“I mean he is blessed with unholy strength, but he can hardly speak a full sentence. He stutters when he speaks at all,” Aidan finished, a smirk twisting his lips.
Banruud felt an easing in his chest, and Dirth threw his goblet against the wall in celebration. But Banruud of Berne could not completely drown out his fearful thoughts.
Adyar, the eagle. Ebba, the boar. Leok, the lion. Berne, the bear. Joran, the horse. Dolphys, the wolf. The boy has bested them all. The Highest Keeper believes he is destined to be king over the clans.
If Aidan was simply goading him into a rage, that was one thing. But if the Highest Keeper favored the boy, believed him to be called of the gods, then all was lost.
Erskin spoke again. “It is not unholy strength that will save Saylok. Even if the child were as powerful as Thor himself.”
“We need women. Seven years, and not a single female born in all the clans,” Lothgar grumbled, still eating. “Only women will save Saylok. Even if we have to take them.”
And take them they had. Erskin of Ebba and Jaak of Joran had gone to the lands to the south, raiding villages and taking their women, spiriting them away aboard their ships to take back to their clans. Such raids were dangerous business, and the men of the Hinterlands didn’t take the theft of their women lightly. And just like the women of Saylok, the women they stole gave birth to sons.
The last raid had ended badly for the Chieftain of Joran. He’d been killed in a battle on a distant shore, and his people were in the process of choosing a new chieftain. Banruud and Dirth, wanting to avoid the same fate, had decided to trade instead of raid, hoping to avoid war with the Eastlanders, and they’d brought home two dozen women—slaves mostly—but the Eastlanders had been quick to seize on their desperation. The women were sickly, plain, and expensive. Not good breeding stock. Three of them had died on the voyage back to Saylok.
Banruud had no daughters. He had no sons. He had a wife who had labored to give him both and had failed to give him either. Desdemona would have given him a son, but he’d wanted to curry the king’s favor. Beautiful Desdemona of the black hair and wicked smile. Her father had come to him, raging at the squandered betrothal, blaming Banruud for her death. Banruud had wanted to kill Dred of Dolphys, but the Chieftain of Dolphys would have required recompense for the loss of one of his best warriors. Banruud had given Dred a bag of gold instead, and Desdemona’s father had not been heard from since.
Banruud left his dining hall and the tables laden with food and wine and climbed the stairs to the room where his wife labored. The room stunk of sweat and smelling salts, and he grimaced as he approached her bed, a bed he hadn’t slept in for ages. Agnes, the midwife, had kept Alannah off her feet for much of her pregnancy, convinced that she could keep the babe alive if Alannah remained still. So far, the midwife had been right. The babe had continued to grow through nine long months. But in the last two days, Alannah had felt no movement in her womb. They feared the worst.
“How is she?” he asked Agnes, who hovered nearby. She’d been present for the birth of every one of his dead children. Mayhaps she was the cause. Mayhaps he should throw her from the window that stood open, airing out the sickroom. He could heave her heavy body into the moat that circled his keep. Only the knowledge that Agnes had helped birth dozens of live children throughout his clan stayed his hand.
“She is resting, my lord. Her pains are still far apart. She is not suffering. Mayhaps this time, Chief Banruud,” the midwife said, smiling. Hopeful.
“Mayhaps,” he agreed. It was what they said every time. And each time, they were disappointed.
The farmer and his wife had waited until there was no one left in the hall, standing against the far wall near the large doors, watching as Chief Banruud repeated the blessing he bestowed on all the new infants of Berne. He’d smeared his blood in the shape of a star on the forehead of each child—all of them boys—and sent their parents away with a piece of gold. It was required in every clan, this presentation of a newborn child to the chieftain. Every child was welcomed and recorded in the book of Berne, just as it was in Ebba, Joran, Leok, Adyar, and Dolphys. Yet it had still taken them a year to realize the children being born in the clans were all sons.
In the beginning, they’d rejoiced. Sons were always preferable. Sons were the lifeblood. The protectors. The warriors. The farmers.
How foolish they’d all been.
“Bring the child forward,” Banruud demanded of the couple, cross. He’d stayed up too late with the chieftains the night before. They’d commiserated too long, drank far too much of his best wine, and settled nothing. The day had been long, night would soon fall, and he was weary. Worried. And he had no patience for villagers who tarried when his day should be done. Usually his wife herded the villagers to him and escorted them away on blessing day, but Alannah was dying in her bed, dying with his child still in her womb, and Chief Banruud was stuck with her duties as well as his own.
He watched the farmer and his freckled wife approach, the babe clutched to the woman’s chest. Their eyes were not on him, but on his guards still standing near the door, watching the final couple seek his blessing. When they stopped before his throne, the woman bobbed a stiff curtsy and the man bowed, but the woman did not offer up the child for his mark.
“We wish to speak to you without audience, Lord,” the farmer whispered, his nervousness causing Banruud to finger the dirk on his belt.
“Why?” Banruud growled. The woman flinched, but the man simply lowered his voice and leaned into Banruud, showing more courage than was wise.
“This is the child of a slave—our servant girl—and . . . and the babe is . . . the babe is a girl child, Lord,” the man mouthed, his voice so low, Banruud was certain he’d misunderstood. Glee and fear warred across the farmer’s flat face.
“Leave us,” Banruud said, raising his hand and his voice to his men. They obeyed immediately, the heavy door closing behind their hurried exit. The day had been tedious for them as well.
“Give the child to me,” Banruud demanded. He kept his expression mild, his posture uninterested, but his heart boomed like a drum in his chest.
The farmer’s wife obeyed, handing the sleeping child to her chieftain with excited trepidation.
“We call her Alba,” the woman babbled.
Banruud pulled the blankets aside and unwound the rag wrapped and secured around the infant’s nether regions.
He could not help the gasp that escaped his lips, but covered the babe swiftly, his eyes scanning the empty room around him as though an army stood at his gates ready to take his newfound treasure.
“The slave girl . . . her mother . . . tell me about her,” Banruud insisted, cradling the child in his arms.
“She’s from Eastlandia. Balfor brought her to Saylok in the last trade. She’s only been with us four months. The babe would have been in her belly before she arrived, though she’s hid it well. We didn’t know she was expecting. She sleeps among the sheep. Takes care of them. No man wanted her, so we got her,” the farmer said.
“Clearly some man did,” Banruud snapped.
“No one wanted her because she is so plain,” the woman explained.
Banruud laughed. The woman before him was homely and rail-thin, her cheeks windburned and ruddy, her graying hair frizzing from her enormous brow. She had little room to speak. Her cheeks flushed at his obvious derision, but she continued.