L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (2 page)

Sir Ivor frowned, but nodded. “You’ll stay back until we’ve
determined he’s no threat, at least.”

“I will not. How am I to tell if he is who he claims he is,
unless I’m close enough to see him?” She gathered her skirts in her hand and
started toward the men clustered by the gate, then paused and glanced back at
him over her shoulder. “I’ll simply have to trust you to protect me.”

“I gave my word that I would, milady,” he said, though his scowl
deepened. His hand clutched tightly on his sword hilt, he strode past her and
positioned himself at the head of the guards as FitzClifford—alone, she noted
with relief—passed through the gate. She hastened forward in turn.

FitzClifford halted just inside the bailey, hands out at his
sides to show he held no weapons. Moira drew a deep breath, smoothed her palms
down the rough wool of her skirts and moved closer.

Despite his stance, he bowed, then glanced up at her as Sir Ivor
stepped forward and reached out to take his sword. “Nay, you need not disarm
him,” she cried. She lunged and caught Sir Ivor by the arm, holding on to him
as much to steady herself as to halt his action. Shifting, she found her
balance and released him at once.

“Milady, stay back,” Sir Ivor protested as she moved closer
still, staring at Lord FitzClifford in the flickering torchlight.

Moira looked FitzClifford full in the face and nodded. “Aye,
milord, ′tis true you’ve the look of your brother.”

So alike—and yet so very different.

His face appeared much the same as his brother’s—his twin, she
thought as she sank into an awkward curtsy and accepted his hand to steady her
as she rose. They could not be so similar otherwise. Wavy auburn hair; dark
eyes sharp with intelligence; his tanned, handsome face spattered with a
redhead’s freckles …

But this
FitzClifford’s
hair fell loose
and waving to his shoulders, a narrow scar slashed his left cheek from
cheekbone to jaw, and he carried an untamed aura about him that she’d not
observed in her admittedly brief contact with his more polished brother.

He did have the same air of courtesy, she noticed as he continued
to clasp her hand within the callused strength of his. “Are you well, milady?”

“Aye, sir. Tis just that I’m a bit unsteady on my feet these
days.”

He nodded and released her. “You believe that I’m Rannulf s
brother Connor, then?” he asked, his mouth curved in a faint smile.

“How could I not, milord?” She returned his smile, then fought
back a grimace as the babe chose that moment to kick hard. She placed a
comforting hand upon the mound of her belly, not that it ever did much to
soothe the child. “I am Lady Moira FitzGerald, Lord Brien’s widow. Welcome to Gerald’s
Keep, sir, and thank you for coming to help us.”

“I am glad to be of service, milady. Will you send for my men
now?”

“Of course.” She gave the order before turning to present Sir
Ivor. “Sir Ivor d’Athée, milord, my late husband’s man—” Pain twisted through
her belly, wrenching the air from her lungs and causing her legs to crumple
beneath her.

Strong arms caught her, lifted her and cradled her against cool,
rough mail. “By the Virgin, lady, is it your time?” FitzClifford shifted her so
that her face rested on the soft wool of his tabard. “Where shall I take her?”
he asked, his voice urgent.

Moira couldn’t reply. She could only wrap her arms about her
stomach and try to breathe as the pain continued to swell.

“This way, milord,” she heard Sir Ivor say. She opened her eyes,
raised her head, tried again to speak.

The world went black and she knew no more.

With Lady Moira cradled in his arms, Connor followed d’Athée
through the bailey to the keep and up a steep flight of stairs into a dim and smoky
hall. Sir Ivor shouted for a maidservant before leading him to a narrow spiral
staircase at the far end of the wide expanse. “The master’s chamber is above,
milord,” he said, hesitating at the foot of the stairs.

Connor glanced down at the woman nestled limply against his
chest. She’d not awakened yet, though a moan escaped her once again and her
pale face contorted with pain as another spasm stiffened her entire body. Her
veil had slipped aside, sending a long spill of straight dark hair cascading over
her. Murmuring comfort, he tugged the cloth free and handed it to Sir Ivor,
then brushed her hair away from her face. “If you’ll not come with us, get out
of my way.” Not waiting for a reply, he shouldered the knight aside and mounted
the first, uneven steps.

“We should wait for a maid, for someone,” Sir Ivor protested. “′Tis
not seemly to go up there with her alone.”

