Knights of the Round Table 03 - Gawain

by Gawain (lit)

  They laughed together, and Aislyn obligingly put a charm upon the woman’s loom in return for half a loaf.

  So Gawain had been here, she thought, making her way carefully down the hillside to the forest. She wondered if he had given up or whether he would be back.

  The next morning she woke to the sound of fists hammering on her door. For a moment she was entirely disoriented, then she remembered where she was and why, and thought with a sinking heart that Gawain had found her. “A bit of patience, if you would!” she called. “I’ll be there as soon as I can manage!”

  Grunting, she raised herself to hands and knees, and using the wall for a handhold, slowly pulled herself upright.

  “All right, you found—” she said as she flung open the door, then halted, speechless when she saw four warriors upon the doorstep.

  Saxon warriors. They towered over her, blocking the sunlight, barbaric, fierce, and terrifying. Their backs were to the sun, their faces shadowed. Light hair was oiled and twisted into complicated plaits that hung over broad shoulders. One carried an enormous bow, another a battle-ax, and all were armed with sword and dagger. Every instinct screamed for her to run, but even if she could have forced her legs to move, the warriors filled the only exit.

  They seemed equally surprised at the sight of her. As one, they stepped back, and all at once, when the sun shone on their faces, Aislyn realized they were not merely Saxons, but men. The one who carried the battle-ax—who Aislyn now saw was little more than a boy with curling reddish hair—flung up his hands, fumbling his grip on the ax as his fingers twisted in what Aislyn imagined was a sign against the evil eye. The tallest, who wore a circlet of beaten bronze round his brow, bent to retrieve the fallen ax, lips curving in a sardonic smile as he handed it back to the lad.

  If they’d come to kill her, they were going about it very oddly, she reflected, and straightened her back. “What do you want?” she demanded boldly.

  The redheaded lad, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, stepped forward. “We need a woman,” he said.

  Aislyn leaned against the doorway and grinned. “Bit early in the day for that sort of thing, isn’t it?”

  The boy’s face reddened, and the tall man beside him— who seemed to be their leader—laughed. “I am Torquil. We are escorts for my lady Elga, bound for Winchester. The lady—” He frowned, then sketched an arc before his belly. “It is—before her time. Yet she is . . .”

  He clutched his stomach and groaned in such a lifelike imitation of a woman in labor that Aislyn couldn’t help but laugh. That he took it without insult impressed her. Any man prepared to set aside his dignity for the sake of accomplishing a mission so clearly foreign to his nature was a man to be reckoned with. For a moment she was reminded of Gawain and thought that the two of them could be friends.

  If only they weren’t enemies. He was a Saxon, after all.

  “Where are her women?” Aislyn asked suspiciously.

  “There is but one.” Torquil sighed, clearly mastering his impatience with an effort. “The one knows nothing of . . . birthings. There is time, the lady said when we set out, much time. But now there is no time. We tried the vill, they slam the doors and send us here. You come.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Aislyn pretended to consider it and Torquil did her the courtesy of pretending to allow her to do so. Another surprise, as the Saxons were said to be barbarous folk who knew naught of gentle manners.

  “Aye,” she said, “I’ll come. Just let me fetch my bag.”

  THEY found the lady in a small clearing. Like most Saxons, she seemed uncouthly tall, though Aislyn noted her broad shoulders and wide hips with approval, for strength would be needed to survive such a rude birthing as this was like to be. Her hair, caught back in a single plait as thick as Aislyn’s wrist, was not the butter-yellow of the men’s, but a soft honey-brown. She paced slowly round the clearing’s perimeter, pausing now and then to lean a hand against a tree, her expression one of deep concentration.

  A serving girl sat on a fallen log, munching a hunk of bread and looking bored. A few men hovered about uncertainly, and greeted Aislyn with such relief that they scarcely seemed to take note of her appearance. Nor did it matter that she did not understand a word they said. When they bowed and touched their brows, their gratitude was plain enough.

  The lady dismissed the men with a wave of her hand and a smile. The moment they had vanished, her smile did, as well, and the eyes she turned to Aislyn were wide and frightened.

  “Good day, lady,” Aislyn said. “I’m Dame Ragnelle. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”

  Aislyn had seen many births before, in her own home and at Morgause’s castle, but there had always been a midwife in attendance to take charge of things. During the short ride to the clearing, she’d cast her mind back over everything the midwives had said and done. She felt the girl’s swelling belly, and as far as she could tell, the baby seemed to be head down. “That’s all in order. Why don’t you take another turn about the clearing while I get things ready here?”

  When the lady had gone out of earshot, Aislyn turned to the serving girl. “Get the fire going,” she ordered sharply, “and heat some water. And have those men dig me a good deep hole by yonder oak.” She pointed to a towering tree some distance from the clearing.

