‘Found one,’ he sang out. The young woman was a short, robust peasant girl, her broad features tanned by the harsh plains sun. Her dark hair was thick and curly, her eyes jet black beneath thick brows. She wore a modest dress with a tightly laced bodice. Behind her, clutching her skirt and sucking his thumb, was a little boy.‘More children!’ Karroth exploded. ‘Tal!’‘She was the only one, sir. Said she had a baby what died and still had milk. I didn’t think it was right to separate them.’The woman came forward, the little boy still holding tightly to her hem. She reached out for the baby.‘She’s wet,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘I didn’t bring diapers or clothes for her. Someone will need to find blankets.’ She began to unlace her bodice.Karroth made a strangled sound and fled.
In the silence and warmth of the tent, Tabar watched her nurse the baby. The little girl latched on and suckled eagerly, and a look of fierce joy and even darker grief crumpled the young woman’s face. Tears dripped down her cheeks and her breasts wept milk.
Through her sadness, the woman said calmly,
‘Is there something for my son to eat? We have had a long journey.’
‘I can get him something. And I’ll see if I can find cloths for the baby.’
In the stillness of the tent, Jovelle looked down at the infant greedily sucking. The death of her baby girl was a raw wound, and having this child at her breast, this strange head to look down on instead of the feathery curls of her darling, was like the wound being opened over and over again.
She gently lifted the child and moved her to her other breast, swollen and sore from three days of pent-up milk. I won’t forget, she told the golden child of her memory. I won’t forget. But she was already forgetting the features of the little girl, even now substituting them with the familiar ones of her son Brice.
Tabar pushed the tent flap aside, his hands full.
‘Come on, son,’ he told the boy gruffly, and Brice sat down at the table to bread, cheese and an apple. He was a stout little boy, round and sturdy like his mother. Tabar put down the hastily cut up blankets and bandage cloths and held out a flagon to Jovelle.
‘Here. When my wife nursed our young ones she was always parched.’
Jovelle drank gratefully.
‘Thank you. You are married then?’
‘Was.’ His tone was brusque. ‘There was a famine in our village. I wasn’t the only one who lost my family. I joined up with Karroth after that.’
‘Karroth?’
Tabar nodded at the tent flap.
‘The commander. I’m Tabar.’
‘I am Jovelle, and this is my son Brice.’ She smiled down at the baby. ‘Does this one have a name yet?’
He shook his head.
‘Would you like to name her after your own lost one?’
Jovelle’s lips trembled for a moment, but she was so weary of sadness that she could not even cry.
‘I never got a chance to name her,’ she whispered. ‘She just got weaker and weaker–and then she was gone.’
She had been desperate to find a name, to come up with just the right one, as if somehow that would capture the baby’s spirit and bring it back to her body. But she hadn’t been able to decide, and the little girl faded away.
‘Perhaps… Teena,’ she said. ‘I’ve always liked the name. And this little one, she seems like a Teena.’
‘Teena it is,’ Tabar said, too heartily.
From outside the tent, Karroth called, a little plaintively. ‘Is she finished yet?’
They looked at each other, and even Jovelle had to smile a bit.
#
‘I heard you were looking for men,’ the man called Amion said. He was a bulky man, not so tall as Karroth. His hair and beard were a dark, filthy brown, and he wore the armour of a westerner. All of his men did; he led a band of some twenty warriors, each with one or two dogs by his side. They were huge animals, their heads almost as big across as a horse’s. They lunged and snarled constantly.
‘Warriors,’ Karroth corrected. ‘Not a kennel.’
Amion smiled, the expression reminiscent of one of his dogs. ‘They’ll fight. Want me to release one to see?’
Karroth’s answering smile was almost as ugly, and he raised one hand. Instantly, a quarrel of archers had arrows nocked and ready, all aimed at Amion’s men. Do it, Tabar urged soundlessly. He didn’t know which was worse, the dogs or the men holding them, but he knew the band meant trouble. After a moment, Karroth’s hand came down.
‘I think we understand each other,’ he said, and Amion’s smile widened into a grin.
That’s Karroth, Tabar thought in disgust. If it’s trouble waiting to happen, he’ll always meet it halfway.
After that, whenever Tabar crossed paths with Amion or his men, he never failed to grasp his sword. Amion saw the unspoken threat and only smiled, but Tabar could feel the westerner’s eyes on him when he went about the camp.
