Father Brandt’s eyes went wide as he realized who stood on his doorstep. Had the Princess suddenly taken a turn? Or was it another of the children…?
“Father,” the King said, realizing what the priest must have been thinking, “we are all well. I am only come to speak with you for a moment.”
“Good morning, Alred!” Sigefrith called, almost cheerily.
“Good morning, Sigefrith.” But Alred did not sound cheery at all.
Eadgith smoothed the blankets over Emma’s shoulder and then collapsed into the chair beside her bed. They both deserved a good sleep after the night they had spent.
She would just wait here until Sigefrith came to see how they were, and then, if Emma hadn’t awoken, leave her with the nurse and sneak away to sleep an hour or two. The day was dawning—brightly it seemed, judging by the rosy color of the peaks of the western hills—and so it would not be long.
Brede saw a swirl of pink in the shadows at the far end of the corridor, and he ducked into the alcove to await its arrival. A pink gown in the castle was almost certainly Estrid, unless the Countess had come by—and with her baby so ill, he did not think she would.
It was Estrid.
Sigefrith stood at the window and looked out onto the dawn. It was as bright and as buoyant as lead, perhaps, but after the night he had spent, a relief.
Now he would have to face the day, and the duties of the day, but a day was structured, split up into small pieces that allowed it to be measured, and gave one a sense of progress. The night had been an interminable, unbroken misery.
Ethelmund Ashdown turned into his gate and plodded up the path towards the new house. The snow that had fallen all afternoon creaked now beneath the weight of his feet, and the branches of the pines creaked beneath the weight of the snow, and his knees and elbows and spine creaked beneath the weight of the work he had been doing these past weeks.
He had built humble little coffins until he had no more scrap wood, and then he had used up the finer planks, and then he had begun building coffins out of green pine. It was grim work, and it earned him less than what it cost. Nor did Githa understand, but he would not have a single baby laid naked in the cold earth this winter, even if their parents could only repay him with their gratitude.
Alred was coming down the passage from the northeast tower to his bedroom when he noticed the door to Iylaine’s room standing open and a light inside.
“Now,” he murmured to himself, “I distinctly remember that I had elfin accompaniment when I sang Gwynn her bedtime song, so what is that Baby doing over here now?”
“Papa!” Caedwulf shouted as he ran into his father’s study, but after he had slammed the door he winced as he saw that Cenwulf had been behind it, and now stood cringing at the sound.
“I’m sorry, Cenwulf,” he said softly. He knew his godfather did not have the same tolerance for shouting and running and banging that his father did.
“Uh oh, what have I interrupted here?” Alred asked as a giggling Gunnilda let him into her kitchen. “Some sort of babies’ coven?”
Githa Ashdown was there with baby Cenwulf on her shoulder, and Gunnilda’s maid Aelfie blushed and bowed in the corner with her baby girl in her arms—a girl he greatly appreciated, as she bore the name Matilda.
Sir Sigefrith was momentarily shaken when he opened his bedroom door and saw Hilda’s red eyes and Estrid’s accusing face, but he was comforted when his oldest son threw himself at his legs and squealed, “Papa’s home!”
“Yes, Papa’s home!” he said as he swung Haakon up and kissed his fat cheeks.
“I am certain that when Death comes for you — which I hope will not be for an extraordinarily long time — you will look him in the eye and say, ‘Very well! I only hope this will be interesting!’”
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