Chapter Two
“He’s going to expect me to attend and I cannot disappoint him. He actually won his round today, so I must be at his side to show my support.”
The little maid, who had asked her lady why she intended to attend the evening’s feast when she was obviously not feeling well, simply shrugged to her lady’s explanation.
There was no use arguing with her when she’d set her mind to something.
Gathering her combs and other tools of the trade, she headed off to pack them away.
Lady Isabeth de Brito watched her maid go, fighting off a smile at the woman’s reaction of puzzlement and disapproval.
The problem was that the maid had known her most of her life and theirs was a relationship that went beyond the usual maid/master boundaries.
Old Gerta sometimes thought she was Isabeth’s mother. She tried to push her around enough.
But this time, Isabeth would not be pushed.
Standing in the tent her husband’s men had pitched for her, one that was comfortable and warm, with several layers of hides on the ground to keep the cold away, she stood in front of a polished bronze mirror, one her husband had purchased for her when they had visited London a few years back.
It had come from lands far to the east, borne on the backs of donkeys and brought all the way to England.
At least, the merchant from whom they’d purchased the item had made it sound most dramatic.
It was a rather nice mirror.
Isabeth inspected her reflection in the weak light.
There were banks of candles lit, spitting dark smoke towards the ceiling, but Dyce wouldn’t let her have an excess of candles lit because he was terrified she was going to knock one over and set the tent ablaze.
Dyce had always been protective of her, even when she was a girl and he was a young knight who had served her father.
Even back then, he’d watched out for her in what she’d considered a brotherly way until she came of age and he’d asked her father for her hand on that very birthday.
Her father had been so thrilled at the offer that Isabeth had found herself betrothed before she’d ever been courted.
They’d married immediately.
Isabeth inspected the dress she was wearing, one Dyce had commissioned for her.
He commissioned everything for her. He took care of every single thing.
She’d never had to lift a finger the entire time she’d been married to the man.
He was so deeply in love with her that he’d very nearly reduced her to a pretty little wife, sitting in a chair, not moving a muscle.
He didn’t want her exerting herself, thinking for herself, or even speaking for herself.
He did it all for her, not because he was trying to control her, but because he simply wanted to please her.
Ten years of simply wanting to please her.
And what had she done for him? Not very much.
She’d married him, she’d let the man bed her whenever he wanted to, surrendering to an act that she’d never taken much pleasure from.
But she was his wife and she was dutiful.
She loved Dyce like a brother – that had never changed – so intimacy with the man wasn’t something she looked forward to.
She’d lay beneath him, legs parted, as he thrust into her and told her how much he loved her.
She just tried not to fall asleep.
It was sad, really, and for as much as he liked to bed his lovely young wife, conception had been difficult for them.
Almost ten years of marriage, four pregnancies, three of which had ended in miscarriages.
Now, she was carrying her fourth child and not yet three months into a pregnancy that had left her feeling weak and weary.
Dyce hadn’t wanted her to come to Middlesbrough at all, but she had insisted.
He asked for so very little and the tournament was important to him.
So, she came to support him.
Old Gerta was just going to have to understand that.
“There has never been a woman more beautiful than you.”
Distracted from her thoughts, Isabeth looked over her shoulder to see Dyce standing just inside the tent flap.
He was out of his armor at this point, having been bathed by his squire and manservant, and dressed in his finest de Brito tunic.
He smiled at her when their eyes met, his big, white teeth surrounded by his black beard.
The hair on his head, and his beard, were black and coarse, his eyes of the darkest brown.
He wasn’t an unhandsome man in the least, but age had not been kind to him.
What had been muscle in his younger years was now somewhat flabby and he became tired easily.
Still, he was one of the kindest men Isabeth had ever known and she was fond of him.
She smiled in return.
“You are supposed to say that,” she said, turning back to the mirror and inspecting her belly in her reflection. “But the truth is that I’m growing larger.”
