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“I do not understand,” Judith fumed. “He has never spoken to me of a daughter—or of any child. ” She recalled asking him, that very first night they’d spoken in the bailey at Clarendon. He’d never answered her.
Then a thought struck her, slightly easing her concern. She looked at Tabatha. “Is Violet his legitimate daughter?” If she had been born out of wedlock, that could explain why Mal hadn’t told her, and why he would have little to do with Violet. Many men did little more than acknowledge their natural children.
“Aye, she is the daughter of Lord Malcolm and Lady Sarah. The only child of their issue. ”
Judith’s heart fell. He never told me of her. Why did he never tell me?
Was he ashamed of Violet? Of the simple little girl who could never be a great lady? Did he simply mean to ignore her existence because she would never be more than a gentle, childish girl? Though it did not seem like the Malcolm she’d come to know, Judith was well aware of the import men set upon their heirs. Particularly sons.
One thing was certain. She was not about to neglect the girl as much as her father appeared to have done. Whether Mal liked it or not, Violet was a lady of Warwick.
At last. By God, at last Mal could return to his wife.
The disease that filtered through Warwick had died away, in the end killing fifteen cows and bulls as well as six people, though several more had been infected. But there had been no new instances of the illness for over a se’ennight, and that was enough to give Mal the confidence to leave.
Back to Lilyfare. Back to Judith. Back to Violet. The rhythm of those thoughts, which he’d done his best to bury since arriving at Warwick, settled in his mind as he rode along. He felt a combination of trepidation and anticipation at seeing his wife again. But, by the rood, it had been well over two months since he’d touched her—and as he’d had no word from her otherwise, he must assume she was not with child.
Malcolm could not summon even a bit of disappointment over that conclusion, for that only meant he must try again. And she could not deny him that, tears or no tears.
At the least, that was what he told himself.
Malcolm pressed his party of men-at-arms to travel as quickly as possible. They had more than a day’s journey to Delbring, where they could take succor for the night, and then another half day to Lilyfare.
But Mal did not wish to delay even for a night of sleep on a soft pallet at Delbring. They would push on and rest for some short hours beneath the stars, well past Lady Beatrice’s estate, which would bring them to Lilyfare before the midday meal on the second day.
Yet the best-laid plans are oft disrupted, as Malcolm well knew, and later on when they were not far from Delbring they spied a fast-riding messenger bearing the standard of that estate.
“Ho there!”
Malcolm’s group paused when they were hailed by the Delbring messenger, a man-at-arms who was well-known to them. “Lord Warwick, greetings!” said Sir Gilard.
“Where do you go in such a hurry?” Malcolm asked, even as he eyed the sun’s distance from the horizon. Eight hours and he would be at Lilyfare…and in his wife’s bed. Just after midnight, but well before dawn.
Once there, he had no intention of leaving the chamber until the noon meal.
“I am come with a message to you, my lord. From Lord Bruse of Delbring. ”
“Then deliver it, man, for we travel hard and fast,” Malcolm told him.
“Lord Bruse sends word of a plague that is spreading through our cattle. One of our villagers has taken ill as well, with the same red-orange spots that afflicted the cows. He is fearful for his wife, daughter, and infant son, and asks for succor for them until the plague has passed. ”
Peste. Now Mal would be delayed, despite his intention otherwise. “We have just come from Warwick after battling that selfsame illness. I will confer with Lord Bruse, for there is a treatment. Let us to Delbring. ”
“Aye, my lord. He would speak with you. But Lady Ondine, Lady Beatrice, and the child are some leagues behind me. He has sent them out to be safe from the illness. ”
“Very well. I shall talk with Lord Bruse, and his family may ride with us. But we are bound for Lilyfare, which is only some hours ride west. I have left Warwick closed, for I do not wish the illness to resurrect there until all have recovered. Mayhap Lord Bruse’s family will go with us to Lilyfare, where my wife will offer hospitality. ”
“Then let us go on,” Sir Gilard said, relief clearly on his face.
A short time later, Malcolm was speaking with Bruse, just outside the gates of the bailey at Delbring. Lady Ondine’s and Lady Beatrice’s traveling party, whom they’d met on the way, waited on the side of the road.
“We had this very plague at Warwick,” Mal told him, noting that the older man seemed weary and worried. “Six dead and more than two dozen cattle before I learned of a medicine that will ease the symptoms and save most lives—except those of the very young and weak. ’Tis smart to send your infant son away. ”
“There is a remedy?” Bruse’s eyes lit with hope.
“Aye. I learned of it in a letter from Maris of Ludingdon, who is very skilled in healing. ’Tis bearberry leaves steeped with rosemary. Drink it once the first spot appears. But we will take your wife, daughter and son to Lilyfare to ensure their safety. ”
Bruse nodded, his face showing relief. “Many thanks, Malcolm. And felicitations on your excellent choice of Judith of Kentworth. I cannot say I am not disappointed Beatrice did not make a match with you, but nor can I fault you for taking a much wealthier bride. ”