Connor stopped and turned to look back at the smaller man. “Why?
Is your lady such a threat?” He didn’t bother to hide his disdain—nor his
disgust. “Or if you’re concerned I might harm her, I assure you I’ve never
attacked
any
woman, let alone one in
Lady Moira’s condition.”

He ignored Sir Ivor’s sputtered protests and climbed the rest of
the way. Lady Moira had begun to stir, and he wanted to settle her someplace
more comfortable than curled up in his arms. What if he caused her or her child
some injury?

A short, door-lined corridor lay before him, lit by two torches
at the top of the landing. He chose the sturdy, iron-bound door at the end as
the most likely one and shifted the woman in his arms so he could reach for the
latch.

She groaned. “Why are you bringing me here?” she asked, her voice
scarce loud enough to hear. “Set me down.”

Connor opened the door and carried her inside. “Be easy, milady.
Someone will be here soon to help you.” Moving carefully in the dark room, he
bumped against a bed frame, turned and bent to ease her onto the mattress.

“Nay,” she whispered. When he would have straightened and stepped
away, she clutched at his arm, pulling herself up to sit on the edge of the
bed. “Not here.”

He covered her hand with his own, turning it so she grasped his
fingers rather than his hard, rough sleeve. “Milady, you need attention. What
does it matter where you rest?”

“I cannot stay in here.” Her fingers tightening about his, she
moaned and, though curled in on herself, tried to climb off the mattress.

Stubborn woman!

He scooped her up and strode into the corridor just as a
maidservant reached the top of the stairs. “Where should I take her?”

The woman, red faced and out of breath, gestured toward a door
near the head of the stairs and, snatching a torch from the wall, hurried ahead
of him to open it. “Here, milord.” She stuck the light into a bracket near the
door and went to push aside the bed curtains.

He settled Lady Moira against the mound of pillows at the head of
the bed and moved back for the servant to attend her.

“Now then, milady, ′tis most discourteous to force Lord
Connor to work so soon after he’s arrived,” the maid scolded. “You’ll have him
ready to turn round and head back to England.”

Shocked by her words, Connor observed the woman more closely as
she fussed with the bedclothes and loosened the ties at the neck of Lady
Moira’s gown. Though her voice and her age-seamed visage expressed naught but
the good-humored nagging of a loyal servant, her eyes told of her worry and
concern.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, heralding a small army of
servants bearing hot water, a basket of dried
peat
and a stand of candles. He moved toward the door, planning to leave and let
them be about their business. They’d wish him elsewhere—as would he—once Lady
Moira’s labor progressed any further.

“Lord Connor,” Lady Moira called, halting him before he could
leave the chamber. Ignoring the bustle surrounding her, she held out her hand
to him. The maidservant stepped aside so he could return to her mistress. He
took Lady Moira’s hand and cradled it in his. “Thank you for your kindness.”
She squeezed his fingers before slumping back against the pillows. “And for
bringing your men to our aid. I fear we’ll have need of them before much
longer.”

“Don’t worry about that now,” he told her. “You’ve more important
concerns for the moment.” He bowed. “Sir Ivor will be help enough, I’m sure.”

A frown crossed her face, but she nodded. “Thank you, milord,”
she whispered, closing her eyes.

Connor left, grateful to be away when he heard her voice raised
in a pain-filled cry as he descended the stairs. She’d likely been eager for
him to go, to leave her to deal with her discomfort without a stranger’s
intrusion.

It didn’t appear that Sir Ivor had moved since Connor carried
Lady Moira upstairs, for he still stood at the bottom of the steps, her veil
clutched in his hand. But he seemed unaware of the activity surrounding him,
his attention focused instead upon the cloth. He continued to stare at it once
Connor had reached him, his face twisted into an unmistakable expression of
hatred.

“Sir Ivor, will you show me where my men are to be quartered?”

The knight started, then glanced up, his face shifting almost at
once to a look of polite interest. “Milord?”

Connor repeated his request, adding, “And have someone show my
squire where we’re to lodge, if you will.”

“Aye, milord.” He stepped past Connor and shouted up the stairs
for a manservant.

Connor pulled Sir Ivor back and called upstairs himself to
overrule the order. “Are you mad, or simply a fool?” he demanded, noting the hatred
glowing in Sir Ivor’s eyes once again. “Your lady’s need is greater than mine!”

