White Blood (9 page)

“My dear, I heard the wonderful news.” Froethych flung his arms around Voerell. She returned the embrace, a little breathless, until he released her and turned to draw Whirter to his feet. “Rise, rise! My good duke, what a marvelous day!” He clasped Whirter’s hand and thumped him on the back. “Rise, all of you. Where’s my grandson? Let me see him!”

A rustle of skirts filled the room as everyone rose. Maryn scrambled to her feet, trying not to jostle the prince, and stumbled forward, shaking. She shrank back as she offered the baby to the king, but Froethych never looked at her. All his attention was fixed on the child he scooped up and held triumphantly before him. “A grand big boy! You’ll be a worthy warrior someday, won’t you?”

The prince stiffened and flung his arms wide, and seemed on the verge of breaking into frightened wails. Froethych shifted him into the crook of one arm and the baby settled. The king turned to display the baby to the two young men who trailed him, as proud as if he had personally created each wispy strand of hair and dainty finger. “Look at your nephew! Was ever a king blessed by the Holy One with three such heirs?”

The elder of the two, tall and slender, with cropped hair and a neat short beard and mustache, nodded to Froethych and stroked the baby’s head. “Congratulations, Father.”

The younger was a bit shorter and more solidly built, with a thick fall of wavy blond locks and light blue eyes. He grinned at his brother. “You’re congratulating the wrong person, Marolan.” He stepped around the king, giving the baby a quick tickle on the cheek as he went, and bent to hug Voerell. “Congratulations, Voerell. He’s beautiful. Good work.”

She squeezed his shoulders. “Thanks, Carlich. Let Father have his fun. I don’t mind.”

Froethych seated himself on the edge of the bed, his big hands nearly engulfing the baby as he shifted him into his lap. “What are you going to name him?”

Voerell glanced at Whirter; he quirked an eyebrow at her and she nodded. Whirter inclined his head to the king. “We had thought to call him Barilan, your Majesty, after my ancestor who stood by Lord Hoenech’s side, and was named duke by King Fridollan. In honor of the bonds of friendship and loyalty that have always joined the houses of Sompirla and Rottolla.”

“A proud name! And a proud history. I knew when I chose you for Voerell that you would honor our family and our kingdom.” Froethych beamed. “Ah, is there anything so good as a grandson? I wonder when I shall be granted more such blessings?” He flashed a teasing grin at his sons.

Marolan inclined his head. “I count the days until my marriage, Father. You saw fit to betroth me to Dolia, so you have no one to blame but yourself that you must wait until she comes of age, as I must.”

“True, true. But the alliance with Wonora will reward our patience many times over.” Froethych turned a sharper glance on Carlich. “What of you? When are you going to leave off this nonsense of refusing every match I try to make? Is there no woman in Milecha or among our allies that will please you?”

“Many women please me, Father. Perhaps someday I’ll find one who can entice me away from all the others.” Carlich kept his tone light and joking, but Maryn still sensed a bite in his words.

Voerell snorted. “I pity her, if you ever find her. The Holy One knows I wouldn’t put up with you if it was anything less than blood;-;ties that bound us.”

Carlich grinned, unruffled. “I love you, too, little sister. Truly, Father, between Voerell and Marolan you’ll end up with so many heirs the kingdom won’t have room for them all. Why should I add to the number of princes who’ll never see a crown?”

Marolan frowned. “We never know what might chance. Look at Father; he was Grandfather’s fourth son. All of us must be ready to step forward if fate calls us to serve. There’s no reason for you to be so resentful—”

“Perhaps, but you must admit some of
us
have a better chance than others of
us
—”

Froethych raised his hands. “Boys! Now is not the time for your bickering! If you cannot be respectful of your sister’s happiness, you may leave.” The baby in his lap stirred, wrinkled his face, and broke into a thin wail. “Now see what you’ve done. You’ve made Barilan cry.” Froethych scooped up Barilan and set him on his shoulder. Maryn held her breath lest Barilan spit up and mar the rich velvet of the king’s robe, but the baby only subsided into muffled whimpers. Froethych glared at his sons.

Marolan inclined his head with every indication of respect. Carlich, too, nodded in submission, but he shot a covert glower at his brother.

