Rolfe rewarded the girl with a smile, then lifted the redhead into his arms. “She is right, I am your lord, Rolfe of Warenne. Do you know where Warenne is?”
The little boy shook his head, staring, awed, into Rolfe’s face, so close to his.
“’Tis far away, across the sea. Would you like to know how I came to be here, how I crossed the sea on a big boat with all my men?”
He nodded.
Relieved, and still amazed, Ceidre turned back to Tildie, listening to Rolfe as he began the story, thankfully omitting all political details, his voice low and rich and soothing. John entered and handed her the items she had requested. Ceidre washed her hands and began wiping Tildie’s brow. The woman started to revive.
“Tildie?” Ceidre leaned forward. “’Tis Ceidre. I am going to try and turn the babe. He’s facing the wrong way, and it must be done.”
Tildie opened her eyes.
Ceidre smiled. She reached out to stroke her temple again. Tildie cried out and shrank away. Ceidre froze. Rolfe halted in midsentence, and John and the children all stared.
“No!”
“Tildie—”
“No! Don’t touch me! Please, don’t!” She began to weep.
Ceidre hesitated only for a fraction. “She’s overwrought. I’ll give her a potion.”
“No! I won’t take your witch’s brew!”
Ceidre felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She recovered, with effort. “Tildie, ’tis me. Tis Ceidre. Your friend. I—”
“This is all your fault,” Tildie hissed. “You cursed me and the babe because I slapped you! Get away from me! Get this witch away from me!”
Rolfe handed the redhead to John and was at Ceidre’s side. “Listen to me, mistress. I am your lord.”
Tildie stared, tears streaking her face.
“She is no witch. She is going to give you a potion to calm you, then she will turn the babe. Tis my command.”
Tildie began to weep. “I’m sorry.” She sobbed. “Sorry. It’s just that I’m so afraid…”
“Give her the potion,” Rolfe said tersely, his gaze riveted not on Tildie but upon Ceidre’s face. Her expression, sick and stunned, twisted his gut into knots. He wished he could curse the foul wench for doing this to Ceidre, when she meant only good.
Ceidre recovered and, murmuring words of comfort, she administered the potion. Tildie was soon in a state of lethargy. Rolfe regarded her brisk efficiency, despite her being clearly upset. She did not shrink but boldly delved into the other’s body, yet her touch was gentle. Tildie gasped in pain. Ceidre began to turn the babe, perspiration filming on her brow. Rolfe admired her in that moment greatly—she had immense courage. He reached out to blot a drop of sweat on her forehead before it interfered with her vision.
“There,” Ceidre cried, relieved. “The babe is turned, it should not be long now.”
“Well done,” Rolfe said quietly.
She glanced at him. His gaze was warm, unwavering. She flushed and concentrated on the task at hand. Tildie’s contractions were now strong enough to pop the babe out easily. Ceidre reached for the infant and knew instantly that it was dead.
It had strangled in the womb, its birth cord wrapped around its neck.
Ceidre blinked back tears and wrapped the infant in its swaddling. Rolfe reached down and took it from her. “I will bury it,” John said, resigned. He considered himself lucky to have four healthy children as it was.
Tildie opened her eyes. “My baby?”
Ceidre hesitated. Rolfe stepped into the breach.
“The babe could not survive. ’Twas not meant to be. He died in the womb.” “No!”
“I am sorry, but ’tis so. You are young and strong. God has gifted you with four healthy children, and if it is His will, He will gift you with many more.”
