Only the Worthy (3 page)

Six
Moons Later

Rea lay on the
pile of furs beside her small, roaring fireplace, entirely and utterly alone,
and groaned and shrieked in agony as her labor pains came. Outside, the winter
wind howled as fierce gales slammed the shutters against the sides of the house
and snow burst in drifts into the cottage. The raging storm matched her mood.

Rea’s face was
shiny with sweat as she sat beside the small fire, yet she could not get warm,
despite the raging flames, despite the baby kicking and spinning in her stomach
as if it were trying to leap out. She was wet and cold, shaking all over, and
she felt certain that she would die on this night. Another labor pain came, and
feeling the way she did, she wished the marauder had just killed her back then;
it would have been more merciful. This slow prolonged torture, this night of
sheer agony, was a thousand times worse than anything he could have ever done
to her.

Suddenly, rising
even over her shrieks, over the gales of wind, there came another sound—perhaps
the only sound left that was capable of sending a jolt of fear up her spine.

It was the sound
of a mob. An angry mob of villagers, coming, she knew, to kill her child.

Rea summoned
every last ounce of strength, strength she did not even know she had left, and,
shaking, somehow managed to lift herself up off the floor. Groaning and
screaming, she landed on her knees, wobbling. She reached out for a wooden peg
on the wall, and with everything she had, with one great shriek she rose to
standing.

She could not
tell if it hurt more to be lying down or on her feet. But she had no time to
ponder it. The mob grew louder, closer, and she knew they would soon arrive.
Her dying would not bother her. But her baby dying—that was another matter. She
had to get this child safe, no matter what it took. It was the strangest thing,
but she felt more attached to the baby’s life than her own.

Rea managed to
stumble to the door and crashed into it, using the knob to hold herself up. She
stood there, breathing hard for several seconds, resting on the knob, bracing
herself. Finally, she turned it. She grabbed the pitchfork leaning against the
wall and, propping herself up on it, opened the door.

Rea was met by a
sudden gale of wind and snow, cold enough to take her breath away. The shouts
met her, too, rising even over the wind, and her heart dropped to see in the
distance the torches, winding their way toward her like enraged fireflies in
the night. She glanced up at the sky and between the clouds caught a glimpse of
a huge blood red moon, filling the sky. She gasped. It was not possible. She
had never seen the moon shine red, and had never seen it in a storm. She felt a
sharp kick in her stomach, and she suddenly knew, without a doubt, that that
moon was a sign. It was meant for the birth of her child.

Who is he
? she wondered.

Rea reached down
and held her stomach with both hands as another person writhed inside her. She
could feel his power, aching to break through, as if he were eager to fight
this mob himself.

Then they came.
The flaming torches lit the night as a mob appeared before her, emerging from
the alleys, heading right for her. If she had been her old self, strong, able,
she would have made a stand. But she could barely walk—barely stand—and she
could not face them now. Not with her child about to come.

Even so, Rea
felt a primal rage course through her, along with a primal strength, the primal
strength, she knew, of her baby. She received a jolt of adrenaline, too, and
her labor pains momentarily subsided. For a brief moment, she felt back to
herself.

The first of the
villagers arrived, a short, fat man, running for her, holding out a sickle. As
he neared, Rea reached back, grabbed the pitchfork with both hands, stepped
sideways, and released a primal scream as she drove it right through his gut.

The man stopped
in shock, then collapsed at her feet. The mob stopped, too, looking at her in
shock, clearly not expecting that.

Rea did not
wait. She extracted the pitchfork in one quick motion, spun it overhead, and
smashed the next villager across the cheek as he lunged at her with his club.
He, too, dropped, landing in the snow at her feet.

Rea felt an
awful pain in her side as another man rushed forward and tackled her, driving
her down into the snow. They slid several feet, Rea groaning in pain as she
felt the baby kicking within her. She wrestled with the man in the snow,
fighting for her life, and as his grip momentarily loosened, Rea, desperate,
sank her teeth into his cheek. He shrieked as she bit down hard, drawing blood,
tasting it, not willing to let go, thinking of her baby.

Finally he
rolled off of her, grabbing his cheek, and Rea saw her opportunity. Slipping in
the snow, she crawled to her feet, ready to run. She was nearly there when
suddenly she felt a hand grab her hair from behind. This man nearly yanked her
hair out of her head as he pulled her back down to the ground and dragged her
along. She looked back to see Severn scowling down at her.

“You should have
listened when you had the chance,” he seethed. “Now you will be killed, along
with your baby.”

Rea heard a
cheer from the mob, and she knew she had reached her end. She closed her eyes
and prayed. She had never been a religious person, but at this moment, she
found God.

I pray, with
every ounce of who I am, that this child be saved. You can let me die. Just
save the child.

As if her
prayers were answered, she suddenly felt the release of pressure on her hair,
while at the same time she heard a thump. She looked up, startled, wondering
what could have happened.

When she saw who
had come to her rescue, she was stunned. It was a boy—Nick—several years
younger than her. The son of a peasant farmer, like she, he had never been that
bright, always picked on by the others. Yet she had always been kind to him.
Perhaps he remembered.

She watched as
Nick raised a club and smashed Severn in the side of the head, knocking him off
of her.

Nick then faced
off with the mob, holding out his club and blocking her from the others.

“Go quickly!” he
yelled to her. “Before they kill you!”

Rea stared back
at him with gratitude and shock. This mob would surely pummel him.

