Soldier Page 3
Castlemuir ~ 24 December 1202
THE MERCENARY Broderick was now Lord Broderick of Castlemuir. For his service to the Crown, King John had made him an Earl and granted him the traitor Harald’s castle and lands. Harald’s daughter was never heard from or seen again and though Harald was spared execution, he was living in exile. King John’s spies reported that Lady Tess had not sought her father out but there was worry she was raising an army of guerilla fighters, loyal to her father.
Broderick no longer cared about Lady Tess or her cursed father. Joy had lifted him out of the realm of warfare when his wife announced in June that she was carrying their child. The pregnancy was a miracle, for at thirty years of age Kylie was believed to be barren but God had smiled on Broderick when his wife gave birth to their firstborn son on the twenty-first of December. He was in the great hall celebrating the winter solstice when he heard the lusty squalls of his baby boy.
Throughout the pregnancy Kylie was happy, glowing with the fruit of her womb. Each night they marvelled over the movements of the babe growing inside her body.
But the birth was a difficult one. Broderick had spared no expense in securing the finest apothecaries and physicians. However, Kylie began to bleed and though he was reassured by the physicians that this was to be expected, there was such an awful lot of blood.
In all his years of fighting and killing, Broderick had never thought of the blood. His sole concern when delivering a killing blow was to spill as much of it as possible.
Kylie’s bleeding never stopped. His beautiful darling was dead less than three days after his son’s birth. And now the child was dying too, rejecting the wet nurses who were brought in to feed him. Word had just come to him that the infant had vomited the goat’s milk.
Broderick’s son was slowly starving to death.
♠
DAVEY HAD summoned his lordship to the Great Hall to attend to the business of the county. Christmastide was almost upon them and Castlemuir was festooned with holly and fragrant evergreen boughs. Cheering smells of baking and roasting meats emanated from the great kitchen below stairs.
All of which went unnoticed by Broderick. Davey’s old friend and comrade took his seat, sunk down with grief and sunk down in size too. Hour by hour the three-day-old infant failed and there was naught Broderick’s men could do about it. It was women’s work to keep a babe alive. After all the tits in all of Christendom that Broderick and his fellows had taken for pleasure—to have the babe reject even one for sustenance was diabolical! But at last, Davey thought he might have hit upon an answer.
A group of gaunt prisoners from the latest raid were herded into the middle of the room. “I came upon this one fleeing through the wood,” he said, dragging a girl out of the crowd.
She had short dark hair that had been chopped to a ragged cap about her head.
“I caught her running through the wood as swift as a doe. I swoops down and swings her up, light as a feather she is and very small. But her unnatural short hair and strange silver eyes put me in fear of doing anything more to her. I brought her back for you, my lord. I’ve not had a peep out of her from beginning to end.”
Davey shoved her forward so that she fell at Lord Broderick’s feet.
“What am I to do with her,” he asked without interest, barely giving the girl a glance.
Somewhere in the great castle a baby was heard crying. The girl’s thin binding was soon stained with milk.
“Aha, I thought as much!” crowed Davey. “That is what you are to do with her, my lord. Look—she is ripe with mother’s milk.”
The girl fixed her eyes on the floor. Lord Broderick appeared troubled by her. “My son has had wet nurses before. He has refused them all. What is her name?”
“The prisoners from the village claim they don’t know who she is. She came to them two days ago from the woods, pregnant and close to her confinement. She is a mute. This is all they know. One of the village women took pity on her and acted as midwife else she might’ve birthed the babe in the field for aught the women of the village cared. That was yesterday night. No one knows her name or where she came from. She cannot or will not speak. They are glad to see the back of her as since she came, the village has had nothing but bad luck. Rumour has it she is a witch and the boy child of hers was the spawn of Satan. Midnight blue it was and stone dead, is the report of the midwife. Its body was destroyed in the fire raid on the village. No man has stepped forward to claim the girl.”
“Kill her, my lord, and put this rebellion to rest,” said Charles. “We shall blame the crop failures this past year on the witch and restore the confidence of the peasants.”
“Kill the girl who could save Broderick’s son? Are you mad?” Davey rounded on Charles. “Let the monks worry about witches; they have naught to do with us.” He turned to Broderick who was staring at the girl with a strange look of fear. “What think you, my lord? Burn her for a witch if you must, but put your son to her tit first.”
