The Mapmaker's Sons (8 page)

He shook the sleep from his head and shrugged off his blankets. Groping in the dark for his garments, he drew his heaviest cloak about him, laced his boots, and tugged on his cap. He staggered half-asleep to the door and pulled it open, steeling himself for a blast of frigid, wet air.

However, the shock that awaited him was not the storm, but the sight of what had actually roused his sheep: the unexpected arrival of a coach and horses.
Thieves,
he thought, reaching instinctively for a wooden staff to defend himself. But the silent accusation was discarded before it had fully formed.
Even in the driving rain it was evident that the coach was richly appointed, the horses groomed and well fed.

The realization that he wasn't dealing with thieves brought Garth little comfort. Assuredly it was a bad omen. Only thieves and devils were about on a night like this. If they weren't one, they must be the other. One thing was certain: no good ever came from strangers who arrived after midnight.

“Who are you?” he demanded, drawing himself up to his full height. “What business have you here?”

His attempt at intimidation failed. His questions were ignored as the group moved with a unified purpose, unmindful of his presence.

“Inside! Quickly!”

Garth's gaze shot to the man who had spoken. A tall man, he was dressed in an expensive cloak, and it was clear by his tone that he was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. One of the men in the coach handed down what looked like a large, awkward bundle of blankets, which the tall man gingerly took into his arms. It wasn't until he swept wordlessly into Garth's home that Garth was able to glimpse the pale, drawn face of a young woman within the bundle. A low moan of pain escaped her lips.

“What … is she ill?”

His question went unanswered once again. The tall man hesitated for only an instant, gaining his bearings, and then laid the woman on Garth's bed, smoothing the blankets that enveloped her over Garth's mattress of coarse straw. He bent low and soothed her brow, murmuring soft assurances. The woman gave another moan, but Garth no longer needed to ask what ailed her. Now that the blankets had fallen aside, her condition was obvious. The woman's belly was as full and round as a harvest moon.

Another woman—a midwife, Garth assumed—trailed after her. She was a hearty, big-boned woman with a plain face and a no-nonsense manner. Spying a low stool near the hearth, she drew it bedside and settled herself upon it. She rolled up her
sleeves to reveal strong arms and broad, capable-looking hands. Pressing them against the young woman's flesh, she silently traversed her great swollen belly, absorbed in her task. Nodding, she gave a soft grunt of approval. “Soon,” she said. “The babes are fine. Healthy and strong.”

The tall man nodded at the midwife's assurances, but none of the tension left his face. As though noticing Garth for the first time, he offered a stiff bow. “My apologies for disturbing you,” he said. His accent spoke of wealth and education. His gaze swept the room. “You're alone?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

An odd question; an even odder response. There was no time to consider it, however, for his attention was drawn back to the bed. The pregnant woman, whose breath had been coming in short, shallow gasps, suddenly released a sharp cry of pain.

The midwife turned to Garth and began issuing orders. “More blankets if you have them, else soft cloth and toweling. The finest knife you own. I'll need water and soap. A shallow bucket. A cup and ale.”

Garth moved at once to gather the requested items and deposited them on the bedside table. That accomplished, he stood back, awkwardly awaiting her next order. But the midwife was oblivious to all but the young woman and her labor. Uncertain what to do next, Garth bent to stack the kindling. He could at least offer the comfort of a fire.

The nobleman guessed his intention. His deep voice cut across the room. “No fire. No lamps or candles. Leave it.”

Garth hesitated.

His gaze moved to the three men who had filed in behind the woman and her husband. They were stationed at the windows with their backs to the bed. Garth had assumed they stood thus to give the lady a measure of privacy, but a new awareness dawned on him. He studied the tightness of the nobleman's face, the strain that went beyond his wife's labors,
and suddenly understood. The group was on the run. As the minutes passed and the woman's agony produced no results, fear seeped into the room like an unwelcome contagion.

The midwife waited for the woman's latest spasm to pass, then mixed the ale Garth had brought with powdery herbs. She brought a cup to the young woman's lips. “This will ease the pain,” she said. “Take as much as you can. It will be over soon.”

The woman choked the liquid down. Within minutes another spasm seized her. She was given her husband's lambskin glove to clench between her teeth. Whether it was meant to stifle her cries or offer some small comfort, Garth couldn't say. As her pains drew closer together, Garth felt more and more an intruder in his own home. He mumbled something about checking on his livestock, but the excuse was unnecessary, for no one paid him any mind.

The wind drove icy rain into his cheeks, striking his skin like a volley of stinging nettles. He found the nobleman's team still hitched to his coach, forgotten by the man's attendants in their rush to get inside. Glad for the chore to occupy his attention, he unhitched the team. Taking their bridles, he walked them into the shelter of his livestock pen, supplied them with food and water, brushed them down, and draped each with a blanket to ward off the chill.