“But you said—”

“If there aren’t servants enough without taking one away from
Lady Moira, then you may carry out my orders yourself.” Connor turned his back
on the other man and headed across the hall. His temper flared hotter with
every step, so that by the time he heard
d’Athée’s
light tread behind him, he’d gladly have picked up the other man and tossed him
against the nearest wall. Damned arrogant fool! How dare he ignore his lady’s
distress, then act as though her needs meant nothing?

Connor tugged open the door and waited for Sir Ivor to catch up
to him. He would make it a point to learn the reason for the man’s behavior
before much longer.

Moira smoothed her hands over the mound of her belly, pausing to
stroke her fingers against the tiny protrusion where the babe pressed foot or
elbow hard against her.
Soon, little one,
soon I’ll be able to touch you, to hold you.

But not quite yet. According to Brigit, these last pains, strong
though they’d been, were naught compared to true labor.

Moira only hoped she’d not disgrace herself completely when that
time finally arrived. While she told herself again and again that she’d bear
the pain gladly—that she
deserved
to
feel pain after all that had happened—she feared she’d find herself unequal to
the task.

Only look how she’d crumpled at Lord Connor’s feet, how she’d
clung to him like a weakling as the pain clutched its fist about her womb! ′Twould
be a miracle if he didn’t take his men and leave them—leave
her
—to face the MacCarthys alone.

She’d do whatever was necessary to keep him there, for ′twas
clear Lord Connor was a warrior through and through. He’d carried her as though
she weighed nothing; despite wearing mail from head to toe, he moved with a
grace and ease that bespoke long familiarity with such cumbersome garments. He
bore himself with confidence, wore an air of command that would surely weigh
heavily against the MacCarthys the next time they threatened Gerald’s Keep.

She could only trust that Lord Connor FitzClifford could protect
her child from the men who sought to take him from her.

If he would, once he heard the truth about their situation, and
her part in it.

Connor rose as the sun began to tint the sky with color, drew on
his chausses and shirt, took up his sword and crept past the sleeping servants
whose pallets lined the floor of the great hall.

It seemed as though he’d just gone to bed, since he’d refused to
seek his rest until he’d seen his men settled. After that he’d conferred
briefly with Sir Ivor about the defenses and spoken with Brigit, Lady Moira’s
servant, to learn how she fared. ′Twas a relief to know ′twas not
her time after all, especially since her child wasn’t due for weeks yet. The
poor woman had suffered much—lost much—these past months, from what the maid
told him. Who could say what the sorrow of losing a child might do to her?

But according to Brigit, ′twas naught but false labor—no
doubt caused by the recent loss of her husband, as well as concern for her home
and people—that had dropped Lady Moira into his arms the night before. Perhaps
now that he’d brought more men to defend her home, ′twould ease her mind
and permit her to await her babe’s arrival in peace.

If he were to successfully safeguard Gerald’s Keep, Connor
couldn’t relax his vigilance, nor his training, one whit. He’d worked hard
these last few years to mold himself into a warrior, and he refused to allow
himself to fall into his old habits.

Besides, now that he was awake, he looked forward to the daily
ritual with anticipation. The air still carried a trace of the night’s chill
and more than a hint of the damp his mother had claimed gave Irishwomen their
beautiful skin.

There was a softness to the air here that he’d never noticed at
FitzClifford, an almost otherworldly aura that enveloped everything in a
mystical cloak.

The bailey stood empty, its solitude perfect for his needs.
Finding a sheltered corner, grass-covered rather than muddy, around the far
side of the keep, he set aside his sword and removed his shirt to stretch the
kinks from his back.

Once his muscles had warmed, he took up the weapon and began the
series of training drills that Walter, an ancient soldier left from his
grandfather’s days, had taught Connor when he’d decided to bolster his courage
and become a warrior.

He’d been surprised to learn that the discipline and exertion
also cleared his head and helped him to order his thoughts. They’d strengthened
his mind as well as his body, enabling him to see the world in a much more
adult manner than had been his wont for most of his life.

As he swung the sword, thrusting and parrying against an invisible
enemy, his thoughts strayed back to those days a few years earlier. Back then
he’d been a spineless weakling—the coward Rannulf had proclaimed him to be as
their father lay dead at their feet.

The throbbing pain in Connor’s face, where their father’s dagger
had traced a path along his left cheek, had been as nothing compared to the
anguish he’d felt inside as
Rannulf’s
words—his
accusations—struck deadly and deep within his heart.