Hunter's Woman (6 page)

“Wait!” Aslyn called to the soldier’s retreating back.  He neither slowed nor turned, much to Aslyn’s indignation.  “I can’t take these….”

Enid snickered.

Aslyn glared at her.  Kale, she saw when she glanced in his direction, was frowning at the smoldering fire on the hearth. 

“I see you’re in a fair way to getting settled in so I’ll just leave the basket I brought you and be on my way.”

Aslyn grasped Enid’s arm, giving her a pleading look.  “Stay … a moment.”  She cast about in her mind.  “How is your husband faring?”

Enid relented, hiding a smile as she gave in to Aslyn’s silent plea.  “Well enough, I suppose.  Limping about, of course, and muttering under his breath, but I checked his bandage.  There’s been little bleeding since you patched him up this morn.”

“Ladies.”

Enid and Aslyn both turned startled eyes upon him. 

“Good eve.”

Aslyn studied him uncomfortably.  In truth, she was exceedingly grateful for the fire, however much she would have preferred to build it herself and thus be free of obligation.  She had not done so, though, and could not bring herself to be so rude as to allow him to go without expressing her appreciation for his efforts.  “Thank you.  If you have need of … of … uh….”  She broke off.  Neither ‘care’ nor ‘attention’ seemed the sort of thing to utter, particularly not when they could so easily be turned against her.

Kale’s lips curled faintly.  “If I have need of?” he prodded, his dark brows rising questioningly.

“I’m sure she’d offer you a fine stew for your trouble if she had a hare to toss into the pot,” Enid supplied helpfully.  “I’ve brought her what I can spare at the moment, but the roots alone….”

He frowned, glanced around the austere cottage, nodded and left.

Aslyn elbowed the woman in the ribs.  “For shame!  That was blatant….”

Enid shrugged.  “You’d rather go to bed hungry?  The roots will not make much of a soup.”

Obviously, there was no point in belaboring the fact that Enid had not only discomfited her by soliciting on her behalf, she had encouraged a closer association with the man … which Aslyn was desperate to discourage.  Instead, she focused upon Enid’s determined efforts to repay her for her help.  It was winter.  Food was scarce.  The basket of food she’d brought could well create hardship for her own family.  “It’s too much!  As much as I appreciate your generosity, Enid, you’ve repaid me twice over already.  You must take your basket with you.”

“What?  In giving you a spot of tea and a ride into town?  We’d have done the same for anyone we passed, with no expectation of payment for it.  You cannot count that.  I figured Jomares could patch the roof as soon as he was able, but that’ll not be for a while.  Anyway, you’ve not had time to settle in and it’s only neighborly to bring a bit of food to tide you over for the night.”

“That’s too much for so little,” Aslyn said firmly.

Enid’s brows rose.  “My Jomares means a sight more to me than a hand full of potatoes and carrots, I can tell you!”

Aslyn reddened, mortified to have her words interpreted in such a way.  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I never thought you did, but I do.”  With that she set the basket down and marched toward the door.  She turned when she reached it.  “I’d stay and help, but I need to get my own family settled in and supper on if we’re to eat tonight.”

Aslyn nodded and thanked her.  She was relieved to have the cottage to herself once more.  She’d all but forgotten how nerve wracking it could be to be surrounded by ‘normal’ folk, knowing that she must always mind what she said and how she behaved, knowing the danger inherent in allowing herself to let down her guard. 

Add to that the pitfall of being a young, unattached female amidst randy soldiers and it was small wonder her nerves were frayed to tatters. 

Dismissing her anxieties, she looked around, her hands on her hips.  Finally, she returned to the bedding she’d left on the floor and dragged it outside.  Gershin had had a line to hang her wash, but the rope had long since rotted.  Aslyn tossed the bedding over the T that had held one end, beat it thoroughly to remove as much dust and insects as possible, and left it to air while she cleaned the cottage. 

Uneasiness filled her as she made her way back inside, however.  She had not been far off the mark when she’d imagined the king’s men camped on her door step.  They had set up tents no more than a quarter of a mile from the outskirts of town—from her cottage, at the edge of the forest.

