless. The door that usually swung open for others as easily as a wattle gate was closed upon her own destiny.
“Is she all right?” whispered one of the maids.
“She’ll be fine,” Elspeth murmured, though Cynthia could hear doubt in the maid’s voice.
She opened her eyes, silently cursing herself for letting things wait so long. She should have taken care of the matter the night Linet had her babe. But at the time, the household had been in a tumult, and then Garth had distracted her with that divine body of his. After that, she’d shared three months of utter bliss with him—cuddling away the long winter evenings, planning the Christmas feast, working together to convert the spare chambers of Wendeville into a magnificent teaching infirmary—and somehow the whole issue had slipped her mind.
She glanced at the young women gathered around her. It was little wonder the infirmary had occupied her thoughts so completely. The place was nothing short of wondrous. And these maidens were a testament to the miracles that occurred daily. None of them had witnessed childbirth before. But with Jeanne the midwife’s help, they would learn today how to deliver and care for a newborn.
Garth and Cynthia had turned Wendeville into a refuge, a place of hope for the spirit and the body. Since they’d opened their doors, they’d managed to restore the faith and the health of nearly every patient admitted, as well as providing trained physicians for Charing and the village.
Garth was too busy now with secular duties to devote himself fully to the chapel, but he’d found a good chaplain for Wendeville in Father Paul. Though Garth was never seen without his sword, he still wore his wooden crucifix as a constant reminder of his faith.
Another contraction claimed Cynthia. This time, all her panting did nothing to assuage the pain. She dug her fingers into the bed while Elspeth stroked the hair back from her tossing head.
But it, too, passed, and she heard El speaking softly to the maids. “It’s helpful,” she said, “to remain quiet and calm while she’s laboring.” Then she took Cynthia’s hand and bent to whisper frantically against her ear. “Sweet Jesu, my lady, why do you call for the chaplain? Have you foreseen your death?”
“Nay,” she said with an incredulous laugh. But her levity was interrupted by the onslaught of another contraction. She squeezed Elspeth’s hand and huffed out shallow puffs of air. An irresistible urge to push overwhelmed her. But it wasn’t yet time. She refused to birth this babe until the chaplain came. Until Garth stood by her side. She held back, breathing faster until the desire passed.
There was little time between pains now. Scarcely did one wave subside when another began. If the Father was delayed…
“You must watch for the head to crown,” Jeanne explained to the women.
The maids peered solemnly between her legs, as if they expected the arrival of the Holy Grail. If she hadn’t been so consumed with pain, Cynthia would have laughed.
Just as she thought she might succumb to the need to push, the two maids returned with their quarry. Garth had turned as pale as vellum. Father Paul furrowed his white brows. “You called for me?”
“Why did you call for the chaplain?” Garth demanded, his voice weak with fear, pushing his way past the women to come to her side. The terror was naked in his eyes. “Are you…is the babe…?”
A wave of incapacitating pain prevented her speech, but Elspeth answered, “She’ll be fine.”
“Please,” Cynthia gasped, clutching at the chaplain’s sleeve. “Hurry.”
She couldn’t resist the desire to push this time. It was strong than anything she’d ever felt. She bore down, clenching her fists, holding her breath.
“I see it!” a maid yelled excitedly. “The babe is coming!”
Cynthia sucked in a fast gulp of air and seized a fistful of the chaplain’s cassock.
“Now!” she panted. “Before the babe is born!” She groaned with the need to bear down.
Garth sank to his knees beside her. Anxiety creased his features as he clung desperately to her arm. “Oh, God, what is it, Cynthia?”
“For the love of all that’s holy,” she gasped at the chaplain, “marry us! Marry us quick!”
“What!” Garth exploded.
“We…never…”
It was the most challenging thing she’d ever done, spitting out the words of the marriage rites as labor pains exerted their control over her body. But somehow she did it. And somehow Garth managed to gasp out his own part of the covenant.
By a narrow miracle, their babe was born not a by-blow, but the legitimate heir to Wendeville.
Little Sir Arthur, with gray-green eyes and chestnut hair tipped with the color of marigolds. With a gift for healing, a talent with the quill, and the spirit of a knight. His grandfather le Wyte’s stubbornness and his grandmother de Ware’s wiles. The noble, healthy, squalling son of Lady Cynthia and Lord Garth de Ware. The beginning of a litter of pups that would become the next generation of the Knights de Ware.
