This 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.