Leofric bounced his baby and spoke to her occasionally when she seemed to ask a question. She babbled on and on, talking about her day or the Lord knew what else, but mostly, he knew, to put off her bedtime as long as possible.
Lady Eadgith stood and stared down at the rumpled dress on the floor. It lay with its arms flung wide as in the abandon of joy or of death, but more troubling than this was the realization that she could not lace it up again without her maid. And she had no idea where her hairpins had gone.
“Ba ba ba? Mum mum mum?” Leia asked.
Lady Eadgith laughed softly. “No, no, no more of your stories. It’s time for sleep! Time for sleep, little lady. Lie down now.”
“Oh, no!” Synne cried as she came to a running stop before Murchad. “Is it raining again? It looks sunny from here.”
She ran away from him again to look out the window. To the south, the sky was brilliantly blue, but it was true that the light on the landscape was a sickly yellow, and the swallows skimmed low and brushed their wingtips against the swaying heads of the grass stems.
It was not the nurse’s dark head bent over his baby but Eadgith’s blonde. He fought back his initial urge to knock her down and sweep Leia away to safety, and so he only gasped, “What is this?”
“Oh, Leofric—” Eadgith looked up at him, cringing slightly—out of guilt or out of fear of him he could not tell.
“I hate this weather,” Estrid moaned and laid her head back against the windowsill. “I always get a sick headache when it wants to storm.”
“Are you getting one now?” Synne asked.
Lady Eadgith stopped and chuckled to herself. A man could be heard giggling and cooing behind the nursery door. The old fool!
She had been on her way to Eadgith’s room, but it was Drage she truly wanted to see, and from the sound of it, the old fool had already stolen him away from his mother. She would just go in and mock him a little, scold him for neglecting his work, and then steal the baby for herself and laugh to see how he moaned about it.
Now that he had her here, beside the pond, Malcolm did not know how to begin. He had her hand in his hand, it was true. It was the first time she had allowed him to hold it in several weeks, but her hand was limp and even a little cold. Still, it was his. She was his. But he did not know how to tell her so.
It was Iylaine who broke the silence. “I wish we were children again,” she whimpered.
Sir Sigefrith was unusually silent as he started down the hill between Wynflaed and her sister. He had been moved by the farewell of the little mother, which had been nothing like the clinging, tearful goodbyes he always received from his own mother and his sister. It was certainly nothing like the half-hearted embrace he expected from his wife, who could not forgive him for going away again so soon, even while seeming scarcely to tolerate his presence when he was around.
No, the little mother had taken one of his big hands between her two tiny ones, smiled up at him, and prayed God to keep him safe on his journey—and told him she would miss him until he came home.
“Good morning, Sigefrith,” Cenwulf said as he came into the study.
“Cenwulf! Excellent!”
“Do you suppose I mean to stand on the roof of the tower and shout ‘Kiss me!’ in every language until some passing knight understands? Say, that would be romantic, though…”
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