Hers to Desire

Cornwall, 1244 THE LORD OF TREGELLAS fidgeted on his carved oaken chair on the dais of his great hall. "God's wounds, does it always take so long?" he muttered under his breath. Normally Lord Merrick was the most stoic of men, and the hall of Tregellas a place of ease and comfort. Today, however, his lordship's beloved wife was struggling to bring forth their first child in the lord's bedchamber above, so everyone was anxious. The servants moved with silent caution, and even the hounds lay still and quiet in the rushes that covered the floor. Only Lord Merrick's bearded, red-haired friend seemed at ease as he sat on that same dais and took a sip of wine. "I've heard that two or even three days are not uncommon for a first birthing," Sir Ranulf remarked. Merrick's eyes narrowed. "Is that supposed to comfort me?" Ranulf's full lips curved up in a slightly sardonic smile. "Actually, yes." As Merrick sniffed with derision, Ranulf set down his goblet. "It seems an age to us, and no doubt longer to your Constance, but I gather a lengthy labor is not unusual the first time, nor does it indicate any special danger for the mother or child." "I didn't know you were an expert." "I'm not," Ranulf said, refusing to let his friend's brusque manner disturb him. Merrick had never been known for his charm. "I truly don't think there's any cause for worry. If your wife or the babe were at risk, the midwife would have summoned both you and the priest, and Lady Beatrice would have been sent from the chamber." In fact, and although he didn't say so, Ranulf thought it rather odd that Beatrice was still in Constance's bedchamber, regardless of what was transpiring. He didn't think Beatrice should be witnessing the travails of childbirth, or inflicting her rather too bubbly presence on a woman at such a time. If he were in pain, the last thing he'd want would be lively Lady Bea buzzing about, telling him the latest gossip or regaling him with yet another tale of King Arthur and his knights. "Constance wanted her," Merrick said with a shrug. "They are more like sisters than cousins, you know." Ranulf was well aware of the close bond between his best friend's wife and her cousin. That was why Beatrice had a home here in Tregellas although she had nothing to her name but her title, and that was due to Merrick's influence with the earl of Cornwall. Otherwise, Beatrice would have lost that, too, when her father was executed for treason. Merrick started to rise. "I cannot abide this waiting. I'm going to -- " The door to the hall banged open, aided by a gust of wind. Both men turned to see a vaguely familiar man on the threshold, his cloak damp with rain, his chest heaving as he panted. "My lord!" the round-faced young man called out as he rushed toward the dais. "It's Myghal, the undersheriff of Penterwell," Merrick said. That was one of the smaller estates that made up Merrick's demesne on the southern coast, and as they hurried to meet the man halfway, Ranulf was unfortunately certain this fellow's breathless advent could herald nothing good. "My lord!" Myghal repeated as he bowed, his Cornish accent apparent in his address. "I regret I bring bad tidings from Penterwell, my lord." He bluntly delivered the rest of his news. "Sir Frioc is dead." Sir Frioc was -- or had been -- the castellan of Penterwell. The portly, good-tempered Frioc had also been a just man, or Merrick would have chosen another for that post when he assumed lordship of Tregellas after his late father's demise. "How did he die?" Merrick asked, his face its usual grim mask. Ranulf could hear his friend's underlying concern, although there was no trouble at Penterwell that Ranulf could recall, other than the usual smuggling to which Merrick and his castellan generally turned a blind eye. "A fall from his horse while hunting, my lord," Myghal answered. "Sir Frioc went chasing after a hare. WeMoore, Margaret is the author of 'Hers to Desire', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373771240 and ISBN 037377124X.