Chapter 40
“Dunsmore!”
Richard’s head snapped up. Rhys stood on the stairs, waving frantically. “The babe is coming!”
Richard was on his feet and up the stairs quicker than an arrow fired from a longbow. Rhys followed on his heels, stopping when they reached Gwen’s chamber. Richard flung open the door and entered, oblivious to Rhys’s shouting.
“Milord, you may not come in here,” the midwife said, rushing toward him with her hand outstretched.
“Like bloody hell,” he growled, shoving past her.
Gwen lay on the bed, her face pale and twisted in pain. She cried out suddenly, grasping handfuls of bedding in her fists.
Richard dropped beside her, clasping her hand and smoothing the hair from her face. “I am sorry,” he whispered belatedly.
Her glorious eyes were glazed. “Nay, ’tis I who am sorry. Rhys told me what happened, but I should have believed in you. I cannot blame you if you no longer want me—”
She screamed and he let her squeeze his hand until the pain passed, then kissed her moist brow. “Christ almighty, Gwen, you are my life. I will never let you go.”
The midwife, regaining her bravery, hovered over them, hands planted firmly on hips. “Milord, men are not allowed in the birthing chamber!”
“Do you wish me to go, love?” Richard asked, stroking the hair from Gwen’s damp forehead.
“Nay,” she whispered. “Do not leave me. I am frightened.”
He turned to the midwife. “Woman, if you wish to live beyond this day, you will tend my wife now. And if you wish me gone, then I invite you to remove me yourself.”
The woman blanched. “V-very well, but you must not interfere, milord,” she said in a near-whisper.
“Agreed.”
“’Tis not natural,” she muttered under her breath. The castle women hurried in and out of the room, fetching linens and hot water.
The midwife mixed something from her bag of herbals, then retrieved a pot and returned to Gwen’s side. Dipping her hand into the pot, she lifted Gwen’s chemise.
“What is that for?” Richard demanded.
The woman’s hand shook. “’Tis to rub on her belly to ease the pains. I-I thought you were not going to interfere, milord.”
“Aye,” he said curtly, clamping his teeth together.
As the hours wore on, Richard grew frantic. Gwen was soaked in sweat, her voice raw from her cries. She still gripped his hand, which was now quite numb, and he stroked her arm with slow, steady motions, trying to ease the pain in any way he could.
Her screams tore his heart in two. He begged God to spare her, certain she was going to die, certain God was going to punish him once more. He swore that if she survived, he would never make love to her again, never risk losing her just to gratify his own selfish urges.
“I… am… sorry… Richard,” she panted.
“Shh, my love.”
She screamed, clamping his hand so hard it hurt.
“Yes, Gwen, hold onto me. I will share it with you.” God, how he wished he could take the pain away! He had done this to her, and it was only fair he feel it with her, but Nature had contrived to make the burden solely hers.
“’Tis coming now,” the midwife said at last.
The scent of blood made Richard’s stomach churn. He was accustomed to the sight and smell of blood, but not when it belonged to Gwen. It was everything he could do to remain upright.
With a final hoarse cry from Gwen, the babe slid forth into the midwife’s waiting hands. Gwen collapsed, so small and pale in the huge bed.
Richard bent to kiss her sweat-soaked brow. He whispered endearments to her, stroked her face with a trembling hand. Her grip on him loosened and she gazed up at him, her lashes spiky with tears.
“’Tis a son. I know ’tis a son.”
A lump formed in his throat. “It matters not, sweet. ’Tis ours.”
The midwife returned with the babe. “You have a son, milord,” she said. As was customary, she’d washed the infant, rubbed his body with salt, his palate and gums with honey, and bound him in clean linen. And now she was holding him out to his father.
Richard didn’t want to touch the small bundle. He knew nothing about babes, except that they were incredibly delicate.
He’d never been comfortable around children, and he looked at this one with a mixture of awe and trepidation. He glanced at the midwife. She smiled and nodded, urging him to take his son.
He held his arms out hesitantly and she placed the tiny bundle in them. The baby’s face was pinched, his eyes screwed together tightly. His little mouth worked, mimicking suckling motions.
“He has black hair,” was all Richard could manage.
’Twas miraculous, this child he and Gwen had created!
The red face didn’t resemble either one of them that he could see, but it didn’t matter.
He’d thought the love he felt for Gwen was all he was capable of, but he recognized the familiar feeling stirring in his heart.
Gwen laughed weakly. “He has your hair, but he will have my eyes. Let me hold him,” she finished softly.
