“Name no names, cousin.”
Genova’s head was whirling.
“Loki cut a mistletoe branch and shaped a spear of it. Did he intend to kill, or was he ruled only by mischief?”
“But,” Genova interrupted, “no one could make a spear out of mistletoe. It’s a vine.”
“Relentlessly practical,” said Ash. “This was before the modern age, before Christ. One story says that the Cross was made from the mistletoe tree, which was then cursed into its present feeble state, required to suck life from other trees.”
“In that case, Balder’s mother wouldn’t have ignored it.”
“Relentlesslypractical. The point of the story won’t be affected by logic, Genova.”
She had been arguing because she sensed something unpleasant coming. She made herself stay silent.
“Loki made his weapon,” said Rothgar, “but he did not launch it himself. Instead he persuaded Balder’s blind brother to do it by telling Hodur that Balder wanted him to be part of the game. Then he guided his arm. Balder died, and all the gods wept into their mead.”
“None considering, we assume, that the disaster rose entirely from their own foolish actions.”
“Who ever does?” Lord Rothgar asked. “Instead they turned on Loki.”
“It was his fault,” Genova pointed out.
“But sometimes an action has deep roots, Miss Smith, and the final hand is not the only guilty one. As for Loki, the gods hunted him down, then chained him beneath a serpent whose scalding venom drips on his face for eternity. There are none so harsh as those weighed down by guilt.”
Guilt? Whose guilt? Rothgar’s mother’s? His father’s? This wasn’t all about ancient myth.
A silence ran and in the end Genova couldn’t stand it. “Why are mythological mothers so careless? Achilles’ mother left his heel unprotected. Balder’s motherneglected the mistletoe. A little thoroughness would have solved all.”
Ash gave her a “relentlessly practical” look, and she wished she’d held her tongue.
“Thoroughness would give us invincible heroes,” Lord Rothgar said, “and it’s our vincibilities that make us human.”
“Or perhaps,” said Ash, “it is merely that since Cain and Abel, children have borne the burden of the sins of their parents.”
“It would explain a great deal,” Rothgar said, apparently unaffected by the reference, “but the cruel gods are dead, and we live in the reign of the Prince of Peace. He who commands us to forgive our enemies.”
That was direct.
Ash made no response. Did he really see himself as Loki? Was he threatening to destroy Rothgar with some mysterious weapon?
They had crossed the meadow with her scarcely aware of it, and come to the orchard, protected from the deer by a fence.
“Onward to mistletoe,” Rothgar said, opening the gate. “In these enlightened times it can only slay us through kisses.”
Ash guided Genova through and closed the gate behind them. “But remember,” he said, “that the Prince of Peace was betrayed unto death by a kiss.”
Chapter twenty-eight
Genova expected something more, some climax, even a violent one. Part of her wanted it as one longs for the storm that will break oppressive weather. Lord Rothgar left them, however, to chat to other guests, taking Miss Myddleton and Ormsby with him.
She frowned at Ash, wishing she could drag his thoughts out of him like rope out of a hold. All sense of knowing him had gone. He was an enigma.
It was Christmas, time of peace, but she’d lived among war and knew how it could run mad in the blood. She’d seen men attack others simply for their nationality, or uniform, or name, as if hatred for certain groups was burned into their soul.
“Aha,” Ash said.
Genova looked up and saw a lushly berried branch of mistletoe almost brushing her head. She couldn’t believe he was trying to play games now and stepped back.
