Eight
CHATTER SURROUNDED HER, but Briallen didn’t hear a word of it. She didn’t want to. What she wanted was for them to go away, to stop talking, stop fussing. She was still bleeding, could feel the wet heat seeping out of her. Everything was cold, but the simple action of huddling beneath her blankets seemed beyond her. She could only lie on the bed, silent and still, while everyone fussed around her.
They seemed concerned, talked in whispers, brought steaming potions for her to drink. Rags and moss were pushed beneath the blankets to soak up the blood, hot stones wrapped in cloth were pressed against her cramping, aching middle, but Briallen didn’t move, didn’t speak. She just stared up at the pale wood holding up the roof and did her best not to think, not to remember, not to place blame.
Her baby. Her child. Her last remaining link to Mewan. Her husband. The man who’d left her. Oh, not by dying, which had been a foolish accident, but by choosing to follow Pedar out onto the moors time and again. They’d been married just over a year, but she’d only seen him a handful of times. Was it any wonder the babe she’d been expected to have had taken so long time to take root?
And now it was gone.
Ever since she’d discovered the truth about her pregnancy, coming hard on the heels of the news of Mewan’s death, she hadn’t known how to feel. Torn between joy and despair, confusion and hope, she’d been so busy feeling tired and sick and half-heartedly cursing its presence that she’d forgotten to really think of the child. She’d forgotten to think about the life she carried inside her throughout the awakening spring. She’d forgotten to be thankful, to welcome it, to want it.
Now it was gone – and it was all her fault.
I’m sorry, she whispered to the ache in her fast emptying womb, and finally found the strength to move. Turning her back on the bustling crowd, she curled up around the hot stone and her pain, lifting the blanket over her head. It wasn’t much of an escape, but she welcomed the darkness and let it carry her away.
“IS SHE GOING to die, Da?” Ceri asked, sticking close to Elisud’s side as he walked down to the river to scrub off the blood. There hadn’t been all that much of it, considering everything that Briallen had lost, but he knew all about pain that went too deep to be seen. And this small smear of blood burned like a hot coal.
“No, Ceri, she’s not going to die,” he promised his daughter, making her stop at the bank while he waded into the shockingly cold water. He was covered in cowpats and mud as well as blood, but it was the feeling of Briallen’s silent weeping against his chest that he needed to wash away. So much sadness. Surely there’d been more than enough already to go around this year; surely there could be no more.
Ceri was asking more questions, but Elisud couldn’t answer them now. Instead he waded into the middle of the river and ducked his head under the roiling waters. The current tugged and swirled around him, battered and bruised and angered from all the boulders that frequently interrupted its flow. Elisud found a still place where two great rocks almost halted the river, and settled in the calm pool to scrub away the ills of the day.
“Why do babies kill their mammiks?” Ceri’s innocent question made Elisud pause.
What a terrible thing to say, and yet she wasn’t entirely wrong. After all, her own mother had died giving birth to his son. Neither of them had survived the ordeal, leaving Ceri and him bereft and alone. At the farm, Ors the smith had lost his wife to childbirth with his youngest daughter, while Dama Wynn had lost an adult daughter in similar circumstances. Babies were a dangerous business.
“They don’t mean to.” The soft-voiced reply had Elisud looking up, peering around the boulder to see the riverbank. Demairo was crouched beside his cousin, the pair of them gathering pebbles and rocks to make patterns in the mud. “But things go wrong. Accidents happen.”
“Like Aunt Briallen’s husband?” Ceri asked, seemingly unfazed that her cousin had broken his long silence at last. “He fell and hit his head, so Mihal says.”
Demairo nodded.
“And now she’s lost her baby too,” Ceri sniffled, scrubbing her sleeve under her nose and streaking mud over her face. “Poor Aunt Bria.”
Demairo sighed in agreement.
Not liking to see his two charges so downcast, Elisud ducked under the water one last time to rid himself of any remaining dirt, then waded back to shore. “Shall we do something nice for your aunt?” he asked, hauling himself onto the bank, his clothes dripping, heavy but cleaner than they had been.
Demairo looked doubtful about such a possibility, but Ceri scrambled to her feet with an eager bounce. “Can we, Da? What can we do?”
Having not quite thought that far ahead, Elisud glanced desperately around for inspiration and saw a patch of dog-violets basking in a shaft of sunlight. “Flowers,” he said. “I bet if we picked some flowers for her and put them near her bed, they might make her feel better.”
Staring at the violets, Ceri gave a firm nod and ran over to the flowers, declaring that she would only pick the prettiest ones. Demairo just eyed his uncle.
Running a hand through his damp hair, Elisud lowered his voice: “I know, Mairo. Nothing will make her feel better for a long time yet, but it can’t hurt to try. To show her that someone cares about her. That we’re thinking of her. To remind her she isn’t alone.”
Demairo seemed to turn the words over in his mind, before finally nodding. “I’ll find some primroses.”
