The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [51]
She set the boy down, then caught his hand to keep him close. For a moment she studied Nevyn as intently as if she saw a puzzle in his eyes. He could guess that she recognized him without knowing how or why she did. Maybe, at last, he would be able to bring her to her true wyrd, the dweomer, and free himself of the rash vow he’d sworn so many hundreds of years earlier.
‘Good morrow, good sir.’ She spoke with a pronounced lisp, a moist thickening of many consonants. ‘I see you’re new to our town.’
‘We are,’ Nevyn said. ‘My name’s Nevyn, I’m a herbman, and this is my apprentice, Gwairyc. Forgive me for seeming to follow you. Your young lad there caught my attention.’
‘Oh, no harm done. My name is Morwen.’ When she smiled, the scar tissue curled her lip into an animal snarl that matched the lack of good humour in her eyes. ‘A herbman’s always a welcome thing. He’s not my lad, though, but my sister’s.’
‘Well, your sister’s a lucky lass, then.’
Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked sharply away.
‘My apologies!’ Nevyn said. ‘What did I—’
‘Forgive me, good sir. My sister doesn’t think she’s lucky in the least. She’ll be sending our Evan away soon to his father’s people.’
‘And you’ve been his nursemaid?’
Morwen nodded. Evan leaned against her skirts and stared at Gwairyc, who’d been listening to all this with a sullen kind of patience. Nevyn suddenly realized just who this child had to be.
‘The lad’s father?’ Nevyn said. ‘Is his name Devaberiel, and he’s a bard of the Westfolk?’
‘He is. Fancy you knowing that!’
‘Well, actually, I rode here to meet up with him. He’s a friend of a friend of mine. We were going to ride west together.’
‘I see.’ The tears were back in her voice. ‘That means he’ll be here soon, doesn’t it? Dev, I mean.’
‘Well, it does, truly.’
The silence hung between them, awkward and painful. Evan picked up her mood and whimpered, holding out his arms. When she picked him up, he buried his head in her shoulder.
‘Morri,’ he said. ‘My love you.’
‘I love you too.’ She nearly wept, then forced out her twisted smile. ‘Well, we’d best be getting home. Your Da should be riding in ever so soon, and your Mam will want to know that.’
With the child clutched tight in her arms, Morwen hurried off, head held high.
‘That’s a pity,’ Gwairyc said.
‘It is, truly,’ Nevyn said. ‘Poor lass! The child’s probably the light of her life.’
‘That too, I suppose. I meant the witchmark.’
Nevyn didn’t bother to answer. His mind was racing with plans, to return to Drwloc as soon as possible and win Morwen’s confidence. The dweomer will provide plenty of light for her life, he thought, if I can only make her see it. As Morwen passed by, some of the market people turned away. Others frankly stared. She ignored them all, doubtless from long practice, but a gaggle of boys, farm lads judging by their much-mended clothes and dirty faces, proved harder to ignore. The four of them followed her, taunting and laughing.
‘Here, ratface!’ one yelled out. ‘Witch lass! Too proud for a word with us, are you?’
When she walked a little faster, they ran after and surrounded her. The two largest lads planted themselves firmly in her path.
‘That’s enough!’ Gwairyc muttered.
Before Nevyn could say a word, Gwairyc took off running straight for the lads. He grabbed one from behind by the shirt, swung him round, and punched him so hard that blood poured from the lad’s nose. With a yelp the lad sank to the ground. One of the others broke and ran at that, but two remained game—at least until Gwairyc hit one back-handed and split his lip. With a shriek the coward fell to his knees. Gwairyc had saved the largest lad for last. Him he grabbed by the shirt and punched him in the stomach. The lad sank to the ground and vomited cheap ale all down his front.