Chapter 5: A Decent Distance
The sun had just touched the horizon when Merlin directed the horses off the road into a little patch of calf-high grass, not low enough to ever gather run-off water, and sufficiently enclosed by thick underbrush and a stand of maple trees that he guessed no one currently claimed ownership of it for profitable land.
They could have reached Field Springs in less than another hour; Merlin could see a solitary hilltop windmill that signaled the edge of town.
"We're close enough to Field Springs that we can relocate anytime during the night, if you change your mind." He pointed the windmill out to her as he handed her down from the wagon seat.
She looked, and nodded, but said nothing.
He unhitched the horses and staked them out on long leads as she rummaged in the wagon for supper-fixings. As soon as he had the horses set for grain and water in a bucket, he cleared the grass in a small circle and lined it with stones from the roadside. Then gathered kindling and some larger fallen branches among the maples, and started the fire for her. It was enough to cook the food and heat the coffeepot, not much more. Nights were so warm now that a campfire would be more nuisance than comfort.
As she set to mixing up the batter for flat cakes in a small bowl, he went back to the horses, checked them over for loose shoes or harness sores, strained tendons, and rubbed them down. Nothing wrong with them but old age. They wouldn't have any trouble making it to Turad, but he wouldn't push them, either.
He went to the side of the wagon, where their cask of water was lashed tight, tipped off the lid, and poured a dipperful over his upturned face. It ran down inside his collar and over the stubble of his hair; he scrubbed his face with his hands, then dipped a second palmful of water to wash his hands. After drinking a third dipperful, he rounded the cart and stretched out next to one of the wheels, one boot crossed over the other.
She glanced at him and offered a quick smile, leaning forward with her hand hovering over the frying pan placed in the glowing coals to check its readiness. She had the sleeves of her dress up to her elbows to keep it clean while she prepared the meal, and the full skirt puffed around her as she knelt in the grass. She'd set her sun-shielding hat aside, and the white cap was pushed further back from her face.
As the sun set, the firelight reflected in her eyes.
Merlin watched her quick, neat movements, her awareness of his gaze acknowledged by little darting glances under long lashes, that seemed shy but not offended.
He was acutely aware of her experience with the murderer who had taken her against her will, and the similarity of the circumstances they now found themselves in. Had she decided to trust him, to put aside the fear of the risks of every day and its choices, or was she too shaken by the attempted robbery of the previous night to want to stay in an inn reputedly worse than the last?
She rose on her knees to pour the batter from her bowl onto the frying pan, using her long-handled wooden spoon to portion amounts into round cakes that spread, and slowed, and began to form bubbles. She settled back; he remembered the tin plates and forks in their little basket at the back of the wagon, and pushed himself up to retrieve them.
A startled look, a quick frightened jerk backward at the sudden unexpectedness of his movement – she checked her reaction.
But it told him that her decision might have been made intellectually to trust and not to fear, but her instincts were still to expect abuse. When he returned from the wagon to present her with the plates and utensils, he kept a decent distance, kneeling and extending his offering to her.
"Thank you." She smiled at him again, a smile tremulous in its attempt to be warm and welcoming. She was obviously trying to make up for recoiling at his sudden move, yet it had him wondering what it would be like to belong to someone again.
They ate in silence, then Merlin fed the fire a handful of sticks to help heat the water in the coffeepot, and set the grounds in the percolator at the top of the pot. Freya scrubbed the plates with handfuls of grass and replaced them in the basket on the wagon.
Merlin straightened as she returned, faced her slowly and deliberately so he wouldn't spook her again. Maybe she would begin to feel safe if he followed through on his offer to teach her how to defend herself.
"Use your heel on the instep," he said.
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Freya backed up a step. Wild thoughts flew through her mind – he was giving her advice on dancing, on shoeing horses, he was warning her that he intended to – what?
"What?" she said.
Merlin remained standing still, made no move toward her. His back was to the fire and the sun was far enough gone over the horizon that she couldn't see his face clearly, but his hands hung at his sides, fingers open and relaxed.
