Son of the Shadows (47 page)

. The child gave me a purposeful kick;

he had little room to move now. Maybe he was telling me something in the only way he could.

All right

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, I

told him, shifting uncomfortably on the stone bench.

If there is an end to his journey, we'll find it for him. He won't thank us. And you'll have to help.

I can't do it alone

.

It was very close to my time. I felt quite ready; the spring flowers had emerged, pale daffodils, fairy chimes, and snowdrops, and there was a definite warmth in the air despite persistent, drizzling rain. The cherry trees wore a delicate mantle of blossom. It seemed like a good time.

My attention was turned inward. I was closely tuned to every small change in my body and scarcely aware of what happened outside it. I knew Sean was away from home. He had not told me where he was going.

They turned the child around; it was almost too late to do it, and the process was uncomfortable but necessary for an easier and safer birth. After that, I told them to leave me alone, for it seemed to me it was time to give it into the hands of the goddess.

A few days later I sat in my chamber on the night when the moon was dark and looked into the flame of my candle. I had kept vigil through the lives of several such candles now; each had its small wreath of powerful herbs, and the necklace of wolf claws had encircled each, with the single black feather tucked under the leather strip. Perhaps it had helped protect him, and perhaps it had not. This particular night I

was so terribly tired; my eyelids kept dropping over my eyes, and then I would wake with a start, for I

must not leave him to keep vigil alone in the dark. But eventually my body got the better of my mind, and

I fell asleep where I sat on my chair.

A sharp pain woke me, and when I got to my feet there was a gush of fluid down my legs. From then on, it was all pain and confusion and the hardest work I had ever done in my life. It was as well Jam's was there, for my mother was quite weak and could only sit by my side letting me grip her hand, and wiping my face with damp cloths. But feeble as her body had become, her mind was still as sharp as ever; and she directed Janis and the other women with confidence and precision. Perhaps with more confidence than she felt, for she told me quietly that it seemed the child had turned again within the last few days and was now lodged firmly in position, determined to be born breech first. There was nothing to worry about, she told me firmly. I was young and healthy, and the babe did not seem overlarge. I would manage.

I must manage

, I told myself.

For if I cannot push him out, I am dead and so is he. I have to manage. Let the cord not be around his neck

.

It took a long time. The candle burned on until dawn sent pink-and-orange light through the narrow window into this chamber I had once shared with my sister. One of the women made to extinguish the small flame, and I spoke to her sharply, bidding her leave it alight. That way, something of my son's father would be there in the room to witness his birth. The light increased, and so did the activity around me, and I could hear men's voices outside. At one point my mother went out, probably to reassure the Big

Man, for I could imagine he was pacing restlessly, waiting for it to be over, uncomfortable that, for once, he could do nothing to help.

"It's all right to scream, lass," said Janis, somewhat later. "It's a cruel task; no one expects you to bear it in silence. Curse and weep all you want." But it seemed to me that silence meant control; and I also thought, between those arching spasms of pain, how stoical Evan the smith had been,
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bearing an agony surely far greater than this. For had not women been enduring this for more years than there were stars in the sky? I had a job to do, and I must just get on with it. At that point I imagined a small voice in my ear, saying, Good. That's the way

.

Later, as the light faded to violet-gray outside, and even Janis was starting to look exhausted, my mother had them make up another tea; and when I smelled it I raised my brows, for as well as the dittany and hyssop, there was calamint and another, sharper scent I did not recognize.

"I don't need this," I said crossly. "I can do this on my own."

Mother smiled, and if she was worried she managed to hide it well. There was no sign of weariness on her neat, small features. She was pale, but these days she was always pale.

"Dusk would be a good time of day for this child to be born," she said softly. "The right time, I think.

Don't forget that I am the healer, Daughter."

I scowled at her and drank, feeling another surge of pain flood through my body, and this time I could not keep quiet. This was different, stronger, more forceful, and there was an urge to push, an urge that could not be denied.

After that it was quick, almost too quick. I made a lot more noise than I wanted to; my mother told me to stop pushing, but I couldn't; someone was supporting my shoulders, and Janis was saying, "Good, good;

that's it, lass." And there was one last, wrenching, impossible effort, and all of a sudden, silence.

"Quick," I heard Janis saying, and there was a flurry of movement. "Turn him upside down, that's it. Clear out his mouth. Good. Now . . ."

I was lying back, completely spent; but when I heard the first gasping wail of outrage from my son, I sat bolt upright, dashing the tears from my eyes as I reached out for him. Oh, and he was perfect. So tiny, so wrinkled and red faced, but already with a cap of brown curls plastered to his small skull with the sticky, bloody residue of birth. He was my son and Bran's.

I

li

Oh. Oh, how I wish you were here to see him. To see what a wonderful child we have made.

"You're crying, lass," Janis said, scrubbing furtively at her own cheeks. "No need for tears. That's a fine, wee boy you have there. Smallish, but strong. He can still bellow loud enough, even after such a long

struggle. A little fighter, that one."

There was a lot of cleaning up to do, as is the way with childbirth. They busied themselves around me, as my son lay, a sweet warmth, across my chest. He was quiet now, his small mouth already working in preparation for the breast, his tiny fingers clutched tight around one of mine.

Don't let go

.

Mother had been strangely silent. I thought she must be exhausted from the long night and day; but when

I looked, she was still sitting there by the bed, her gaze very thoughtful as she watched the child.

The women finished their work and went off to a well-earned supper, and Mother told Janis to fetch herself some ale and food and take her time about returning.

"And, Janis? Tell the Big Man he can come up, will you? Just for a little."

When all were gone, and the chamber was quiet, she spoke again. "Liadan."

