by J. V. Jones
“Mace Blackhail,” Shor Gormalin said softly, turning so the torchlight fell upon the short unassuming sword at his waist. “If having a hand up a girl’s skirt is test of a man, then there’s a good fifty in this room tonight who you’ll be needing to see to the door.”
The room rang with laughter. Most full clansmen laughed with genuine amusement. A good portion of the yearmen laughed with relief.
Without waiting for a reply, Shor Gormalin beckoned to Raif. “Over here wi’ me, lad, and quick about it.”
Mace Blackhail did not drop his arm as Raif approached, and Raif was forced to push past him to join Shor Gormalin by the hearth. Dirt and soil were lodged beneath Mace Blackhail’s fingertips, and his clothes carried the damp, rotting leaf odor of the Oldwood. “Easy with me, boy,” he murmured as Raif shoved against him. “You’ll push me too far one of these days, I can tell.”
Raif tried to avoid Mace Blackhail’s eyes, but somehow he found himself looking into them. The irises were dark and shifting like the surface of a lake by night. When Mace blinked, the water deposited over them had a greasy, reflective quality that gave his irises a yellow cast. Quickly Raif looked away.
Shor Gormalin patted Raif’s shoulder as he came to stand beside him. The heat from the fire was hot on the backs of his legs, and despite the chimney and several open windows, Raif found it difficult to breathe. The air seemed thick and poisoned. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Drey staring at him from across the room. He had taken his hammer from the leather cradle at his back, and his fingers pressed hard against the varnished limewood handle.
“So, Mace,” Orwin Shank said, dabbing his red and sweating cheeks with a shammy, “what’s this rumor that’s spreading about you and Raina?”
Mace Blackhail smiled a fraction. He shrugged and looked down at his hands. His boiled leather coat was inlaid with disks of sliced and blackened wolf bone. The Clansword was couched in a newly worked scabbard at his thigh. “Normally I would be reluctant to talk about such things—what’s between a man and woman is their affair and no one else’s.” He paused to give clansmen time to nod. “But a certain lady and myself find ourselves in a difficult position; one which, if things aren’t explained good and early to as many ears as possible, could easily be misunderstood.” A pause. “I will not let that happen. I will hear no bad words spoken against Raina. If either of us must take blame, let it be me.” With that, Mace Blackhail brought his hand to rest on the lead-and-bone hilt of the sword.
Raif felt sweat trickle down his neck as flames roared away against his back. Where was Nellie Moss or Anwyn Bird? Couldn’t someone dampen the fire?
“So,” Mace Blackhail said with a heavy sigh, “I must say what I must say. Early today when I returned to the roundhouse, I got word that Raina was in the Oldwood tending her traps. Naturally, as she is first respected in the clan as well as my own beloved foster kin, I rode out to greet her and give her my news.” Mace rubbed a gloved hand over the pale skin on his face. Once again he looked down. “This is not easy for me. A man does not like to talk of such things . . .” His voice trailed away, inviting someone to speak up and encourage him.
Corbie Meese cleared his throat with a rough hacking sound. Standing where he was, directly in front of a brightly burning greenwood torch, the hammer dent in his head showed up more clearly than ever. “Tell us your story, Mace. ’Tis obvious you are reluctant to speak—no one here can fault you for that—but if it concerns the clan, we must know.”
Mace Blackhail nodded along with a hundred others. He took a step forward, then another back, looking for all intents and purposes like a man hardly knowing what to say or where to begin. The lines around Raif’s mouth hardened. He didn’t believe Mace Blackhail capable of faltering for a moment. The Wolf knew exactly what he meant to say right from the start.
Finally Mace looked up. “Well, I rode to the Oldwood and came upon Raina sitting on a fallen basswood. She was in a bad way. I think everyone here knows just how much she loved her husband, and when I found her it was obvious she had come to the Oldwood to be alone with her grief. She’s a proud woman—we all know that—and she didn’t want anyone to know how deeply Dagro’s death had cut her.”