Why could she not convince herself that he wasn't going to leap after her and pull her to the ground like a wolf pulling down a doe?
He mimed stomping on something. "Last night," he said. "You were trying to crush her toes with the side of your foot. Use your heel instead, and step down hard and sharp on the insole. But first–" he clasped his hands together and used his right arm to push his left elbow backwards in a swift, jabbing motion – "first, when someone comes behind you, elbow them in the stomach, just here." He set his fingers against the third button of his shirt, just where the ribs came together.
She belatedly remembered him saying, I could teach you. Ah.
"Elbow to the stomach, heel on the instep," she repeated, nodding to show she understood.
"That's when someone comes up behind you. If they're coming at you head-on, you can do the same thing, only turn and use their momentum against them." He demonstrated, crouching slightly. "Then you make a fist and punch – not the face or anywhere on the head, your hands are too small, you'll probably break your fingers. Punch the neck. And if you're facing a man, bring your knee up hard, right here."
He indicated his meaning, and she flushed so hot she turned her face away from him. The next thing she knew, he had stepped right next to her, was positioning her with his hands on her shoulders.
"I'm going to pretend to grab you, slowly, and we'll go through your responses," he said.
She felt slightly ridiculous. A good strong shudder would shake her free of his light grip. Her foot barely brushed his as she stomped, elbow and fist making quick but light contact, her knee rising only minimally. But he was patient, and didn't comment on her self-consciousness.
"Good," he said. "Let's try it again. The more you practice, even in your mind, the better prepared you'll be to meet a genuine threat."
He made her demonstrate the move thrice more, a little more quickly each time, til it seemed smooth and natural to her.
"Good," he said again. "Coffee's ready."
She turned, having forgotten about the pot set among the glowing coals and small flickering flames.
Suddenly hard hands took hold of her firmly from behind, yanking her backwards. She felt fingers slip onto her face, moving toward her lips to prevent her scream, and another arm encircled her shoulders – without thinking, she elbowed backward as hard as she could, lifted her leg and stomped down hard, then whirled, reaching over her left shoulder to plant her fist in his throat.
In Merlin's throat.
She stopped her knee from lifting. He took a step back that was almost a stumble, bending double and gulping air in a harsh rasp, hand at his windpipe.
"Oh, I'm-" she stammered, reaching to help him. "I'm sorry, I'm so-
He stopped her with a pointed finger and a warning look that wasn't much short of a glare, then coughed, spat to the side, and straightened.
"That is how to do it," he said, his voice hoarse from her blow. "You have quick reflexes and you're strong for your size. Next time, don't forget the knee. Then you run. Hard and fast as you can. A man usually won't let you take him twice the same way, and once he's recovered, he'll be mad."
She nodded, twisting her fingers together. With the fire on his face, the scar was more noticeable, making a tiny shadow at the top of his forehead. He moved past her to pick up the coffeepot from the fire with a rag set out for the purpose. He was limping again, more pronounced than before, if she was any judge, and her heart gave a guilty pang – she had stomped too hard.
"Merlin, I really am sorry if I hurt you," she said quietly.
He passed her a cup of the dark, fragrant brew, but didn't meet her eyes or acknowledge her apology. Then took his own cup and moved to sit with his back to the wagon wheel, legs outstretched and boots crossed. The horses munched contently in the darkness somewhere behind him.
She knelt far enough from the fire that the heat didn't touch her and held her own cup carefully, waiting for it to cool.
"Tell me something," Merlin said. He was looking into the darkness several feet to her right. "When you felt me touch you, what went through your mind?"
Freya shivered, though the night was quite comfortably warm. "I was afraid," she answered slowly.
"Why?"
She closed her eyes to better remember the sensations. "I felt - squeezed. Like your hand would cover my face until I couldn't breathe. And that your other hand would–" Her eyes flew open and she raised the tin cup to swallow a scalding mouthful to cover her confusion and her embarrassment. That his other hand would tear away her clothing, exposing her before throwing her to the ground.