Elisud thought that would be difficult, since spring was over and the summer flowers were already in bloom, but he was too grateful that the boy was talking again to doubt him. “I’d best make sure Ceri doesn’t pick anything deadly. Be careful, Mairo.”
The boy nodded, then headed deeper into the woods in search of one last place where the primroses might still be in bloom. If anyone could find them, it would be Demairo.
“Da! Da! Look at these!”
Trusting Demairo to look after himself, Elisud turned his attention back to his daughter, smiling as she shook a bluebell stem at him. “They’re pretty, puffin. I think your aunt will like them. Are there any more?”
“There are flowers everywhere, Da. I can’t choose!”
“Well, any that we don’t pick today, we can come back and fetch tomorrow, or the next day. I think your aunt’s going to need cheering for a good while yet.”
Nodding at the wisdom of that, Ceri took his hand and tugged him away from the river.
THE SWEETLY COMBINED scents of violets and bluebells greeted Briallen as she woke. The house was silent, apart from the subdued crackle of the fire in the hearth. Venturing out from beneath her blanket, Briallen moved slowly and cautiously, hissing as deep cramps squeezed in her belly.
For a long moment she held still, eyes screwed shut, breathing through her nose and waiting for the pain to pass. The worst of it finally did, settling down to a deep ache that pulled at her pelvis and spine. Unpleasant, but not wholly unfamiliar from her womanly courses.
The sweet scent caught her attention again, and she slowly turned over onto her other side, facing into the room. The pleasant glow of the hearth fire met her eyes, shedding light on the seat pulled up beside her bed. A wooden mug full of flowers sat on top of it. Tall bluebells nodded over the brim, propped up by a profusion of purple dog-violets peeping shyly between the stems. And there, frothing at the very front of the cup was a sprinkle of sunshine. Pale yellow petals with a darker yellow core: primroses. Someone had brought her primroses.
It was such a small thing to gather flowers, but to find primroses in this season... Someone had gone to a lot of trouble for her, put a lot of thought into this simple, yet precious gift. The tears she hadn’t been able to cry earlier pressed against her eyes, and she curled around a fresh belly cramp with a low sob.
“Hey now, wisht, keresik, don’t weep. There’s a good mowes. They won’t bring you any more flowers if all you’ll do is cry over them.”
Briallen’s attention had been so focused on her pain, the
n her flowers, that she hadn’t noticed Sira Wynn sitting beside the fire. As he spoke he moved to gather something from beside the flames, wrapped it in a piece of cloth and came towards her.
“Here, try this. Dama’s certain sure you’ll need it by now.”
Briallen pulled her arms from her blanket and accepted the bundle, sighing as the heat of the wrapped stone seeped into her palms. “Thank you,” she murmured, tucking it under the covers and cradling it against her belly. The heat was wonderfully soothing and she curled around it with a relieved sigh, fresh tears seeping from her eyes.
Moving his seat next to her bed, Sira Wynn took one of her hands in his weathered grip. His hands were cool and strangely soft between the calluses, his strength fading with age. “Poor child, a hard hurt this, and coming so soon after Mewan too. But hush,” he crooned as a fresh round of sobs rocked her, making her press against her hot stone to keep the cramps at bay. “This pain will pass, I promise.” He ran his other hand over her hair, as though she was a child or a dog, and she welcomed the small comfort.
She’d never had much to do with Mewan’s father before. He was a quiet man, sinking softly into his growing age without visible resistance. Dama Wynn was the force in this family, and when she was around it was easy to forget about her husband.
Yet Sira Wynn had his own strengths too. He wasn’t as loud, brusque or blunt as his wife, but he somehow managed to plant and harvest the crops each year, while also caring for a multitude of livestock, without drawing her ire or crossing swords. No, though he rarely put himself forward or made a fuss, Sira Wynn was no fool.
Right now his calm caring was just what Briallen needed, and she clung to his hand as if he’d been her own father. “I’m s-sorry,” she sobbed. “I d-didn’t m-mean to l-lose it. D-dama m-must be ups-set.”
For all that Mewan hadn’t been a favoured son – that was firstborn Kensa – Dama Wynn had been struck dumb by the news of his death. She hadn’t cried where anyone could see, but Mewan’s loss had put new lines on her face, brought old age a step closer. Now Briallen had lost their last hope of a surviving link with him. Now they had nothing.
“Wisht, mowes, Dama knows better than to blame you for that. Babes are tricky things. She lost plenty of her own in her time, both early and late, before birth and after. As have others in the family. We’re farmers, Briallen – we know life doesn’t always go the way we might want.”
His gruff kindness brought fresh tears to her eyes. “But M-mewan…” She couldn’t finish her thought, but knew she didn’t need to.
The old man sighed. “I’ve often thought we should apologise to you about that,” he said, the soft words almost lost beneath the sudden snap of the fire. “Dama thought he should marry, that a wife would settle him down. I – I didn’t say no.”