The task was barely accomplished when a small cry tore through the night. The wail of a newborn babe. Within minutes the sound was followed by a second wail, which joined the plaintive cries of the elder sibling. The midwife's words, insignificant at the time, came back to Garth.
The babes are fine.
Babes. Twins. He listened, hearing the midwife's triumphant laughter, followed by low murmurs of congratulations and praise. A small smile touched his lips. The birth had gone well.

Too cold to remain in the livestock pen any longer, Garth returned inside. His eyes moved automatically to his bed, where he found the young woman propped in a sitting position, two swaddled infants in her arms. She looked pale and exhausted, yet a glow of contentment seemed to soften the air around her.

He nodded at the nobleman. “My congratulations, Sire. All's well?”

The nobleman hesitated for a moment, then, after a glance at his wife, forced a tight smile. He took his wife's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Yes. Two fine sons.”

“Sons, is it? Well done indeed, then!”

But his was the only voice that seemed merry. Quiet tension filled the room, despite the fact that the woman had been delivered of her sons. Garth had expected some celebration, however small. Puzzled at the absence of merriment, he stepped forward. Admittedly, he knew more of birthing lambs than he did infants, but he judged the babes healthy enough. One child was fair, pale skinned, with a small tuft of white downy hair sprouting from the top of his skull. The other boy was darker, his skin a rich olive, his hair a deep chestnut. Funny thing, that. Two babes born from the same mother … both male … one light, one dark …

His thoughts skidded to a sudden stop, colliding with a wisp of a memory, a recollection so faint as to almost be forgotten—a rumor he'd heard a year or two before in a tavern near Langshire. He hadn't believed it to be true. He hadn't
dared
believe …

“Sire! Horses!”

The nobleman rushed to the window. “How many?”

“Keegan never travels with a company of less than twelve.”

Keegan. Here.
Shock and icy dread coursed through Garth in equal measure.

“How much time do we have?”

“Minutes—perhaps less.”

The nobleman returned to his wife's bed, pain and regret etched on his handsome features. “I'm sorry, Helene.”

His wife shrank back, her eyes wild. She clutched the swaddled babes tightly against her chest, her eyes swimming with tears. “No, William,” she choked out. “No. You can't.
Please.”

“I don't have a choice.” His voice caught. “If there was anything else we could do—”

“No! Please, I beg you. There must be some other way—”

“I'm sorry, Helene.” The nobleman paused for a moment, caught in an agony of indecision, then gently removed the tiny, dark-haired infant from his wife's arms. He motioned to one of his men. “Take the child and ride to Bethel—”

“It's too late for that.” Garth shook off the horror that had silenced his tongue, and stepped forward. “Your horses are exhausted. You have no saddles. Keegan will overtake your man in no time.”

Hoofbeats sounded outside, drawing ever closer.

A sob rose from the bed. “William! Quickly! Do something!”

“The child, Sire.” The guard held out his arms, his expression dark. “Keegan will have to kill me before he gets the babe.”

It was a brave declaration, but foolhardy. If they killed the guard, surely they might kill the babe as well. The situation demanded stealth, not brawn. The nobleman must have sensed that as well, for he hesitated.

They couldn't remain within and fight it out, nor could they outrun Keegan and his men. There was only one solution. Garth moved to the nobleman's side. “Give me the babe,” he said. “I know this shire better than any man here. There's a tavern down the road apiece. The couple who runs it has four children, plus another babe just last month. They're kind people; for a few coins, the wife will nurse your son until I'm able to bring him to you. For a few coins more, they'll ask no questions.”

The shouts of Keegan and his men echoed closer.

“Sire! They come!” The guards drew their daggers.

The nobleman looked at Garth as though truly seeing him
for the first time since entering the cottage. Their eyes met and locked as the nobleman took his measure. Satisfied with what he saw, he gave a brief nod.

The midwife immediately rose. She stripped Garth of his outer garments, then improvised a sling from soft blankets. As she strapped it tightly across Garth's chest, the nobleman spoke in an urgent whisper. “Do you know who I am?”

Garth nodded. “I saw the crest on your coach.”

“Then you know where to find me.”

“Yes.”

“Bring the babe in two weeks' time. I should have everything arranged by then …”

The nobleman pressed a kiss against his son's forehead, then tucked the infant securely inside the blanket's soft folds. The babe accepted his new lodgings without complaint. Garth shrugged on his shirt, vest, and coat. The midwife threw his cloak about his shoulders and fastened it. Between Garth's own natural bulk and the layers of clothing, the sling would work as long as the babe remained silent.

The cottage door slammed open, hinges rattling as it crashed against the wall. The fair-headed babe let out a wail of protest at the harsh noise. Garth reflexively pressed a hand to the tiny bundle swaddled against his chest, ready to stifle any cries, but to his relief the dark-haired babe remained silent.