Rebellious Love (21 page)

As the twilight flickered and died, huge fires could be seen burning in the west. The entire quarter must be aflame, Verony thought dimly as she hastened about her tasks. There was mercifully little time to dwell on what was happening. Every bit of strength and concentration had to be given over to preparing for the injured and homeless who would be unlikely to find care anywhere else.

Not very far away, in the center of the ghetto, Curran also paused a moment to watch the flames. Despite the cool night, his face was streaked with grime and sweat. The heat of burning buildings scared his skin.

Along with his father and Mark, he had ridden hard all day in hope of reaching London before nightfall. After weeks in the saddle, he might have expected to feel some weariness. But the sight of a rampaging mob descending on the homes of unarmed, unprotected families sent a surge of rage tearing through him that banished all fatigue.

It was a relentless, implacable warrior who—in company with the other d'Arcy men and their escort—breached the wall of attackers around the ghetto, established a line of defense around the houses not yet afire and fought fiercely to stop the assault.

They were gravely outnumbered by the drunken, bloodthirsty mob carrying axes, picks, clubs and swords. But with the help of men from the quarter, whose desperate determination made up for their lack of training, they managed to turn the tide.

Fighting alongside a young, bearded rabbi who showed considerable natural talent with the short-sword, Curran led a defensive line that gradually pressed outward against the crowd.

Reclaiming one house not yet engulfed in flames, he dispatched a rampaging citizen about to hurl a howling infant out a second-story window. Returning the child to a sobbing young girl, only just saved from gang rape by the sudden arrival of the defenders, he left a small group to hold the recaptured ground while the rest fought on toward the main focal point of the attack, the synagogue.

It was already on fire when they arrived. All outer walls were aflame and the roof had begun to ignite.

No amount of effort could save the structure, but that did not prevent the young rabbi from racing inside.

Curran yelled at him to stop, without effect. Hesitating barely a moment, he ordered his men to stay where they were and followed.

Thick black smoke almost blinded him. A corner of his cloak wrapped around his face offered little protection. Shouting at the man to come back, he swallowed fumes that made him gag.

Stumbling and choking, Curran managed finally to reach the temple's inner sanctuary. Behind a burning curtain, the rabbi was frantically pulling large, cloth-wrapped scrolls from an ornate box. The man's smoke-reddened eyes opened wide with shock as he spied Curran. Unable to speak because of the thick clouds of smoke, he mutely acquiesced to let him help carry whatever it was he was trying so desperately to save.

Holding onto each other and the scrolls, they only just managed to make it back outside before the entire temple roof gave way in a rush of flame and the building fell in on itself.

Slumped on the ground, retching up blackened mucus, Curran was only dimly aware of his father and Aaron ben Sharon kneeling beside him. A cold cloth was pressed to his face as his helmet was pulled off.

Resisting the removal of his armor, Curran was stopped by the earl. "It's all right. It's over. The mob's been driven off."

When the words penetrated the haze of smoke and blood and flame, Curran relented. He lay back long enough to allow his father to determine that he was not seriously injured, but rejected the suggestion that he rest for a few minutes.

"How many injured?" he demanded, standing up.

Aaron shook his head despondently. "We aren't sure yet. Dozens, at least. And as many dead. If it hadn't been for you and your father ..."

"We will not speak of that, old friend," the Earl Garrett interrupted, "or I will be forced to remind you of the great service you only recently provided to my family."

Aaron did not try again to express his thanks, knowing that words were unnecessary. The look on the earl's face and on the faces of the other warriors slowly gathering round them was enough to silence him. He saw shock and more. In the eyes of lords and knights alike was great shame for what their fellow Christians had done. Later there would be time for Aaron to express his gratitude. Just then it was kinder to say nothing.

A line of wagons entering what remained of the ghetto from the direction of the d'Arcy compound caused no surprise.

Lady Emelie would have anticipated the need to transport the injured. But when the countess herself hopped lightly from one cart, the earl hurried forward in concern.

"You should not be here, Emelie. It's still far too dangerous."

His lady ignored him. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed a short, hard kiss to his lips before demanding briskly: "Let's not waste time in foolish argument, Garrett. We cannot care for the injured here. They must be moved at once. Verony and Arianna are waiting back at the compound with all the necessary supplies."

Glaring at the grin that passed between his sons, the earl gave in with poor grace.

The courtyard of the d'Arcy compound was ablaze with light. Every servant was awake and hurrying about their tasks under the watchful eyes of Verony and Arianna. Large vats stood ready with bandages being soaked in water and fat for the burned. Two reluctant surgeons dragged out of their beds by the countess's men readied their implements. A discomfited priest moved about, trying to determine which among the dead and injured he could legitimately succor.

