‘I am sorry,’ he said. But the words were useless in the face of such a tragedy. It would not bring the child back.
She grew quiet, tracing the outline of his face. ‘I have not ever conceived a child since I lost her. And never a day goes by that I do not think of her.’ Tears spilled over her face, and she murmured, ‘I named her Anne.’
His eyes burned, and he could not bring himself to mourn. A part of him ached with jealousy, that at least she had been able to look upon the face of their child. She had held their daughter before Annehad been buried and had even given her a name. Whereas he had never been given that chance.
With the greatest effort, Warrick pulled back the ragged emotions and steeled himself. He brushed away Rosamund’s tears and bade her, ‘Rest now, and I will bid you farewell in the morning.’
She gripped his hand in hers and drew it to her waist. ‘Will you not lie with me and share the hours we have left?’
He couldn’t. Not now, not with the weight of grief shadowing him. Better that he should leave his wife in peace and spend the last few hours in his own solitude. He brushed his mouth against hers in a light kiss before he left.
Just as he started to close the door to their chamber, he saw her curled up on her side, her shoulders racked with sobs. And her anguish echoed within his own heart, though he would never let her see it.
Chapter Thirteen
It had been four months since she had last seen her husband, and Rosamund could not suppress the fear that Warrick was dead. She had sent at least three missives to him, but no one had found him. He had sought an audience with King Henry in Normandy, but her messengers had all returned, admitting that Warrick had not been found among the king’s men. It terrified her to wonder if something had happened to him.
There was no doubt now that she was pregnant, but what startled her most was the size of this child. It appeared that she was much further along than she had imagined, which was impossible. But perhaps it was because she had given birth to a child before.
Owen had attempted to see her on numerous occasions, but her father had turned him away, even when the man had brought half of his forces. Not once had he allowed de Courcy to enter their gates. Rosamund was grateful for Harold’s protection but knew it could not last. What worried her the most was Warrick’s disappearance.
For that reason, she had begged her father to seek his own audience with the king. And now they were on their way to Canterbury, where Henry was rumoured to be travelling.
After they stopped, Rosamund rose from the litter, holding her back as she stood. The July sun was hot, and her body ached from the miles of their journey. Her father was near his horse, speaking to one of his men. She approached Harold and asked, ‘Are you certain the king will be here?’
‘I have it on good authority he has come to seek penance for the death of the archbishop.’ Harold sounded confident, but Rosamund was not so certain. The cathedral at Canterbury had been damaged during a fire, and the men were working to restore it.
‘Has there been any word from Warrick?’ His absence was an ache within her, for she could not help but fear the worst.
Her father hesitated a moment. ‘I learned he was taken prisoner by the king’s men. They are bringing him here, along with Owen de Courcy, as a witness. He has accused Warrick of murdering his brother.’
Her blood chilled at the thought of her husband being held captive. ‘When did this happen?’
‘A few weeks ago. I only just learned of it last night.’ Her father studied her a moment and added, ‘You are looking pale, Rosamund. You should sit.’
‘My husband has been a captive for weeks,’ she retorted. ‘Sitting is the very last thing I want to do. I need to see Warrick. You must find him for me.’
Harold shook his head. ‘It is not possible. I brought you here for an audience with the king, so he would see for himself that you are with child. If he believes Alan’s testimony that you were already pregnant before he died, you can return to Pevensham. Then, if you bear a son, the land will belong to him.’
She had no desire to fight for Pevensham any more. The land was lost to her, and she had no right to claim it—especially now.
‘I beg of you—please find my husband and arrange for me to see him.’ Though she had kept up the façade that this was Alan’s heir, Warrick deserved to know of her pregnancy. She wanted to mend the breach between them, for it wounded her heart to be parted from the man she loved.
Harold reached out for her hand, and his gnarled palm closed around hers. ‘There is a rebellion happening, Rosamund. King Henry’s sons and his own wife are rising up against him, and we know not who will win. These are dangerous times.’
‘But my husband has been falsely accused. I cannot let him remain a captive.’ Warrick mattered more to her than all else. She would not even consider abandoning him.
‘And you would endanger your child by interfering with men who want to overthrow the king?’ her father mused. ‘There is no danger of Warrick dying, for the king has not granted him a trial yet.’
‘I do not trust Owen de Courcy. He will do everything in his power to lay the blame at my husband’s feet.’
Her father turned to face her. ‘I know you are afraid, Rosamund. But you must think of Alan’s heir first.’
Harold’s demeanour towards her had altered greatly over the past few months, and he had softened at the sight of her pregnancy blooming. There was still a rift between them, of a father who demanded obedience and a daughter who held her own power. But he had made an effort to be kinder, and it had not gone unnoticed.
She rested her hands upon her swollen womb. There was a ripple of movement, the barest touch of motion. Her heart ached for this unborn child, and as much as she was afraid of losing it, she would never risk the baby’s life.
‘I love Warrick,’ she reminded her father. ‘And if he is endangered in any way, I will do whatever I must to save him. He matters more to me than all else. And I have not forgotten how you had him punished or how you forced me into a marriage with Alan.’