"You feared a loss of freedom," he said quietly. Nothing in his tone indicated he guessed what she hadn't said. "You feared a loss of control. These are things you lost to – to him. For the last six months, you've gotten used to them again, and enjoyed them. You should never be ashamed of fighting for your freedom and control of your – your life."
She considered. Self-defense was what he was talking about. He wasn't wrong about her, but she wondered how much his words reflected his own experiences, too.
"Why do you fight?" she asked abruptly. Then glanced over quickly to gauge his reaction to her question. If he was angry… She hadn't expected a wry grin from him, however fleeting.
"You have to be more specific than that," he said. "Each fight has its own reasons."
If he was going to answer, to talk with her, she didn't want to waste her chance. Any other time he might not put two words together on this subject, but tonight he seemed more willing to talk to her than he ever had in Emmett's Creek. Well… she didn't want to ask about any fights originating in his pain over the loss of his family – that left out anything he'd told her about his hometown, or Agent Arthur, or the Creek.
"You fought in Sage Springs," she ventured.
"I was ordered to," he said, but she wondered at the sudden wolfish look he gave to the dying fire.
He seemed in a generous, relaxed mood – Merlin, relaxed? part of her mind questioned incredulously – so she dared a little further, without meeting his eyes, and trying to keep her tone casual.
"The afternoon when Gaius and I were helping in the sick room, we met one cadet who said," she paused, remembering, "that you'd been a lance-corporal til you told off an officer for an order you didn't want to follow." She risked a glance.
He wasn't looking at her, but the fierce scowl was gathering; his arms were crossed over his chest and his jaw was tight. Was she going to lose him on this conversation trail, after all?
"Someone said you were being punished for something on your way back to Camelot," she added, and his scowl took on an element of stubbornness. "I guess… that makes me wonder why you decided to obey the orders to fight."
He turned his eyes, dark in his fire-lit face, on her. There was anger there, furious rage held in tight control. But very little hate.
"Those men," he spat. "Those officers, are promoted without the least attention to the ability to lead, to think, or to care." He stood then and strode off into the darkness, away from the road.
Alone, Freya felt the weight of her weariness settle onto her. She left the coffee in the pot for the morning, and the grounds to dry out for re-use, rinsed the cups, then climbed into the wagon with her blanket. With their supper fire little more than embers in ash, the bed of the wagon was too dark to see anything; she waited for Merlin to return for a while, but finally undressed. It was too warm to need a cover, but she drew the woven wool blanket up next to her anyway – maybe it would be cooler toward morning, and she wanted to have it handy.
The trees that were close around the wagon and the road obscured most of the sky above her with their thick foliage. The horses made small and comfortable noises as they blew their breath out and stepped through the grass; crickets and frogs from a nearby stream lent a faint music to the night.
She didn't know when she'd had a more confusing day – or set of days. She was tired of thinking and wondering, worrying and pondering. The family she was traveling to meet as well as the family she'd left behind in Emmett's Creek.
And Merlin.
Having fallen asleep, still she felt no fear when she heard him return, didn't stir in her snug bed in the wagon even when she felt him remove a second wool blanket from next to her bare left foot. She heard the whisper of a snap of shaking cloth as he spread it out in the grass next to the wagon, heard the rustle of his clothing and was too much still asleep to wonder if he was taking it off or lying down without undressing.
What woke her more fully, and caught her attention enough to remember it the next morning, was what she heard next. Very quietly, almost under his breath, he was counting.
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"No one remembered how it started," Merlin told her.
Freya clutched her hat against a sudden gust of wind and turned to stare at him blankly. They hadn't spoken at all that morning, through striking camp and passing through Field Springs. She hadn't been trying for conversation, though, nor sulking – though Freya never sulked. He thought she probably felt that she'd upset him by her questions over the campfire, and resolved to tell her enough to explain, it wasn't her fault.
"The feud in Sage Springs," he added, and her expression cleared. She made a neutral noise and faced forward on the jolting wagon seat again. "I was told," Merlin continued, trying to keep the anger he still felt out of his voice so he wouldn't frighten her, "that many of the cadet corps officers were so appointed because of various minor failures or embarrassments in the standing army. Seems our captain was such a man."