Davey knew his old friend was superstitious. But he also knew Broderick wanted a comely wench, ripe with milk for his boy. The physician concurred that the breast milk of a beautiful wet nurse would protect the child from all manner of disease and death, and though the girl’s hair was shorn, she was undeniably beautiful. “Have you ever seen such tits as these, my lord?”
Davey hauled her up and spun her around to face her captor.
“Curtsy for his lordship, girl. He is master here and your very life is in his hands. There isn’t a man in this room would save you from the stake if it’d mean an end to this infernal rebellion—save Lord Broderick. Show some gratitude, girl.”
Tess stood in the Great Hall of Castlemuir blinking in the light from the torches and tapers. Her father’s castle, the only home she had known was unchanged. Evergreen boughs and holly hung from the rafters and the Christmas crown was overhead. The servants were preparing for the Christmas feast tomorrow. Peasants and landowners alike would stop work make merry for twelve days at Castlemuir as it was done in her father’s time.
Despite how she got here, Tess was so grateful to be back in familiar surroundings that her eyes filled with tears. How far she had fallen! Her own household would not recognize her now. The once proud Lady Tess was barefoot, her face muddy and her tunic was stained with blood.
“Open your vestment, wench,” Broderick ordered.
Davey and Charles exchanged a look. His men knew Lord Broderick’s ways of dealing with prisoners: break them and then save them. Broderick’s grief had not softened his heart; he was still a leader of men and a soldier. He knew a soldier’s prize when he saw it.
The men watched with close attention as the girl’s trembling fingers worked the leather thongs holding her vestment together. And then, as if impatient with herself or in despair, the prisoner wrenched open the ties and her breasts spilled free.
Round, high and tight as a drum with milk. Her dusky pink nipples puckered in the cool air. The girl tucked her chin against her shoulder, trying to hide her face.
Broderick rose to his feet, controlling his breathing and the muscles in his face. He would betray nothing to the girl or to the men watching.
It was her. He did not know her at first. The silver eyes, the full young tits ... it was the girl he’d made free with in the woods last spring. Her breasts leaked milk, dripping from pink nipples. Davey was correct; she was ripe to suckle a babe.
An unnatural hunger suddenly possessed him. Grief for his dead wife and her baby mingled and Broderick was weak with a lusty, mad, insistent need to bed the girl immediately. Pale white liquid fell in drops to the stone floor from her nipples. Her tits whetted his thirst for her and his cock stiffened, remembering how he had ridden her. Broderick stood in front of her, hiding the shaking helplessness he felt behind cold examination. He viewed her as he would a particularly valuable breed of dog.
He had thought he loved her once but death and power had killed all feeling in him.
“She can be put to use if her milk is plentiful as a wet nurse for my son.”
The image of his baby’s mouth clasping one of those velvety nipples, the flesh of his flesh feeding on her, caught him and the lustful hunger whipped though him again; a hunger to be that boy, to press his mouth to her breast....
Broderick sucked the air slowly back into his chest.
He wanted her. Kylie was dead only three days and he wanted this girl in his bed. She must be a witch to have him so completely in her thrall. Dirty, helpless and silent ... what hold could she possibly have on him? The night he shared with her had lost its sweetness months ago.
Not entirely the truth, Broderick admitted ruefully. He thought of her but only in his night dreams and on the long rides he took across the moor. Not even the heady joy of Kylie’s pregnancy could banish the silent girl from his thoughts. And then Kylie died and his son screamed with hunger. Darkness closed around Broderick and his heart turned to stone. He stopped thinking of a love that was little more than a fantasy.
She met his eyes and seemed to read his thoughts. The girl was not afraid of him and though her breasts were exposed, she did not look away in shame. She appeared equally unconcerned by the ogling stares of the men crowding near. Broderick wished he could order them from the room but that would expose his weakness for the girl and cause them to question the reason.
Lord Broderick was known for his harsh rule. The tenants, squires and men under his command were familiar with his cold-heart and fiery rage. As for women, he was fond of saying the best way to break a woman was to take a woman.
To demonstrate his control, Broderick squeezed the girl’s breast, knowing it would cause her pain. His large hand tightened on the ripe mound. Milk spurted from her nipple, dribbling between his fingers. The girl’s eyes widened and stared into his. Her lips parted and her cheeks crimsoned. There was a laugh behind him from the men enjoying the display.
