Page 11
“When?”
Memories too painful to draw out into the here and now—or to explain to a young child who could not possibly understand—threatened to break through the mental barricades she’d managed to build day by day, month by month. The clang of the ladle hitting the pot’s side, followed by Ada’s footfalls, provided a welcome distraction. “I will tell you another time,” Gisela said. “Now, you must eat.”
Ewan sighed and snatched the bread from her fingers. He bit into it, just as Ada set an earthenware bowl filled with steaming pottage in front of him. Wrinkling his nose, he chewed his mouthful, while pulling at a fraying bit of the silk tied around his sword.
With a grateful smile, Gisela looked at Ada. “Thank you for looking after Ewan today.”
Ada grinned back, revealing a slash of crooked teeth. “Me pleasure.” Her smile wavered a little. “’E got a bit of a scrape on ’is arm, I fear, but ’tis not too bad.”
Ewan nodded as he tore off more bread with his teeth. “I cried.”
“Poor Button,” Gisela murmured. “How did you get hurt?”
A blush stained his cheekbones. Around a mouthful of chewed bread, he said, “I fell.”
“Tsk-tsk,” Ada said.
Ewan’s flush deepened.
“Fell from what?” Gisela resisted the motherly urge to panic. He hadn’t looked hurt when she stepped into the home, so his injuries could not be too grave.
“Go on. Tell yer mama.” Warmth threaded through Ada’s words. She obviously tried very hard not to laugh.
Gisela quirked an eyebrow. “Tell me what happened.”
Ewan shrugged, then tugged up his right tunic sleeve. A purplish bruise, along with a small, scabbed cut, marked his arm above the elbow. “Ada pretended to be a mountain ogre. I was the knight sent by the king to climb the mountain and fight her.”
Covering her mouth to hide a smile, Gisela said, “Hmm?”
Dropping his tunic sleeve, Ewan flicked his hand at the table. “I jumped up here and lunged with my sword…” He squirmed on the bench. “My foot slipped. I hit my arm on the corner of the bench when I fell.”
“We stopped playing mountain ogre after that,” Ada added with a sheepish grin.
Gisela smiled before sitting beside Ewan on the bench. “I am sorry you were wounded,” she said, giving him a hug. “Yet, I have told you before not to stand on the table.”
His mouth tightened.
“The fault is mine,” Ada cut in. “I should have—”
“Nay, Ada. Ewan knows what he is allowed to do, and what is forbidden.”
The little boy looked down at the table. He swallowed.
“Please do not play on the table again, all right?”
He continued to stare down at his pottage. He bit off another chunk of bread. As he chewed, rebellion tightened his shoulders.
“Ewan.” She pressed her hand over his small, white-knuckled one, clenched on the tabletop. “What if you had hit your head on the bench instead of your arm? I could not bear to see you injured.”
He blew out a long sigh, heavy with resentment. “All right, Mama.”
Gisela blinked moisture from her eyes. She well understood his frustrations, the sense of being constrained. How did she teach him that some risks were foolish and should be avoided, while others—like buying bread from the market—were necessary?
Her son had such spirit. If only she could let him scamper outside with other children. However, unlike Ryle’s sprawling manor house where Ewan was born, which was surrounded by a lush garden, the townhouse was situated in a poorer area of the town. It overlooked a street well-traveled by farmers with horse-drawn wagons, vagrants, and customers who visited her premises as well as the other nearby shops. ’Twas not safe for Ewan to play in the busy street.
Moreover, the danger ran deeper. If Ryle or his cohorts saw him, they might snatch him. Or Ewan might inadvertently lead Ryle to this home. Then Ryle would see them both dead.
Resisting her ever-present fear, Gisela rose from the bench to fetch a pot of salve from the table beside the two narrow pallets that were her and Ewan’s beds. As she reached for the pot, she realized she still held Dominic’s necklace. Now was not a good moment to inspect his gift.
