Chapter Eight
The Black Hills
Jerrold kept his face still as he guided the horses up the road to the broken gates of the Keep of the Black Hills. It wouldn’t do to gloat over the destruction.
“You didn’t have to bring me, you know.” Mother Bercie said from beside him. She was perched on the seat behind him, her white hair pulled back in a braid. “I could have driven myself.”
“Don’t trust these folk,” he muttered.
She gave him a hard look. “I am more than capable of protecting myself.”
While that was true if she faced the cripple and his women, Jerrold wasn’t sure she could hold her own against the two males. The boy, of course, but the weaponsmaster? From the reports the watchers had given, his sword work was deadly.
Not that Jerrold was going to say that to his mother.
She nudged his shoulder. “Just be polite.”
The Lord High Baron Orval was seated on a bench in the courtyard, young Yfin next to him.
They appeared to be reading a book together.
No doubt hearing the sound of the horses approaching, Orval lifted his head, blinking in the sunlight, then greeted the new arrivals with a smile.
“Mother Bercie, Jerrold,” he called out. “Good afternoon and welcome!”
“Afternoon, Orval,” Mother Bercie said, not waiting for a hand down from the wagon.
“Cheery bastard.” Jerrold grumbled to himself as he lowered himself from the driver’s seat. His mother gave him another sharp look before she walked toward Orval.
Jerrold ground-tied the horse, giving the courtyard the once-over.
There was a sparring circle roughed out in the center and not much else.
Looked like the stable roof had collapsed a bit more.
There was a barn cat sitting outside the stable, basking in the sun, staring at Jerrold intently.
He managed not to glance at the Keep as he followed his mother into the gatehouse.
Cirda was on duty there, best not to give him away.
“Yfin, why not go hunting,” Orval suggested to the boy. “Pigeon and dumplings for supper, if you catch enough.”
“Thanks, O’papa,” The boy jumped up eagerly and ran off. Jerrold watched him go. That might give Cirda and the others a challenge, hiding from the lad.
Amari greeted Mother Bercie at the door and ushered them both into the gatehouse.
Roth and Rosalind were waiting there, with the twins.
Rosalind was seated, holding young Dalan in her lap.
Facing the newcomers, the boy was chewing on his fists and drooling while bouncing on her knees.
Roth had baby Lara in his arms. She turned her head to watch the people moving about, her eyes bright blue and sparkling.
The room was cramped, but the table had been shifted to make room for Jerrold and Bercie by the fire. Jerrold settled in a chair, feeling it creak under him.
“Well, look at you,” Bercie tickled Dalan’s tummy. He chortled, reaching messy fingers out to touch her face. But Bercie had enough experience to avoid that trap. She laughed and pulled back. “Teething, I see,” she said as she settled into a chair at the table.
“And something else,” Orval said proudly. “Roth?”
Roth set the girl-baby down on her pudgy legs. She clung to his knee, giggling. “Look at Papa,” Roth said, pointing at Orval.
“Look what I have, Lara,” the proud papa said, a wooden utensil in his hand.
“Waa-waa-waa;” the tiny feet stumbled forward, hand outstretched. She wobbled badly and Jerrold held his breath, waiting for the inevitable fall—
Lara reached her father’s knee and leaned against it, reaching for the spoon…dagger. A wooden dagger.
Dalan protested, leaning precariously from Rosalind’s lap, his little legs kicking even as she placed him on the floor.
He had a bit further to go to reach his father, and after a few tentative steps, he then chose to crawl the rest of the way.
He wound up sitting next to Lara, who was chewing on the hilt of the dagger.
“Walking,” Mother Bercie clapped her hands in astonishment. “And so young,” she added as she took the mug of kavage that Amari was offering. “I remember when Jerrold took his first steps, he was much older and—”
Jerrold wasn’t about to spend any time listening to embarrassing baby stories. He shook his head at the offered kavage. “Said there was something you wanted to talk about,” he grumbled.
That changed the mood, settled the adults. “There is,” Orval said, putting down his kavage and taking a deep breath. Then he hesitated, with an odd bit of blush on his cheeks.
“We are expecting another child,” he blurted out.
The others seemed just as startled as Jerrold was.
“So soon?” Mother Bercie’s voice held that special tone of approval and disapproval all at the same time.
“You didn’t know?” Orval glanced at Amari. “We thought maybe Wethe would have told you.”
“Wethe is a healer,” Mother Bercie said. “She keeps her secrets.” She paused, then said, “Congratulations,” as a genuine smile appearing on her face. Jerrold knew his mother had a soft spot for babies. “Have you quickened?”
