Then the face of Elaine, pale and drenched in perspiration as the midwife commanded her to push. The screaming and the blood.
The crying baby, held out proudly by the midwife, who said, ‘You have a son, my lady’ to the fading Baroness, who was in too much pain even to recognize the baby for what it was.
Blood was everywhere.
Blood.
Bernarr turned in bed, moaning and crying, No! he tried to say, but only another low groan escaped his lips.
Then Lyman was at his shoulder. His manner was calm and commanding. ‘Everyone leave the room,’ he said simply.
Then the screaming stopped.
Bernarr sat up in bed. He was panting as if he had run for hours, and his still-fit body was taut and drenched with perspiration as if he had fought a battle. He rolled out of bed, pulled off his soaked night shirt, and threw it across the floor. Through the window he could see the morning sun had just crested the mountains, and another day had started. Only hours, he thought, as he sat naked on the bed, reaching for a mug and the pitcher of water left on the night table. He drank and refilled the mug to drink again.
But the other thirst—the thirst to end this nightmare that had plagued him for seventeen years, to see his Elaine restored and free of the endless pain—still lingered.
Standing up, he moved to the tub of water awaiting his morning wash. He didn’t mind the cold water: he had grown used to it. He needed to cleanse himself of the foul feeling on his skin, and would not don clothing until he did. He stepped into the small copper tub, squatted and grabbed the sponge upon the table next to it, ignoring the chilly bite of the water. If only I could clean away my pain, he thought, as he had every morning for seventeen years.
But soon . . .
Aunt Cleora went pale. ‘Oh, Ruthia!’ she gasped, a hand pressed to her throat.
The horse-dealer prodded the saddle where it lay on the flagstones of the kitchen floor. A black-and-white kitten came up to it, sniffing at the fascinating scents of horse-sweat, leather and blood.
‘Aye, it’s blood, right enough,’ Kerson said. ‘And this—’ his toe touched the stub of an arrow that jutted up from the rear of the saddle, ‘—isn’t no hunting shaft, either.’
He produced a pair of pliers from a loop at his waist and bent, putting one foot on the saddle and pinching the tool closed on the glint of metal where arrow shaft joined leather.
‘Come up there!’ he grunted, heaving backward, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunching.
It came free, and he stuck it under their noses. ‘See? Bodkin point, not a broad head. None use that, except for hunting men—it’s meant to pierce armour or jerkin.’
Lorrie stared at the saddle with a sick dread in her heart, worse even than the cold feeling that had held her since her family died. She knew they were dead; she knew Rip was still alive for the feeling was there in distant flashes. But she didn’t know whether Bram was alive or dead.
‘The horse come in at first light,’ Kerson said. It was an hour after sunrise, and the family had just been finishing the morning meal when the horse-trader had arrived at the door of the house. ‘Poor beast had its ribs beat raw by the stirrups, and dried foam caked halfway to its tail. Looks like it was trotting all night. Took a bad fright, and I thought seeing’s it was that tall blond lad, your young niece’s friend, that bought it, and he was on his way chasing after your niece’s other friend, the lad I sold . . .’ he pointed to Lorrie,’ . . . your old horse to, well, anyway, seeing as it sort of all fit together, I thought you should know.’
Aunt Cleora looked around. ‘The Constable?’ she said.
Kerson snorted. ‘For an affray in the town bounds, certainly,’ he said. ‘Although he uses those two-a-penny thief-takers, more than his own men. No, out on the road it would be the Baron’s men-at-arms who’d be the ones to see, except he doesn’t pay no mind to common folks’ problems these fifteen year and more. The soldiers might turn out if Kesh attacked the city, but for a lost lad, taken by bandits or slavers, no. They’ll not stir.’
He looked at Lorrie and Flora, where they sat side by side on the bench. ‘It’s all that I can do, Miss Flora. I’ve my own family and kin and business to look after. I just thought you should know, like.’
When the man had gone, silence lay heavy for a moment. Cleora came over to put an arm around Lorrie’s shoulders.
‘He went to look for Rip, and he may be dead,’ Lorrie whispered. ‘And all because of me.’
Surprisingly, Flora shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He would have looked for your brother anyway. He was that sort of man—I could tell.’
Lorrie nodded dumbly, fighting back tears and wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘And Jimmy’s my . . . foster-brother, and he went looking for Rip, too, and he may be dead,’ Flora said decisively. ‘Or they may both be hurt. I have to go and look.’