Froethych spent a good deal longer exchanging pleasantries with Voerell and Whirter, laced with many admiring comments on Barilan’s appearance, size, health, and heritage. At length Barilan fell asleep against the king’s shoulder.

Maryn shifted. Her feet were still sore from her journey, and she was deeply weary, but she wasn’t allowed to move until the king left or dismissed her. All the rest of the servants stood in respectful stillness. Most of them wore bored, resigned expressions that told Maryn she couldn’t expect the king to have any consideration for their comfort.

At long last Froethych ran out of things to say. He patted Barilan and moved to pass him to Voerell. The princess glanced at Maryn, but set her mouth in a grim line and accepted her son into her arms. She remained stiff, even when the sleeping baby snuggled into her chest with a little sigh.

Froethych rose. “Come, Marolan, Carlich, let us leave them to their rest. Join me in the main hall tonight; we’ll feast to celebrate Barilan’s arrival. Whirter, you’re invited, too, if you can tear yourself away from your wife and son.”

He swept from the room. Marolan followed him. Carlich bent to give Voerell a quick parting embrace and Barilan a pat before he trailed after.

All around the room came an exhalation and a rustle of skirts as everyone relaxed from their frozen attitudes of deference and returned to their duties. Servants bustled about. Coewyn went to confer with Litholl. The ladies;-;in;-;waiting clustered around the bed, oohing and ahhing over the baby.

Voerell put up with their attentions for a few minutes, responding to their compliments and delighted comments with a strained smile and clipped words. The moment Barilan stirred, only a slight shifting in his sleep, she shooed them away. “Come, nurse. Take him away. I want to rest.”

Maryn moved quickly to comply. Barilan’s warm weight felt good back in her arms. He snuggled in close to her body, and she wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t know why Voerell acted so coldly toward her son, or remained so unmoved by his newborn sweetness, but it distressed her. Perhaps that was the way all highborn women treated their children. No wonder they gave them to wet nurses. As Maryn trailed Madam Coewyn toward the nursery, she silently promised Barilan that she would do her best to shower him with all the affection and tenderness his mother could not, or would not, give him.

Six

M
aryn pressed her lips together, but she wasn’t able to entirely smother a gasp of pain as Barilan’s eager mouth clamped around her nipple. She glanced across the nursery to see if Madame Semprell had noticed, but the Under;-;Stewardess was much too busy looking over the array of gowns laid out on the table to pay any attention to Maryn.

Semprell frowned, and fingered the linen of one sleeve. “This is much too rough. Nothing so coarse can be allowed to touch Prince Barilan’s skin.” She scowled at the servant assisting her, and the woman whisked the offending garment away into the growing pile of rejects.

Under;-;Stewardess Semprell was fairly young, only a few years older than Maryn, but her manner often belied her age. She idolized Royal Stewardess Coewyn and copied many of the older woman’s mannerisms. But the erect posture and haughty stares that gave Coewyn her natural authority seemed mere pretentious bossiness when Semprell affected them.

Semprell moved on to the next gown. “This one is better, though the embroidery is uninspired. Still, it’s competent. Hang it up; it will do for daily wear.” She continued down the row, finding fault with some, accepting others.

Maryn breathed deeply and blinked back tears. Semprell must not be allowed to see her distress. Barilan’s mouth on her breast felt like fire, every suck scraping across her raw nipple like a whetstone across a blade. Cracks broke her tender skin; they barely scabbed over before another nursing session tore them open to bleed again. Blood stained the dribbles of milk at the corners of Barilan’s mouth pink; she writhed inside with worry that so much uncleansed blood must surely harm the prince somehow.

But to all appearances he was thriving. He had grown so much in the six weeks since his birth that already he required larger gowns. His skin glowed; his arms and legs were plump and dimpled; his eyes were bright and alert. He filled his diaper regularly and generously. By all these signs Maryn knew he must be receiving a sufficient quantity of her milk. But this required many long hours of nursing each day, every minute a trial for Maryn. Something must be terribly wrong. Nursing Frilan had never hurt like this. She didn’t know how much longer she could endure the torture.

But she must. If Semprell or Coewyn ever found out how badly she was failing at the task for which she’d been hired, she would be dismissed from her position immediately. Some other woman would be chosen to replace her, perhaps not so desirably free of entangling ties, but at least able to put the prince to her breast without wanting to scream. On particularly bad nights, when Barilan insisted on staying latched on for hours and Maryn was unable to snatch even a brief stretch of sleep, the thought of being freed from her miserable duty seemed a welcome relief, and she resolved to confess all to Semprell in the morning. But always, so far, when dawn came she sealed her lips and schooled her face into stoic calm.