Amari blushed. “Not yet.”
His mother hummed, then continued, “But that isn’t what you asked us here to talk about.”
“Well, it is,” Orval said. “This gatehouse is no place to raise healthy children.”
Jerrold stiffened. Ah, that was what this was about. The high-and-mighty-Blood-of-Xy was going to demand his due, demand repairs to the Keep, demand this that and the other thing, never mind the drain on their resources, never mind the needs of the people, never mind the destruction his Blood had—
“We were wondering if we could relocate someplace closer to Waerington. To the village.”
Jerrold’s thoughts froze, like water in winter.
“Someplace with perhaps a room for a garden,” Amari leaned forward and for the first time he noticed she had no mug of kavage. “And a baking oven,” she said firmly. “I am tired of doing that over an open fire.”
“You don’t want to stay here?” Jerrold was shocked. All the blood spilled over the years for control of the Keep and this man was saying—
“No.” Orval said firmly. “This is no place for our growing Hearth.” He glanced down at the babies…the children at his feet, his expression a mixture of pride and worry.
“The Keep is the Lord High Baron’s right,” Rosalind was focused on one of the tapestries that lined the stone walls. “The Keep is the traditional seat of power.” She didn’t quite look at Orval. “Your power and authority as Lord High Baron.”
“And it’s defensible,” Roth added. “Once repaired.”
Ah, Jerrold thought. At least two members of the household didn’t agree with this decision.
But when the Lord High Baron spoke, his voice was firm and steadfast. He meant what he was saying. “I worry more about the health of my children than appearances. And remind me, just how long did you tell me that those repairs would take, Roth, even if we had the resources?”
“Years,” Roth admitted.
“And the Keep cannot sustain us.” Amari was just as firm. “No place to raise crops or even for a kitchen garden. And no working ovens—”
“You already mentioned ovens,” Orval said.
“Well, they are important,” Amari said. Pretty clear to Jerrold that they had already had this discussion, probably more than once. “And from the looks of the Keep garden, someone salted it.” Her voice carried a hush of horror.
“Probably all the Blood had time for before they retreated.” Jerrold growled.
“Blow holes in the walls, fill the well with stones, salt a patch for show, and then put their tails between their legs and scamper like rats back to their holes.” He paused.
“They burned the main fields, hoping to starve us.”
He waited for a response, for a flare of defensive anger at the accusation. But these people, these last vestiges of the Airion Blood of Xy, all just nodded grimly.
His mother had been silent so far, staring at the children, who were now exploring Orval’s shoes. “If you haven’t quickened, then we’ve some weeks yet.” she mused absently. “Did you have an easy time with these babes?”
Amari nodded and opened her mouth, but Jerrold wanted no part of that talk. He jumped in fast. “We can talk to the elders, consider the possibilities and then—”
“There’s old Petro’s farm,” Bercie said.
“Ma,” Jerrold put caution in his voice. He didn’t want these people closer or to give them any hopes. Better to have them dependent on the townspeople’s charity than to let them establish themselves hereabouts.
His Ma ignored him. “It’s a good-sized farmhouse, quite a few rooms as I remember. With out-buildings and a huge barn.”
Amari perked up.
“Ma, last time I was out there with old Petro, the thatch roof was leaking and there were bats in the chimneys,” Jerrold said. “Everything was overgrown with weeds and those damn moonseed vines. Not to mention, those pigs of his have gone feral.”
“Old Petro?” Orval asked.
“One of our elders, a widower.” Mother Bercie said. “He wants to return to his farm, but his sons and grandsons were killed in the fighting and his only daughter died in childbirth, along with the babe.”
Jerrold caught Orval’s wince and glance toward Amari, but she was focused on Mother Bercie, who continued, “There’s no one left to aid him. For all his complaining, he can’t be out there alone and he harangues Jerrold about it every chance he gets.”
“Why?” Amari asked.
Mother Bercie looked over at Jerrold. “Well, Petro’s no strength left in his hands,” she explained.
“Still strength in his tongue,” Jerrold muttered.
“Jerrold took his goat cart away from him,” Mother Bercie finished.
“I took the wheels off his cart and forbade anyone to fix them. Put his old war goats out to safe pasture to live out their years. He visits them regular,” Jerrold felt like he had to defend himself. “He can’t be out there on the farm by himself.”
“Now he lives in the tavern and complains to all and sundry. Loudly,” Mother Bercie said. “Getting older and grumpier by the day.”