“The goddess Freya has given me a daughter, Agnes,” Alannah said, her eyes still on the babe in her arms. “I have a child, just like you promised.”
Banruud eyed the midwife, speculating. She had known Alannah since birth, had loved her and cared for her like a mother, and had come to Berne when Alannah became his wife. She’d been at Alannah’s side through every pregnancy.
“You are a seer, Agnes,” he purred. “And I am forever in your debt.”
“But the child . . . I was coming to find you, Lord. I thought the child was . . .” Her voice drifted off. She couldn’t say the words, not with Alannah holding the infant in her arms, an infant that was very much alive.
“Imagine my joy when I entered the room and saw my daughter,” Banruud replied. “You said this time was different. You were right.”
“A daughter?” she squeaked, and then caught herself. “Of course. A daughter. Praise the gods,” she murmured, still clutching her chest. He almost laughed at her attempts to reconcile what she was seeing with what she knew. But the evidence was there before her. She must think herself mad or think them all bewitched.
“The gods have been generous this day,” Banruud said, sincerity ringing in his voice. He would kill the fatted calf in their honor. But not before he announced the birth of his daughter to every chieftain now supping in his hall. And not before he made certain that the farmer and his wife and their ghost girl would never speak out against him.
Balfor sat at a table in the back of the hall, surrounded by Berne’s warriors and content in his position as the chieftain’s overseer. He’d grown a little too comfortable, Banruud thought to himself as he approached the table. His men stood immediately with a chorus of m’lords. Balfor was slower to rise.
“I would speak to you, Balfor,” Banruud said quietly. “Alone.”
When his men began to scramble to oblige his request, Banruud stopped them, and bade his overseer to follow him from the dining hall.
Thunder rumbled, and leaves scurried across the cobbles, but Banruud stepped out into the darkness and ducked beneath the eaves, his eyes on the grumbling skies, and waited for Balfor to join him. When he did, Banruud did not hesitate, but pounced, his voice low and hard.
“You gave the white woman, the one they call Ghost, to a farmer and his wife.”
Balfor stiffened, and his eyes shot to the side. “I did, my chief. I owed him money.”
Banruud nodded slowly. “And now you owe me money. She was not yours to give away. She belonged to the clan, not to you.”
“She was feared.”
“She was not yours.”
Balfor nodded, agreeing with his chieftain, and waiting for his punishment. Banruud let the silence and reproach grow between them until Balfor was squirming with unease.
“The farmer—what is his name?” Banruud asked.
“Bertog,” Balfor supplied.
“Bertog came to me today, into my hall. He waited until there was no one in attendance. He was afraid someone would see him. Apparently, the woman you gave him—the ghost girl—is diseased. She has infected his family.”
Balfor cursed, deep and desperate, and Banruud continued.
“He wants recompense and he wants healing. I can offer him neither. I can only protect the rest of the clan from the sickness under his roof.”
Balfor’s eyes bulged and his breaths were quick and shallow. “What can I do, Chief?”
“You must burn down his house. Make sure they are inside, Balfor. The man, his wife, any servants they employ, any children they have, and the slave. And pray that no one else is stricken. He may already have infected my keep.”
“Bertog’s two sons are grown. They are warriors—raiders—and are in the Eastlands.”
“Good. Then they will not have to know what has befallen their family.”
“There are no servants,” Balfor hastened to add. “Just the slave girl from the Eastlands.”
Banruud nodded. “Good. Then go. Quickly. There is a storm coming, and the house must burn to the ground.”
Balfor nodded once. He was not a squeamish man. In fact, Banruud knew he rather enjoyed watching people suffer. He would do what he was told without conscience.
“Tell no one, Balfor. We don’t want the people to panic over a plague,” Banruud warned. “We will watch and wait. And your debt to me will be paid.”
“Yes, Chief Banruud.”
“Find me when it is done.”
Banruud, his eyes narrow but his thoughts wide, watched Balfor stride away. Then he turned back to the entrance, to the light and warmth of the dining hall, eager to announce his triumph.
He did not see the girl with the ghostly pallor and the moon-white hair huddling in the shadows only feet away. She’d come hoping to be reunited with her child. Weeping with fear, she sank back against the wall, her breasts aching with unexpressed milk, her mind reeling from what she’d overheard.
“Lady Alannah has given birth to a healthy child, and I am a father,” Banruud roared, raising his glass to the room of warriors and chieftains gathered in his dining hall to sup. The room was silent for the length of a long, indrawn breath. And then pandemonium ensued, goblets raised and smashed as the men rose to their feet in wild-eyed wonder and celebration. They all knew Lady Alannah’s troubles. They all knew Saylok’s scourge.
“But I am not just a father,” Banruud protested, leaping onto the table where the four chieftains sat. He’d left their company the night before, convinced his ambitions were in jeopardy, fearing the death of yet another child. What providence that they were gathered here, in his keep, for his announcement. Soon, word would travel to the Keepers of Saylok. Word would travel to every corner of the land, his name on every tongue.
The voices died down and all eyes looked on him, waiting. He smiled, showing his strong white teeth to the men who would soon call him king.
“Lady Alannah has given me . . . a girl child.”
A shocked ripple wrapped the room in a euphoric bubble, and Banruud roared and beat his chest, once, twice, and then again. Some men fell to their knees, another wept, but then a cheer rose, and merriment erupted. His men sought to pull him from the table and carry him on their shoulders, but he laughingly denied them, his gaze on the chieftains who sat dumbfounded, disbelief coloring their bearded faces.
Aidan of Adyar stood abruptly, his chair clattering loudly against the stone floor, his eyes on his brother-in-law. “I want to see my sister. I want to see this girl child,” he demanded.
“And you shall, brother. You all shall,” Banruud promised, leaping down from the table. One by one, the chieftains rose, challenging him with their doubt and their undeniable hope.
“All of you. Come with me,” Banruud commanded genially.
They followed him up the wide stairs and down the long hall to the chamber where Alba slept in Alannah’s arms. His wife greeted them with smiling lips and tear-filled eyes. The chieftains greeted her with deep bows and congratulations. Then they stood in an awkward semicircle around the foot of the bed, their eyes on the girl child, watching as Alannah quickly revealed the child’s sex, her tired face flushed with pride, before wrapping her up again and clutching her to her chest.