Chapter Four

Illian thrust the shuttle through the loom and pulled the warp threads tight. She repeated the action, then leaned back on her stool to inspect her work of nearly two weeks.

The blanket was almost finished, needing only the dark blue border along the bottom to complete the design. Illian sighed and ran her fingers over its surface.

"A new couple deserves a new coverlet," said Fania, rubbing thick, serviceable hands on her clean apron as she entered the room and spied Illian at work. "And who better than the bride to make it? I still have yet to find a more skilled weaver."

"Or a more impatient one," Illian said, smiling. "It's a wonder you bothered to teach me."

"I've always had faith in you." Fania patted Illian's shoulder and then stooped to pick up a stack of newly woven blankets. "We'll need these, it looks to be a cold winter and will be rough on the village families."

Illian grimaced, wishing their land were not already stripped of its resources. "As long as disease does not spread, we should be able to manage."

"Ach! That reminds me." Fania paused in the doorway. "Helena is feeling a mite poorly, I heard. Could you stop by and take a peek?"

"Of course." Illian frowned. The poor woman already had two small children to care for. She could not afford to be ill as well.

"I know you'll be able to help her, ye be as good a healer as…" Fania looked down, shifting her load of blankets. "As your mother was, child."

Illian stared at the woven fabric before her, the pattern obscured by her tears. "I will do what I can."

"Aye, you always do." The older woman paused, then turned and padded down the corridor.

Illian smiled as children scurried ahead of her, chattering her name, down the crevassed paths between the huts.

"Hello," she said, waving at a small, dark-eyed girl who stared at her from the protection of a doorway. The child ducked back, then reappeared and wiggled her fingers at Illian.

A tall boy of about ten appeared from one of the huts, toting a blond-haired toddler on his back.

"Thank-you, Queen Illian, for coming to help us," he said, his dark eyes filled with a solemnity to fit the occasion.

"It's my privilege." She smiled at him, ruffling the silky hair of the toddler as she moved past them into the hut.

It was moist and dark, the winter chill already seeping through the turf walls. Illian moved quickly to the figure lying on a pallet in one corner and knelt beside her.

"Helena?"

The young mother gazed up at her, for a moment looking confused and then relapsing into a dull stare. Her skin burned at Illian's touch and was covered in an angry rash.

Illian glanced up at the boy, who hovered nearby. "How long has she been like this?"

"She has been hot only these past few days. But she had spots since the week Dat left."

"When did your father leave?"

The boy raised his chin. "He is gone with the eored, milady."

Illian flinched, turning back to her patient. Her eyes would not follow Illian's fingers and her tongue was dry in her mouth. Illian smoothed back Helena's damp hair, then looked back up at the boy.

"You must take your brothers and sisters and go to Girult in the great hall. Tell him to let you stay with Fania and to come at once with his herbs."

He stared at her, then nodded. When he still hesitated, Illian gave him an encouraging smile.

"You must go and be a strong man for your mother. It is very important you go for me."

"Yes, milady." He looked down at the woman on the pallet and swallowed. "Will she get better soon?"

His tone betrayed the frightened little boy inside.

Illian bit her lip and glanced at Helena. "I will do what I can. Now go."

Eomund plunged his sword into the wolf's belly. He jerked it out as the beast fell, yelping and snapping.

"Milord!"

He whirled, swinging his sword arm up in time to catch another wolf under the jaw as it leaped at him. The wolf landed on all fours, shaking its head and growling.

Eomund looked it warily, then gripped his sword with both hands and swung out and down, cleaving through the animal's shoulder and into its chest. He dropped to his knee as it crumpled, taking his sword with it.

"Cleared!" Railf's voice rang out above the weary fuzz in Eomund's mind. He shook his head, drawing out his sword and pushing himself to his feet. Dead wolves—and not a few horses—littered the chopped turf around him. But no men, thankfully.

"Injured?" Eomund glanced over at Railf, who nodded.

"Only a few, milord," he said. "Mostly shallow flesh wounds, which should heal without much difficulty."

"Can they wait until we return?"

"Yes. Probably."

Eomund stabbed his sword into the ground to remove its coating of blood and fur. "We'll do our best to bandage them up. If any need further aid the healers will see to them when we return."

"Aye, it's best to wait for their skill." Railf tightened his leather belt and walked beside Eomund toward their mounts. "They know far more herbs than the local healers."

"They were well taught." Eomund removed his helmet, shaking back his hair to allow the crisp air to cool him. "The residents are seeing to the injured horses?"

"Aye. Ivan said five were killed and another fifteen injured."

Eomund winced. "We will have to manage without them."

"We have not enough good mounts for the king's house alone," Railf said.

"Then the king's house, too, will learn to do without."

Driten snorted a protest as Eomund pulled the leather saddle cinch tight and looked back at his men. "We will spend the night in Gathre. In the morning we ride east."

A pleased murmuring rippled through the men at the prospect of a warm hearth, warm food and the families waiting for them.

Eomund sighed, forcing his weary muscles to push off as he mounted Driten.