Foxmask (16 page)

“Is this your first child?” Creidhe asked her, certain the answer would be yes; it did take them like this sometimes, especially if their mothers were not at hand to reassure them. Jofrid shook her head, eyes down. Creidhe looked at Gudrun; there had been no children at Jofrid's skirts as they sat with their spinning, no babe on her back as she walked from hut to cottage.

“Her third.” Gudrun spoke matter-of-factly, her hands busy winding wool into a ball. “Lost two. If she holds on till summer she may keep this one.”

“Oh,” said Creidhe. “Oh, I'm sorry. As I said, I have delivered many babes; I can help—”

“We can always use another pair of hands, if it comes to it,” Gudrun said. She was one of those women whose age seems indeterminate; the hatchet features, thin, scraped-back hair and shrewd eyes were matched by a certain terseness of manner. “Of course, you may well be gone by then. Perhaps there'll be no need for a hunt this season. We must pray Jofrid doesn't come early to her time.”

Perhaps she was missing something, Creidhe thought. She framed her words carefully. “Tell me about the hunt. The men spoke of it too. What do they hunt? Are there deer or foxes here? Wolves?” She had never seen any of these creatures, but knew them from her father's tales. Long ago in Norway, Eyvind had been unequaled as a hunter. “Or is it a whale hunt you're talking about? I've heard that was common here, before the war.”

“You'll find out if you stay here long enough,” Gudrun said. “We've lost husbands and brothers, sons and fathers to it over the years. Of course, this year may be different.”

“Why would it be different?” A sudden misgiving came over Creidhe as to the nature of the task Thorvald and Sam had been called to assist with.

“Let me plait your hair for you, Creidhe.” A woman named Helga, one of the friendlier of this dour bunch, came forward with a comb in one hand and a length of twine in the other. “Turn around for me—that's it.”

With that the answers dried up. Nobody would speak further of the hunt, or of the absence of children, and Creidhe sat there thinking very hard as Helga combed out her hair and braided it up again. Creidhe's long, fair locks were the object of much admiration among the women: not one of them had hair of such a hue or of such a glossy shine and thick abundance. Somber and silent as they were most of the time, they still delighted in combing and dressing it, almost as if she were some kind of toy they had previously been forbidden. She noticed, too, the offers to lend a favorite shawl, a best skirt, to provide her with what passed for delicacies here: fresh eel meat, wind-dried lamb. It was almost like being fattened up for market; not a comfortable feeling. She would have traded any of these things gladly for some honest talk. How she missed Thorvald and Sam. Boys might be somewhat blind at times, and lacking in subtlety, but at least you could get straight answers out of them. With any luck they would be back soon, for the moon had waxed and waned since they had marched away, and surely in that time they must have earned the price of a few lengths of driftwood.

The days passed. A pattern had established itself; she'd be up at dawn to walk the track through the settlement, with a pause at the westernmost point to scan the way up the steep hillside in case she might catch a glimpse of Thorvald and Sam coming back. After the walk she returned to Gudrun's to be plied with breakfast, and then she joined the others for spinning. All spent the mornings working at such crafts, save for the few women who took small boats out on the lake for fish every day; odd, this, but with all the men away or on guard duty, essential. Creidhe was not invited on these expeditions. Later in the day, when the women went back to their cottages to prepare food or tend to animals, Creidhe would take out the Journey and let her mind float free as her fingers took up the complex tale, the intricate puzzle of images. At dusk Gudrun prepared another meal, watching her guest as every mouthful went from platter to lips, almost as if Creidhe were a sick child whom she feared to lose. It was hard to summon much enthusiasm for the food; the island cheese was of poor quality, lacking in flavor and unreliable in texture,
and sometimes Creidhe felt she might kill for a loaf of fresh-baked bread. Grain was scarce here, such goods a feast-day luxury. After supper there was little to do but retire to a fitful sleep. They did not allow her to feed the stock or tend the straggling, untidy garden. They stopped her from cleaning fish, from scouring dishes, lest she spoil her hands.