"And it was your captain punishing you by making you march without rest?" Freya asked.
He clenched his teeth briefly and shook his head at the asinine punishment, not to answer her question. When he trusted himself to speak, he said only, "Idiot."
"You disobeyed his orders?"
Almost all of them, as far as he recalled.
"He regularly compromised the safety and well-being of the cadets under his command," he said, "with his orders."
"So why did you fight for him?" She made a gesture and he glanced aside enough to see she was drawing his scar across her forehead to indicate her meaning.
"I didn't fight for him," he said grimly. "Sage Springs let their feud get way out of hand, and lots of people were hurt or robbed blind, or worse. The cadets ordered to restore peace and recover Agent Lancelot were kids, most with no experience beyond childhood fistfights and the training ground at the barracks. Those boys carried clubs against tradesmen and farmers, grown men with butchers' cleavers and pruning hooks and harvest machetes. Nathlan acted like he commanded a corps of hardened veterans against crazed invading marauders." Merlin paused to draw breath, to calm himself and regain composure. "I fought," he said, by way of explanation, "to disarm and subdue those actively involved in the feud with the least risk to the cadets in the unit."
Freya nodded slowly; but how could she understand? He shrugged, settling back into a slouch on the driver's seat, flicking the reins and clicking his tongue at the horses.
"Sometimes those goals and your captain's orders didn't match?" There was a note of subtle amusement in her tone.
He showed his teeth in a hard grin. "Sometimes."
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They were - Freya calculated because she had nothing better to do, riding on the driver's seat of the wagon mostly in silence - about two days' trip north of her hometown. Merlin was walking at the horses' heads as he had since their brief stop for the midday meal, his boots kicked up dust in the wagon-trail road.
Padlow had taken a more southern road in driving from Redwillow to Emmett's Creek, which lay in the opposite direction from Turad. So this countryside was all new to her – thick quiet forests giving way to wide green fields, startled does to curious rabbits and squirrels, to placidly grazing beef- and dairy-cows – and soon she'd be further east than she'd ever been. Would Turad be the same as Camelot?
The wagon rolled over a smallish hill to reveal an unexpected spread of valley; it might take them til nightfall to cross such a wide expanse. There was a small town nestled in the bottom of the valley, with the road winding down and through it and beyond. Most of the land was laid out in the orderly rows of orchard trees or plowed fields, as far as she could see, accompanied by farm- and ranch-houses.
"What town is this?" she asked, at the same time as Merlin halted, the horse on the left nudging him forward a half-step before they both took their chance to stop and rest.
After a long moment Merlin spoke, a single word, clearly and dispassionately. "Ealdor."
Ealdor. That was a name she knew, though she'd never been there, and hadn't heard anything about it, not even its name, from Merlin. His hometown. He showed no sign of continuing on, his arms hanging motionless at his sides, his head still, not turning to take in any of the landscape.
Freya hesitated, then slid the knotted reins she'd held for safety's sake around the brake handle, and climbed down to the road. Coming around the horses' heads, she kept her eyes on Merlin for any reaction. She no longer worried that he'd lash out with a fist or open palm if she said the wrong thing, but she knew he dealt with dark memories and pain as deep as her own once was, and she had no desire to hurt him in reminding.
His gaze was fixed on some distant point, the blue of his eyes light and clear. Wherever he was at the moment, he wasn't there beside her, in front of the team of grays, standing in the dust of the road. His jaw was tight, but there was no anger or anguish in his expression. Just quiet contemplation.
She turned her attention to the town in the valley, homes and outbuildings scattered among the trees and rows of fields, clustered ever closer together with their increasing proximity to a town square, a main street with storefronts much like Emmett's Creek. She looked back at Merlin, who hadn't moved or even shifted his gaze.
How would she feel about going back to Redwillow, and the small house where she'd found her mother's lifeless body, early one unnaturally quiet morning? Or, more comparably, how would she feel if coming upon the dark clearing where Padlow had chosen to camp for the night, choosing also to take her to wife in spite of her pleas and struggles. It wasn't the same; she remembered little of that place, and nothing would distinguish it from a hundred other such clearings across the land she'd traveled, then and now. It had never represented home and safety, before that night, the way Merlin's home had.