  The maid looked up at her, uncomprehending, jaws working as she chewed her bread.

  “Go on, get moving!”

  “Bah, bah,” the maid said, and giggling at her own wit, she made a flicking motion with one hand.

  Her laughter turned to a shriek as Aislyn seized her by the ear and dragged her from the log. “Heat. Water.” She twisted her fingers until the girl screamed. “You’ll mind me now, I’ll warrant! Hi, there!” she cried. “Who can understand what I say?”

  “What is it?” The boy who had borne the battle-ax appeared between the trees, his gaze fixed on the lady, who had stopped on the other side of the clearing and was watching Aislyn with a small smile.

  “I need hot water,” Aislyn said. “This lazy slut doesn’t seem to understand.”

  The lad barked a harsh order to the serving girl, who slipped from the clearing, her expression sullen.

  “Have someone dig by that tree,” Aislyn went on, pointing to the oak. “A good hole, mind you, not a scrape.”

  “A—a hole? For what?”

  “That’s my business,” Aislyn retorted sharply. “Just do as I say.”

  She hobbled over to the lady and took her by the elbow. “Now, that’s better. Why don’t we keep walking and you can tell me when the babe was meant to come.”

  Elga looked at her blankly, and with a sigh, Aislyn held her outstretched arms before her belly. “The babe,” she said slowly. “When did it—” She lowered her arms. “Drop?”

  “Ah! Two—three days. My—my man’s mother says—” Elga drew in a sharp breath. “She says there is time. She says, go and come back and still many days—” Another pain gripped her, and when it passed, she said fiercely, “She hopes I die. But I will not.”

  “That’s the spirit. But I’m sure it was just an honest mistake,” she added, though she could hardly keep the doubt from her voice. Anyone looking at this girl must have known that she was due in the straw at any moment.

  “She lied. She hates me. I am peaceweaver, you see.”

  “Piece weaver?” Aislyn repeated. “You mean with a loom?”

  The girl laughed, revealing strong white teeth, and Aislyn could see that she was really quite attractive in her own way. “No, no, I bring the peace. Between our people. I marry the thane’s brother—he who was our enemy—and we have no more war between us.”

  “Ah, a peaceweaver.”

  “We had much war,” Elga said between clenched teeth. “Many men died. There is much . . . bad feeling. The women—they do not—do not—forgive—”

  “Go with it,” Aislyn said, “don’t fight it, keep breathing.”

  “That was very bad,” the girl said at last, wiping
the sweat from her upper lip.

  “Very good,” Aislyn corrected her. “Why, you’ll be holding your babe before you know it. Let’s see if we can get around the clearing once more.”

  “I wish my mother was here,” she said, and her dark blue eyes filled with tears. “We go to meet her, she is promised to be with me for the birthing.”

  “She’ll be here soon, and won’t she be surprised to have it all over and done? Give her more time with her grand-baby, that will, and she’ll likely spoil the two of you rotten.”

  Lady Elga looked puzzled, then laughed. “You know not my mother. She bears many babes and never does she complain. Two daughters, eight sons, and all of us still living.”

  “You come from good stock, then,” Aislyn said, guiding her onward. “But I’ll wager she never bore a one of you in the middle of a forest! Oh, she’ll be rare pleased to hear how brave you’ve been.”

  “I—I hope so,” was all Lady Elga had time for before another pain had her in its grip.

  “Good! Aye, I know it hurts,” Aislyn said as the girl stared at her in terrified disbelief, “but that just means you’re nearly done. A few more like that and you’ll be a mother. It isn’t pleasant,” she went on, leading the girl around the clearing once again, “but ’tis all exactly as it should be, just as it was for your mother and hers before her. There, now, that’s enough walking. Lie you down here—they’ve made a good job of this bedding, haven’t they? Just like in a palace, with a canopy and all. Off with your gown, now, and let’s have a look here.”

  She reached into her bag for her ointment. “Just relax your legs. Good, that’s the way. Do you have a name for the babe?” she asked.

  “No,” the girl replied, tight-lipped.

  “You’d best start thinking of one. There, that will ease the passage nicely,” Aislyn said, blinking hard as sweat dripped into her eyes. “Let’s see how far this babe has come—good, lady, that’s done, and oh, you’re doing fine, this won’t be a long job. Now, we’ll just undo that braid, we don’t want anything bound about you. My, what nice hair you have!” she gabbled on, hardly knowing what she said. “Like—like wheat before the threshing.”

  The lady gave a choked laugh. “Threshing. Aye.”