With so little to fill her day, Creidhe determined to undertake one more task at least, and that was to supervise the last stages of Jofrid's pregnancy and make quite sure this babe was delivered safe and well. She rehearsed in her mind the possible complications. A breech presentation: tricky but manageable, she'd look out for the signs and turn the babe in the womb before it settled in place. Twins: she did not think Jofrid bore more than a single babe but, just in case, she must make sure the other women knew how to help. Other complications that might occur: she practiced dealing with each in her mind. She would cope. Meanwhile she bullied Jofrid into drinking milk, eating fish and resting with her feet up in the afternoons, for all the woman's protests that she had animals to feed. The others could do that for her, Creidhe told Jofrid firmly, at least from now until the child was safely delivered and taking the breast. Jofrid stared at her, face wan, saying nothing; sometimes Creidhe wondered if she was a little simple.

Gudrun, as the senior woman of the settlement, organized others to tend to Jofrid's cow and calves and keep her hut tidy. All the same, Creidhe felt the weight of their stares, as if her efforts to help were in some way bizarre, inappropriate and doomed to failure. She squared her shoulders and got on with it. One had to do
something
.

It was late in the spring. Back home, lambing would be over and the days long and light. Here, it might almost have been winter still, for one never knew what the morning might bring: rain, sleet, storm, lowering cloud and eldritch mist were all common, yet from time to time the sun showed its face, as if to remind them of the season, and on the precipitous slopes above Brightwater ewes called to their wayward lambs. If there were indeed wolves or some other fierce creatures to hunt, it seemed they did not frequent these parts, for the sheep went their own way by day, untended by boys or dogs. The girl with the squint had geese and chickens to look after; the two lads disappeared each morning, returning before dusk with a haul of shellfish or eels or eggs of varying hues and sizes. They, it seemed, were allowed to wander where Creidhe was not. The rules were hard to understand. There was an expectation, still, that Creidhe would wear her headscarf out of doors, covering every strand of bright hair, yet the other women seemed subject to no such edict. She asked, and got no answers except that it was a rule and must
be obeyed. In fact, the scarf was useful. In this place, one never knew when the heavens might open and rain pour down by the bucketful.

On such a morning of late spring storm, Jofrid's pains began. It was early for her, dangerously early. They called Creidhe, not, she thought, from any confidence in her ability as a midwife, but because Jofrid had asked for her. The pregnant woman lay now on a pallet in Gudrun's cottage, her eyes wide with fear, her brow pallid and dewed with sweat. Creidhe examined her, muttering reassuring words. The birthing was not yet advanced; surely the pain should not be troubling Jofrid so much? Briskly Creidhe bid her get up and walk around between the pangs; not only would it speed the process, it would take her mind off her belly for a little. Gudrun, more dour-faced than usual, if that were possible, set a kettle to boil and rummaged in a chest for cloths. Helga came in bearing a jug of milk and a round of coarse bread to be shared after the hard work ahead of them. Helga's face was almost as anxious as Jofrid's own. As she walked the expectant mother up and down the chamber, Creidhe looked across and saw men in the doorway, dressed warmly for travel, and beyond them, rain teeming down.

Gudrun went over to them and an urgent conversation took place in undertones.

At one point Gudrun looked back at Creidhe and asked, “How long?”

“She's barely started. The child will not be born before dusk.” Of course, an infant could always take you by surprise, but Jofrid's pains did not seem strong. It was far more of a concern that the child was coming now, at least a moon-cycle before its proper time. It would likely be small and weak. Creidhe hoped Jofrid could shake off her unreasonable panic in order to deliver it safely, and that her milk would be copious. This child must survive; Creidhe had promised herself Jofrid would not lose yet another infant while she had the power to do something about it.

“Keep walking,” she urged as Jofrid paused, panting, after the mildest of spasms. “It will go more easily for you if you move about in this early stage, I promise you . . .”

In the entry, Gudrun still held conference with the men, their hushed voices now raised slightly.
You must fetch him . . . track . . . impassable . . . not until tomorrow . . . what about her?

Then Gudrun said, “Without Asgrim here, this child is doomed.”

It did not make a lot of sense. The men left, the door was closed against the weather. They walked up and down, up and down.