"Will you show me?" she said quietly, so he could pretend not to hear her if he chose. "Show me your home?"
He turned his eyes on her beneath the shade of his hat, but she doubted he saw her at all. His head turned back again, as if of its own accord, his eyes drawn to the same far spot.
"I can't," he said. He took two steps forward, three, four, and didn't seem to have any idea he'd moved. The horses nudged Freya into following, slightly disappointed and beginning to feel sorry for him that he couldn't even - "I burned it," he added in the same vague tone.
Shock scorched through her. "You – what?"
He lifted his hand to point, exactly where his gaze was fixed, as far as she could judge. "They tried to clean it," he murmured. "I couldn't see anything but the blood. Always… the blood. While it was still mine, I slept in the barn…"
His voice trailed off, and she saw the moment he came back to himself, hard and fast. He drew in a deep breath through clenched teeth, let it out in a tuneless whistle, squinted his eyes, then offered her a cheerless grin. Without speaking, he returned to the wagon, climbed to the driver's seat and disengaged the reins from the brake. He leaned over to give her a hand in assistance as she lifted her skirt carefully free of the wheel and any axle grease.
After a couple of minutes of downhill driving, not so steep that Merlin had to apply the brake to keep from rolling onto the horses, but definitely at a faster-than-usual clip, he offered, without looking at her, "It's a ways out of our way."
"Please?" she ventured. She wouldn't go so far as to ask after the location of his family's graves, or propose a visit there, but maybe if they spent an hour or two here in town he might come to better terms with his loss.
"Nothing to see," he said noncommittally.
She said nothing further. If he was set against revisiting his past in this town, she would not push. That would accomplish nothing but antagonism from him, and he still wouldn't share any of his burden with her.
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Merlin was determined to pass through Ealdor as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. He'd even thought about going a couple of days out of their way to avoid the whole area, but dismissed the idea as too cowardly. He'd face what needed facing, but he didn't have to look too closely. And he'd try not to think, or speculate. Or remember.
And of course, he wouldn't stop.
So why? his rational mind asked, when irrationally his fingers pulled reins to lead the team off the road a good two miles before they reached town. And continued to guide the grays along the grassy track, past fenced cattle-meadows dotted with daisies, and rows of floppy-leaved cornstalks – knee-high by solstice they'd be, as was proper.
And the warm sun and the smell of the earth… maybe he could lie in a ditch somewhere here, just lie and watch the sun wheel by overhead, at night the phasing moon and stars, watch the grass grow til his eyes closed on everything and the grass grew together over him.
Beside him Freya said slowly, "What did you mean, when you said – you burned it?"
He could still feel the heat on his face as he stood in the half-plowed field, mud heavy on his boots, Arthur's blood still staining the fingers of his right hand. Smelling his own sweat, and fear, and the kerosene from the barn that had splashed on his clothes in the pouring. And the old sway-backed plowhorse snorting behind him to smell smoke and hear the higher-rising flames crackle through the empty remains of his life.
"I was fifteen," he told her, blinking away the fire-images from the backs of his eyelids, adjusting his grip on the reins so the wagon would roll down the middle of the track instead of tipping dangerously toward the ditch. "You won't be surprised to hear no one volunteered to foster me, even at the price of the farm. Nor would I have stayed, in any case. I – resisted the agent sent to bring me to Camelot."
"Arthur?" Freya said, but not as if she was guessing. Had the agent told her? No matter, Arthur and Gaius both knew; either could have told her these details at any time last fall.
"The land would be sold," he continued. "That was there before my father broke ground, be there long after any memory of any of us. But the house… and all… It wasn't right anyone else should live there."
A sudden lump in his throat cut off his words – but what more was there to be said, anyway? – stuck and burned til tears started in his eyes in spite of himself. He brushed them away roughly, angrily.
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It was a measure of his distraction, that he didn't shake off the hand Freya laid on his sleeve, intending to be comforting and supportive.