No such hesitation afflicted the d'Arcy women as they threw themselves into the grisly business of sorting out those who could still benefit from help. Verony steeled herself against the sight of a little girl, her face streaked with blood from a head injury, crying in the arms of her burned mother. Accepting the woman's insistence that the child be seen to first, she gently determined the extent of damage before cleaning and bandaging the wound. With rest and care, the little girl would recover.

But her mother was a different matter. Though the woman remained stoically silent throughout Verony's ministrations, she was clearly in great pain. One arm and shoulder were badly burned and there were lesser burns on her back and legs.

Remembering Lady Emelie's warning that burn victims were particularly susceptible to virulent inflammations, she took special care to apply all the medicines the countess recommended. That done, she wrapped the woman in blankets and eased her onto a pallet. A neighbor who had mercifully escaped with little more than bruises took up the watch beside her as Verony hurried on to others needing her attention.

The hours before dawn passed in a blur. After the initial horror, a welcome numbness set in. It was pierced only briefly, when she found Ruth and Miriam helping with the injured. The women embraced, sharing their sorrow even as Verony found profound relief in the knowledge that all members of the family that had sheltered her had come through the terrible night unharmed.

"Aaron is still with the earl," Ruth told her. "They are keeping watch over what's left of our homes and businesses, to prevent looting." She took a shaky breath, blinking back tears. "May the Lord protect them. If it hadn't been for Earl Garrett, his sons and his men, none of us would be alive."

"I thought we were doomed," Miriam admitted, "when I saw the mob coming. Our men would fight with all their strength and courage, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they were overcome." Her eyes darkened with remembered terror.

Ruth put an arm around her shoulders comfortingly. "Your husband deserves our special thanks," she told Verony. "He went into the burning temple after Rabbi Josephus to bring out the scrolls."

"The scrolls?" Verony repeated blankly. "Our holy writings," Ruth explained. "To us they are as living things, the symbol of our belief. When scrolls are destroyed, we bury the remains just as we would a person. Their loss would have caused great sorrow throughout our community."

Glad though she was that Curran had been able to help their friends in some mysterious way, Verony was more concerned with his safety. He had yet to return from the Quarter, and though she knew his continued absence meant he was unharmed, she still needed reassurance of his well-being. "Did you see him?" she asked. Ruth smiled understandingly. "Only for a moment as we were leaving to come here. He was lifting children into the wagons and looked dirty and tired, but uninjured."

Verony thanked her softly. The worst of the casualties had been seen to, and activity in the courtyard was slowing down. A few people still moved around, checking on friends and relatives, but most lay quietly on straw pallets.

In the aftermath of terror, shock was settling in. Voices were muted, faces pale. Children whimpered fearfully in their sleep. Adults soothed them automatically, their minds still engulfed by the terror they had passed through.

Among the last left on their feet after that long, exhausting night were the d'Arcy women. Lady Emelie and Arianna were rolling up the few leftover bandages when Verony joined them. They were both white-faced and weary, but still had more strength than her burdened body could manage. It needed but a single look for the countess to order her off to bed.

"You've already worked far too hard and there's little more to be done here. Go and lie down before nature compels you to do so."

Only the knowledge that the last thing they needed was another patient forced Verony to obey. Wearily she trudged up the stairs to her chamber, where Hilda waited.

The old nurse, who had done more than her part in caring for the injured, was beside herself with dismay. Muttering dire comments about noble ladies' disregard for their well-being, she eased Verony's bloodstained clothes from her, washed her gently in warm water and slid a clean linen chemise over her head before tucking her into bed.

"Don't let me see you move, my lady," the nurse warned ominously. "You'll answer to me and Lord Curran if you do, and I've no doubt what he would say."

Verony smiled tiredly. She would be willing to listen to anything from Curran if only he was there to be with her. Hoping that he would soon return, she drifted into uneasy sleep.

Her rest did not last long. Before the sun was fully risen, a stabbing pain in her back woke her. Verony lay unmoving in the bed, hoping the discomfort would ease. It did, only to return within minutes.

A sheen of perspiration shone on her face as the pain came and went through the next hour. Each time it returned, the hurt was greater until finally a low anguished moan broke from her.

Hilda, who had remained near her mistress, was instantly alert. She bent over Verony worriedly, taking in the ashen pallor of her skin and the contractions rippling through her swollen belly.

Squeezing the young girl's hand reassuringly, she hurried out to fetch Lady Emelie. While she was gone, Verony lay staring up at the beamed ceiling. No words had been needed to tell her that out of this night of blood and fire her child would be born.

V
erony floated in a sea of pain. Far from any hope of rescue, she drifted under a burning sky. A relentless red sun seared her. Tossed on waves of agony, her body arched piteously, too weary even to cry out.