Mace Blackhail had nearly everyone in the room with him. Raina was proud, even Raif had to admit that. And it sounded true enough that she would go off alone before giving in to her grief . . . but then Drey had said Effie was there with her. The skin on Raif’s face slowly switched from hot to cold as Mace Blackhail continued speaking.
“Of course I went to comfort her. We share a man’s loss and are close bound by it, and we wept upon one another’s shoulders and swapped our grief. Raina was understanding and gentle, and, as women often tend to, helped me more than I helped her.” Mace made a minute gesture with his hand. He swallowed hard. “I . . . I must own up to what happened next. I would not be a man if I didn’t. Our closeness drew us closer, and we fell into each other’s arms and came together as man and woman.”
The clan was silent. Breath hung in three hundred throats. The light in the room dimmed as one of the central torches burned out. At his side, Raif was aware of a muscle pumping in Shor Gormalin’s cheek.
Mace Blackhail continued speaking, his voice low and halting. “I will make no excuses for my actions. It was wrong of me to take advantage of the situation. As an elder yearman and Dagro Blackhail’s foster son, I should have known better. I should have pushed Raina from me and walked away. Yet I didn’t. I let the moment get the better of me, we both did, and if I could reclaim the past five hours and undo what has been done, I would. By all the gods watching from their Stone Havens tonight, I wish I had never ridden to the Oldwood.
“Raina is no blood kin to me, but she has cared for me as family, and I owe her respect. Now I have wronged her—and deeply. It matters not that she was willing. One of the first things my foster father taught me is that a man should always take responsibility for his actions, most especially when those actions concern women.”
Although Raif saw looks of condemnation and disapproval on many faces, especially those of the older clansmen, he also saw a good few men nodding and sighing along with the Wolf. Ballic the Red had an arrow in his cracked and callused bowhand and was stroking the fletching feathers, nodding almost continually. Nearly all the yearmen showed small signs of sympathy, pulling on their chins, pressing their lips together, and exchanging small knowing glances. Raif couldn’t bear to watch them. How could they stand by and listen to the lies?
“Second, I want to say before all here and now that I will make amends for what I have done. Raina is older than me and her womb has proven barren, yet I could not live with myself unless I took her for my wife. We sinned in the eyes of nine gods, and I cannot call myself a man unless I put it right.” Finished, Mace Blackhail stood in the center of the room and waited.
All stood or sat without movement. No matter if they sympathized with Mace Blackhail or not, they were wary. Marriage between a clan chief’s widow and his fostered son was serious business. Most especially when it came a mere fourteen days after the chief’s death. After a long moment, Orwin Shank made a smacking sound with his lips. “Well, you’ve certainly landed in the bloody flux this time, Mace. Good and proper. What were you thinking, lad? Wi’ Raina?”
Mace Blackhail shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking, that was the problem.”
“Thinking wi’ your balls, more like,” said Ballic the Red, slipping the last of his arrows into his bowcase. “O’ course you’ll damn well have to marry her now. You’re right about that. You can’t have the ladle without taking the pot. By the Stone Gods, man! What a damn fool thing to do!”
“Aye,” cried Corbie Meese. “You’ll feel my hammer up your arse if you don’t wed her good and proper. And prompt at that. Barren she may have proven in the past, but there’s still a chance a bairn may come from the joining, and I for one won’t stand by and watch as Raina’s good name is dragged through the muck.”
Raif listened as Will Hawk, Arlec Byce, and even tiny liver-spotted Gat Murdock agreed vigorously with Corbie Meese. Fierce and highly specific threats were issued concerning the future of Mace Blackhail’s manhood if he failed to do his duty by Raina. Clansmen were always fiercely protective of their women, and it seemed as if the Wolf had walked himself straight into a trap. Raif couldn’t shake off the feeling that the clan was responding exactly how Mace Blackhail wanted them to. There were lies here, clever ones. Yet Raif couldn’t guess what they were. Had Mace Blackhail and Raina been planning to marry all along? Raif shook his head. He couldn’t believe that.
Looking up, he locked gazes with his brother. Surprisingly, Drey had taken no part in demanding that Mace should marry Raina. Raif remembered how Drey had carried the black bearskin from the badlands camp . . . all that way without saying a word.