They rode through shade-mottled sunlight down the winding track that curved to the northeast of Ealdor. But for his occasional twitch of the reins to keep the horses on the road and moving forward – albeit slowly, as if they sensed their driver's inattention – she could have believed him insensible to all around him.
He'd been so young to face such a tragedy alone, she thought. To face life alone. And what she knew of the three years since – how would he handle this crisis? She could see that he'd never coped properly with his grief, yet the rage at the murderer had mostly drained away in the six months since she'd seen him last.
How could she help him?
Through the trees just ahead, she could see a cozy white ranch house with a square inset back porch, and the new-shingled roof of a secondary building, maybe a barn, further off to the left. The track curved into the yard between house and barn, the two grays slowly pulling the wagon into view.
Freya knew little of normal country living – her life having been limited to town residence, when she wasn't sequestered in Padlow's hovel - but she could see that the bare ground was swept neatly. A handful of chickens pecked in the open door of the barn; there was a carefully-tended kitchen garden to the south of the house, and all looked to be well-cared for.
A young woman crossed the yard to the square porch as they came into view, a small child in a baby-gown carried perched on her expectantly-rounded belly. Her curls bounced against her ears as she turned to watch their wagon leave the shady track for the open yard. They were close enough for Freya to mark the young woman's expression change from curious interest to uncertainty, to something approaching outright fear.
Her grip on the child tightened, and she ran the remaining steps to the porch, crossed it quick as thought, and had the house door slammed behind her before they'd even come within twenty paces.
Startled by the woman's reaction, Freya turned to Merlin – and froze. His whole body was pulled tight as the skin on a drum, fingers nerveless on the reins. His eyes, glittering from dark pools of shadow under the brim of his hat, were fixed on the closed door, horror stark on every line of his chalk-white face.
What was on his mind? A similar farmhouse, his own mother? Had she hurried Merlin's sisters inside and barred the door, or had she come out on the porch, removing apron to welcome a visitor? Freya thought she knew the answer. If Merlin's mother had barricaded the family indoors, his father might have had a chance against Padlow.
Maybe something of the same idea had occurred to Merlin.
As the horses followed the curve of the yard, past garden and porch, circling to corral and barn, Merlin's face turned, eyes riveted on the door, gaze sliding past Freya's face, body turning on the driver's seat til he seemed in danger of falling off. Freya grabbed the front of his shirt to balance him; his knee pushed hers far to the side til she was clinging to him to keep from tumbling off the wagon herself.
"Merlin!" she gasped.
He turned blank eyes on her for an instant, then straightened himself on the seat and pulled the team to a halt. Her grip on his shirtfront kept her on the seat til the wagon stopped and she regained balance, then she let go.
"Do you think she recognized the team and wagon?" he said to her bleakly.
The team and wagon – Padlow's. At least, they had been. She remembered that this was still the region, the edge of it, for Padlow's tax farm – he would have come to collect, after Merlin's fiery departure, up til last fall. And on top of the terrible memories Merlin carried of this place, he was prompted to wonder if he'd just been mistaken for his enemy – and if his own mother had reacted as this young mother had…
"She has nothing to fear from me," he burst out hoarsely. "Not from me."
Freya turned to face him squarely, placing her fingertips on his jaw line, leaning forward so her face would fill his vision. "She'll know that soon," she said quietly, confidently.
A man emerged from the barn behind Merlin, big but not overly bulky, dressed in the boots, vest, and broad-brimmed hat of a rancher, who glanced at the house where the woman had disappeared before turning to them.
"Merlin," Freya continued in the same low tone, "we don't have to stay–"
A scream interrupted her, a muffled cry from the house, followed by a series of groans, rising in pitch and duration. Then there was silence.
Merlin and Freya were both down from the wagon before the man reacted – ignoring them to race to the door. Merlin stood like a statue, but muttered one word.
"Go."
Freya snatched her skirt to her knees and ran to the porch, gaining it just behind the rancher. He reached to yank open the door; she darted through behind him, but when he paused in fear or uncertainty, she moved around him.
