Sword in the Storm (36 page)

The Fisher Laird gave a harsh laugh. “You may be a killer, Ruathain, but I see you still respect tradition. You have my permission. Step down and enter my house. I will send for the families.”

Ruathain dismounted and removed his sword, which he handed to Arbon.

“Wait here with the ponies,” he said.

“Aye, lord,” Arbon answered glumly.

Ruathain strode to where the Fisher Laird waited, then bowed. The laird stepped aside, allowing Ruathain to enter the hall. Then he and his sons followed him. Arbon’s mouth was dry, his heart beating fast, but he sat quietly, assuming an expression of mild boredom. A runner came out from the hall and moved through the crowd. A short time later three women dressed in black entered the hall, closely followed by five young men.

Arbon waited for a while in the sunshine, then dismounted and stretched his back.

An elderly woman brought him a cup of water. He bowed as he accepted it and then drank deeply.

“My thanks to you, Mother,” he said.

“I am no mother of yours, you Rigante pig,” she said. “But the laws of hospitality should always be observed.”

He bowed again and grinned. “Indeed they should,” he agreed, returning the cup. Another woman brought him some smoked fish and a hunk of bread. Time passed slowly, and the sun was beginning to set when the doors of the hall opened once more. The Pannone women emerged first, followed by the five young men, then Ruathain, and lastly the Fisher Laird and his sons.

Ruathain strode to where Arbon waited. “It is agreed,” he
said softly, “but I have also promised a bull and ten feasting steers for the laird.”

At that moment a young man came running from the water’s edge. He was tall and slim, black-haired and pale-eyed. “What is going on here?” he shouted.

“You are too young to have a voice in this,” the Fisher Laird told him. “An honorable offer has been made and accepted. The blood feud is over.”

“Over?” shouted the youngster. “Nothing is over. This butcher slaughtered my brothers. I will have vengeance.” He swung on the five young men. “How could you agree to this? Six lives taken, their blood drenching the grass. Family. Blood kin. Never to wed and sire sons, never to know joy. Are a few scrawny ponies all they were worth? Blood cries for blood. Their souls cry for justice and revenge.”

“Be silent!” roared the Fisher Laird. “Do you understand nothing, boy? Your brothers died in battle. They were not set upon in the dark or had their throats cut while they were sleeping. They faced an enemy who outfought them. That enemy has shown great courage in coming here. A gesture of respect and in keeping with the traditions of the Keltoi. But more important even than that, boy, is the fact that I am your lord, and I tell you the blood feud is over.”

The youngster stood silently for a moment, then turned and ran back to his boat upon the water.

The Fisher Laird moved to Ruathain. “Send the cattle to me but do not come yourself, Ruathain the killer. You are not welcome in Pannone lands.”

Ruathain nodded but did not reply. Leaving the twelve ponies, he mounted his own steed and swung it toward the south. The crowd parted as he walked his pony back through the settlement. Arbon rode alongside and handed him his sword, which Ruathain belted to his waist.

“Is it over?” he asked his master.

“Not while that boy lives,” answered Ruathain. “One day
he will come for me, and I will kill him. Then it will begin again.”

“A waste of ponies, then,” muttered Arbon.

“No,” Ruathain said, sadly. “It was a fair blood price. I began this when I killed the raiders. I allowed my anger to burn away my self-control. I sowed the seeds, my friend, and now I must reap the harvest.”

12

I
N THE BEDROOM
of Banouin’s house one of the three lanterns guttered and died. Vorna had been in labor for fourteen hours. She had lost consciousness twice in the last hour. Meria and Eriatha were desperately concerned. Meria had attended four childbirths, but none as difficult as this one. She had sent for Eriatha, whose knowledge of herbs and medicines was almost as great as Vorna’s. The Earth Maiden knelt by the unconscious Vorna and examined her.

“Lavender and jasmine will not help her,” said Eriatha. “The babe is not lying in the right position. It cannot enter the world.”

“What can we do?” asked Meria.

“I do not have the skill to deliver it,” said Eriatha. “I have heard of witches who could cut open the belly and deliver babes. But mostly the mothers die.”

“There must be something,” insisted Meria.

Eriatha shook her head. “We need a witch, a Druid, or a midwife. Even then …” Her voice tailed away.

Meria rose from the bedside and moved to the window, looking out over the moonlit landscape. “Brother Solstice was here only three days ago,” she said softly, “but I don’t know where he has gone. This is so unfair. First she finds love, then loses it. Now Banouin’s babe is killing her.” Vorna groaned, then cried out in pain. Meria took her hand as Eriatha applied a damp cloth to Vorna’s brow.

“The child is … breeched,” said Vorna. She took a deep breath. “Cut my belly open. Save the babe!” She cried out again, and her back arched. Then she collapsed and passed out.

“She is dying,” whispered Eriatha.

At that moment they heard a thudding at the front door. Meria ran back through the house. Outside stood an old woman Meria had never seen before. She was dressed in a faded full-length dress of pale gray, and a black fishnet shawl was draped around her shoulders.

“What do you want?” Meria asked her.

“I am told that there is a woman in childbirth here, that there is a problem.”

“You are a midwife?”

“Among other things,” said the old woman, moving past Meria and into the house. As she passed, Meria caught the scent of the forest on the woman’s clothes, musky and damp, the smell of rotting leaves and wet bark. She shuddered and followed the woman into the bedroom.

“You will both leave,” said the old woman. “Wait by the fire. I will call you if I need you.”

“The babe is breeched,” said Eriatha.