“He never wanted me,” Briallen murmured, feeling strangely adrift from that old hurt as she stared at her beautiful flowers and wondered who had gone to such trouble. “Oh, he was pleasant to me, he… he cared for me. In his own way.”
“But he didn’t stay,” Sira Wynn said sadly. “I think that’s what Dama hoped he would do. Settle down, stay on the farm, take up his place amongst us. He seemed ready to. When he mentioned marriage, Dama was certain he was ready to stay.”
“There wasn’t room for him here,” Briallen said, finally starting to see her husband as he really was, not as she’d wished he might have been. “Kensa is in charge, and he was always teasing him. Mewan didn’t like that.”
“No,” the old man agreed. “He was proud, my youngest, though gods and ancestors know where he got that from.”
There was a twinkle in those knowing eyes that made Briallen want to smile, until a fresh cramp made her clutch her hot stone. “He was jealous,” she said, once the worst pain had faded. “Of Ruan. He took his place.”
Sira Wynn shook his grey head. “Mewan didn’t want it. He never cared for farming, or foraging, or even fishing. He didn’t want to trade, he didn’t want to barter, he didn’t even want to hunt, not really.”
“But at least with Pedar he was free from brothers and meddlesome sisters,” Briallen murmured. “And unwanted wives.”
The old man made a distressed sound and squeezed her hand. “No, keresik. It was never you he was running from.”
But he’d never run to her either, Briallen acknowledged inwardly. For all that he’d been long past his name day ceremony, and two full years older than she was, Mewan had still been a boy in too many ways. Oh, he’d treated her with absent affection, similar to the way he’d treated his hounds, and he’d done his duty in the marriage bed, but rarely and almost reluctantly. He never kissed her unless someone was watching, and though he liked to hold her while they slept, she’d sensed it was out of his own need for comfort more than any desire for her.
“Why did he marry me?” she asked, a question she’d never dared to consider before. Why, when it was so clear he didn’t want a wife, when the responsibility had been nothing but a burden to him, when he’d taken every opportunity to get away from her, had he agreed to it in the first place?
True, Dama Wynn was a determined force once she’d made her mind up to something, but Mewan had been just as stubborn in his own way. A beautiful, stubborn, sulking boy, who she’d tried to love, but had never really known.
Sira Wynn smiled ruefully. “For the same reason most of you women get married, keresik.” When she frowned at him, he laughed. “Freedom from his mother and a home of his own. Think of how much you hate living under Dama’s eye, and think how much worse it must have been for him, a grown man. He and his mam were so alike in some ways, too alike. It wasn’t a restful time.”
Some women might have been offended to find that her handsome young husband had married her purely to escape from his mother, but Briallen laughed. It was little more than a huff of amusement, but it felt good nonetheless. “Poor Mewan. I think I understand him a little better now. No wonder he spent so much time away with Pedar.”
“Hmm,” the old man hummed. Briallen looked at his old face, but could read nothing in his expression. Clearly there was more to that story, but the heat of the stone was seeping into her belly now, loosening the painful knots and making her sleepy.
“They were close, weren’t they?”
“Aye,” Sira Wynn agreed.
“I’m glad.” She yawned. “Glad that they had each other. Poor Pedar, I wonder where he is now. How he’s fairing all alone.”
Sira Wynn made another neutral noise, but Briallen’s eyes drooped shut.
“I’m still sorry – about the baby. It thought I didn’t want it, but I did. I thought it was a complication, a burden I didn’t need. That I’d be better off without it. But I did want it.” Her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking between her tight lids as fresh pain throbbed through her middle. “I truly did.”
“I know you did, keresik,” the old man said gruffly, stroking her hair. “Yet some things are not meant to be. The gods and ancestors have their own plans for us, but it’s rare they see fit to share them. Babes are lost all the time, with no rhyme nor reason, whether they’re wanted or not. Perhaps your babe wasn’t ready for the world.”
“I think I knew, even before the stones hit me. I think it was already gone.”
The old man hummed softly, stroking her hair again. “It was too sudden, too quick, perhaps, for those rocks to be the cause. Though it won’t do any harm to let those fool girls think they caused it.”
When her eyes flew open in protest, the old man gave a grim smile. “Just for a bit. I’ve no doubt Rosen is assuring them it wasn’t their fault, and they’ll likely believe her, since they’ll want to. Still, it’s time they learned a lesson or two, and if Rosen won’t teach them, the rest of us will have to.”
“But not this one,” Briallen murmured, her eyes closing again as she curled her knees up close to her chest, cradling her pain in close against the warm stone. “Never this one.”
Sira Wynn said nothing, just
squeezed her hand and stroked her head, soothing her gently towards sleep.
“My flowers,” she murmured, voice starting to slur. “Who?”
“Ceri, Dem and Elisud, of course.”
It was her turn to hum, realising that she hadn’t needed to ask. She’d known all along that there was something special about that small family. She wished they were hers. She wished she could be part of something so precious.
“Thank them,” she mumbled instead.
“Certain sure, that I will,” the old man agreed, and she settled into sleep with a sigh.