Amion was only the first. The army swelled as it neared the rich merchant towns that were strung along the foothills like gilded beads. The disaffected, the homeless, those wandering rogues who saw a free meal and were not above enlisting for a chance at loot, all came to walk under Karroth’s banner. As with any mercenary band, there was no pay save what a soldier could pillage. With such desperate company, the merchant princes watched Karroth’s approach with deep misgiving.
In the meantime, the little girl was growing sturdy and plump under Jovelle’s attention. She thrived on her wetnurse’s good milk and was soon beginning to hold up her head and look about. Brice was enthralled. Though barely three years old, he had for a brief time been a big brother and he missed the experience. He often leaned against his mother as she nursed Teena, thumb in his mouth and holding onto Jovelle’s sleeve with his other hand.
‘Is this my little sister?’ he asked over and over, and his mother would explain that no, his little sister was with the gods, but now they had this little girl to take care of.
Teena seemed equally enchanted with Brice. She reserved her smiles for Jovelle, but she squealed and kicked when she saw the little boy.
‘I want to marry Teena when I get big,’ Brice decided one evening in their tent. He was sitting on his blankets playing with some shiny stones and other treasures he always managed to collect.
‘That’s a long time away. We can think about it later,’ Jovelle said. She looked up from her mending and nodded her chin at one sparkling bit of rock. ‘That’s a pretty one, Brice. Where did you find it?’
‘Teena gave it to me.’
Jovelle smiled indulgently, used to Brice’s imagination.
#
‘What of your husband, Jovelle?’ Tabar asked. The peasant woman settled deeper into the wagon, closer to the napping children nestled in the hay. Tabar loomed over her on horseback, his great warhorse dwarfing her.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied at length, wrapping her shawl more closely around her. Her eyes teared in the cold wind–or perhaps from grief. ‘Each day our daughter wasted away, he went further from the house. On the first day, it was to chop wood in the forest. On the second day, it was to set traps along the river. The third day, he went to the village to barter for a goat. I never saw him after that.’
Tabar remained silent and after a moment she glanced up at him.
‘I don’t blame him. I know that sounds so… soft, as if I am just a lump of clay. But if I could have done it, gods help me, I would have too. He couldn’t bear to watch her die. He knew I would. The sad thing is, he’ll never get past it now. She’ll always be dying to him, and he’ll always be running away.’
Much as I have been, Tabar thought. Me, a warrior. No life for a man who had been a farmer and happy at it. He thought of his long-dead wife and three boys and realized he had kept them dying for an awfully long time.
The thought made him angry, and he spurred his horse unfairly. Jovelle watched him canter off, a little miffed at his sudden change in mood. If you don’t like what people have to say, she thought, don’t ask them.
He was back that night though; the entire army had accepted his role as bodyguard. While she nursed Teena to sleep, he whittled a rough little horse for Brice as the boy watched. Curls of wood flew from between the big man’s hands, and he patiently fielded the boy’s eager questions.
‘What kind of horse is it? Is it a warhorse? Can I name it? Can you carve a warrior to ride it?’
The youngster imitated the sounds of sword against shield. Jovelle shook her head.
‘He’s always been able to do that,’ she said. “Even on our farm, where there was not a sword for miles, he could always make those noises.’
‘All boys can,’ Tabar said, rubbing at the carving with his thumb. He held it up and squinted at it. It was a terrible likeness, looking more like a dog than a horse. He laughed a little. ‘Sorry, Brice. I’m no good at this.’
His eager expression turned dubious, the boy took the plaything.
‘My daddy can carve a whole army of horses,’ he declared. ‘He could make cows, and soldiers, and horses, and dogs–‘
’Tabar can make dogs,’ Jovelle grinned.
‘Hey!’
‘And besides, Brice, dad couldn’t make all those animals.’
‘Yes, he could!’ the little boy stoutly defended his father. ‘He could make hundreds of them!’ Brice threw the toy on the ground and stomped off to the pile of blankets that was his bedroll. He huddled there, his shoulders shaking.
Jovelle closed her eyes for a moment, then dislodged the sleeping baby from her breast and hastily laced up her bodice. Going to her son, she sat down and patted his shoulders, consoling him.
The tent flap was pulled back and Karroth ducked in. He glanced at the tableau, his gaze lingering a moment on Jovelle and her half-done-up dress, and then Tabar. One eyebrow raised. Tabar rolled his eyes, a little flattered nonetheless.