“Why do you send for Asgrim?” Creidhe ventured. “Is he the baby's father?” These women spoke little of personal matters; they were as tight-closed
as limpets. She had learned that Helga's man was called Skolli, and that he was a smith. She had discovered that Gudrun was a widow with grown sons. But Jofrid had never mentioned a husband; if she had one, he was certainly not at Brightwater. If the Ruler were indeed the husband of this frightened young woman, and the father of her lost babes, it seemed to Creidhe that tilted the balance still further against his being Somerled. Asgrim had seemed far too civil to be a murderer. A wife and child would render him too ordinary.

“It is not his child,” Gudrun said, putting an abrupt end to Creidhe's speculations. “And he can't be here in time. The child wasn't due until summer. He would have been back by then; he could have done what has to be done. They'll go, but they can't fetch him here before morning. The infant's doomed. It can't survive.”

Creidhe was seized by sudden anger. “Don't say that!” she snapped. “How can you utter such nonsense? I told you, I've delivered many infants, and I see no reason why this one should not do well, even if it is before its time. We must help Jofrid, not upset her. A man can make no difference, surely.”

“The child's cursed.” Helga spoke from her place by the table, where she was folding cloths in readiness. Her tone was resigned.

“How, cursed? Have you no priests here, no wise women who can cast a circle and speak words of ward?” Creidhe had seen no sign of either during her stay in Brightwater. It had surprised her, but was one of many things she had decided not to ask about, since these folk were ever less than ready with their answers.

“This is beyond any priest,” Gudrun muttered, but a note of uncertainty had crept into her voice.

“My mother is a wise woman, my sister too. The simplest of rituals can help at such times,” Creidhe said. “I have no power to summon the spirits myself, but surely there are some here who—?”

“Not in the village,” Helga said, glancing to left and right as if afraid there were listeners in the shadows. “Besides, Asgrim doesn't like them to come here. He doesn't trust them.”

“Doesn't trust whom?” Was there no end to the complications here? Why couldn't they see none of this was doing Jofrid any good? She was moaning now, her face milk-pale, and Creidhe was forced to let her lie down once more, a limp, pathetic figure on the hard pallet, the swelling made by the unborn child round and tight as a ripe fruit.

“Hermits. Christians. They'd come, if we sent up the hill for them.
Streams are in spate; not the easiest of walks. The boys could go. But the Ruler would be angry. He says they do more harm than good. Meddlers.”

“The Ruler is not here,” Creidhe said firmly. “If Christian prayers will help, then let us summon those who can offer them. How far away are these hermits?”

Gudrun stared at her a moment, nonplussed, then forced the door open against the harsh wind and whistled shrilly, fingers in mouth. Not long after, the two boys came. They got their instructions, and a sack each to keep off the worst of the rain. It was coming down so hard now the day seemed like dusk, and the pathway outside Gudrun's cottage was a gurgling, muddy stream. The door was fastened again. The women waited.

After a morning of hard work and little progress, Jofrid slept. It was a long time since the lads had set out into the storm. The women ate some of the bread, hard and musty-tasting but welcome nonetheless, and a watery fish soup Helga had prepared. Even Gudrun, whose iron features never showed much emotion, looked drained and tired; she sat with her soup bowl in her hands, staring into the hearth where dried cow dung made a sputtering, flaring fire lacking in real warmth. Seal-oil lamps were set on stone shelves around the room, casting gentle light over the form of Jofrid, now mercifully peaceful in her slumber. Creidhe willed her not to wake awhile yet; for all Creidhe's calm encouragement, Jofrid had endured the morning in a state of what seemed utter terror.

They had told Creidhe a midwife was coming, named Frida, but her arrival had provided no reassurance. Indeed, it was more the opposite, for the old woman who had arrived at midmorning, swathed in shawls, was none other than the grim ancient who had guarded Creidhe that first night at the unpleasantly named Blood Bay. She'd lifted her brows in apparent disdain at the way Creidhe had arranged things, and would have assumed complete control at once but for the way Jofrid had clung to Creidhe's hand, her eyes so wide with fear the whites showed all around.