A solid wood table blocked most of her view of the young woman, who lay panting and moaning on her side in the doorway of the kitchen and the room beyond. The child, a curly-haired little girl, sat bemused next to her mother, two fingers hooked in the corner of her mouth. She looked up with wide eyes as they burst into the room, but clearly the little girl was in no danger. The rancher moved forward more slowly than Freya did, just behind her as she knelt next to the mother.
"How close is your time?" she questioned, trying to keep her voice calm.
The woman groaned again, rolled to her back as her knees drew up. She pressed her hands to her abdomen, one at the lowest place, the other at the very highest under her breastbone. When she shifted back to her side, Freya noticed a darkened damp patch on her faded red flower-print dress. It didn't matter how close her time was; if that patch meant what Freya assumed, the baby was on its way regardless of counted months.
"Is her bed on this floor, or upstairs?" Freya threw over her shoulder to the man, who leaned worriedly over them, hat in hand. The girl child pulled herself to her feet and clung to the top of her father's boot.
"Around there." He pointed to a doorway partially concealed by the open kitchen door.
"Can you carry her?" Freya said.
The man tossed his hat onto the table atop a wooden-handled knife and a stack of garden greens, nodding and running a nervous hand over a shaggy mop of brown hair. He knelt and gathered the young woman close, soothing her gasps. He lifted her and turned to carry her from the kitchen, leaving the little girl standing on her own.
Sober brown eyes inspected Freya, then turned to watch her parents disappear into their room. Unsure if the child should be left on her own, Freya scooped her up and followed. The woman was panting as he laid her gently on the quilt covering the bed. The girl in Freya's arms squirmed, protesting her proximity to a stranger.
"Daddy?" Another voice behind Freya, a young voice. She turned to see a handsome youngster, shirt untucked from diminutive trousers, bare-foot and tousle-headed. The boy, slightly darker in coloring than his younger sister, knuckled sleepy eyes and didn't appear disturbed in the least at finding a stranger in his house.
The woman whimpered through her panting, bit her lip on a scream. The man hovered over her, trying to offer comfort but clearly at a loss what he should do, and approaching anxiousness himself.
"Sir?" Freya said. He ignored her, tried to sit on the bed beside the woman; her hands fluttered against him, whether to protest or appeal, it wasn't clear.
She set her teeth. Events had taken a strange and completely unexpected turn; she couldn't quite banish from her imagination a picture of how Merlin had described the kitchen after the murders. She'd never attended a birth; she had no idea if this was all very normal or if the woman was on death's doorstep, but she was determined to prevent another tragedy if she might.
"Sir," she said more firmly, adjusting her grip on the squirming child for one more secure. The man turned. "Take a horse and go for your doctor or midwife, whoever tends women in labor. My name is Freya; I will stay here until you return."
"I'll… all right." The man rose hesitantly, then jerked his head in assent. He hurried from the room, banging the kitchen door behind him.
"Daddy?" the older boy said, and the little girl started to cry; the woman looked in no condition to be minding either of them. First things first. Supporting the younger child in one arm, Freya firmly pulled the older into the room and shut the door.
"Ssh, sweetie," she consoled the boy. "Hush, now, your mama needs you to be quiet. Can you play here with little sister?" She drew him to a colorful rag rug on the other side of the bed beside a crooked wardrobe.
"Li'l si'ter fuss-fuss," the boy told her confidentially, settling onto his knees. Freya set his sister down as he pulled a carved wooden animal from his pocket.
"Mama needs quiet," Freya repeated, glancing around to be sure there was nothing dangerous within reach; the carved toy was too large to choke on. She turned back to the bed where the woman panted and strained, gripping the quilt, sweat darkening her dress and dampening her brown curls.
"Mama sick?" the boy asked in interest, leaving the toy to the baby to follow Freya. He pulled handfuls of the quilt, trying to climb up onto the bed; Freya restrained him. "Mama gonna get a baby outta tummy?"
Freya couldn't help smiling as she knelt on the bed herself to begin to loosen the woman's clothing. "Yes, pretty soon," she answered, hoping that she was telling the child the truth.