The women gathered in the room looked at each other helplessly. Through all the previous day and the long night, they had done everything within their skill to bring the child forth alive. Every remedy had been tried, and had failed. In the last desperate hours, even those ancient practices prohibited by the church were resurrected in a final, extreme attempt to save the life drifting away from them.

Nothing worked. Hour followed torturous hour, and still the child would not be born. Lady Emelie wondered if it even still lived. Not that it mattered.

Verony stood on the brink of death. Downstairs, watched over by his father and brothers, Curran was going slowly mad. Silently Lady Emelie told herself there would be other children. But only if Verony lived.

Stepping to a corner of the room, the countess motioned to Ruth ben Sharon. The two women spoke urgently for several minutes before nodding in agreement. Servants were sent for fresh towels and water. Hilda was dispatched to the kitchens after some herbal concoction it would take a good while to find. Miriam followed her to the door, making sure no priest was in sight.

Lady Emelie opened her medicine chest. She carefully removed the fitted trays holding ointments, tinctures and elixirs. Beneath the last, hidden under a false bottom, lay half a dozen steel implements. They bore no resemblance to the crude, often filthy tools used by the surgeons. Brought from the East, where medicine maintained an exacting standard free of religious interference, the blades, needles and forceps were meticulously honed and clean.

Even so, she took the precaution of carefully scrubbing her hands and purifying the tools in fire before returning to the bed. Sorrow gripped her as she stared down at the tormented face of her daughter-in-law. Silently she prayed that Verony would understand and forgive her.

Arianna eased the covers back. Her face tightened with pity as she moved Verony's legs apart. Ruth gripped her arms. Lady Emelie moved to the foot of the bed, her hand taut on the forceps. She paused just a moment, to go over carefully in her mind exactly what must be done.

Her hesitation lasted barely the length of a single breath, but in that instant Verony's eyes shot open. A low moan of protest broke from her, distracting the women who had thought her far beyond consciousness.

Verony's anguished mind, lying dazed and exhausted beneath a red haze of pain, still managed to grasp the meaning of what Lady Emelie held.

Her cracked lips parted. Breath rushed through her throat raw with screaming. "N-nooo . . . !"

Downstairs, Curran heard her. For the first time in hours, a tiny glimmer of hope darted through him. Verony was alive and at least semiconscious. Hard upon that relief came the knowledge that she was aware of her suffering. His self-control snapped.

He had waited too long, letting himself believe that others would be able to help her. They could hot, and he could no longer bear for her to endure alone. Evading the well-meaning restraint of his father and brothers, he dashed up the steps.

The scene that confronted him as he burst into the room needed no explanation. He saw his wife, her belly still grotesquely swollen with the child, trying frantically to rise. Arianna and Miriam were struggling to stop her. Emelie stood uncertainly at the foot of the bed, white-faced and trembling. Ruth had an arm around her shoulders. Her other hand held the forceps Emelie had dropped in shock when Verony began to fight what must surely be inevitable.

"There is no other way," the countess said quickly when she saw her son. "If the child remains within her, she will die."

Curran did not reply. All his attention was focused on Verony. Pain twisted through him, made all the more acute by guilt over his part in her suffering. Arianna and Miriam stepped aside as he sat down on the bed, drawing his wife into his arms.

"P-please . . ." she murmured piteously, "don't let them . . . The baby . . . has to have a chance. . . . Don't let them . . ."

Curran looked at his mother questioningly. He did not blame her for what she intended to do. He understood full well that she would not have even considered it if it hadn't been absolutely necessary. But of all the people gathered in the room, he alone understood what Verony would go through if the child was killed to save her. Knowing the almost limitless extent of her love and compassion, he doubted she would be able to survive such sorrow.

"Is there any other way?" he asked softly.

Lady Emelie hesitated. All the signs indicated that Verony would die unless the baby was removed quickly. But she knew enough of human nature to understand that women such as her daughter-in-law were capable of extraordinary feats of courage and strength, especially if supported by a man she cherished.

"Ruth and I have both tried to bring the baby out," she explained. "But it is twisted in such a way that neither of us could manage. Verony's strength is almost gone. She can no longer bear down with the contractions to help force the child from her. She has lost a great deal of blood, and each moment this continues increases the chances that she will hemorrhage. One way or another, it must end."

Curran nodded slowly. He touched a gentle hand to his wife's face, feeling the cold clamminess of her skin. Her eyes, pools of suffering bright with the acceptance of her own mortality, locked with his. "D-don't listen to them . . . The baby must live. . . . Nothing else matters. ..."

