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But Anna only laughed. The old poet was always grumpy, but she didn’t fear him. “I’ll let him sleep curled at your feet. It’ll be like having a dog.”
He grunted. The child had licked the bowl clean and now began to snivel again. “Dogs don’t whine so,” he said. “Does it have a name?”
“Its mother’s dead, and no one else claimed it. You watch over it while I go haul more water.”
She made four more trips down to the stream. At this time of year, with the winter slaughter underway, the tannery was busy with many new hides, so Matthias had seen to it that she could take his place hauling water and ash for the tanning pits or collecting bark from the forest. He had taken on more skilled work scraping or finishing skins which had cured over summer and autumn. She didn’t mind the work. The activity kept her warm and gave them a certain security that many of the other refugees, dependent on what they could scavenge from the forest or on Mistress Gisela’s charity, did not have.
Yet although the winter slaughter went on, and meat was salted or smoked against the season to come, little of that meat reached the refugees. Once a day a deacon distributed a coarse oat bread at the gate, but there was never enough to go around.
Now, when Anna returned to their shelter from her last trip to the stream, it was to find the child wailing, old Helvidius vainly singing some nonsense tune with all the enthusiasm of a woman proposing marriage to a dowerless man, and Matthias glowering over the stewpot.
“What’s this?” Matthias demanded as she shoved the canvas awning aside. The canvas didn’t really keep out the cold as much as it kept in some of the heat in the fire and their massed bodies. It did keep off rain tolerably well. Still, her toes and fingers ached from the chill and her nose was running. “Where did this come from?”
“It’s a child, Matthias,” she said.
“I can see it’s a child!”
“It had nowhere else to go. I couldn’t just leave it to die! Not after St. Kristine saved it from death at the hands of the Eika.” The child sniffed and babbled something unintelligible but did not let go of the old man’s knee.
“And it stinks!” added Matthias.
It certainly did. “Master Helvidius—”
“I didn’t know it couldn’t take care of such things itself!” the old man wailed. “I’m a poet, not a nursemaid.”
“Well, you must learn how to watch over the child, since it will be under your care all day,” she said tartly.
“Under my care all day!” he cried.
“You mean to keep it?” Matthias looked appalled.
There was a sudden silence.
“We must keep it,” said Anna. “You know we must, Matthias.”
He sighed, but when he did not reply, she knew she had won.
“Well, then,” said Helvidius grudgingly, “if we keep it, we must name it. We could call it Achilleus or Alexandros, after the great princes of ancient Arethousa. Or Cornelius, the Dariyan general who destroyed proud Kartiako, or Teutus of Kallindoia, famous son of the warrior-queen Teuta.”
She had coaxed the child over to her and, by the door flap, was now peeling off the soiled cloth that swaddled its bottom. She laughed suddenly. “You’d best find a girl’s name, Master Helvidius. We’ll call her Helen, for didn’t Helen survive through many trials?”
“Helen,” said the old poet, his tone softening as he regarded the child. “Fair-haired Helen, true of heart and steadfast in adversity.”
Matthias snorted, disgusted, but he was careful as always to share out the stew equally between them as they each took turns spooning stew out of their shared bowl.
It was dusk outside, almost dark, when they heard shouts from the roadway. Anna thrust little Helen into Helvidius’ arms and ran outside with Matthias. They heard a great commotion and hurried to where the southeast road ran alongside the tanning works in time to see an astonishing procession ride past—noble lords on horseback and more men-at-arms, marching behind them, than she could count.
Even in the twilight their arms and clothing had such a rich gleam that she could only gape at their finery. They laughed, proud, strong young lords, a handful of women riding in their ranks, and appeared not to notice the ragged line of people who had gathered to watch them arrive.
The gates of Steleshame had already opened and there, lit by torchlight, Anna saw the mistress of Steleshame and the mayor of Gent waiting to welcome their guests.
“Where are you from?” Matthias shouted, and a man-at-arms called back, “We’ve come from Osterburg, from Duchess Rotrudis.”
When they returned to the shelter and gave their news, Helvidius was beside himself. “That would be one of the duchess’ kinsmen,” he said. “They’ll want a poet at their feasting, and where there is feasting there are leftovers to be had!”
* * *
In the morning she rose with Matthias at the first light of dawn and in the cold dawn began her daily haul of water. The stream ran with a bitter ice flood over her bare fingers, but its chill was nothing to the cold fury that seized her upon returning to their little shelter.