It wasn’t the truth, merely wishful thinking. “It only makes you more beautiful,” he said, coming over to the mirror and putting his arms around her, kissing her cheek. “How is my son today?”
Isabeth put a hand on her belly, which was hardly noticeable at this early stage. “Fine, I hope,” she said. “He is growing steadily.”
That pleased Dyce immensely. “Good,” he said, dropping his arms from her and turning for the pitcher of wine set upon a traveling table. “He will inherit a great legacy and he will make me very proud as one of the greatest knights in the north.”
Isabeth grinned. “The poor child is not yet born and already you have expectations.”
Dyce poured himself a measure of wine. “Of course I do,” he said. “That is what fathers do – my father had expectations for me. I have expectations for my son. He will be strong and brilliant and I will be the proudest father in England.”
This was the usual conversation when it came to the child. Dyce already had the child’s entire life planned out for him. But he seemed to ignore the fact that three previous pregnancies had ended abruptly and that troubled Isabeth a great deal.
The smile faded from her lips.
“I know,” she said quietly. “But I do not want to become too excited about the babe. Something can still go wrong.”
Dyce looked at her. “It will not,” he said confidently. “The other children were lost well before now. You will carry this child until he is ready to be born. This is our time, Beth. This will be our son’s time. You must have faith.”
Isabeth turned away from the mirror, looking around for her shawl against the coming evening. “I do have faith,” she said. “But I also know the pain when that faith is broken, so it is difficult to be completely trusting. Mayhap my faith will be restored fully when I hold our child in my arms.”
“His name is Maxwell, after my father. We shall call him Max.”
Isabeth wanted to consider other names, but she wouldn’t argue with him. “When I hold Max in my arms, mayhap my faith will be restored,” she said. “But until then… you will forgive me if I am cautious.”
She averted her gaze and Dyce did what he always did when he thought she was displeased – he went to her, quickly, taking her hand in his and kissing it gently. Anything to appease the woman who was his entire world.
“I know, my sweet,” he said softly. “I do not mean to make light of it, of course. But I prefer to look forward to Max and my life as his father. Next to you, it is all I have ever wanted. I cannot stomach the alternative.”
She’d never heard him voice his disappointment like that before and it saddened her greatly.
Dyce asked so little of her and she felt useless that she could not give the man a son, something he wanted very badly.
Before the mood became too heady, she collected her shawl and pulled it around her shoulders.
“Then let us speak no more of such things, not tonight,” she said. “There is a feast for today’s victors and I shall be in attendance. Must I go alone?”
The smile was back on Dyce’s lips. “My beautiful wife in a sea of men?” he snorted. “I think not. I must go if to only beat them away.”
Isabeth laughed softly. “I do not think you have to worry,” she said, rubbing her belly. “There aren’t many men who find a pregnant woman attractive if she is not carrying his child.”
“True enough.”
Reaching out, he adjusted her shawl in a very fatherly gesture and then took her hand, leading her from the tent and out into the deepening night.
The feast for the evening was being held in the open, which was unusual.
The Earl of Teesside had a small hall that had filled to capacity quickly, so the majority of the guests were in the bailey of his small castle, lit up with dozens of torches against the night sky.
There were heavy tables laid out, all of them full to bursting with food and drink.
Near the center of the bailey, a massive fire belched sparks and smoke into the night sky as musicians played a lively tune.
Isabeth thought it was all quite exciting and fascinating.
On their small outpost in Yorkshire, they didn’t see much frivolity like this.
Such delights were rare, so she took it all in, watching women dance with knights and soldiers, a mixing of classes because the tournament brought together so many social castes.
The earl had his castle open to everyone in attendance, regardless of social standing, and everyone seemed to be gathered.
It made for great fun.
Dyce pushed through groups of people, hunting for a place to seat his wife, while Isabeth let him take the lead as she took it all in.
She watched men gambling in a group, rolling bones or dice, while still others were singing in direct conflict with the musicians playing their instruments.
She grinned when the men started slapping each other because they were singing out of tune.