Chapter Five

The object she’d tripped over when she’d been removing the bedding, Aslyn discovered, was old Gershin’s cook pot.  From the look of it, Gershin, like most people, had not been prepared when death took her.  She’d left the remains of whatever last meal she’d cooked in the pot to slowly decay.  It had long since dried and blackened to an indistinguishable crust.  Taking it outside, Aslyn found a stick and scraped the inside of the pot until she’d cleaned it the best she could. 

She’d seen a community well as they made their way through town.  She had not seen one in the tiny yard that surrounded Gershin’s cottage.  Sighing, she headed for the well.  When she’d washed the pot, she filled it and headed back to the cottage.  Thankfully, it was not a very large pot, for her shoulder felt as if it was slipping from the socket only with the weight of the water she was carrying.

There was a stack of wood by her door when she returned.  She stared at it for several moments and finally dismissed it, struggled inside with the pot, set it on the hook and swung it over the fire.  A brush broom, covered in cobwebs, stood in the corner near the door.  Much of the rush had rotted and crumbled, but Aslyn took it and used it to rake down cobwebs around the tiny cottage, brush the dust from the bed frame, the table and chair, and the mantel piece over the hearth.  When she was done, she raked the debris littering the dirt floor outside.  Examining the broom when she’d finished, she saw it had reached the end of its usefulness, broke the handle over her knee, and tossed the pieces into the fire. 

The water had begun to boil.  Taking her knife from her pack, she selected two potatoes and two carrots and headed back toward the well.  When she returned, she discovered that the door was shut.  She stared at it uneasily for several moments, and finally moved toward it.  Grasping the handle, she put her shoulder against it and shoved.

The door swung open without resistance and Aslyn staggered inside, almost dropping the vegetables she’d just spent the past twenty minutes peeling and cleaning.  Irritated, she left the door open, glanced around the cottage to make certain no one waited in the shadows, and moved to the cook pot. 

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw there was something floating in the boiling water.  She stared at it, fighting a wave of nausea, and finally speared it with her knife.  It was a tribit, cleaned and neatly quartered. 

Feeling more than a little disconcerted that she’d imagined it might be something unpleasant, she dropped the meat back in the pot and turned to look at the door.  Finally, she moved to the table, placed the vegetables there and returned to examine the door.  The hinges, she saw, had been repaired.

Uneasiness swept through her as she closed the door.  Kale?  Or Lord Algar?  Or had both of them been busily attending to her comfort?  And why?  What did they expect in return?

It took no great intelligence to figure out Lord Algar’s motives—if, in fact, it had been he who’d seen to it that she had wood for fire, a stout door to close—food.  He would not have done it himself, of course.  He would have sent one of his men, but was such thoughtfulness in his nature? 

A very little thought assured her that she had not misjudged the man, however short their acquaintance.  He was not kind, not thoughtful, and not considerate.  She suspected that he was cunning and manipulative, though, and the deeds could as easily have been performed from those motives as out of kindness.

Although she was more inclined to think Kale responsible for the offerings, the truth was, she could not envision Kale as being kind, thoughtful and considerate either.  There was a chilling reserve about him, a sense of absolute self-control that made her distinctly uneasy.  It had flitted through her mind, more than once, that he suspected … something about her.  She might be imagining it, of course, but Kale’s motives were far more difficult to pinpoint and the doubts suggested Kale was far more dangerous.

She was careful not to look in the direction of the soldiers’ camp when she went out to check the mattress.  It still smelled a bit too soured for her taste, but she could see no crawling insects.  It was not so musty as it had been, and, in any case, she did not want to turn it and leave it to air longer.  If she did so, she would have to make yet another trip outside and it occurred to her that Lord Algar, at least, was more than likely to interpret her repeated trips to and fro as some sort of encouragement. 

At any rate, it was nearing dusk.  She would not have been able to leave it much longer anyway.

Dragging the mattress from the post, she hauled it inside.

