Page 92 of My Warrior
“The Scots wench. I’ve ruined her.”
“How have you ruined her?”
Holden smacked his fist into the wall of the stable. Duncan winced. Those knuckles would be bruised on the morrow.
“Damn it! I bedded her,” Holden slurred. “I bedded my wife.”
Duncan frowned. Holden might as well have said he’dbeatenhis wife for all the despair that lined his face. He wrapped a companionable arm around his brother. “Holden, that’s what onedoeswith a wife. You see, that’s the beauty of it. You find yourself—“
“But now she’s with…” Holden shook off his brother’s arm. “Hellfire, Duncan! She’s with child.”
“With child?” Duncan’s heart tripped as he relived in memory one of the fierce swipes he’d taken at Holden’s bride with his sword. Dear God—he’d not only battled with a woman. He’d battled with apregnantwoman! The thought made him feel ill.
But it was Holden’s eyes that were shadowed with misery, haunted with pain. “It’s my child, Duncan.”
“But that’s marvelous!” He extended his hand. “Come. Let’s tell Linet. She’ll be delighted to hear she’s—“
“Nay!” Holden drunkenly batted away Duncan’s gesture. “Don’t you see?” He seized the front of Duncan’s surcoat in desperate fists. “I’ve murdered her. I’ve murdered my wife.”
“But Holden—“
“Leave me alone,” Holden croaked, his hands losing their grasp. Then he slumped over onto the fodder.
Duncan shook his head. Holden never could abide much drink. And what was he ranting on about? Murdering his wife? How could he possibly think…
Died in childbirth.It hit him like a sack of chain mail. Their mother had died in childbirth. And now Holden feared Cambria would do the same. Never mind that he’d already fathered half a dozen by-blows off other wenches, all hale and hearty. This one was different. This one was his wife. This one he loved.
Duncan looked down at the great, iron-hard knight slumped on the stable floor, laid low not by the steel weapons that were much as part of his life as the air he breathed, but by the fragile strings of his heart. This was the man who’d dedicated his soul to battle, the little boy who’d revered the sword above all.
Duncan smiled. How the mighty warrior had fallen. And he knew all too well the name of Holden’s conqueror, for he’d faced that assailant himself. Its name was woman.
With a sigh, he bent to pick up Holden. Only by sheer stubbornness was he able to sling his heavy brother across his shoulders to carry him. Then, opting for a resting place far away from the wife who caused Holden so much torment, Duncan hauled him off to an empty storage room over the armory.
There was no cure for what Holden was suffering. Until Cambria delivered the babe, screeching and bellowing and cursing his name and living to tell the tale, he’d not rest easy. The best that Duncan could do for his brother was distract him. And, he thought, rubbing his hands together, the best way to do that was to keep him busy with his sword.
Holden sat up with a start in the dark, wakened by a familiar scraping shriek. A loud oath sprang to his lips, one he instantly regretted. He clapped his palms to his throbbing temples. Shite, his head ached. And his wits felt as thick as his tongue. What addlebrain was sharpening a sword in the middle of the night in the middle of his chamber? No, he amended, the middle ofthischamber. Where was he? He remembered being in the stables. He couldn’t recall coming here.
Slowly, he struggled to his knees in the makeshift pallet of bunched straw. He winced, holding his head in his hands to stop its spinning. From the sound of it, he was in the room directly above the armory, and although his bones protested every movement, he knew he had to go down the steps to investigate. The horrible grating was as painful and inescapable as a honeybee in a close helm.
Groaning as he came to his feet, he shuffled to the door, combing his hair with his fingers. He mumbled curses every step of the way until he stood before the door of the armory. There was a respite in the grating, then it resumed, and he shivered in revulsion as the sound seemed to slither up his spine.
He flung open the door. “What in the name…!” he tried to bellow, although it came out as more of a whine.
His brother Duncan looked up from the wheel, his grin wide and irritating.
“Must you?” Holden muttered icily, nodding to the whetstone.
“Ah, Holden,” Duncan said cheerily, letting the wheel wind itself down to a slow creak, “paying the price for those two jacks of ale last night, are you?”
Holden grumbled.
“Well, little brother, I warn you, it’s a stiff price you’ll pay at the next tournament if you insist on keeping such demanding bedfellows.” He sheathed his sword and stood with his fists on his hips, regarding Holden from head to toe, clucking his tongue all the while. “Even so, it’s poor competition you’ll be,” he said with mock sorrow, “if you’ve been practicing with that ugly, sluggish quintain of yours. I can hit that lout smack in the eye and swive my wife before it comes round again.”
Holden cracked a weary smile at that. “Maybe that says more about your swiving than my quintain.”
Duncan gasped in dramatic effrontery and drew his sword again. “Sir, I believe I’ll have to challenge you for that!”
Holden shook his head. He had no desire to exert his aching bones in pointless swordplay, not at this hour.
