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using the attendant girl Alfred had assigned, then she had banished her from the room. She wanted no
witness to this examination. "Can you give me a potion to start the baby coming?" she asked, though she
was unsure whether she wanted the dreadful event to begin.
Shaking her head, the woman heaved her bulk upright and smoothed her brown cyrtle over a belly more
formless but not much smaller than Pony's. "No, I cannot." She frowned.
"But how am I to get it out of me?" Pony whispered, shocked. She wanted nothing more in the world
than to have this pregnancy over.
"The usual way, I expect." The midwife cackled.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, your babe is not ready to come out. The bun is not yet baked."
"But& " Pony protested, her mind racing. "It has been nine months and more."
The woman put her beefy fists on her hips. "You still have at least another month."
"I cannot get any bigger than this," Pony protested. "You must be mistaken."
The woman chuckled again. "This is your first." It wasn't a question. "You know nothing. See how high
you carry your belly? It will get bigger, until your navel pops out the wrong way and your skin is tight like
the head of a drum. Then it will drop down before you spit out your child. I have seen women far bigger
than you. It only feels big because you are slight of build."
"My mother said my hips were not wide enough," Pony murmured, dread shuddering through her. "Can
the child come out?" The visions of alternatives flashed in her mind.
The midwife cocked her head and looked at Pony. "I think we will not have to cut it out."
Pony bit her lip. This was more horrible than she could name. Not only because she could not bear
another month. Still there was one more question. "How will I know it is coming?"
"You mean, besides the pain?" the woman asked. "Well, your water will break."
"Like urinating?"
The woman shook her head, smiling. "You will know when it comes."
"So, gentle mother& " Pony used the term of respect, but she drew herself up and let the voices of her
own Mothers echo through her own voice. "My time continues. The child of a goddess and a king takes
longer 'to bake,' as you say."
The woman gave a sly look and nodded, then took herself out of the room. Only when she was gone did
Pony breathe. She'd thought she was only a month late. Now it looked as though she had another month
to go. She did not need to count, but she counted just the same.
Samhain! The worst had happened. Alfred, whom she had chosen because he was a beautiful king,
because she did not care for him, was not the father. The daughter in her belly was the product of the
wild chaos of Samhain, in the place of her Mothers, with a barbarian Viking invader. He was strong, and
comely enough to father her child. But he was a barbarian foreigner. He was more a carnivore than ever
Alfred was. Worse, he went against everything Pony's mother had advised. Pony had bred with him
because she wanted, in the madness of Samhain, to be with him more than she wanted to obey her
destiny. He had made her feel complete as she never had. Ever since that night he had possessed her
body, and, if truth be told, her mind.
She put her fist to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. What had her disobedience, her wild desire,
wrought? She was hurtling toward a fate she could not divine, let alone control. The ordered descent of
generations at the Vale of the White Horse, practicing the Gift and worshiping the Great Mother, would
be broken and scattered. The consequences were unforseeable, but Pony was sure they would be bad.
Chapter Twenty-one
« ^ »
Val huddled in the corner of his stone cell, clutching his knees, his face buried in his arms. The sounds
were what still tormented him, more than the belly cramps from the spoiled bread and water they were
given to eat, or the pain from the repeated beatings. Over and over again in his mind he heard the
strangled gasp that must have been Harald's last. The silence afterward echoed louder than the din of
battle, until he filled it with shouting protests and finally his own strangled, impotent sobbing. The thud of
the door next to his, the coarse jesting of the Saxon guards as they divided up Harald's silver neckbands
and the brooch that held his cloak, the terrible scraping sound as they dragged Harald out: all repeated in
his mind. He lifted his head and began to bang it back on the stones. He could not stop for long. The pain
of it kept the memories from echoing in his mind, at least for a while.
My fault. Harald was my responsibility. He was too young to know what he committed. He
volunteered because I did, thinking I would protect him as I did in our first
battle with Alfred, as I did in the battle at Eddington. In forgiving him, I bound him to me. I
became responsible. I betrayed him to his death. The endless round of self-recrimination was harder
to bear even than the recalled sounds of Harald's death.
Harald would not be the last to die, either. Val could not hear the others now that Harald's empty cell
stood between them, but if they were starved much longer, Osrick's guards would soon carry them out
feet first, too. Those others would not be willing to go to the lengths Val was to stretch out such a
miserable existence just to spite their captors.
The rhythmic thud of his head against the wall beat back thought. His blood was warm and sticky as it
trickled down his neck. His rhythm was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stone stairs. He [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]