Broderick wiped his hand on his tunic embroidered with his family’s newly created crest and turned to his audience. “The wench has enough milk to suckle us all.”
The laughter grew louder and the tension in the room was broken. His men no longer questioned his judgment as they had of late believing him wallowing in grief and womanly cares. Two of his soldiers moved to the table to examine a map. A lively discussion ensued in setting the date of the next raid, after Christmastide twelve days from now.
Broderick returned his attention to the girl. She was paler than he remembered. Her eyes had dark smudges under them. He motioned to a servant woman and gave instructions for the prisoner to be taken to the midwife. “Put the babe to her breast. If he takes it, she will live. If not—burn her.”
♠
THE MIDWIFE handed Tess the baby and then stepped back from the bed to observe.
Tess held the tiny bundle awkwardly. Broderick stood off at a distance in the shadows. She could feel him watching the scene closely. Two of his man stood near, hands on the hilts of their swords as though ready to spring if she attempted to smother the infant or mutter a dark incantation upon its head. The other people in the room were the physician and Lady Broderick’s maid who had taken charge of the baby after his mother died.
Under such conditions, held captive and before an audience, Tess was clumsy in her nervous handling of the infant. She tried to cuddle the boy her chest. Though he was listless with hunger, he gave out a mewling protest.
“Not like that, stupid girl. You are hurting him.” The lady’s maid turned to her master. “I warned you this would not work. The child needs more time to adjust. He’s been passed from pillar to post. Small wonder he will not take the breast.”
“He will not take your breast, you mean,” Broderick growled. “You’ve had your way long enough; look at him! He grows weaker by the day. I will not stand by while my son starves to death to accommodate your vanity.”
He stepped out of the shadows and into the firelight. Tess looked up from the bed where she was settled with the infant. Seeing his face and body in full light weakened her. The new master of Castlemuir was tall and commanding. And handsome. It must be admitted.
But there was something different about Lord Broderick that caused Tess to gaze at him intently. There was suffering in his eyes and she pitied him. For the first time, she could see the man he was inside the mercenary.
“Try him again, girl. See if my son will take your breast. Please.”
Tess lifted the infant’s head to her nipple. She had not been a mother long; her experience with babies was that of a novice. Her mother did not speak of breastfeeding or show her how it was managed. Tess was acting on instinct and a genuine fear for the baby’s life when she rubbed her teat against his lower lip. The baby opened his mouth like a little bird and Tess guided him over her nipple. The baby instinctively seized upon it and began to suckle. The milk in her breasts began to flow effortlessly.
Tess closed her eyes. Tears streamed down her face as she thought of her little boy. He had not yet had what she was giving this baby. Broderick’s son reached up and rested his tiny hand upon her chest, kneading her skin with his wrinkled fingers. She looked down his small head, his eager, almost frantic suckling and she cradled him a little closer. His father might be past redemption but his child was blameless. Tess wept silently.
“He is feeding.” Broderick turned to the assembled with a look of awe. Tears stood in his eyes. “My son is taking her milk—see how he well he suckles!” he crowed. “He’ll live now,” he demanded of the physician. “He will survive?”
The physician moved closer to examine the baby’s hold on Tess’s nipple. After prodding her breast with a dark and dirty finger, he turned to give Broderick his verdict. “Aye, he has a good latch. He’ll grow stronger with every drop and that will improve his chances of drawing milk from the teat. The girl has sufficient quantity, but I recommend expressing milk from her breast manually to ensure a rich supply. Thus, the infant can be fed by dropping the milk into his mouth on one’s little finger if he tires before he has eaten his fill. You have good reason to hope that your son will survive.”
Broderick ducked his head to hide his emotion. His men were silent.
“Let us leave them to their women’s work,” he said brusquely. He snapped a look at the servant woman who had escorted the girl to the midwife. “You shall wait upon the girl. When my son has finished nursing, take her to my chambers and make her a bath. I shall expect to find her waiting for me, out of those peasant clothes and clean and refreshed.”
The group filed out of the room and Broderick followed, pausing at the doorway to wonder at the miracle.
His silent lover from the forest had arrived in time to save Kylie’s beloved baby.