Epilogue

Boston

Early August, 1355

T oo soon for her—though there could be no good time—Amaury had witnessed a seizure in its entirety as she disrobed ahead of a night’s rest. Upon returning to her senses, she had found herself cradled in his arms, a damp bunch of skirt evidencing he placed it between her teeth. And yet the worst The Gloaming roused in him was fierce protectiveness as she knew was his due, though only those first days.

Then came compromise to meet his need to keep her safe and her need for her activities to remain fairly unhindered. The greatest compromise had been securing a maid for her. Though they had planned to do so since moving into the home purchased near The Great Mercia Shipping Company, qualifications for the position had changed.

Fortunately, Fira liked the middle-aged nurse previously employed by a physician who believed seizures were an ill of the body. The woman was kind, a good conversationalist, considerate of the need for privacy and quiet during work on The Book of Wulfrith, and sturdy enough that if Fira suffered a seizure inside or outside the home, she could keep her lady safe.

But could Amaury and I keep a child safe? Fira wondered where she sat at the desk Charles yielded every Monday to teach her the accounting that would free him to lighten Amaury’s other burdens. Though her menses began this morn, she could not be certain precautions taken during intimate relations were effective—and if so, whether they would continue—but were she to birth a babe as her heart wished…

She considered her flat belly, breathed, “Lord,” then again over recall of this day’s tidings that could see Amaury called to go beyond his efforts to keep England’s coast clear of pirates while carrying out his trade.

Those in control of Scotland had been angling for a fight since the beginning of the year when the truce between their country and England ended and negotiations for the release of their imprisoned king broke down. One hostile act after another led to reprisals both sides, and now evidence the Earl of March, whose estates had been plundered by the English, maneuvered to cross the border and do the same to England’s northern lands.

Fortunately, the recently-knighted Rémy was not among additional forces bound for the borderlands where he might be tempted to seek out Hugh and Islay who, had they survived the shipwreck, likely commanded what remained of Les Fléaux. Still, that to which he had been recruited could prove as dangerous to one with little experience in warfare that seemed to kill as many as it scarred regardless of whether they fought the side of the victor or the vanquished.

Now that Prince Edward was to command Gascons in France, gathering men, ships, and supplies to cross the channel and defend ancestral lands and reclaim more of them, soon Rémy would depart England.

“And soon return home,” she whispered heavenward.

“Fira?”

She looked to where Amaury stood in the doorway and attempted to smile away his concern. “Worry not, I am well,” she said lest he fear the still of her was The Fading.

He strode forward. “Where is your maid?”

“As Charles is in the next room, I sent her out to resupply my stock of parchment.”

He came around the desk, raised her face, searched it, then dipped his head and kissed her.

When he straightened, she touched her tongue to her upper lip. “My lord husband tastes of wine.”

“A fine wine that, a pitcher sealing a three-year contract to export Lexeter wool to Flanders.”

The competition of which had been fierce despite the Wulfriths now being related to those of Lexeter by marriage, albeit distantly. “I had faith you would see it done,” she said and passed a missive she had not opened though it was addressed to her as well. “From Mace.”

His mouth was light as he read words inked by the boy with whom he spent more time than anticipated for frequent visits to Wulfenshire these past months, but something disrupted that curve.

“What is wrong, Amaury?”

He extended the missive. “Naught. Merely, our son makes us aware of something for which he longs.”

Our son, she savored, then read his words. All was good, Mace’s training and relations with peers progressing well. But then the parting sentence that expressed hope soon he would have word he was to be a big brother …

For him being told The Falling Sickness might be passed to children born of their union and saying nothing of it until now, her heart lurched.

“I am of a mind to risk it the same as Mace,” he said, “but you have the final word on whether we leave it entirely in God’s hands.”

Meaning they would take no further precautions and the unlikelihood of a babe at her breast would become more likely. Meaning she might have another De Chanson to love.

And one day my heart and my husband’s might hurt over the suffering of a beloved son or daughter, the thought edged in.

“Might,” she whispered and once more felt joy that next month Warin and his wife would welcome their babe into the world. But there was also ache for Fira wanting the same, which would be more deeply felt when she and her husband traveled to the Barony of Woodhearst for the celebration of that birth and Amaury met Warin for the first time and expanded on his brief acquaintance with Vianne.

Fira rose and set her palms on his chest. “I have been thinking on this, and if you are willing to leave it to God, so shall I.”

His nostrils flared. “You are certain?”

“I am certain that between His hands that have long held me and now yours holding me, just as I am kept safe, so shall be any child with whom we are gifted, afflicted or not.”

He drew her into his arms. “I love you, Fira.”

She tipped back her head. “I love you.”

When his mouth closed over hers, she marveled it should feel as if life truly began the day she went in pursuit of an arrow and found a long-lost man.

As he found me…