Gawain (24 page)

“Ah, a
peace
weaver.”

“We had much war,” Elga said between clenched teeth. “Many men died. There is much . . . bad feeling. The women—they do not—do not—forgive—”

“Go with it,” Aislyn said, “don’t fight it, keep breathing.”

“That was very bad,” the girl said at last, wiping the sweat from her upper lip.

“Very
good
,” Aislyn corrected her. “Why, you’ll be holding your babe before you know it. Let’s see if we can get around the clearing once more.”

“I wish my mother was here,” she said, and her dark blue eyes filled with tears. “We go to meet her, she is promised to be with me for the birthing.”

“She’ll be here soon, and won’t she be surprised to have it all over and done? Give her more time with her grand-baby, that will, and she’ll likely spoil the two of you rotten.”

Lady Elga looked puzzled, then laughed. “You know not my mother. She bears many babes and never does she complain. Two daughters, eight sons, and all of us still living.”

“You come from good stock, then,” Aislyn said, guiding her onward. “But I’ll wager she never bore a one of you in the middle of a forest! Oh, she’ll be rare pleased to hear how brave you’ve been.”

“I—I hope so,” was all Lady Elga had time for before another pain had her in its grip.

“Good! Aye, I know it hurts,” Aislyn said as the girl stared at her in terrified disbelief, “but that just means you’re nearly done. A few more like that and you’ll be a mother. It isn’t pleasant,” she went on, leading the girl around the clearing once again, “but ’tis all exactly as it should be, just as it was for your mother and hers before her. There, now, that’s enough walking. Lie you down here—they’ve made a good job of this bedding, haven’t they? Just like in a palace, with a canopy and all. Off with your gown, now, and let’s have a look here.”

She reached into her bag for her ointment. “Just relax your legs. Good, that’s the way. Do you have a name for the babe?” she asked.

“No,” the girl replied, tight-lipped.

“You’d best start thinking of one. There, that will ease the passage nicely,” Aislyn said, blinking hard as sweat dripped into her eyes. “Let’s see how far this babe has come—good, lady, that’s done, and oh, you’re doing fine, this won’t be a long job. Now, we’ll just undo that braid, we don’t want anything bound about you. My, what nice hair you have!” she gabbled on, hardly knowing what she said. “Like—like wheat before the threshing.”

The lady gave a choked laugh. “Threshing. Aye.”

“Here we go,” Aislyn said as the huge mound of the girl’s belly drew together into a tight knot. “Lean against me, that’s the way, and when you feel the need, you give a good, hard push. That’s it. Now. Go on, push! Don’t hold back, yell if it helps—good! There, that’s past and it was a good one. Lie back . . . that’s right, hinny, that’s the way. I know it’s hard,” she said, stroking the sweat-darkened hair back from her brow, “but you’re a strong lass, a brave lass, and it will soon be done. All is well, you did just fine, you’ve earned a rest . . .”

A rest was what she needed, too, but that was impossible with the girl’s weight in her arms. She eased herself back until her spine was against a tree trunk and cradled the girl’s head against her breast, while the birds chattered and scolded in the branches above. Seen thus closely, Aislyn could appreciate the beauty of the girl’s pure, high brow and the bold planes of her face.

Before the afternoon was gone, she had come to have a deep appreciation for her courage, as well.

It wasn’t a particularly hard birth, but it seemed terrible to Aislyn. The pains grew longer and harder, and when the girl began to shake as though in the grip of a high fever, Aislyn was sure something had gone terribly awry. But even if it had, there was naught that she could do save the small things women have always done for one another: wipe the girl’s brow, hold her hands, assure her—with a creeping shame at her own duplicity—that all was well. From time to time, she would see one of the men—usually the youngest—peering through the trees, but they never stayed long. Aislyn wished that she could leave, as well.

I could never do this,
she thought, as another piercing scream ripped through the clearing. Never. What could possibly be worth this agony? But then, as the sun was sinking over the topmost trees, the babe was born at last. Aislyn cradled the tiny scrap of flesh that had been the cause of all this pain and worry, too relieved that it was over to even check its limbs or ascertain its sex.

