It was an idle threat, wasn't it? Pyrte wondered as he paced back and forth. Eavan had been sent to bed with the assistance of a few of her handmaidens, and he had stayed behind to brood. She wouldn't actually leave – she may not make the trip! Branches tapped the window, like the bones of a skeleton hand. Outside, the wind picked up, and only served to darken the man's mood. If Eavan spent even a single night out in that mess, he knew for certain that he'd never see her alive again.
The woman's sickness was only what the Healers called a 'wasting sickness,' in that its effects made her body waste away at the disease wore on. So far they had only been able to soften the symptoms. There had been some worry that it may have transferred over to their daughter while still in the womb, but the healthy set of lungs Kate had displayed at birth dispelled their fears. Back then, there had been talk of what they would do once Eavan got better. Now, they barely made plans beyond a fortnight. Of course, their child was unaware that there was anything wrong, for by the time she had been old enough to understand such things Eavan had already been pale and weak. Her mother's status was simply a constant for Kate, despite the fact that it was a miracle the woman was even alive now.
He decided that she wouldn't make the trip, knowing it might kill her - but the threat was still troublesome. To all outward appearances, he cared for his wife. She was strong-willed and stubborn, determined to make a place for herself at her husband's side, rather than behind him. She had been a stunning beauty in her youth, and her family dowered her handsomely. Over time, he had tired of her arguing, her constant insistence that she be included in daily decision-making around the holding. At first he had flat out refused her, and then given her small tasks that he thought were below his reach in the hopes of silencing her, but that had only increased her insistence.
In a way, he was glad she lacked the strength to oppose him any more. She had eventually limited herself to the care of their daughter and simpler tasks of sewing and embroidery – far more suitable pastimes for a woman of quality. Looking back on it, Pyrte was glad he had taken certain 'precautions' as to the likelihood of her recovery.
He paced across the room again, and paused to stare into the fire. His spies informed him that the local nobles though him a brave man, caring for an ailing wife and a young daughter on his own. They praised him for being steadfast and loyal, even when Eavan was no longer able to produce an heir. The simple fact of the matter was that as long as she was alive, he could not remarry. Pyrte wasn't exactly young any more, either. The form and muscle he had in his youth was steadily being replaced by a layer of fat, as much as he would have liked to avoid it, and unfortunately he was bound by the gods to love and cherish his wife. None of this would have really mattered, though, if Eavan had managed to produce male offspring! Then, Pyrte would have simply sent Eavan off to warmer climes 'for her health,' and let her live out her days away from him. He could have trained their son in any way he saw fit. It was a pity he had to handle things this way, and even more so that their only child was female.
"I'm not getting any younger," he said aloud, with a glance toward an elderly gentleman who had been ignored unto this point. "And I will not break the bonds of my marriage to take a mistress. A weaker man might, but I am far too disciplined for such things."
The gray-haired fellow nodded his head. "We are fortunate for your strength, milord," he replied, "It is truly a shame that your wife is in such a weakened state."
Pyrte gave him a sharp glance. "She will not live out the winter."
At the foot of the bed, Brendan was putting on his boots. "Look," he continued, ignoring the sour expression on Magnus' face, "I can't stay here forever. I think I've already worn out my welcome, and anyway, my father needs help around the farm before winter sets in." His meager things had been packed, his and Magnus's ponies loaded, and the groom was waiting for him in the stables. Dawn had brought a breath of chill with it, and hints of frost on the damp grass. "Besides, if I don't leave now, I'll be snowed in here all winter!"
Magnus didn't think that was a very bad idea. "But I'm the youngest one here!" he protested, not that Brendan was any closer to his age, but at least he was family. "All of the older boys will pick on me 'cause I don't have any weapons experience." This elicited another hair tousling from Brendan, which made Magnus cringe.
"Then I suggest you practice hard!" the older boy laughed, slugged his cousin on the arm. "I'll give my mum your regards, and tell my father you're better off here where you'll get your ears boxed for daydreaming!" He dodged the pillow that hurtled at him. "And there's always that little girl to play with," he added – and dodged the boot that sailed at him this time.
"I don't play with girls." After all, girls liked dolls and tea parties. Magnus was a boy, and he liked swords and bugs! As they headed out into the hallway, he made sure to look as manly as possible.
"Maybe not yet," Brendan's good-natured laugh followed, "But someday you will."