Amanda Scott (26 page)

As Waldron’s men rushed from the woods toward the oncoming horsemen and Hugo set himself to meet Waldron, Sorcha appeared in the opening of the tent and screamed, “Isobel’s having her baby, and something’s wrong. She needs help! Please, she may die unless you can fetch someone who knows about birthing.”

Hugo did not take his eyes from Waldron. “Do you want that babe’s death, or Isobel’s, on your conscience when you meet your Maker, cousin?”

Waldron’s gaze flicked toward the tent, where Sorcha stood, arms akimbo, glowering at them both equally.

“Don’t just stand there like posts,” she snapped. “Get help!”

Waldron looked at Hugo. “How many other men have you in these woods?”

“Two,” Hugo said.

Waldron smiled. “Then go and help her if you must. We’ll have our contest afterward. My men will have defeated yours by the time the child comes, so I am willing to wait, if only to spare us both distraction. I would not want you or anyone else to think I’d bested you because of a woman’s screams.”

Hugo thought of Adela, still in the woods, but he did not mention her, hoping she had got safely away. He had left Einar to watch her, but since that left only Tam to deal with the other archers they had seen, Einar might not have stayed there.

Glancing toward his horsemen and Waldron’s men racing to meet them, he saw that his lads were still beyond reach of any but the most skilled marksmen, but unless Einar and Tam could prevent it, arrows soon would be flying.

When Sorcha screamed, “Hurry!” he ran to the tent but kept his sword in hand, knowing he could not trust his cousin to keep his word.

“What are you doing?” Sorcha demanded, blocking the entrance. “Get help!”

“I’ll help her, lass,” he said gently. “You can help, too.”

“But what can you know of birthing? She wants a woman!”

“She wants someone who can help her,” Hugo said. “Now, either come outside and leave her to me, or stay and help us. But get out of my way.”

“Sorcha, don’t leave,” he heard Isobel say, gasping. “If Hugo says he knows what to do, we can trust that he does.”

“In troth, my lady,” he said, pushing past Sorcha and ducking into the tent, “I have birthed many newborn animals, but only two babes. Still, you are healthy and strong. I warrant we shall do the thing easily together.”

“She’s bleeding, Hugo,” Sorcha said behind him, clearly striving for calm despite her evident fear. “And our… our mother died in childbirth.”

He turned his head to smile reassuringly at her as he said, “Lass, birthing is a messy, noisy, and sometimes scary process, but ’tis a natural one for all that. All manner of women have given birth since time began with little or no help. Now, I’m going to need room, so see if you can get behind her and help support her. She’ll not want to lie flat, and I need to see if the babe is visible yet.”

Sorcha looked as if she would protest that need, but Isobel winced and cried out louder than before, impelling her to move quickly to her side and try to prop her up. The result was that when the next pain came, Isobel nearly knocked her flat.

“Would it not be better for her just to lie down?” Sorcha asked him as she helped Isobel sit up again.

“ ’Tis said to be easier if she can sit up a bit to push the babe out,” Hugo said. “If we had a birthing stool, it would
be easier yet. Try sitting behind her, back to back, and letting her push against you. This may take a good while.”

“I don’t think it will,” Isobel said, still gasping from the last pains. “This laddie wants to be born. He has
not
inherited his father’s patience.”

Hugo did not argue, but he knew a first child could take a long time to be born even if all went well. And if it didn’t go well, tragedy could lie ahead. He wished that his abilities matched the confidence he was trying to display. Sending up a prayer that he would be able to pay attention to what he had to do and would not let the noise of the battle raging outside distract him, he set to work.

The baby’s head was well in view, which was good. It was not coming feetfirst and might come quickly. He looked at Isobel, whose face was bright red with the contraction she was suffering as she gave a mighty effort to push the babe out.

“Breathe, my lady,” he said. “Try to think of something other than the pain. Think of Michael and—”

“A pox on Michael,” she snapped. “He did this. He should share the pain!”

“Then just concentrate on breathing as you decide how to punish him,” Hugo said, repressing an urge to laugh. “The child needs the air as much as you do.”

He glanced at Sorcha, who sat as he had recommended, bracing Isobel as she strained to push. Sorcha looked over her shoulder at him, and he saw that despite her worry, the tantalizing dimple showed and her eyes were twinkling.

Sorcha had to exert every muscle to support Isobel. A tent with nothing for furnishing but a few furs piled together to make a bed was no place to birth a baby. They needed pillows to support her properly and blankets and water for washing.

Hugo had been right to say the process was a messy one. It made her queasy to look at the blood, so except for glancing back at Hugo now and again, she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead and tried to ignore all the noise outside.

She had always known Isobel was strong, but as she tried to support her in a half-sitting, half-lying position, she had all she could do not to be flattened again when the pains struck and her sister fought to push against them. And where, she wondered, was Adela? Surely, she had heard them screaming. Why had she not come to help? Her presence would be of greater use than her absence was even if she didn’t know more than they did.