She glanced down into its face. Two eyes stared back at her, slate blue and very serious. This wasn’t just a burden for its mother to be rid of. It was a living thing—or more, it was a person, utterly unique and completely individual.
We come into the world, we play our part, and then we leave. But where do we come from? Where do we go?

Looking into those gravely knowing eyes, Aislyn had the feeling that this tiny being, so newly arrived from that other place, had the answer. “A pity you can’t talk,” she croaked, and the babe’s almost invisible brows drew together in a tiny frown.

But of one thing Aislyn was certain: there
was
an answer. There was another place, a world beyond this world, one from which every living thing had come and to which they would one day return. A place as real as this one, though very different. And she herself had been there—not once, but many times, and had been born just as this child had been today, had lived and died and been born again . . .

A piercing memory came back to her: herself, a child of two or three, standing naked in a shaft of morning sunlight in her chamber. “Here I am again,” she had thought, and laughed aloud. “Oh, I’m so glad that this time I am a girl!” She had
known
. How
could
she have forgotten?

“Is it sound?” Elga gasped. “Does it live?”

“Oh, aye,” Aislyn said, smiling down at the baby in her arms. “You have a . . . a bonny daughter!”

“Let me have her!”

Aislyn laid the child in her mother’s arms, and with eyes half blinded by tears witnessed a second miracle. Lady Elga’s pallid face was suffused with color; the lines of suffering etched about her eyes and mouth melted into a soft smile that transformed her.

Aislyn’s arms were strangely empty, almost as empty as her heart.

But there was still work to be done, and no one to do it but herself. First the afterbirth to be delivered, then mother and child washed and wrapped. Her legs were shaking with exhaustion by the time she’d buried the afterbirth in the hole she’d ordered dug, then washed her face and hands in the remainder of the warm water. When she returned to the clearing, both mother and child were sleeping, so she made her way to the group of men crouched around the fire.

“Well?” the leader demanded.

“It’s done,” Aislyn said. “They’re resting.”

“The babe—it is whole?”

“
She
is beautiful. And the mother came through it just fine,” she added, seeing from the corner of her eye that the redheaded lad dropped his face into his hands with a shuddering breath of relief.

The leader, Torquil, smiled and poured mead into a wooden bowl. “To wet the baby’s head,” he said, handing it to Aislyn.

“Now, don’t you even think to go a-pouring mead on— oh!” The man raised his own bowl, and all the others followed suit.

“To the babe,” they said, and drank, looking as pleased with themselves as if they’d all delivered the child. Aislyn sat down among them and accepted bread and cheese, thinking that they weren’t so different from any other men she’d known.

“To my lady Elga,” the youngest cried, his eyes aglow. “She is well? You are sure of it?”

You’d best learn to hide your feelings a bit better than that, my lad,
Aislyn thought. Apparently the leader thought so, too. He turned and snapped a few words that Aislyn didn’t catch, and the young man set down his bowl and went off toward the horses.

Torquil caught her eye. “He is young.”

He is in love,
Aislyn thought, but she only said, “Where’s her husband? He should be here.”

“Soon. I sent to him. Swift horse, strong rider. Soon he comes.”

“The lady told me she’s a peaceweaver,” Aislyn said, leaning her back against a tree trunk and holding out her empty bowl. The men exchanged looks.

“Aye,” the leader said, refilling her bowl. “Peaceweaver. It is—not easy. Many battles have we fought. Much death have we seen. We men—” He shrugged. “We are—what is your word? We fight—”

“Warriors,” Aislyn supplied.

“Warriors,” he repeated, nodding. “Our enemies, too, are warriors. They fight well, we fight—better,” he said, which provoked a burst of laughter from the men. “Now it is done. We meet, we talk, we drink, we give honor to the fallen. Not so for the women. The peace—for them, it is not here.” He touched his heart. “They are—unkind—to the lady.”

Aislyn nodded her understanding. “That’s a heavy burden for a lass to bear.”

“She is strong. Now she is a mother, it will be better.”

There was some muttering at that, but the leader cut it off with a glare. “You stay,” he said to Aislyn, “until the women come.” He turned his head, and a moment later, all the men followed suit. “They come now,” he said, and only then did Aislyn heard the sound of hoofbeats in the forest. “Good. Soon we bring you home.”