  “Here we go,” Aislyn said as the huge mound of the girl’s belly drew together into a tight knot. “Lean against me, that’s the way, and when you feel the need, you give a good, hard push. That’s it. Now. Go on, push! Don’t hold back, yell if it helps—good! There, that’s past and it was a good one. Lie back . . . that’s right, hinny, that’s the way. I know it’s hard,” she said, stroking the sweat-darkened hair back from her brow, “but you’re a strong lass, a brave lass, and it will soon be done. All is well, you did just fine, you’ve earned a rest . . .”

  A rest was what she needed, too, but that was impossible with the girl’s weight in her arms. She eased herself back until her spine was against a tree trunk and cradled the girl’s head against her breast, while the birds chattered and scolded in the branches above. Seen thus closely, Aislyn could appreciate the beauty of the girl’s pure, high brow and the bold planes of her face.

  Before the afternoon was gone, she had come to have a deep appreciation for her courage, as well.

  It wasn’t a particularly hard birth, but it seemed terrible to Aislyn. The pains grew longer and harder, and when the girl began to shake as though in the grip of a high fever, Aislyn was sure something had gone terribly awry. But even if it had, there was naught that she could do save the small things women have always done for one another: wipe the girl’s brow, hold her hands, assure her—with a creeping shame at her own duplicity—that all was well. From time to time, she would see one of the men—usually the youngest—peering through the trees, but they never stayed long. Aislyn wished that she could leave, as well.

  I could never do this, she thought, as another piercing scream ripped through the clearing. Never. What could possibly be worth this agony? But then, as the sun was sinking over the topmost trees, the babe was born at last. Aislyn cradled the tiny scrap of flesh that had been the cause of all this pain and worry, too relieved that it was over to even check its limbs or ascertain its sex.

  She glanced down into its face. Two eyes stared back at her, slate blue and very serious. This wasn’t just a burden for its mother to be rid of. It was a living thing—or more, it was a person, utterly unique and completely individual. We come into the world, we play our part, and then we leave. But where do we come from? Where do we go?

  Looking into those gravely knowing eyes, Aislyn had the feeling that this tiny being, so newly arrived from that other place, had the answer. “A pity you can’t talk,” she croaked, and the babe’s almost invisible brows drew together in a tiny frown.

  But of one thing Aislyn was certain: there was an answer. There was another place, a world beyond this world, one from which every living thing had come and to which they would one day return. A place as real as this one, though very different. And she herself had been there—not once, but many times, and had been born just as this child had been today, had lived and died and been born again . . .

  A piercing memory came back to her: herself, a child of two or three, standing naked in a shaft of morning sunlight in her chamber. “Here I am again,” she had thought, and laughed aloud. “Oh, I’m so glad that this time I am a girl!” She had known. How could she have forgotten?

  “Is it sound?” Elga gasped. “Does it live?”

  “Oh, aye,” Aislyn said, smiling down at the baby in her arms. “You have a . . . a bonny daughter!”

  “Let me have her!”

  Aislyn laid the child in her mother’s arms, and with eyes half blinded by tears witnessed a second miracle. Lady Elga’s pallid face was suffused with color; the lines of suffering etched about her eyes and mouth melted into a soft smile that transformed her.

  Aislyn’s arms were strangely empty, almost as empty as her heart.

  But there was still work to be done, and no one to do it but herself. First the afterbirth to be delivered, then mother and child washed and wrapped. Her legs were shaking with exhaustion by the time she’d buried the afterbirth in the hole she’d ordered dug, then washed her face and hands in the remainder of the warm water. When she returned to the clearing, both mother and child were sleeping, so she made her way to the group of men crouched around the fire.

  “Well?” the leader demanded.

  “It’s done,” Aislyn said. “They’re resting.”

  “The babe—it is whole?”

  “She is beautiful. And the mother came through it just fine,” she added, seeing from the corner of her eye that the redheaded lad dropped his face into his hands with a shuddering breath of relief.

  The leader, Torquil, smiled and poured mead into a wooden bowl. “To wet the baby’s head,” he said, handing it to Aislyn.

  “Now, don’t you even think to go a-pouring mead on— oh!” The man raised his own bowl, and all the others followed suit.

  “To the babe,” they said, and drank, looking as pleased with themselves as if they’d all delivered the child. Aislyn sat down among them and accepted bread and cheese, thinking that they weren’t so different from any other men she’d known.

  “To my lady Elga,” the youngest cried, his eyes aglow. “She is well? You are sure of it?”

  You’d best learn to hide your feelings a bit better than that, my lad, Aislyn thought. Apparently the leader thought so, too. He turned and snapped a few words that Aislyn didn’t catch, and the young man set down his bowl and went off toward the horses.

  Torquil caught her eye. “He is young.”

  He is in love, Aislyn thought, but she only said, “Where’s her husband? He should be here.”