Lyn Stone - The Knight's Bride

“Too late,” she groaned through her teeth, fresh grief already immobilizing her. “Oh God help me, too late.” She felt all the reason she had left slip away as she embraced the agony.

Alan hefted her into his arms, wincing at the pain in his damaged shoulder as he carried her to the waiting mounts. He lifted her up and swung up behind her before she could slide from the saddle. Lord, what was he to do now? Could she make it back to the keep? A good hour’s ride if he kept a pace that wouldn’t bounce her about.

He recalled passing a scorched bothy a half league back, but it would offer scant protection. A rough-made shepherd’s dwelling was certainly no place to pass a gentlewoman’s first confinement.

Jesu, his hands were shaking. He knew precious little of babes to begin with. He had taken lambs from the ewes, a troubling colt from its dam once, seen pups aborning. Was it the same? “Nay, nothing like that,” he mumbled to himself. He knew it was not the same at all. Human females needed more help, a great deal more than he knew how to give.

She stiffened in his arms and moaned again. The sound wrenched his heart. He dared not tell her how inept he was or he would scare her to death. With a deep breath to shore up his courage, he tried to foster hers. “Dinna fash, Honor. I may know naught of ‘em inside th’ womb or after they come inta th’ world, but I can bring a babe. Dinna fear, sweeting, for that I can do.” Please, God.

Alan set the beast to a slow walk toward the heap of scorched stone and wattle. He asked more of heaven during that half league’s ride than he had done in all his twenty-six years.

Vines surrounded the crude hut, making it all but invisible. Alan blessed his keen eyes and thanked God he had noticed the place, such as it was. The low walls were scorched, but someone had piled leafy branches over the burned out section of the roof to ward out rain.

He slid off the mount and reached up for Honor. She had bent nearly double and maintained the position for the whole of the trip. Aside from an occasional catching of her breath, she had hardly voiced her misery. Braw in the face of her pain, he thought proudly. A woman of courage, his Honor. Her body felt rigid in his arms as he carried her to the humble bothy.

He bent his head and shoulders to fit through the low doorway. The rasp of metal jerked his attention to the far corner of the one-room hovel as he straightened. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. A thin form reclined on the packed earth floor in one corner, its scrawny arms holding aloft what appeared to be a short sword.

“Put that blade down and help me here,” Alan ordered, “else I’ll take the damned thing and spit you where you lie.”

The ragged apparition did not move.

Alan spoke in Gaelic. “My lady’s time has come on us unaware. Get you to Byelough Keep and bring a woman to help.”

“Nay,” came the answer. “I canna.”

“Do it or die,” Alan ordered quietly.

“My leg’s broke,” the raspy voice declared. “Put her down there.” The tip of the sword waved toward the darkened fire hole and a lumpy nest of furs beside it. From the look of the bedding, the old one had just scrambled out of it. He hoped the fleas went, too.

Alan knelt and laid Honor on her side. “There, sweeting. I’ll have a fire going afore ye know it.”

“No fire!” the ancient voice squeaked. “The soldiers!”

“Th’ war’s done,” Alan announced quietly as he straightened the bedding and reached in his sporran for flint. He made a quick search and located a stack of peat. As he set about coaxing a blaze, he continued to reassure their host or hostess. “Rob Bruce has set the English running south. There’s naught to fear hereabouts. I am Sir Alan of Strode, Lord of Byelough. I’d have your help if you know aught of birthing.”

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