The stone flag Raif stood upon rocked beneath him as Shor Gormalin stepped forward to speak. “Has anyone thought to ask what Raina cares to do? I for one would like to hear what she has to say on this matter.” The small swordsman was not as soft-spoken as normal, and his blue eyes were hard as they regarded Mace Blackhail. “It’s her future we’re discussing here.”
Mace nodded so quickly, Raif knew he had been expecting such a demand all along. “Drey,” he said, his gaze not leaving Shor Gormalin for an instant, “run down to the underspace and fetch Raina. Tell her all that has happened so she comes upon us at no disadvantage.”
Before Drey could move from his place near the stang, Gat Murdock spoke up. The ancient turkey-necked bowman shook his head. “It isn’t right and proper to drag Raina before us just so we can have the satisfaction of seeing her admit to her mistake. By the hells! What sort of men are we if we allow such thing?”
Ballic the Red was quick to back up his fellow bowman. “Gat’s right. It’s not fitting to shame Raina in such a way. It’s one thing for a man to steal sauce when he can, quite another for a woman.”
Mace looked regretfully from bowman to bowman. “Aye, you’re right. But there’s some here”—sharp glances at Shor Gormalin and Raif—“who need to hear the truth of it for themselves. Drey, fetch Raina and do as I say.”
Drey left the room. Raif listened as he pounded down the stairs, eager to do Mace’s bidding. Mace Blackhail had manipulated another situation, and Raif was just beginning to work out how he did it. He had a way of admitting to his own faults, robbing others of the satisfaction of pointing them out or using them against him. And his lies were always mixed with the truth.
After a few minutes of silence, Mace Blackhail sighed. The wolf bones on his coat chimed like shells. “Gat and Ballic are right. Bringing Raina here to face the clan is ill use. It’s a woman’s right to pick and choose what she tells of her private affairs. I for one wouldn’t blame her if she denies the whole thing ever happened, or even went so far as to claim she’d been taken by force. It’s her privilege to keep such things to herself, and by bringing her here before us, we rob that from her. And who amongst us can blame her for protecting her modesty by any means she can?”
Raif frowned. He didn’t understand what Mace was getting at.
Others seemed to, though, and many men, mostly full clansmen in their thirties and older, nodded softly at Mace’s words. One or two muttered Aye, ’tis so. Ballic the Red glowered at Shor Gormalin.
More torches went out during the wait. Raif wondered where Nellie Moss could be. She was a strange woman with the voice and hard chest of a man, yet she never missed her rounds.
Finally the doors opened. Raina Blackhail walked in wearing a plain blue dress, thickly stained around the hem and cuffs. The bandages covering her widow’s weals were not fresh, and dried blood and mud were caked upon the linen. Drey came to rest a few paces behind her, and then a moment later Nellie Moss entered the room, carrying bundles of greenwood and a skin of wick oil.
Raina stood in the entry space, head held high, not saying a word. Raif thought he saw her hands trembling, but she quickly grasped at the fabric of her skirt and he couldn’t be sure.
An awkward moment passed, where everyone assumed that someone else would be the first to speak. Everyone except Mace Blackhail, that was, who leaned against a bloodwood stang, seemingly in no hurry to do or say anything.
Finally Orwin Shank spoke. “Thank you for coming before us, Raina.” The red-cheeked axman was clearly unhappy, and the shammy he held in his hands was dark with sweat. “Mace has told us . . . well . . . about what happened in the Oldwood . . . and we wanted to let you know that no one here blames you for the incident.”
Ignoring Orwin Shank completely, Raina addressed her words to Mace Blackhail. “So, you have told all here you took me freely?”
Mace shot a quick glance toward where Corbie Meese, Ballic the Red, and others were gathered. He let out the smallest possible sigh. “I told them the truth, Raina. If it saves your pride to present it in a different light, I for one won’t stop you. I own to knowing little about women, but I hope I learned enough from Dagro to treat all with due respect.”