GAWAIN spotted the smoke first, a thin tendril threading through the branches of the trees. He dismounted some distance away and approached on foot, drawn sword in his hand.

The villagers had said a band of Saxons was on the loose, but this did not seem to be a warrior’s encampment. He did not even meet a guard until he was almost upon them, and then it was hardly more than a boy who he took completely unaware.

Gawain sheathed his sword and raised a hand, palm up. “I seek an old woman,” he said, “and I was told—” He broke off, turning toward a stand of trees, where a shrill voice was shouting.

“You thrice-cursed son of a goat, you—you craven bully!”

Gawain met the boy’s eyes. “I think I’ve found her.”

The lad nodded and gestured Gawain ahead, not even bothering to relieve him of his weapon. Shaking his head at this laxness, Gawain passed through a clearing where a fire still smoldered, a grin tugging at his mouth as Ragnelle’s voice became clearer. If the Saxons had taken her prisoner, they must be regretting it by now.

“You oaf, you lout, you—you festering carbuncle! If you knew what she suffered bearing
your
babe, you’d be on your knees right now begging her pardon!”

“Be quiet, old woman!”

Gawain could see Ragnelle now, arms akimbo as she faced a Saxon twice her size. Half a dozen warriors stood about, faces so carefully expressionless that Gawain suspected they were struggling against laughter.

His own smile died when he recognized the man Aislyn faced. Gudrun. The Saxon thane’s own brother and Aesc’s envoy to King Arthur’s court. He was scowling, rage twisting his features as Ragnelle went on. “But did she complain? She did
not
! She gave you a fine daughter, and what do you say but—”

“Hold your tongue!” Gudrun cried, and raised his hand as though to strike her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Gawain said, stepping into the clearing.

“’Tis Sir Gawain,” the men murmured, “the Hawk of May.”

He walked past them without speaking, his eyes fixed on Gudrun’s face.

“Ah, Sir Gawain,” Gudrun said, struggling to compose himself. “Good.”

Gawain kept walking until he and Gudrun were eye to eye. “If you have aught to say to my lady, ’tis better said to me.”

“His lady?” he heard the men around him murmur. “Is she his mother? Granddame?”

“This old woman does not know when to shut her foul mouth,” Gudrun spat. “She needs a beating.”

“That,” Gawain replied, “is not for you to say.” He turned to Ragnelle. “Lady, have you been mishandled in any way?”

“Nay, but an apology is owing. Not to me,” she added quickly. “ ’Tis his own lady’s pardon he should beg.”

“That is between him and his lady,” Gawain replied. “You are my concern. If you have no complaint, let us depart this place forthwith.”

“I won’t leave her,” Ragnelle declared, her voice rising shrilly. “Not until I’m sure she will be cared for.”

Gawain sighed. “Who must be cared for? And why is it your concern?”

“I delivered the baby, didn’t I? And I won’t go until I have his word”—she jerked her head toward Gudrun— “that she’ll be looked after properly.”

“Sir Gudrun,” Gawain said, “if you would be so kind as to explain—”

“I owe you no explanations, Hawk of May. Take your bitch and begone.”

Gawain eyed the Saxon narrowly. “I can only believe you spoke without thinking. Do you reflect and try again.”

“I said what I meant,” Gudrun spat.

“I beg you to reconsider.”

Gudrun broke into a loud laugh. “Hark you all to that? Sir Gawain
begs
me!”

A hard-faced warrior stepped from the shadow of the tree against which he had been leaning. “Sir Gudrun,” he said, low-voiced, “I believe you mistake him.”

“I? Nay, ’tis
you
who mistake
me
—just as you have ever done—but I am in command here. Now stand back and hold your tongue.”

The man met Gawain’s eye and gave the slightest of shrugs before he resumed his place against the tree, arms folded across his chest and an ironic smile curling his lip.

“Sir Gawain, you were saying?” Gudrun went on. “Ah, no, you were
begging
! Pray do contin—”

He reeled back as Gawain’s glove struck him smartly across the cheek.

“You shall meet me in the lists, Sir Gudrun.”

“The lists! Oh, no, I’ll meet you here and now, man to man—” Gudrun cried, reaching for his sword.

“With fists.” The man who had spoken earlier once again detached himself from his tree and stepped forward. “
Fists.
No weapons. That is custom.”