Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

Prologue

Castle Prydd

November 1280

his night the gods were angry. The wind howled and the sea raged with a fury that tore at the cliffs on which Castle Prydd had stood for over a hundred years.

Shivering, Isolde held her precious basket close. A midwife whom some believed to be a witch, she caught her bony fingers in the cowl of her cloak and hurried toward the great hall. Rain, as cold as the soul of the very devil himself, lashed from a sky where black clouds roiled and blocked the moon. Whistling eerily, the wind raced from the sea, dancing in death-light footsteps up the back of Isolde’s wrinkled old neck. Strong gusts tore at the thatch on the roofs of the stables and sheds in the outer bailey. Lightning split the sky in sizzling forks, and the low rumble of thunder could be heard over the steady pounding of the surf.

Isolde cast a fearful look to the stormy heavens and whispered a quick prayer, for she knew God was furious with her for practicing the pagan ways of the old people.

“Think not of what I do, Lord. Just be with the lady,” she begged, clutching the damp handle of her basket more tightly. As if God would turn His deaf ear her way!

Through the portcullis and across the inner bailey she dashed, her leather shoes sinking deep in the muddy trail caused by the horses and men who had trampled the grass on their way to the great hall. A few knights lingering on the steps wore grim countenances, for Lady Cleva, beloved wife of the baron, was losing blood, perhaps losing her life, in the birthing of her long-awaited second child.

Unless Isolde could help and change the course of destiny.

Cleva’s firstborn, a boy named Tadd, was barely seven, but was already spoiled and stubborn, with a cruel streak that Isolde had witnessed too often. He was quick with a whip to his pony’s back and quicker yet to kick at the hounds and send them yelping in pain. Tadd had wounded some of his playmates as well, scratching, kicking, biting, and punching, and knowing always that he would be the victor in any match, for he was the baron’s eldest child: the chosen heir to Prydd.

Aye, he was a bad seed, that one. Yet there were no other children to Baron Eaton and his wife. Three times since Tadd had been delivered screaming into the world, Cleva had been with child. Two had miscarried early, but the last infant had been in Cleva’s womb the full time, only to be born blue-lipped and weak. The newborn had died within hours of his birth, and the Lady Cleva, who had lost much blood, had been so distraught with her grief, the baron had put her under guard for fear she might take her own life.

And now the lady was in a difficult labor yet again. Isolde crossed herself quickly. She was no fool. The baron would only have called for her in the most dire of circumstances, for Father William, the chaplain of Prydd, disdained her use of herbs and spells.

“ ’Tis the magic of the devil. Witchcraft,” he’d said on more than one occa

sion. Lifting a lofty brow, he’d added, “And it will be in hell you’ll be dwellin’, Isolde, for all eternity.”

William was quick to preach the wages of sin to those who lived in Prydd, but Isolde suspected that he, too, was guilty of a few vices himself. Too often William’s eyes wandered to the wenches during meals, and several times Isolde had watched as he’d stumbled near the altar and slurred the mass, as if he’d tasted frequently of the baron’s wine.

Yea, William would have put up a fight at the thought of having Isolde birth this new baby. But the baron loved his wife more than he loved his God, and he would do anything to save Cleva—even call upon Isolde’s sorcery, if needs be.

“This way, woman,” the guard said as he shoved open the thick oaken door of the great hall. Inside, the sounds of the castle were muted. Four soldiers rolled dice near the staircase, maids spread clean rushes near the hearth, the smith stacked firewood in the corner, and the steward with his nasal voice barked orders to the cook in the kitchen.

A fire crackled and hissed, giving off a red glow, but the castle felt cold with the presence of death. Two yellow-eyed hounds growled at Isolde’s approach, as if they, too, knew she wasn’t a true believer in all that was holy.

“Isolde! Come quickly!” Baron Eaton hurried down the stairs. He grabbed her arms and half dragged her up the slick stone steps. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a cap of thick red hair that framed a fair, freckled face. His eyes were as blue as the skies over Wales, and his features were sharp, whittled to steep, aristocratic angles. Rumored to be the bastard son of the king, he was a handsome and strong man. Yet his worry was deep; his usually clear eyes clouded with concern.

“Thank the saints you’ve come.” Rowena hurried toward them, causing the light from the sconces to flicker in her wake. A rotund woman with fine white hair and a red complexion, she, too, was a midwife. But she was a Christian woman of uncommon faith. No one would doubt her devotion to God, not even Father William. Rowena grabbed Isolde’s hands in her plump fingers. “Lady Cleva calls for you. The labor …” Her words were choked off, and she bit her lip. “Well, come, come … there’s no time to waste. The baby’s turned, I fear, and … Oh, please, just hurry.”

Low, pain-racked moans echoed through the upper hallway. The lady was in agony, to be sure. Isolde’s footsteps quickened until she spied Father William standing guard at the door to Cleva’s room. Isolde crossed herself, but William’s fleshy fingers curled around her bent elbow, and he stopped her short before she could enter.

“This is a Christian house, midwife,” he cautioned, his voice booming through the castle.

“Aye, Father.”

“I know of your ways. There will be no devil magic here. No chanting. No witch’s charms.”

Isolde stared long into his red-veined eyes. “I am here to help with the birthing, Father. That is all.”