Except for this one thing, her life in the palace was everything she had hoped. Her surroundings were luxurious, the food was rich and plentiful, her position in the hierarchy of palace servants was privileged. She spent her days in relative leisure, her only duty to feed and tend the prince. She would have enjoyed that task, if not for the nearly constant pain.

And Barilan needed her. She was the only one he ever seemed truly happy with. When Semprell took him for an hour each morning, to manipulate his limbs in the series of exercises that were supposed to strengthen his arms and legs and coax them to grow long and straight, Barilan would wail and thrash. In the afternoons he repeated the performance while the Under;-;Stewardess tried to recite long passages in the ancient language into his ear. Finally Semprell agreed, scowling, to conduct the lessons while Barilan nestled content in Maryn’s arms.

Semprell had such odd notions of how an infant should be treated. She ascribed religiously to a treatise penned by Letwillan, an ancient Wonoran scholar that Semprell revered as an expert in all matters of child;-;rearing. Some of his pronouncements were harmless enough, Maryn supposed. She didn’t see that the morning exercise sessions could do much harm, though she doubted they would do any good, either; serf children grew fine without all that fuss and bother. The afternoon language lessons might actually be helpful when it came time for Barilan to learn sorcery.

Others of Letwillan’s strictures, however, were more troubling. Semprell constantly badgered Maryn to hold Barilan less, and put him down more often in his cradle by the fire. This wouldn’t have bothered Maryn if Barilan had been content, as Frilan had often been, to play with his toes or gaze at the flickering shadows on the wall. But Barilan would almost always shriek in protest the moment Maryn released him. She didn’t mind holding him as much as he wanted; everyone knew some babies needed more holding than others. But Semprell frowned whenever Maryn picked him up.

The Under;-;Stewardess didn’t like listening to Barilan scream either, so she had not yet pressed the point, but as the prince grew older Maryn feared she would. If Maryn was dismissed, whoever replaced her might be less willing to defy Semprell. Or she might even share the same views. The thought of Barilan wailing for long hours, alone and uncomforted, steeled Maryn to endure many miserable nursing sessions when otherwise she would have been glad to hand over her difficult charge to some other nurse.

Full at last, Barilan’s sucking slowed, and he came off Maryn’s breast. Her whole body unclenched with a shudder at the relief from pain. Quickly she tucked in place the folded cloth she used to keep blood from staining her shift and fastened her drawstring before Semprell had a chance to glimpse the raw red mess of her nipple.

Semprell glanced at Barilan. “Is he finished at last? Hurry up and play with him. We’ve still got to get him dressed before we can go. Princess Voerell has no patience for tardiness.”

Letwillan prescribed a session of “playful interaction” between baby and nurse after every feeding. Maryn found this pronouncement somewhat less objectionable than his others. Of course playtime was important, even if trying to force it into such a rigid schedule was ridiculous. When Semprell was absent from the nursery, she ignored the timetable and played with Barilan whenever he seemed in the mood. Now, though, with Semprell hovering nearby, she had to at least pretend to comply.

Maryn patted Barilan’s back until he released a hearty belch. “There, that’s better.” She shifted him from her shoulder to her lap. His eyes were bright and alert, watching her inquisitively. Good, this time she wouldn’t have to fight to keep him awake.

She caught his waving hands in hers, brought them together rhythmically, and crooned a rhyme she’d learned from her mother. “Clappa clappa handikins, clappa clappa do…” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Semprell turn back to the gowns. She pressed Barilan’s hands first to her cheeks, then to his own. “Clappa for me and clappa for you…”

Maryn let her thoughts wander as she continued to go through the motions of the song. Litholl was coming to the palace today to check on Voerell and Barilan. The other times she had come Maryn hadn’t dared asked her for help with her damaged nipples, not with Coewyn and Semprell right there. But they had gotten much worse since the midwife’s last visit. Maybe she could find some way to speak with Litholl privately. If she couldn’t, she feared it was only a matter of time until the pain increased so much she wouldn’t be able to force herself to endure it any more.