She was glad Hugo was there and glad she had stopped the fight between him and Waldron, but she knew that others might be shocked to learn he had delivered Isobel’s babe. For that matter, despite Isobel’s insistence, to have a man who was not her husband doing such a thing must be most trying for her.

She glanced at him again and saw that he was concentrating on his task, his hands between Isobel’s legs. Moments later, Hugo held a tiny, moist baby in those hands. As he turned him and gently wiped a huge hand across his tiny lips and nose, the baby began to cry, and then to squall lustily.

“You have a fine wee laddie, Isobel,” Hugo said. “He’s
clearly got a fine, strong pair of lungs, too, which augurs well for the rest of him.”

His sparkling gaze met Sorcha’s as she shifted position to see better. When she saw that his delight equaled her own, her heart turned over.

Adela returned to consciousness to find herself lying on the ground under a large bush. She had a dim, disorienting memory of a voice shouting at her to wake up, then hands pulling her, but she decided it must have been a dream. Gazing up at the thicket of branches just over her head, she lay still for a long moment, staring at dust-mote-strewn rays of sunlight that pierced through here and there, before the shouting, clashing of swords, and other noises of battle reached her ears.

Memory swept back, and she scrambled to her feet. She saw no sign of who had grabbed her and dragged her under the bush. The woods seemed empty.

Hurrying toward the noise, she saw that the battle was fierce between the horsemen she had seen and Waldron’s men. Then the tent came into view, and she saw to her shock that he stood outside it, pacing back and forth as if there were no battle. Beyond, the two forces seemed more nearly matched than she had expected.

Waldron still had more men than Hugo, but a number of men lay wounded or dead on the field, and some of the archers she had seen earlier were lying quite still under trees at the edge of the clearing. But if the outcome of the battle remained in question, why was Waldron not with his men?

She saw him stiffen and take a step toward the tent, sword in hand.

Then she heard a baby squalling.

Chills swept over her, and terror.

He stopped. He was staring at the tent. Had he just been awaiting the birth of Isobel’s child so he could kill it? Would he kill Isobel and Sorcha, too? And if that was his intent, whatever could they do to stop him?

Looking toward heaven, as if God Himself might write a message to her on the sky, she saw riders swarming over the ridge to the north, dozens of them. Without thought for her own safety, she dashed out of the woods and ran as fast as she could toward Waldron.

I
nside the tent, Sorcha watched as Hugo carefully cut the cord with his dagger and tied it off with a strip he had cut from Isobel’s underskirt. Then he handed the babe to Isobel and sought something to wipe his hands.

“Use my skirt, Hugo,” Isobel said. “I’ll have to throw these clothes away, anyway, as soon as I can get some to replace them.”

He was about to do as she asked when he paused. “We’ll need something to wrap the laddie in, my lady.”

“Take all you need. I feel no more modesty where you are concerned, sir.”

He grinned at her. “We’ll hope Michael understands that lack.”

“He will care for naught but the safety of his son,” she said.

“He’ll care for more than that,” he said, slicing away a large piece of the cleanest part of her skirt for the babe.
He handed it to Sorcha, then went to wipe his hands on the tent flap instead.

“Help me unfasten my bodice,” Isobel said to her. “He wants to suckle and the sooner he can do that, the better, I think.”

But Sorcha was watching Hugo, who still stood at the entrance to the tent, looking out, his body tense.

“Lass,” he murmured without turning. “Fetch my sword, and quickly.”

Without questioning him, she moved swiftly to obey, dragging the heavy weapon to him and shoving its hilt into his outstretched hand. He had not turned his attention from whatever was outside, nor did he do so now.

“What is it?” she demanded, keeping her voice low.

“Waldron,” he said. “He said the battle would be swift, but they are still fighting. Yet he is right outside with sword in hand. I must deal with him before we can think about what to do next.”

It occurred to her that if Waldron’s men won the battle, she and the others would have no say in their fate. She reached out silently to squeeze Hugo’s arm.

“Go help your sister with the babe,” he commanded. “Do not come outside for any reason.” Without looking back, he stepped out of the tent.

Sorcha moved to the entrance in time to see Adela race toward the two men from the woods.

Hugo saw Adela, too, his astonishment visible in the way his body stiffened as he glanced briefly toward her—for just one tiny second.

It was a second too long.

Waldron swung his heavy sword, and as Sorcha screamed, “Watch out!” Hugo flung up his own weapon to
parry the thrust. Although his sword caught the tip of Waldron’s, it only deflected it, so that the flat of Waldron’s blade slid up and off it to strike Hugo’s head a heavy blow.

Stunned, he stumbled and fell.

Waldron leaped to finish him, but Adela flung herself at Waldron, tugging his sword arm with both hands, crying, “My lord, look to the north! We must flee if you are to get safely away. You can achieve no victory if they catch you here.”