She jumped to
her feet and ran, slipping as she went, determined to get far while she still
had time. She ducked into alleyways, and before she disappeared, she glanced
back to see Nick swinging wildly at the villagers, clubbing several of them.
Several men, though, pressed forward and tackled him to the ground. With him
out of the way, they ran after her.

Rea ran. Gasping
for breath, she twisted and turned through the alleys, looking for shelter.
Heaving, in horrific pain, she did not know how much farther she could go.

She finally
found herself exiting into the village proper, with its elegant stone houses,
and she glanced back with dread to see they were closing in, hardly twenty feet
away. She gasped, stumbling more than running. She knew she was reaching her
end. Another labor pain was coming.

Suddenly there
came a sharp creak, and Rea looked up to see an ancient oak door before her
open wide. She was startled to see Fioth, the old apothecary, peek out from his
small stone fort, wide-eyed, beckoning her to enter quickly. Fioth reached out
and yanked her with a grip surprisingly strong for his old age, and Rea found
herself stumbling through the door of the luxurious keep.

He slammed and
bolted it behind her.

A moment later
the thumping came, the hands and sickles of dozens of irate villagers trying to
knock it down. Yet the door held, to Rea’s immense relief. It was a foot thick
and centuries older than she. Its heavy iron bolts did not even bend.

Rea breathed
deep. Her baby was safe.

Fioth leaned
over and examined her, his face filled with compassion, and seeing his gentle
look helped her more than anything else. No one had looked upon her with
kindness in this village for months.

He removed her
furs as she gasped from another labor pain. It was quiet in here, the gales of
snow brushing the roof muted, and very warm.

Fioth led her to
the fire’s side and laid her down on a pile of furs. It was then that it all
hit her: the running, the fighting, the pain. She collapsed. Even if there were
a thousand men knocking down the door, she knew she could not move again.

She shrieked as
a sharp labor pain tore through her.

“I can’t run,” Rea
gasped, beginning to cry. “I cannot run anymore.”

He ran a cool,
damp cloth across her forehead.

“No need to run
anymore,” he said, his voice, ancient, reassuring, as if he had seen it all
before. “I am here now.”

She shrieked and
groaned as another pain ripped through her. She felt as if she were being torn
in two.

“Lean back!” he
commanded.

She did as she
was told—and a second later, she felt it. A tremendous pressure between her
legs.

There suddenly
came a sound that terrified her.

A wail.

The scream of a
baby.

She nearly
blacked out from the pain.

She watched the
apothecary’s expert hands, as she went in and out of consciousness, pulling the
child from her, reaching out with something sharp, cutting the umbilical cord.
She watched him wipe the baby with a cloth, clear its lungs, nose, throat.

The wail and
scream came even louder.

Rea burst into
tears. It was such a relief to hear the sound, penetrating her heart, rising
even above the slamming of the villagers against the door. A child.

Her
child.

He was alive.
Against all odds, he had been born.

Rea was dimly
aware of the apothecary wrapping him in a blanket, and then she felt the warmth
as he placed him in her arms. She felt the weight of him on her chest, and she
held him tight as he screamed and wailed. She had never been so overjoyed,
tears gushing down her face.

Suddenly, there
came a new sound: horses galloping. The clanging of armor. And then, shrieks.
It was no longer the sound of the mob shouting to kill her—but rather, of the
mob being killed itself.

Rea listened,
baffled, trying to understand. Then she felt a wave of relief. Of course. The
noble had come back to save her. To save his child.

“Thank God,” she
said. “The knights have come to my rescue.”

Rea felt a
sudden burst of optimism. Perhaps he would take her away from all this. Perhaps
she would have a chance to start life over again. Her boy would grow up in a
castle, become a great lord, and perhaps she would, too. Her baby would have a
good life.
She
would have a good life.

Rea felt a flood
of relief, tears of joy flooding her cheeks.

“No,” the
apothecary corrected, his voice heavy. “They have not come to save your baby.”

She stared back,
confused. “Then why have they come?”

He stared at her
grimly.

“To kill it.”

She stared back,
aghast, feeling a cold dread run through her.

“They did not
trust the job to a mob of villagers,” he added. “They wanted to make sure it
was done right, by their own hands.”

Rea felt ice run
through her veins.

“But…” she
stammered, trying to understand, “…my baby belongs to the knight. Their
commander. Why? Why would they want to kill it?”

Fioth shook his
head grimly.

“Your knight,
the baby’s father, was murdered,” he explained. “Many moons ago. Those men you
hear are not his own. They are his rivals. They want his baby dead. They want
you
dead.”

He stared back
with a panicked urgency and she knew, with dread, that he spoke the truth.

“You must both
flee this place!” he urged. “Now!”

He had hardly finished
uttering the words when there came the crash of an iron pole against the door.
This time it was no mere farmer’s sickle—it was a professional knight’s
battering ram. As it hit, the door buckled.

Fioth turned to
her, eyes wide in panic.

“GO!” he shouted.

Rea looked back
at him, terror-stricken, wondering, in her condition, if she could even stand.

He grabbed her,
though, and yanked her to her feet. She shrieked in pain, the motion pure
agony.

“Please!” she
cried. “It hurts too much! Let me die!”

“Look in your
arms!” he cried back. “Do you want him to die?”

Rea looked down
at the boy wailing in her arms, and as another smash came against the door, she
knew he was right. She could not let him die here.

“What about
you?” she moaned, realizing. “They will kill you, too.”