Dick nodded. “And the new little ones, they probably won’t remember him at all.”
Edain’s breath hissed between his teeth; it was all too likely. Seventy years was old; three-score and ten were the years of a man, as the Christians said.
“It karks at his pride that he can’t go with the war-levy, of course. So he does too much else.”
Dick sighed again, in resignation this time.
“Well, at least the mother will have him to fuss at while we’re gone, and her babes and Tamar’s. It’s luck Tamar has one at the breast and can’t answer the levy-call herself, for she’ll be company for them both and keep an eye on him.”
The air of Dun Fairfax was warm and drowsy, heavy with the good cooking smells of baking and roasting and simmering. But the scents subtly differed from what she was used to; more spices and pungent herbs, a broader range than her folk had, and the cooking done more often with sunflower oil or canola and less with butter or lard. Despite her good intentions, Asgerd ducked into the Aylward house through what had once been its double-car garage.
That had been modified to make it a workshop, though rolled bedding was strapped to the walls as well right now; the outer side had a trellis trained with roses, a blaze of color and sweet heavy scent. She had expected it to be empty and give her a spell to nerve herself to plunge into a hardworking crowd who all knew each other from the inside out and she the white crow in the flock. Instead Sam Aylward was sitting at the workbench near the big double doors, before the clamps and spokeshaves, the vices and drawknives and drills.
Run from your fate and you run towards it, she thought to herself.
The old man was fingering the tools neatly racked there, below the bundles of yew staves and hardwood burls. He wore only a kilt, and you could see that he’d been a powerful man once, built much like Edain, but the flesh was gaunt and thinner on the heavy bones now. You could also see the marks of every weapon known to man; knife and sword, spear and arrow and ax, even the round puckered scars left by bullets before the Change-Erik the Strong, King Bjarni’s father, had had some of those that she had seen while her family was visiting at Eriksgarth over the festivals.
Asgerd felt a little awed; hers were a warrior folk who honored courage as the first of the Nine Virtues. And someone, sometime, had used red-hot iron to write in an odd curling script on Sam Aylward’s belly, but the letters trailed off. He looked up sharply when she cleared her throat, his gray eyes searching beneath the white tufted eyebrows.
“Ah, Asgerd. Come on in, my girl.”
His accent was nothing like the usual Mackenzie burble and lilt; it was slower and deeper, sonorous, in a way Edain had told her was from the English lands where he’d grown: he pronounced the last two words as moi guurl.
He saw where her glance had gone. “Yus, that were interrupted. By Sir Nigel, ’im who’s Lady Juniper’s ’usband now, long ago, when I were Edain’s age and he was captain of my SAS company. Glad Oi was of it, and that’s a fact.”
“Hello, good father,” she said, a little formally.
“And ’ello to you too. All’s well up to Dun Juniper?”
She nodded. “The King commanded us to go home.” A ghost of a smile. “Said Edain could throw himself in front of danger later, but for now he’d put his face in the midden and hold it there if he didn’t come down and have the parting feast with his kin.”
Sam Aylward laughed. “Good man, Rudi. Good officer, too, come to that. Sir Nigel taught him well.”
So did you, old man, and you taught Edain well too. But you are the sort who will praise another’s deeds before his own, I think.
Then he turned to the workbench. “Oi’ve summat for you,” the old man said. “Bit of a gift loik. I was meanin’ to wait until the levy left, but per’aps it’s better now.”
“Ah!” Asgerd said as he pulled back a cloth.
The bow was beautiful, a long shallow double curve in and out with the polished yew limbs, orange heartwood and pale sapwood gleaming under varnish and oil. The riser-grip in the center was from a maple burl, its curling grain promising hard rigid strength. The nocks at the ends were elkantler, translucent as amber, and they were carved with gripping beasts in the style of her own people. He must have gone looking for that, consulting some book or Lady Juniper.
Sam grinned as she took it up and held it out, feeling the sweet balance.
“Six foot two, reflex-deflex, and near eighty-five pound even on the tillering frame for the draw. Oi don’t think that’ll overbow you, you’ve bin practicing ’ard. That hickory bow Edain made you out east is a foine piece o’ work, but you’ll be needing two at least, for a long campaign, and mountain-grown yew is best at the last.”
Asgerd swallowed. “Thank you, good father,” she said. “This is lovely work, and a real battle-tool. I will not dishonor it.”
“Oi can still make ’em, just slower loik,” the old man said, and waved away her thanks.
Then he winced and halted the motion.
“Don’t you fuss at me too, girl,” he said sharply as she came forward with a frown on her face.
“I’m not fussing, I’m finding out what’s wrong!” she said sharply, and pressed down on his shoulder.
He winced again, but was silent long enough for her to probe the muscles along the ridges of his spine with ruthless fingers.
“All right, good father,” she said briskly. “On your face. This bench will do.”
“Thank you, girl, but-”
“But nothing. I grew up on a farm too, old man; do you think I’ve never seen a man who’s pulled his back before? And I know what to do. I’ve done it often enough for my father and my brothers!”
The glare turned to a wry nod. “Oi wonder if my boy knows what ’e’s gotten ’isself into,” he said, and obeyed. “Damned if Oi don’t loik you, girl. You go straight at things.”
“See if you like me so well after I’m finished; this is going to hurt,” she said.
Asgerd looked along the bottles and jars racked behind the workbench. There would be oil, and…
Her nose led her to a small vial. “Wintergreen, good,” she said. “Too strong, though. I’ll mix it with some oil. Now let’s get to work.”
She rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and did. Her father-in-law’s breath caught once or twice, but he made no other sound. When she was finished he sat up cautiously and worked his shoulders while she cleaned her hands on a rag.
“Believe that’s eased it,” he said.
“Now go and rest for a few hours,” she said; when he bridled, she shook a finger in his face. “You wouldn’t overburden a piece of wood, why do you think your spine is any different? Do just as you please, good father, but if you don’t rest now you’ll be stiff as driftwood tomorrow again, and as brittle.”
He laughed softly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and got up.
The door from the inner house opened, and a faded woman in her fifties with yellow-brown hair liberally streaked with gray came in. She was not in the usual Mackenzie kilt, but in the shift and tartan arsaid that older woman often preferred-an arsaid wrapped around the waist to make a long skirt under a belt, and then one end was thrown over the shoulder and pinned. She was taking off the apron she’d worn over that, and dabbing at a flush of sweat on her face with a corner of it that wasn’t stained or flourcoated.
“Sam?” she said. “Are you all right the now?”
“Better than Oi was, luv,” he said.
His expression made the leathery weathered surface of his face crinkle into a web of wrinkles, but also made it seem younger too as he smiled at his wife. His daughter-in-law could feel the love there, not much spoken but as comfortable as a low fire of coals on a cold day.
“Asgerd ’ere gave me back a bit of a rub, where it were stiff this last while. Now I’ll ’ave a nap, if you can spare me. Be fresh for the big dinner, eh?”
The woman blinked. “That’s a fine idea, we’ll be eating about sundown. Nola and Nigel are in their truckle beds there too, be careful not to wake them, now. It was hard enough to get them asleep and out from underfoot.”
“Oi will, luv. They sleep ’ard as they play, at that age, eh?”
She looked after him and shook her head, then looked at Asgerd. Blue eyes met blue.