He swallowed hard, fighting down the aimless rage her words provoked. It would do no good to rail against the merciless fate that sought to take her from him. Nor would he argue with Verony herself. Profoundly touched by her selflessness, he still disagreed with it totally. Her life was vastly more important to him than that of the child who might or might not survive.

Only the torment of her pain-filled features stopped him from telling Lady Emelie to go ahead. In the severest test of his courage that he had ever faced, Curran reached a decision. He placed Verony's hand gently back beside her and moved to the foot of the bed.

"Let me try."

His mother wavered. She wanted desperately to believe that he might be able to help, but she doubted he could do more than increase Verony's torment and his own. "Your hands are too large ..."

"Perhaps. But I will still try." Looking up, he held his wife's gaze with his own. "And Verony will help me. We'll bring this child forth together." He did not add that it no longer mattered to him whether the

baby came out dead or alive. All that counted was that she trust him enough to cease all resistance and let him do what had to be done.

Through the burning cloud of her pain, Verony understood him. She knew this was the child's last chance, and perhaps hers as well. Some hard kernel of denial dissolved within her. She could feel her mind and spirit becoming fluid, barriers melting, merging slowly, effortlessly into the mind and spirit of the man who held all her attention.

The room, the other women, the pain itself all faded from her consciousness. There was only Curran, his strength and determination all that now stood between her and death.

His hands were carefully washed and oiled when he next approached the bed. Clean towels were laid beneath her. The women stood back, knowing they had no part in this final struggle for life.

At first, he believed his mother was correct. He could not reach inside her to find the child. But after a long painful moment, the bones of her body seemed to relax. He could feel them giving way before his gentle, careful probing even as his own hand seemed to reshape to fit her.

In the instant that he touched the child, Curran almost recoiled. His eyes closed in horror. What monster had he spawned? There were multiple arms and legs, all tangled together. His discovery must have shown on his face, for his mother made a quick motion, causing Arianna to step forward, blocking Verony's view.

The mass of limbs and torso finally gave way to a small, smooth head. Closing his fingers around it, Curran pressed his other hand against Verony's abdomen. He pushed hard even as she summoned the last of her strength in a final, desperate effort to expel the child.

He was sweating profusely when a patch of dark, wet fuzz finally appeared. "It's coming," Lady Emelie breathed. "Careful now . . ." Ruth moved forward with a blanket to receive what they all feared would be a twisted parody of a human child.

Slowly, cautiously, Curran drew out the head. It was followed quickly by wide shoulders framed by sturdy arms ... a long, glistening torso . . . and two robust legs ending in dimpled feet.

His mouth dropped open in blank amazement as he stared at his perfectly formed son who was already squalling noisily. The child looked, at least at a quick glance, to be completely normal. Certainly he was nothing like the atrocity his father had touched. What then could he possibly have felt inside his wife's overburdened womb?

The answer was not long in coming. A low mew of protest rippled from the almost unconscious Verony as yet another contraction wracked her body. With the path to the world at last unblocked, nothing could hold back the tiny but vigorous girl born just minutes after her brother.

Curran had little awareness of what happened next. He swayed slightly, prompting Lady Emelie to shove a stool under him from which he watched dazedly as the women sprang into action. Freed of the weight of impending tragedy, they lost no time staunching the small amount of blood that followed the afterbirth and getting Verony clean and comfortable as the babies were carefully washed and tucked into a nest of blankets.

"We'll have to fetch another from the storerooms," Lady Emelie murmured bemusedly, staring down at the crowded cradle, "but I don't suppose it will hurt them to share awhile longer since they've been doing just that these last nine months."

Arianna shook her head in wonderment. "Verony did seem to be getting awfully big. But I never guessed ..."

"Neither did I," the befuddled countess admitted. "There was only a single heartbeat, and though I thought the child unusually vigorous, it never occured to me there were actually two of them!"

Ruth gazed down at the infants in the cradle. The boy was larger by far, but it was the girl who had her eyes opened and gave every appearance of already sizing up the strange place in which she found herself. "They shared a single birth sac," she pointed out, "and their hearts probably beat in unison, making you believe there was only one."

"But there wasn't," Curran muttered, coming out of his stupor sufficiently to stare at his children. "I can't believe it. . . twins ..."

Rising shakily, he went to stand beside Verony. She was deeply asleep, her red-gold hair spread over the pillow and her lovely face already regaining something of its normal color. Infinite tenderness and gratitude filled him as he gently lifted her hand, pressing a long kiss into her palm.

A low sigh escaped him. Still holding her hand, he sat down beside her. Despite the great fatigue following hard on the release of his terrible fear, he remained there throughout the day. No thought of rest could distract him from the slow rise and fall of her breath, surely the most precious sight in all the world.