She held out her arms and Richard gave her their son. She cradled him to her, talking to him like they were old friends. Finally she looked up. “I have already thought of a name for him, if you agree.”
“What?”
She looked down at the babe, then back up at him. “William,” she said simply.
Richard’s heart swelled. He knew he loved her more in that moment than he ever had before. He touched a large finger to his son’s tiny cheek. “Aye, William ’tis.”
Gwen recovered in a few days time. She was up and around, though she remained in her chamber and out of the way of the Englishmen who now occupied Builth castle. Their presence was a bitter reminder of her father’s defeat.
She watched from the window as they made huge piles of the weapons they had seized. Her only comfort in her father’s death was knowing he was with Elinor. That alone made it bearable.
The wet nurse came to take William and she gave him up reluctantly. Noblewomen did not suckle their children.
Rhys came to see her frequently, as did Owain, and she delighted in their company. This day, however, she felt strangely alone. The empty chamber seemed to crush her beneath its solemn weight, its deafening silence.
She’d tried not to think of her father’s death too often, but now she could think of nothing else. They’d already taken his body north to the king and there they would cut off his head and send it to the Tower of London.
She sank onto the bed and cried. She’d not seen Richard very often since their son was born. And when she did, he was quiet, distant. How could she blame him?
Though she’d wronged him by leaving, she would do it again if faced with the same opportunity to make things right with her father.
She knew now it was her own guilt that made her doubt Richard. She was guilty for loving him, guilty for wanting him above all else. When she doubted his motives, it was really her own she was calling into question.
She heard the door open but she couldn’t stop crying. Then she was drawn into strong arms and she buried her face against his surcoat, sobbing all the harder now that he was here.
“I-I had to come, Richard,” she heard herself say.
And then she was spilling the details of her dream, Dafydd’s claim, her entire life spent trying to win her father’s approval.
She told him all of her disappointments, all of her childish efforts, all the hurt she’d never shared with anyone.
His arms tightened around her. She tumbled on, telling him about her reconciliation with her father, their final moments together, the treasured words he’d said: You have never disappointed me. Remember that always.
Richard stroked her back. When she finally looked up, one tear slid down his face, and she reached up to capture it. Her open palm shaped his cheek and he rubbed against her hand, his eyes closing.
“He did not kill my father,” he said softly.
Gwen felt an enormous relief flood her. She didn’t know why it was so important he believe it, but it was. “I knew he could not.”
“’Twas Dafydd who did it.”
She hugged him tight. “I am so sorry, Richard.”
“I have not been truthful with you, Gwen.”
Her heart fell to her feet. Oh God, he was going to tell her he’d never really loved her, or he was married to someone else, or—oh God, she couldn’t think of the possibilities.
“Owain is my uncle.”
“What? But he is Welsh.”
“Aye, he is. And so was his sister, my mother.”
“Catrin,” she said, suddenly understanding.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I heard him say her name, though I knew not who she was. He promised her to look after you.”
A slight smile curved his mouth. “Aye. He is always reminding me of that.”
When he’d told her everything, she gaped at him. “Prince Madoc?” she said. He nodded. “Sweet Mary,” she breathed. “Did my father know?”
“Nay, I do not think so.”
Gwen laid her head against his chest and twisted the cloth of his sleeve in her fingers. “Gwilym ap Rhisiart,” she said, saying her son’s name in Welsh. “He will be prince of Wales.”
Richard shook his head. “Nay, Gwen. Edward will never allow it. He is finished with Wales. He means to conquer her for good.”
“You cannot let him take it away. ’Tis our son’s birthright. You are Welsh!”
“No! I am English, Gwen. I am not a Welshman.”
Gwen pushed away from him, suddenly angry he would be so vehement in his denials. “What is wrong, my lord? Are we not good enough for you? Is it truly so shameful to be Welsh?”
“Gwen—”
“No! My father spent his entire life guarding Welsh territory, Welsh heritage! You cannot allow it to slip away, not when it rightfully belongs to our son. Not when my father wanted it to be so.”
Richard quit the bed. “I am Richard de Claiborne, Earl of Dunsmore,” he said in French, smacking his chest. “I am an English Marcher lord. King Edward is my liege lord and what he commands, I do. Do not ever expect me to break my solemn oaths to my king.”
Gwen bit her quivering lip. “Will we never understand one another, Richard?” she whispered. “Must we always allow King Edward to come between us?”
Without a word, he spun on his heel and stalked from the chamber.