Raina winced at the mention of her husband’s name. Her gray eyes were dull, and for the first time in all the years he had known her, Raif thought she looked her age.
“He’ll marry you, Raina. You have my word on it.” It was Ballic the Red, his normally fierce voice soft enough to calm a frightened child. “I’d have his balls for my waxing pouch if he didn’t.”
A tear slid down Raina’s cheek.
“Raina.” Shor Gormalin came forward. He tried to touch her arm, but she pulled back. The swordsman frowned. Holding up his hands for her to see, so that she knew he would not touch her again, he said, “Raina, you know I will stand beside you whatever you decide, but I must know the truth of it. Did you join with Mace in the Oldwood?”
Raina made no reply. The room was quiet except for the sound of Nellie Moss tending the torches. Raif watched the expression on Mace Blackhail’s face; the Wolf’s eyes were narrow, and inside his mouth he was sucking on his cheeks. Slowly Mace turned his head toward Raif. As his gaze met Raif’s, his jaws sprang apart, revealing strands of saliva quivering between his teeth. Raif had to stop himself from stepping back. In the space of an eyeblink Mace was himself once more, and Raif knew without looking that no one else had seen his wolf face.
“Raina?” Shor Gormalin’s voice broke the silence. “You have nothing to fear by speaking the—”
“Yes,” Raina snapped, cutting him short. “Yes, we joined in the Oldwood, if you can call it that. Yes. Yes. Yes.”
The small fair-haired swordsman closed his eyes. A muscle in his cheek pumped once, then was still.
“That’s settled, then,” Orwin Shank said with obvious relief. “You must marry Mace.”
“Aye,” cried Ballic the Red, hands slipping beneath his boiled leather breastplate to find his supply of chewing curd. “And we’ll have an end of this scandal before it has chance to smirch the clan.”
“And if I choose not to marry?” Raina asked, looking straight at Mace Blackhail.
Gat Murdock shook his head heavily, blowing air between his toothless gums. Orwin Shank wrung sweat from his shammy, and Ballic the Red took a handful of black curd between his callused hands and squeezed them flat.
Mace Blackhail sent a small look their way. What am I to do with this woman? it seemed to say. He sighed. “Raina, you have been first woman in this clan for ten years. You know more than anyone what becomes of a woman who allows herself to be ill used by a man and then cast aside. All due respect is lost. Ofttimes the woman is shunned or reviled, and judges it best to leave the clan in order to escape the bad name she has bought herself.” Mace thought a moment. “And then there’s the question of a woman’s possessions and wealth. All here have known instances when a woman’s own family have stripped the fine furs and cut stones from her back.”
Clansmen nodded gravely. Raif had heard such stories himself, stories of women
cast from the roundhouse wearing only rough pigskins on their backs and boasting nothing more than a week’s worth of bread and mutton to their names.
“I’d try to do what I could, of course . . .” Mace Blackhail dragged his words. “But even I must bow to clan custom.”
Raina smiled in such a way, it made Raif’s chest ache. “You are a Scarpe through and through. You can take the truth and twist it into any basket you choose to shape. If you were to cut me down with the Clansword here and now, within the hour you’d have everyone nodding and patting your shoulder and telling you how they’d known all along such a thing had to be done. Well I shall marry you, Mace Blackhail of Clan Scarpe. I will not give up my due respect and my position in the clan. And even though this is what you counted on all along, it doesn’t mean you won’t live to regret it in the end.”
Shaking with anger, Raina looked around the room. No clansman would meet her eyes. “You have chosen both your chief and his wife in one night, and I will leave you well alone now so you can slap each other on the backs and drink yourselves sodden.” With that she turned and began the short walk out of the room. It was Drey who ran ahead of her to open the door, Drey who closed it gently when she was gone.
Raif, along with dozens of others, stared at the space Raina Blackhail had just vacated. The silence she left pressed against his skin. No one wanted to be the first to speak into it. After a long moment, Shor Gormalin hooked his great elk cloak across his chest and walked from the room. As he passed close to Mace Blackhail, Raif saw the swordsman’s knuckles whiten upon the hilt of his sword.
