by David Waine
When he returned to his quarters, Callin found Tetcher waiting for him. There was no sign of Mussa and his room did not have her clean, tidy look.
“Where’s Mussa?”
Tetcher cleared his throat. “Her time come, Sir Callin. She’s having her baby.”
*
Callin was spared the hunt the following day, volunteering to look after his father while everyone else was out instead. Dorcan was grateful. Although a dutiful son, he felt hemmed in by his enforced role of nursemaid and his heart leapt at the thought of a few precious hours spent chasing some hapless beast instead.
Count Amerish sat in his bed, propped up on piled bolsters. Sleep did not come easily to him these days; frequently those who looked after him dozed off at his bedside before he had succumbed. Many a time in the last few months Avalind and Dorcan had woken up suddenly, stiff and cold in a bedside chair, to find the candles burnt out, dawn stealing in at the window and the count only in a light doze.
This morning Callin made him partake sparingly of a pitifully meagre breakfast. He had tried to refuse it altogether, but when threatened with the oldest and ugliest serving maid in Brond to scrub him down thoroughly, he relented and allowed a few morsels to pass his lips. Callin rewarded him with the youngest and prettiest one he could find, who washed his face with infinite gentleness. As she did this, he stood at the window staring out idly. His gaze turned to the hospital wing where his personal serving maid, soon to be mother of his child, was undergoing labour.
“All finished, Sir Callin.” The girl bobbed a curtsey and left, taking Count Amerish’s breakfast tray with her. Callin continued to stare out of the window.
“Well,” croaked a voice from the bed, “has she whelped yet?”
Callin started. “What?”
A cracked smile creased the old man’s face. “My body may be falling apart but my brain is intact. Furthermore, Princess Avalind has a brain that most of the war council would give their eye teeth for. Nothing happens without her knowing about it somehow. Don’t ask me how she does it. She doesn’t have a network of spies or anything like that. That would be a man’s way. Women are much, much cleverer than we are. She knows all about your liaison with that serving maid and the girl’s current condition.”
“She’s told you?” Callin was incredulous.
“Did you swear her to silence?” The old man’s eyes took on a steely look.
Callin shook his head. “I never mentioned it to her.”
“Then she hasn’t betrayed your trust, has she?” The steely look crinkled into a smile. “She is concerned that the child should be delivered and cared for properly, as should the mother. I don’t approve of indiscriminate tumbling either, mind you, but you seem to have restricted yourself to this one girl.”
The old man’s eyes closed for a few moments. The conversation was tiring him physically. When they flickered open again, however, they were as sharp as before. “Have you considered, young man, that I have no grandchild? I don’t even have a daughter-in-law. I am dying, Callin. I will not live to see either of my sons married. I am content that I should see both you and Dorcan dubbed. Yet I would see my grandchild before I go. Legitimate or not, blood is blood and the heritage of the Vorsts will flow in its veins. You have made provision?”
“Yes, Father,” Callin replied truthfully. “If it is a boy, he will be enrolled in the academy when he is old enough. If a girl, she will attend the ladies’ seminary. Either way, the future is provided for.”
His father nodded, his eyes closing in satisfaction. “Good,” he murmured. “And the mother?”
“She will be cared for.”
Count Amerish’s eyes were closed but a faint smile played on his lips. The words were barely audible, “You are a good boy at heart, Callin. Keep your word.”
There was a soft tap at the door. A demure serving girl stood there, eyes lowered.
“Sir Callin,” she announced softly, “your presence is requested in the hospital.”
*
Mussa’s eyes were closed but she was not asleep. She looked exhausted. On her breast lay the reason, contentedly suckling. A little pink bundle, wrapped in clean white cloths, with a mop of spiky wet, dark hair. As Callin entered the room, the midwives withdrew respectfully. He approached the bed silently and stood over the pair, unable to take the sight in yet.
Mussa’s eyes flickered open and a faint smile played on her lips. “Hello, Master Callin,” she said softly. “Come and meet little Callin. You got a son.”
