The baby fussed again, whimpering in his sleep. She rocked him, still stirring the stew in the pot. They’d only a few meals of dried lamb left from the autumn harvest, but still had plenty of onions and turnips, as well as chives and garlic. At least Oisinne left them a workable farm before he disappeared. She used to sell small wooden carvings she’d made, but who found time for such frivolity now?
The odor of char caught her attention, and she cursed as she tried to swivel the pot off the fire. She needed to add more water before it scorched. Baby still in hand, she bent to the bucket, trying to lift it without waking the child. She failed.
His screams shot right through her ears, a physical pain that made her drop the bucket. The water splashed on the flagstone floor.
“Son of a diseased donkey!”
“Clíodhna! Such language!”
She whirled to see Ita, a blonde woman from the village, standing in the doorway, her hand upon her heart.
“Sorry, Ita. Can you help me for a moment? I need about five extra hands.”
“I can see that. Here, let me take the wee one.” She reached out to take Aileran, who yanked on Clíodhna’s hair so hard it brought tears to her eyes.
She tried to be patient with her son. “Let go, Aileran; there’s a good babe.”
A crash outside made her whimper.
Ita smiled. “Go. Check on your lad out there. I’ve got Aileran well in hand. Don’t I, wee thing? We’re going to get on just grand.” She touched the baby’s nose, eliciting a giggle from the ungrateful wretch. Clíodhna gave them one last lingering glance before she rushed out to find out what trouble Donn fell into.
The boy lay half under a bale of hay, struggling to pull his leg out. His face screwed up in frustration.
Trying to suppress a chuckle, Clíodhna lifted the edge so he could extract himself. “How did you get under there, Donn?”
He pouted, wiping straw from his léine. “When I brought Tinn into his stall, he reared. I staggered back and hit the pile. The top one fell on me. It didn’t hurt, though!”
Clíodhna eyed the stack of hay, assessing the sturdiness of the remaining bales while trying to stifle a chuckle. “They look stout enough to me. You must have hit the bale hard.”
He didn’t answer, but looked at his foot, shuffling it in the dirt. “Yeah, I hit it hard. Tinn reared pretty high.”
Clíodhna gave him a kind smile. “I suppose a full-grown horse rearing up high can be rather scary, even to a sturdy lad of fourteen winters. I’m glad you were smart enough to back up. A frightened horse can be dangerous.”
“I know, Ma. Am I in trouble?”
“Of course not. But you still have chores left. Can you fetch me two more buckets of water?”
He squinted at her. “Don’t you still have one? I just brought one in before I plowed.”
“Unfortunately, I dropped that one trying to put more water in the stew. Oh, my stew!”
She rushed back into the roundhouse but saw that Ita had moved the stew well away from the hearth.
“Thank you, Ita. I’m sorry to leave you with him so long.”
The older woman grinned, handing the baby back. “He’s been a lovely lad. I miss my own babies. They’re all grown and starting families of their own now. Hopefully, I’ll have grandchildren soon to play with. Oh, that reminds me, I saw Etromma in the village. She said to tell you she might be later than she expected.”
Clíodhna frowned. Her eldest daughter spent far too much time with the blacksmith’s boy, Tirechan, for her peace of mind. Etromma counted sixteen winters, a marriageable age, and made her choice clear. However, the blacksmith would never pair his son, full of high status, to Etromma. As the daughter of a single woman with a small farm, they held very little status. A blacksmith stood second only to a Bard or Druí, as he possessed the magic of creating iron. His sons could have their pick of any woman they wanted, but the father would choose the most advantageous mate.
In the meantime, Etromma would only make a fool of herself hanging around, trying to impress the lad, and possibly get herself with child in the process. None of which would increase their status in the slightest.
She’d almost forgotten Ita still stood in her house. Her guest stirred the pot idly while Clíodhna lost herself in musings. After clearing her throat, Clíodhna asked, “Did you come over to ask something, Ita, before I so rudely recruited you into an assistant?”
With a chuckle, Ita glanced up from the stew. “I did, actually. I wondered if you would like to join me for the next meeting with the monks tomorrow morning?”
“The monks? You mean those strange men up in the glade? Why would I do that?”
She laughed. “Well, for one, you can bring your children. It might give them something interesting to do other than get in trouble. They also teach classes, skills like beekeeping or baking.”
Clíodhna wrinkled her nose. “I already know how to bake.”
“You do, yes. But does Donn? And being part of the community means you might have more help with the children when you need an extra hand.”
She glanced at the baby, now sleeping in her arms, and Donn, who came in with two buckets sloshing full of water. He grinned at Ita and carried them to the hearth. With a glance at Clíodhna, he poured some into the kettle and swung the iron arm back over the fire.
Ita glanced at him. “Good lad. You’ll make some woman a grand husband someday.”
While Clíodhna completely agreed, she resented the other woman saying it before she could. Donn was her child, not Ita’s. Her friend had raised her