"Mm—?" I was almost drifting off to sleep. The small fire warmed the room well, and a pleasant scent of lavender spread through the air; they were burning the dried flowers for their healing properties.

"I'm not sure how to say this, but it must be said. Liadan, I think I could put a name to this
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child's father."

"What!"

"Hush, hush. Lie down again, you'll frighten him. I may be wrong. We should wait until your father gets here. There is a very strong likeness. And Red did tell me—he told me your man is somehow connected with Harrowfield. If not for that, I might perhaps have dismissed it."

We heard the sound of booted feet taking the steps three at a time and hastening along the hall, and the door flew open.

"Liadan!" My father crossed the room in two long strides. "Sweetheart, are you all right?" And then he saw the child lying on my breast, and his mouth curved in a big, sweet, wonderful smile.

It had been a long time since I had seen him smile.

"You can hold him if you like, Grandfather," I said.

And so it was that my mother told her tale, while my father stood before the fire with his grandchild in his arms, and I leaned on one elbow and drank the cup of wine with herbs that my mother had put in my hand.

"This birth," said Sorcha softly, "this birth has been so like another one I attended long ago that I cannot dismiss it as coincidence. I might have done so were not this child the image of that other, the boy I

delivered on the night of Mean Geimhridh, at Harrowfield."

Father glanced at her sharply. "How could that be?" he asked. "Besides," and he looked down at the bundle that was the child, so small between his big hands, "don't all babies look the same?"

"I believe I am right," said my mother. "And I think you will come to agree with me. The labor and birth followed just the same pattern: the child determined to be born breech first, the long labor, the difficult delivery. Liadan is younger and stronger than Margery was, and a lot more determined, and so she needed less help. But it was the same."

"All breech births are difficult," I said, my heart thumping. "Who was that child?"

But Mother did not answer me. "Look at the babe," she said to Iubdan. "Look at his curling, brown hair

and his gray eyes. Look at the set of his jaw and the shape of his brow. There is the seed of John's face in those features, red and wrinkled as they are. You cannot tell me you don't see it, Red."

My father moved closer to the candle, looking intently at the baby's face, and there was a sudden wail of protest.

"Here," I said, putting down my cup, and my son was returned to my arms. I stroked his back and hummed under my breath an ancient lullaby that had once sent his father to sleep, surprisingly.

"Red?"

My father gave a nod. "I see it, Jenny." Thus had he called her ever since the time they first met, when she had no voice to tell her real name. "And it tallies with what you told me, Liadan, that the child's father once lived at Harrowfield. The boy would have been less than a year old when Jenny left there."

"Who—who was he?" I asked cautiously, adding up quickly in my head and wondering if Bran could indeed be less than one and twenty. What was it he had said?

When I was nine years old, I determined that I was a man

. Perhaps it could be true.

"His name was John, for his father. But they called him Johnny."

"He does not go by that name now. Still, a name is easily changed."

"Has your man gray eyes?"

"Yes."

"What about his hair? This child had brown, curling hair just like your son's."

I felt a slow blush creep over my face, and I was glad they could not see into my thoughts. "That
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would be right," I said after a little.

"Is he a Briton?" my father asked. "If so, I can understand your reluctance to reveal his identity.

But you should not forget my own origins. I have done well enough here."

"I can't say. But it is possible. Can you tell me the story, please?"

My father frowned slightly. "Your mother's very tired."

"Then you tell it. Please, Father."

He sat down on the other side of the bed. It was dark outside now.

"I had two loyal friends at Harrowfield. There was Ben, my young foster brother, a man quick with the sword and quicker still with his wit. And there was John. John was my close kinsman, my guide and sounding board, my companion in every endeavor. He was a man to whom you could tell any secret. He was a man you would trust with your life. John wed a girl from the south, Margery was her name. There was a deep love between them. They lost one child, and it seemed to us they might lose this one, too. But your mother was there, and so, after a very long night, he was born safely."

"There was never a child more loved and wanted than Johnny." My mother took up the tale.

"Margery was so proud of him. You could see it in everything she did. She was always carrying him against her shoulder, talking to him, singing to him. She made him the most beautiful little shirts, all embroidered with tiny flowers and leaves and winged creatures. John was a reticent sort of man. But he was devoted to the two of them."

"Did—did something happen? I cannot see how the cherished infant you speak of could have become the man who fathered my child. He is not—he is not a man who was raised in love. That much I know."

"John died," said my father heavily. "He was killed, crushed in a rock fall while watching over Jenny. It was Northwoods's doing. That was a terrible thing, and Margery took the loss hard. But when I left

Harrowfield, she was doing her best to raise the child alone. In my brother's household they would have been well protected."

"John's son would have grown into a fine man," Sorcha said, looking at me intently. "A fine, good man."

I nodded, feeling tears prick the back of my eyes.

My father got up. "We're tiring you," he said. "You must sleep; you must both sleep. You've done well, the two of you. My strong women." And as they turned to leave, he said to me quietly, "If my grandson is also John's grandson, that fills me with content, Daughter. John would be glad of it. I would give much to meet this child's father. I hope one day I will."

But I only nodded, and then Jam's came back with food for me and I discovered I was extremely hungry.

"Wait till your milk comes in," Janis said wryly, settling by the fire with her tankard of ale.

"You'll eat like a horse then."

Later, I fell asleep with the babe at my breast; and in the window, the candle burned steadily on into another night.

II

I!

The uncles gathered. I sensed this was not solely to inspect the newborn but for a deeper, more solemn purpose. For my mother was rapidly weakening now, as if she had indeed waited only for the birth of this babe before taking her final farewell of Sevenwaters.

I was possessive of my child. There was no need for a wet-nurse: I fed him and tended to him myself; I

held him and touched him and sang to him. I had a girl to help me because Father insisted on it,
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