“Thank you,” the old woman said, sourly. “Perhaps later you can teach me how to suck eggs.”

A huge crow landed on the open window, spreading its wings and cawing loudly. Meria and Eriatha both jumped back, startled, but the old woman ignored it and sat beside the stricken Vorna. “Out, I said,” she hissed, waving a thin arm in the direction of the two women.

Reluctantly they obeyed her. Meria pulled closed the door, and she and Eriatha walked to the hearth. The fire was burning low, and she added several chunks of wood. “Do you know her?” Meria asked.

“No.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t have left her.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t,” said Eriatha, “but I am ashamed to say I am glad she is there and I am not.”

Meria nodded agreement. She felt as if a burden had been lifted from her. Weariness flowed over her, and she sank into a chair. “It was good of you to come,” she told the Earth Maiden.

“I wish I could have been of some help,” answered Eriatha, dropping into the second chair. Meria gazed across at her. The Earth Maiden was small and slight and looked much younger than her years. Her face was pretty, her skin flawless.

“You are very beautiful,” said Meria. “Are you happy?”

“Why would I not be?” Eriatha countered defensively. “I can afford to eat, and I have a home. Or is an Earth Maiden not meant to experience joy?”

“That is not what I meant at all,” said Meria. “I was wondering if you had friends or whether your life was lonely. That is all.”

Eriatha relaxed and gave a shy smile. “Yes, I am lonely. And no, I have no friends. Is that not the lot of the Earth Maiden? A hundred lovers and no friends?”

Meria leaned forward and stretched out her hand. “You may count me as a friend, Eriatha.”

The younger woman took her hand briefly, gently squeezing her fingers. “I thank you, Meria, but I do not need pity. I am young, alive, and in good health. I was glad to see Ruathain recover so well from his wounds.”

“You know my husband?” Meria could not keep a note of alarm from her voice.

Eriatha laughed and clapped her hands together. “You see why an Earth Maiden has no women friends,” she said.

Meria blushed, then laughed also. “Yes, I do. So now tell me. Did Ruathain come to you while we were parted?”

Eriatha fell silent, watching Meria closely. Then she shrugged. “Yes, he did.”

“And after making love did he snore like a bull?”

Surprised by the comment, Eriatha giggled. “The very walls shook with the sound.”

“There,” said Meria. “Now can we be friends?”

“I think that we can. You are a very special woman, Meria. Ruathain is lucky to have you.”

Before Meria could reply they heard the high-pitched cry of a newborn babe. Both women rushed to the bedroom. Meria pushed open the door. Vorna was lying asleep, the babe, wrapped in soft red cloth, nestled in her arm. The old woman had gone.

Eriatha made the sign of the protective horn. Meria moved to the window and gazed out over the hills. But the midwife was nowhere in sight. “Who was she?” she whispered.

Eriatha did not reply. At the bedside she felt for the pulse in Vorna’s wrist. It was beating slowly but powerfully. Eriatha pulled back the bedclothes. There was no blood on the sheets or any mark on Vorna’s belly. Carefully she covered the sleeping woman.

“She was Seidh,” said Eriatha, her voice low. “The babe was delivered through magic.”

Meria shivered, then lifted the sleeping babe, gently opening the little red blanket. The child was a boy and perfectly formed. Again, there was no blood on it. The umbilical cord had been removed, leaving no wound, only a tiny mound of perfectly formed pink skin. The babe woke and gave a little squeal. Meria wrapped it once more and lifted it, holding it close.

Vorna woke and yawned. She saw Meria holding the babe and smiled. “How did you save both me and the babe?” she asked.

“It was a miracle,” said Eriatha.

Meria passed the babe to its mother. Vorna opened her nightgown and held the child to her swollen breast. It began to feed hungrily.

*    *    *

Ferol looked like what he was: an angry, bitter man, self-centered and self-obsessed, the kind of man who believed the sole purpose of winter was to keep him cold. He loathed the rich for their wealth, the poor for their poverty. His round face had a permanently sullen expression, and his wide gash of a mouth was perfectly fashioned to make the best use of the sneer. He was a thief and worse, but he excused his excesses by convincing himself that all men would be the same if only they had his strength of purpose.

A huge, hulking man, he had been raised in the north country of the Pannones on a small farm built on rocky soil that was constantly eroded by high winds and driving rain. His father had been a hardworking man and scrupulously honest. Ferol had despised him. The old man made him work in all weather, and truth be told, Ferol had never overcome his fear of the man. One day, however, when he and his father had been felling trees, the old man had slipped and a heavy trunk had fallen across his legs, smashing both thighbones.

Ferol had run to his side. The old man had hardly been able to move, his careworn face gray with pain. “Get this off me,” he had grunted.

In that moment the nineteen-year-old Ferol had discovered freedom. “Get it off yourself,” he had said, turning and walking slowly back to the house. He had ransacked it, looking for his father’s carefully hoarded silver. It had come to nine miserable coins. Pocketing them, he had saddled the one old pony and ridden south.

He was full of regret afterward. If only he had sat down and waited, he could have watched the old bastard die.

Ferol stood stoop-shouldered at the ferry, watching the two riders approach. One was a red-bearded young warrior wearing a bright mail shirt, the other an older man with dark, receding hair. They were leading two enormous stallions, each over sixteen hands, and three heavily laden pack ponies. Ferol glanced to his left, where his cousin Roca lounged against the
ferry. “Be ready,” he said. Roca nodded, turned toward the river, and waved a signal to the four men on the far side.