“It seems Elfking doesnae appreciate my being attacked or mayhaps ’tis Rory Fergueson he doesnae like. He attacked the man. One of his strikes tore the flesh from the side of Rory’s face. T’will never heal right. He will be horribly scarred. The left side. It may aid ye in finding him. Although, I would have thought a man like Rory would have been easily noticed anywhere he went. Oh, he is also looking poorly. Dirty and ragged, I mean. None of his fine elegance left for him.”
“A man running for his life cannae afford the time nor the coin to make himself pretty.”
“Nay, I suppose not.” Seeing that the tending of Artair was finished, she asked, “How does he fare?”
“He has lost a lot of blood,” replied Old Meg, “but I ken that the laddie will heal.”
“Thank God. I thought his wound didnae look a mortal one but t’was only a fleeting look I got before he was mounted behind me and we were racing for Dubhglenn. Weel, I will seek my bed now.”
“’Tis about time,” muttered Lachlan.
“I needed to ken how Artair fared. I couldnae bear to think my idea had cost him too dearly.”
“Your folly, ye mean,” Parlan growled as he strode over to her, already plotting the stern lecture he would give her.
She almost felt sorry that she was going to deprive him of the argument he so clearly intended. “Not now, Parlan.”
He was startled by her tart response then grew angry. “What do ye mean—‘not now’? We are going to talk, lass, and now.”
“I am afraid this really has to wait, Parlan”—she grit her teeth as a contraction tore through her—“until after I have the bairn.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“What is taking so long?”
Artair, awake and sitting up in his bed, nearly grinned as he watched his brother pace the room. Never had he seen Parlan in such a state. If he did not sympathize, did not have a few worries himself concerning how Aimil fared, he knew he would find Parlan’s agitation a source of amusement. It was also interesting to watch his brother for Parlan was yet again revealing that Aimil meant more to him than perhaps even he realized.
“Bairns take awhile to enter the world.”
“And when did ye become so knowledgeable about bairns and the having of them?”
“Quite recently actually. I feared Aimil would have the bairn in the saddle, that t’would appear with the first pain. Aimil told me what little I do ken now.”
“She was in labor when she was riding?”
“Weel, whilst returning to Dubhglenn. Didnae she tell ye?”
“Nay, I have had little time to speak to her since then.”
“Oh, weel, t’was Elfking’s rearing whilst attacking Rory. She wasnae thrown but t’was the rough ride that, as she said, jolted the bairn into recalling that he must come out sometime. She was laboring the whole way back to Dubhglenn, poor lass.”
Parlan resumed his pacing, sipping at the ale Malcolm had brought him earlier. He felt like drinking far more heavily but did not wish to be drunk when his child finally arrived, and considering the time it was taking, that would have been assured. It was a decision he almost regretted making, however, for he felt that a good wallow in drink might ease the fear that gnawed at him. So tempting was the thought of it that he had finally left the company of Leith and Lachlan who were indulging heavily as they waited. They were drowning their concerns for Aimil as he heartily wished he could.
“Mayhaps I should return to her side. At least then I would ken what is happening.”
“Aye, and ye would get underfoot again which is why Old Meg told ye to leave. She also said ye fret too much and that that isnae good for the lass. She has her own fears to battle without ye looming over her and adding to them.”
“True enough. ’Tis the pain she is in. I keep wishing to put an end to it.” Parlan sprawled on a bench by the window.
“Only the bairn’s birth can put an end to it and weel ye ken it. Come, she is in good hands, and her pain will soon end.”
“Aye, I ken it. ’Tis that I never took much notice of the whole matter, of childbirth or,” he added softly, giving voice to some of his fears, “the dangers it holds. Suddenly I can recall too many women who never rose from their childbeds. Aimil is such a wee, delicate lass and she has grown so large with this bairn. It seemed too much for her to carry yet alone birth.”
“Aye, a wee lass and delicate-looking but nae delicate. Dinnae sit there thinking only of that for it feeds your fear for her. Think instead on how she suffered at Rory’s hands yet escaped and returned here all the while carrying the bairn. Think instead on how she rode back here, bringing me along, and was in labor yet wasnae harmed by it. Aye, think on the spirit and strength I ken weel were the reasons ye wed her. ’Tisnae a weak, faint-hearted lass birthing your bairn now.”
“Nay, ’tisnae. Ye are right. I must keep that in mind. Howbeit, I wish there was another way to beget children.”
Aimil panted and wondered why God could not have found another way for a woman to become a mother. Putting the bairn into her womb was exceedingly enjoyable but it seemed unfair that she should do all the suffering in payment for that pleasure for Parlan had quite enjoyed himself as well. She knew the church had a vast list of reasons for her suffering but she had never believed them and, she thought crossly as another contraction gripped, if they were true, it was still unfair.