Pulling up a stool, he sat down beside the bed and stared in awe at this minute wonder, now making small nuzzling noises, his eyes tight closed and his tiny face crumpled up in a crinkly smile of satisfaction. Still no words came to him.
“Look at his little hands,” murmured Mussa. “See how dainty they are. I love his little fingernails.”
A contradiction of emotions ran through him. He knew he could not publicly acknowledge this gurgling little heap. At the same time, Kingdom tradition, backed by Vandamm law, would ensure that he had a better start in life than similarly born babies in neighbouring lands. Besides enrolment in the Brond Academy, there would be an adequate income for him and his mother: enough to move Mussa out of the servants’ hall to a cottage of her own where she could bring the boy up with dignity and where he could visit his son privately.
Flesh of his flesh. The product of a mother’s love and his lust. He, who had already destroyed three lives, had now helped to create a fourth. What would any legitimate heir he might ever have think of his bastard half-brother? That thought gave him pause. Although illegitimacy was no bar to his professional advancement, albeit emblazoned with the bend sinister, social status was another matter.
His eyes strayed from the little nuzzling form to its mother’s tired, happy, open face, smiling softly at him from her bolster.
“His hair is black.” He could think of nothing else to say.
She laughed softly. “Why, bless me, Master Callin, you want to be grateful he’s got any hair at all. Plenty is born what haven’t.” Seeing she had confused him, she added, “He won’t get his proper hair colour for months yet, nor no teeth neither. We’ll just have to be patient.”
Her tone implied that she was his wife already, confirmation of what he knew to be buried deep in her heart anyway. A doomed hope. Confound women and their affections, and confound them for their cursed fecundity as well! A priest doesn’t know how lucky he is.
“What is it, Master Callin?” She reached out to him with her free hand. Is something wrong?”
A wave of compassion broke within him. He had promised to care for this girl and her innocent child and he would keep his promise.
He smiled and took her hand in his. “Nothing,” he said gently. Nothing at all.”
*
General Siriak stamped his feet and watched his exhaled breath dissolve in a pale cloud against the indigo of the night sky.
“Don’t tell me you are getting cold, Siriak,” remarked his associate, General Trulik, exhaling a similarly pale cloud himself.
“The year’s turning,” grunted the other man, slapping some warmth back into his bones. “It may still be high summer down there but autumn is setting in fast up here.”
Trulik surveyed the scene before them. The hanging valley on the Kingdom side of the ridge, that he had proudly shown his comrade in arms barely a year previously, was slowly, but inexorably, being transformed into a military base. Troops of engineers scurried about in the gloom beneath the huge overhangs that shadowed both sides of the valley, preparing camouflaged quarters, constructing collapsible bridges that could be erected across streams at a moment’s notice, beating pathways where none existed previously. All done in an eerie silence, so as not to disturb those Sutherland clods in the main valley far below. All done without recourse to fire, lest smoke should give away their location by day and a glow against the mountainside by night.
*
“By the power invested in me by
Almighty God, and before these witnesses here present, I dub thee Sir Callin. Stand and be recognised.”
The sword tapped each shoulder lightly. A fanfare of trumpets rang out on all sides, supported by rolling applause from behind him. Callin rose slowly to his feet, the last to be knighted that day, and turned to face his family. Dorcan was on his feet, noisily stamping his approval and clapping his hands in the air. His father sat beside him, the effort of even applauding gently clearly taxing him, but there was no mistaking the pride in his face as he gazed at his newly entitled son and saluted his achievement.
Chest swelling, Callin allowed his gaze to wander elsewhere. Avalind was beaming and clapping delightedly. Beside her, even Soth wore what could have been construed as a smile. Baron Dumarrick applauded formally, his family at his side, but there was a disparity between his daughters. Both stood and applauded, but Xunin was smiling openly, glowing, whereas Lissian looked more to her younger sibling than at the new knight and a frown creased her brow.