The tribit, she saw when she tested it with her knife, was tender.  Scooping the vegetables from the table, she dropped them in the pot and went to check her pouch for some herbs suitable for seasoning. 

To her surprise and at least partial relief, neither Kale nor Lord Algar showed up on her doorstep to join her for dinner, although she waited until it was full dark before she dismissed the possibility.  She ate her stew in solitary contemplation, banked the fire and crawled into bed, wondering uneasily what would come of her chance meeting with two very dangerous men. 

* * * *

On the third day after she arrived in Krackensled, Aslyn, who’d been out since first light foraging, both for her cook pot and for medicinal plants and fungi, returned to find a woman sitting on her doorstep.  She was cradling something to her chest that had been bundled from end to end.

Weary from trudging through the snow, anxious because she had spotted soldiers more than once as she foraged—which gave her the distinct feeling that she was being watched—and disheartened that she’d returned almost as empty handed as she’d been when she left, Aslyn had to force a polite smile of interest.  “May I help you?”

The woman turned at the sound of her voice and looked up at her, studying her face searchingly.  “Enid told me ye were a healer.  I come to see if ye’d look at me boy.”

“You should have gone in.  It can’t be good for the child to sit outside in the cold.  How long have you been waiting?”

“Not long a’tall.”

It was obviously a lie.  Either that or the woman was sick herself, for she was shaking all over.  Aslyn pushed the door open and held out her arms for the child.  After a moment, the woman gave the child up reluctantly and followed her inside.  Aslyn frowned when she felt the weight of the child, for it seemed curiously light for its size.  “I apologize, but I’ve little to offer you in the way of comfort.  Take the chair, if you like, and sit by the fire while I have a look at the child.  But take care, it’s a bit shaky.  It’s like to break and dump you in the floor if you’re not careful.”

The woman, who looked to be in her mid-thirties, studied her a moment and nodded, but made no move to do either.  Instead, she followed Aslyn to the bed, watching her every move as Aslyn removed the woolen blankets to unearth the child.  The little boy’s eyes were huge in a face shrunken either by prolonged illness, or hunger, or perhaps both.  It was impossible to determine his age.  She smiled at him as she studied his glassy eyes and then made him open his mouth so that she could see his throat.  “What are you called, little man?”

Something flickered in the boy’s eyes.  He glanced at his mother.  “Hoan,” he supplied finally.

She looked at his ears.  “That’s a good, strong name.  How old are you?”

“Seven winters.”

Aslyn tried her best to hide her shock, but she’d seen toddlers near as big as the boy.  “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I ain’t too keen on you pumpin’ my boy.”

Aslyn glanced at the woman, subduing her anger with an effort.  “If I’m to help him, I must know certain things.”

“Gershin never asked so many questions.”

“Then Gershin either knew the answers already, since she lived here, or she was a witch.  I, myself, am not.  And I’m not good at guessing, either,” Aslyn responded tartly.   “In any case, Hoan seemed uneasy.  I was trying to make him feel more comfortable.”

She more than half expected the woman to grow angry.  To her surprise, the suspiciousness vanished from her face.  “Oh.  I’ve six, not countin’ Hoanny.”

Aslyn nodded.  “Are any of the others sick?”

“Hoanny’s the baby.  He’s always been sickly.  The others seem well enough.”

“What about you?  And his father?”

“I’ve got a bit of a cold, I think.”

Aslyn smiled at Hoan and ruffled his hair.  “Hoan, too.”

“You think?”

“His throat is a little pinker than normal, his ears, too, but I don’t think it’s anything serious.”  She turned to Hoan.  “Why don’t you wait here while I have a little chat with your mother?”

The woman glanced at her uneasily but followed Aslyn across the room.   Aslyn pushed the pot of stew over the fire before she returned her attention to the woman.  She considered for several moments and finally sighed.  “I know of no gentle way to say this, so I hope you’ll pardon me for being blunt.  I’ve seen Hoan’s problem more times than I can count.  He’s starving, plain and simple.  He isn’t getting enough food to grow, or sustain strength; otherwise the cold would not have affected him so badly.”