“I hate you,” she said, low. “Norman!”
“’Tis what I am. Where do you sleep?”
“In the hall,” Ceidre said, dodging his proffered hand. When, in truth, she would have liked nothing more than to lean upon his solid, powerful frame.
They stepped outside into the night, bright with stars and a three-quarter moon. Ceidre lifted her face to the air and sighed. Rolfe could not take his eyes away from her uplifted profile. He was mesmerized, ensnared. She caught him staring, and she blushed.
“Come,” he said gruffly, taking her elbow.
She trembled, but she came.
Ceidre was in that strange state of exhaustion that makes sleep difficult to come by. She had just, finally, managed to drift off when loud voices and strange hands awakened her. “Ceidre, Ceidre, awaken! You must awaken!”
Ceidre blinked and became aware of Athelstan and another man, a serf from his attire, bending over her, a rushlight in one hand. “What is it?”
One of the hounds began to bark. The men began to stir. Someone called out angrily for quiet, and another dog yelped.
“’Tis my wife,” the serf said, and Ceidre recognized him. “She is in a bad way, Ceidre! The babe won’t come! ’Tis her fifth and all the others came so easily, but this one won’t! Please, help her!”
Ceidre was standing, her mantle already around her shoulders. “Of course I will come, John,” she said soothingly. But her mind was racing. She undoubtedly needed her herbs.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Ceidre whipped her head around at the sound of his voice. Rolfe was poised halfway down the stairs, clad only in woolen hose, but he held a sword. Athelstan answered. “’Tis the woman, Tildie. She’s birthing a babe and it’s not going well.”
Ceidre was already pushing past the men, sprawled on pallets everywhere, to confront the Norman. Rolfe said, “Send someone else. The wench is overtired.”
Ceidre felt a rush of anger, and paused before the stairwell to face him. “There is no one else, my lord,” she said very firmly. “I need my pouch.”
Rolfe stared, then barked a command at Athelstan. The Saxon hurried upstairs to fetch the herbs while Ceidre waited, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. If he would order her to remain abed and not tend Tildie, she would disobey, but he said nothing—he only stared. Athelstan returned and handed her the pouch. Ceidre grabbed it and hurried out into the night.
They were at the cottage five minutes later, Tildie’s moans carrying outside. Her four children, ranging from three to ten, sat huddled in the single room, the five-year-old crying. “Hush, sweeting,” Ceidre said, placing a hand on the boy’s head. “Your mama will be fine. Hush now.”
She looked at John. “Comfort them.”
Tildie was drenched with sweat. Her waters had already broken. She thrashed and moaned, her contractions close together, but the baby would not come. Ceidre saw instantly what the problem was. The babe was a breech, turned completely around, trying to leave the womb feet first. ’Twas not good.
“I will have to turn the babe around,” she said to John, without looking at him.
“Have you ever done such a thing before?” Rolfe asked.
Ceidre gasped, stunned that the Norman had followed them. He stood in the middle of the small cottage, seeming to take up every inch of its entire space. He had thrown his sinister black mantle over his bare torso, but had only slipped shoes, not chausses, on. Now Ceidre understood why the hut had become so very quiet. The children were gaping, bug-eyed. Even John was stunned, immobile.
“Once,” she answered, turning back to Tildie and stroking her brow. “If you are here, fetch me fresh water and clean rags and soap.” Tildie had fainted.
“I will get them,” John said, clearly relieved to flee.
“How is she?” Rolfe asked, not moving from where he stood.
“She has fainted. She is better off. Now she can rest a bit before the real work begins.” Ceidre kept stroking her brow.
The five-year-old redhead began to cry again, pitifully, calling “Mama, Mama.”
Ceidre, kneeling by the pallet, twisted to soothe the little boy. She stopped, amazed, to see Rolfe stroke his big hand through the child’s curls. She had never seen him gentle before, had never even thought he could be gentle—but he was. “Viens à moi, petit,” he said, his voice low, comforting. “Do you know who I am?”
The boy blinked, staring. “N-no.”
“’Tis our lord,” hissed the eldest, a girl of ten.
