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“But I knew the storm was coming. I should have kept him close in my tunic. I should have tied him up with the lacings.”
Hastings heaved herself out of her chair. Her belly was large, her eyes bright with good health, her heart heavy for what she knew had to be true.
Trist could not survive in this storm.
Severin rose and took his gauntlets and thick cloak that Gwent handed him without comment. He went out every hour to search, coming in again when he could bear the cold no longer.
It was then that they heard a shout.
The doors were slowly pushed open. The porter, Alart, stood there panting, his breath heaving out in white puffs, kicking away a pile of snow. There, next to him was Trist, moving slowly into the great hall, laden with snow, his whiskers thick with ice, and in his mouth he was carrying something.
It was a baby marten.
“My God,” Severin yelled, and hurried to Trist. He picked him up, holding the small baby in his palm as Trist burrowed against him for warmth. Then Trist pulled away and leapt to the floor. He was out the doors before Alert could pull them closed.
“It’s another baby,” Hastings yelled, and waddled toward the doors.
“Take this one,” Severin said, gave her the small baby marten, and ran after Trist.
Man and marten came through the door just a few moments later. Pressed against Severin’s chest were Trist and another baby.
The Healer rose from beside the hearth and said in her commanding voice, “Gwent, you will have MacDear warm milk immediately.” She was silent a moment, her fingers stroking her chin. “Hastings, we will need a bit of white linen to soak in the milk. Aye, that should do it.”
An hour later, Severin held Trist against his chest, and against Trist’s chest were two babies, well fed now, healthy, asleep. Trist looked very pleased with himself.
“His mate must have died,” Severin said. “Trist brought his babes here.” He looked up to see his four sisters-in-law pressing against his leg to see the babies better. He said, smiling at each of them in turn, “The babies must have names. Then we must be very careful to keep them warm.”
Harlette whispered, “I will have Mama sew me a tunic so that one of the babies can sleep against my chest like Trist does you, Severin.”
Matilda crowded her away. “I will take both of them and put them in my bed. I won’t come out of bed until it is warm again.”
Hastings was tired, the babe pulling at her, making her back ache, but still she smiled, so relieved she wanted to weep. “I could offer to let them sleep on me but they would roll off.”
Severin grinned at her.
They were a family. They argued and laughed and yelled and kissed. She looked up hearing gagging. Poor Alice. She was with child. The babe wasn’t making it easy for her. Even the Healer could not find a potion that settled her belly. Beamis, her husband, was hanging over her, wringing his hands, all the while the Healer was saying, “Men, look at how useless they are. Will he puke up his guts for her? Nay, he will just stand there and do naught of anything. I am always telling my Alfred that—”
Suddenly, Gwent grabbed his wife of four months and hauled her up against him. He kissed her hard, saying into her mouth, “I suffer Alfred in our bed. I do not mind because he stretches out along my back and keeps me very close to you.” He raised his head and shouted, “This is my potion to keep the Healer quiet.”
There was loud cheering in the hall. Even Alice looked up, a smile on her face, but just for a moment.
Trist raised his head from Severin’s chest, batted his paw at Hastings, and settled in again, mewling softly. His babies burrowed closer.
Hastings decided in that moment that she loved the snow and the bitter winds that swirled it into thick white clouds that cascaded down on the great castle of Oxborough.