*
Xunin Dumarrick sat at her dressing table, brushing out her long, dark hair. She had discarded her formal silver gown with the gold brocade in favour of a light shift with matching robe as soon as she had entered her chamber. Her maidservant had long since withdrawn. The coverlet of her bed was turned down, ready and her candles burned gently in their holders.
She ceased her brushing and listened sharply. Her hearing was extremely acute. She had not been mistaken. It was a footfall and it had stopped outside her door. She heard the click of the latch and registered the arc-shaped flood of light from without, reflected on her wall, as it swung open.
After allowing a moment of silence to pass unmolested, she turned slowly to face her father, whose bulk almost blocked the doorway.
“Don’t you ever knock, Father? I might have been naked.”
The grizzled face with its lank frame of greying hair stared straight back. “It wouldn’t be the first time I have seen you that way.”
A splendid black eyebrow arched. “It would be the first time since I was a baby.”
Baron Dumarrick came into the room and perched himself on the edge of the stout bed. “You have been eyeing up young Vorst.”
She felt the colour rush directly into her cheeks and prayed mightily that the soft candlelight in the room would mask the change. Returning to her mirror, she recommenced brushing her hair out rather more vigorously than was strictly necessary.
“Really, father, what a ridiculous thing to say. I have never even spoken to him.”
Dumarrick nodded slowly. “I have seen the way you look at him. Worse, I have seen the way he looks at you.”
She coloured further, heart beating faster. She turned to face her mirror square on, more to present her back to her father. Immediately she realised that he would be able to see its reflection in the mirror anyway, so she turned again to face him.
“Meaning?”
He returned her stare levelly. “Meaning that he would tear your clothes off and fling you on your back, given half a chance.”
She might have been looking at a slug for all the disdain she could summon. “That is a disgusting thing to say.”
He shrugged. “I know. It is also the truth. He has established quite a reputation for himself in the academy and has been admitted to the war council, where he has, I must admit, acquitted himself with credit.”
The eyebrow arched again. “That is a criticism of him?”
“No. I have no reason to dislike the boy professionally, but he is only the third child of a count and will never succeed to his father’s title.”
“I am only the third child of a baron and will never succeed to his title.”
Dumarrick smiled at her counter-trump. “You did not become a mother today.”
“Are you telling me that he did? What a truly remarkable young man.”
“He became a father!” Dumarrick hissed.
She paused and turned away again, a sudden chill clasping her heart.
“I trust that his wife and child are both well,” she murmured.
“He has no wife!” her father spat the words out. “The mother is a serving wench that he has been bedding for months. Everybody knows about her, except you apparently. She’s called Mussa.”
She returned to her mirror, brushing her hair furiously. “What does this have to do with me?” she asked.
Her father leaned forward, the bed creaking mightily as he did so. “See the sort of man you have set your heart on. Don’t deny your interest, girl, I’m not blind. He would cuckold you with the first pretty slut that happened by. Is that what you want in a husband?”
She rounded on him, her eyes now flashing angrily. “Firstly, I deny that I have any interest in him at all! I have never exchanged any words with him, merely smiled in acknowledgement of his bow and applauded his achievement, as it was only decent to do. Secondly, I have no knowledge of this illegitimate child other than what you have told me. If it is true, however, he would not be the first.”
Her father sprang to his feet with surprising alacrity. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“I didn’t invent the rumour,” she replied confidently, “I merely heard it. Even if it is not true of you, you cannot say the same of Bram, as you well know.”
“Bram will marry some high born lady in due course. The blood on his bridal sheet will be hers.”
She allowed the moment to settle before formulating her reply. “I can assure you, father,” she said, “that when the time comes, the blood on my bridal sheet will definitely be mine. I do not deny that I like what I have seen, but that is all. I am aware of my responsibilities to the Dumarrick line and I will not shirk my duty. Besides, do not delude yourself into thinking that I do not know the true reason for your visit here.”
He stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Lissian wants him for herself.”
*
He saw his grandson; the little bundle was delivered to him in the dead of night while his mother slept. Count Amerish cradled the child in his arms gently, supported by both his sons for a full five minutes, softly murmuring the boy’s name, before returning it to the maid to deliver back to the hospital in time for Mussa awakening. He lay back against his bolster, a faint smile creasing his features and lightening the grey hue of his stretched skin.
“I have seen my grandson,” he murmured between thin, wheezing rasps. “I am content.”
They found the old man dead in his bed the following morning, a smile of satisfaction on his face. Dorcan was now Count Vorst and Callin was fourth in line for the throne. A new pit seemed to have settled into his stomach.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As summer waned and peril drew nearer, the formalities were necessarily brief. The court removed to Nassinor for the funeral, but returned within a week, Count Amerish having been orated, venerated and incinerated with dignity.
Callin was shorn of male friends. Simian was posted to the mountains with the Border Force under General Vlaan and Keriak was home in Graan, helping Baron Coreth with the seaport’s defence. Soth had also departed with them on the first stage of his mythical mission to some far-flung foreign power.
Preparations for the forthcoming state visit, and its probable subsequent invasion were as complete as they were ever going to be. The entire Kingdom was maintaining a state of high alert without appearing to do so. As the leaves began to turn, he had time to fine-tune his physical condition, get used to his new armour and sharpen his weapons, time to check that Mussa’s cottage was ready.
Small, but cosy, it lay within the castle walls in a quiet corner of a remote bailey and, much to Vland’s annoyance, was already glazed. There were times when the master glazier really resented Kingdom glass’s ability to withstand a thrown stone. She was overwhelmed, fussing between the two rooms, the squawking infant on her hip, declaring her delight at the plain wooden furniture and going into raptures over the rocking cradle thoughtfully provided. So simple and genuine
was her gratitude that Callin felt a flush of pleasure flood through him.
“It’s all I ever dreamed of, Master Callin.”
“And it is yours,” he confirmed. “I had the documents drawn up while you were in the nursery. You are the legal owner.”
Her mouth gaped in amazement. “Me? Own property? Oh, Master Callin!” She sat on the bed, unable to believe her good fortune.
He sat beside her. “No man, not even the king, may enter it without your permission. Little Callin will be enrolled in the academy when as he is old enough. One day he will bear his own coat of arms. Protocol will then allow me to acknowledge him openly as my son. In the meantime you will be paid a modest income for the upkeep of this cottage, yourself and our little boy.”
Her face flushed with pleasure and pride at words, Our little boy.
He turned aside somewhat nervously, unsure how to put his next point. “Now that you are a lady of some means, and have responsibilities” he said awkwardly, “I don’t know whether you will have the time, or even the inclination, to return to your serving duties.”
A soft hand brushed his cheek lightly. “Now that I can support myself and little Callin, I don’t need to work for the other lords and ladies. But I will always be for you — in every way,” she added with a meaningful look. “Just give me a little time to heal up properly.”
*
Simian Treponic stood on a bluff overlooking the frontier station on the Pass of the Cross. It was a dull, windswept defile, bare of trees, narrow and rocky with small outcrops of moss clinging to crannies and a threadbare carpet of turf skirting either side of the road that threaded its muddy way through.
General Vlaan stood at his shoulder. “Well, Sir Simian,” he said, “you are the new military genius. Tell me how Sulinan can get an army of fifty thousand through there without being repulsed by our three.”
The actual border was in the very centre of the pass, marked by a simple fence. On the Kingdom side, rude wooden buildings served to house the border guards. Their equivalents, on the Draal side of the border, were somewhat larger and built of stone. The Draal road was also broader, flatter and more regularly paved than its Kingdom counterpart. Looking down the northern slope of the mountain, he could see it snaking around sheer rock walls, hooded here and there by the wooden roofs of snow sheds, their shingles glinting in the autumnal sunlight.