‘Nice goat,’ Karroth said, nudging the carving with his boot.
‘It’s a horse!’ Brice cried, his voice muffled by his blankets.
‘What?’ Karroth stage-whispered to Tabar. ‘Did he make it?’
Despite her distress over her son, Jovelle had to hide a smile.
‘Karroth, sometimes I am surprised you have lived as long as you have,’ Tabar muttered deep in his throat.
‘What does that mean? I just came to see how the princess was doing.’
As if a longer inspection would strike him blind, he took a lightning-fast peek at the child, now sound asleep on the bed, her chubby arms flung up and her head turned sideways. Her brown curls were growing out every which way, and dark lashes fringed her delicate cheek.
‘She looks fine,’ he said hastily, and leered. ‘I can’t wait until she’s twelve.’
‘Sixteen,’ Tabar growled, wiping sawdust off his dagger.
‘Twenty,’ Jovelle said at the same time.
Karroth made a rude noise.
‘I’m not waiting twenty years for my treasure.’
‘You’re not getting it when she’s twelve, either. She has to grow up first,’ Jovelle said.
‘I could be dead in twenty years. Or old.’ His tone made clear which was worse.
‘If you touch this child while she is still a child, you will be dead much sooner than that.’
Karroth stared at Jovelle. The little peasant woman had not raised her voice, and she continued to rub her son’s back as he sank into sleep. But the look on her face was one of pure iron. Tabar looked from one to the other.
‘You forget yourself, woman,’ the warlord growled.
‘My name is Jovelle. And if you mean that I have forgotten my place, you were the one who needed a nursemaid for your princess. It is my duty to take care of her. I will not deliver a child to your bed.’
‘Twelve is not a child!’ he exploded.
‘At twelve a girl is on the threshold of womanhood–she has not yet crossed it. Married too soon–or worse–and she becomes controlled by the passions of her husband. She stays a child-woman. You may think you own this child because you signed a piece of paper, but you will have to kill me before I allow you to destroy her future.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’ Karroth bit off each word distinctly.
Tabar cleared his throat. After a moment, they both looked at him.
‘She has to fall in love with you, Karroth. Remember? You can wake her, but she has to fall in love before the treasure is conferred upon her lover. I doubt that is going to happen when she is twelve–most girls spend a lot of time giggling and avoiding boys at that age, as I remember.’
Tabar all of a sudden grinned hugely, his smile bright in his heavy beard.
‘You’re going to have to woo her, Karroth.’
The commander snorted.
‘I never wooed a woman in my life,’ he said disdainfully, and despite herself, Jovelle laughed and had to turn it into a cough. Karroth looked at her suspiciously, then made an exasperated noise, and left.
Jovelle let out her breath after he was gone. She looked worried. ‘Will he try to take her by force?’
‘It’s hard to say.’ Tabar frowned, wondering how to put it. ‘He’s been a soldier all his life. Force is all he knows. Right now, the only thing keeping him in check is the princess’s dowry; if he thinks he has to wait for her to fall in love with him before he gets the treasure, then he might wait. For awhile. The thing to do is keep reminding him of it.’
‘I shouldn’t have threatened him. What a foolish thing to do. As if he would give in to me.’
‘No, no!’ Tabar said gallantly. ‘Sometimes he wants a fight. He respects people who challenge him.’ And usually kills them right after, he added to himself. ‘It will be all right,’ he went on. ‘Only–just so you know. I don’t think the baby really is a princess after all. I think she was just put out as bait to confuse and delay us so the townspeople could get away. Don’t say anything to Karroth, though, because he still thinks she’s the princess of Athol.’
Jovelle promised, and he left her not long after that and went in search of Karroth. He found the commander staring suspiciously at a night-flying raven. At his approach, the warlord glanced at him.
‘What do you want now?’ he asked.
‘I’m still angry at you,’ Tabar said. ‘You called my horse a goat.’
‘Mmm.’
They stood companionably for awhile, watching the half-moon go scudding through the clouds.
Curse this wind, Tabar thought, and for the first time in many years thought of his long-abandoned farm, sheltered in a valley among the mountains where they were headed. He imagined being back in the snug little house he had built so long ago, his wife and children at his side. Except his wife’s face blurred with Jovelle’s, and Brice played among his sons.