So, there she is. About the size of a small sack of flour, like tiny, curled up in my arms. I can't even move, in case I break the little tot – which won't sound great, Allan A Dale stabbed by angry mother from Nettlestone. It's put me on edge that the babe is so fragile, but you'd think she'd simply bounce off the ground, being so squidgy and...doughy. And her eyes are screwed up like she's about to cry.
And there it goes. Hell - I think the whole village can hear her. That noise made me jump, I can tell you.
The manservant isn't all too pleased and starts clucking away at me about being 'gentle' and whatever. Like he knows how to deal with kids? See, she's still screaming her weeny lungs out, but this time her body's being flapped about by Much's wild hand-motions. And, guess what? Now she's being sang to. Poor kid. If I were her, I'd be silent and pretend to snooze, just to end the torture.
Will's got the right idea. Only the Lord knows how that wood-worshipper has such a knack with little ones. He's just holding her there, smiling like the goon we turn into when a babe falls into our arms. I don't actually understand why we've been left babysitting when the mother's having a conversation with Robin in the next room, but when the kid's all quiet and hushed up like now, I can't complain. She's beautiful, I admit.
One day she's going to be running around, dirtying her frilly whites and yelling at the top of her lungs, whilst all her older brothers chase her around the village. Those are the kids that make me laugh. You can see how crazy girls are when they're that raw and young. I bet every noblewoman's just as wild under all lace and obedience, (I'd love to see our Lady Marian tying ribbons onto branches and frolicking around the trees). And it's a shame when the girls reach that age, the time when they happen to be growing boobs and eyelashes, that they're told to wear clean frocks and shy away with the washing. Typical.
You've got Djaq over here who is the face of insolence, I tell you. Dressing like a man? Cutting off her hair? Living with us lot? Somehow, I still can't call her one of the lads, which is probably due to that hint of 'woman' she just can't cut off. It's permanent and she tries to run away from it, but we can all see her quickly gulp and curse in jibberish Arabic when it's her turn to hold the babe. Her hands automatically cradle the tot's head as if by witchcraft and it terrifies her, knowing that she can be a mother, like she's scared to love this little kid because it comes so naturally to her. Or something like that. That little moment passes under a second and she immediately shakes it off and pretends to be the unfeeling doctor, inspecting the kid's ears and bum and stuff. Typical.
William is just staring at our Saracen natural mother like she's grown a second nose or something. I guess, in his wooden little head, he's imagining Djaq holding his own dreamed-of family. C'mon, he needs to stop gawping at her or he's going to give his little secret away...Not that she doesn't have a thing for our carpenter, too. But, our Djaq's always been great at hiding her emotions. Will, not so much. But, then again, he's always wearing that serious 'my-axe-is-ready' face, so nobody really suspects what he's thinking, because it always looks like serious business running through his head. But all I see is a pair of brown hands reflected in his eyes. Typical.
The farmer's wife's come along to check up on the babe. Suddenly, it's like the Virgin Mary has dropped in for a banquet and everybody crams into this tiny hut to coo at the little thing. Not that I'm complaining, considering most of the audience are the fair maidens of Nettlestone village, queueing up and brushing their petticoats around me...
I've just made some conversation with a blonde, who's sweetly asking me if I'm the dad. Me? Well, not being funny, but I'm obviously not. My method of shutting up a screaming kid is by holding the crying thing upside down. But, now that the babe's back in my arms, gurgling and stuff, I kind of look like the father. Not bad.
Robin calls. We're off to deliver at Clun, next. I have to pass the babe along to the next pair of eager hands, making sure the lads aren't watching while I plant a kiss on her button nose, and whispering 'bye, kid' before jogging through the door.
That's another child born to that family, lucky enough to reach six months. Hopefully, she'll be able to grow into those frilly white frocks and run around in the dirt while her brothers chase her, eh? As I jog past the window with Will, I can see the mother praying in her bedchamber. Not being funny, but she knows that the coins we just spared her, to buy blankets for her babe, are probably going to end up keeping the Sheriff's hands warm.
Typical.