“What?” Dirk exclaimed, then bit his tongue. “You’re a foreigner,” she said gently, “from very far away. You don’t understand our ways.”
“No, not at all,” Dirk said, frowning, “and this one seems quite wrong.”
“Wrong or right, it’s the custom,” Magda said, her voice hard. “I didn’t have children, so I can’t have children, so no man will want to marry me—and I’m not about to become any man’s concubine, either, so I came home. If motherhood is denied me, I can at least devote myself to my people, to those among whom I grew up—but you’ll see now, sir, why I don’t mind risking my life in battle.”
Dirk caught the note of despair in her voice, and had to stifle the impulse to reach out to her again—but he did take her hand, and she seemed not at all reluctant. “Forgive me,” Dirk said, “but there’s no sense in that custom. Maybe for a woman who’d been married ten years or so, and still hadn’t borne a child, but certainly not for a lady who’d only been with her mate for a few weeks. You probably are very likely to have a child, my lady, if you’re only given enough time with another husband.” Then he realized how he had sounded, and dropped her hands. “Forgive me … I hadn’t meant…”
But her eyes filled with tears, and she said only, “You meant well, sir, very well, and have given me more hope in a few minutes than all my people in four years.” She leaned closer, eyes bright and lips parting.
Heart hammering, Dirk took his courage in both hands and her in his arms, kissing her lips, and never in his life had anything felt so wonderful or tasted so sweet.
He came back to the bedchamber he shared with Gar perhaps an hour later, though to him it might have been only minutes.
He drifted in, closing the door quietly, but Gar woke anyway and said, “You saw the lady to her room, then?”
“No, only to her ladies in waiting.” Dirk sat on his bed. “She’s the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met, Gar.”
“Lucky man.” Gar’s voice was keen with envy. “No, I don’t fancy her myself—but I wish I could feel as you feel now. Enjoy your sleep, Dirk, and may you have heavenly dreams.”
Dirk slept well indeed, and if his dreams weren’t quite heavenly, they were certainly intoxicating.
CHAPTER 12
Some things the colonists had held onto from old Earth, as curiosities if nothing else, and their descendants had taken them up again—among them military titles, ranks, organization, and the bugle. They had also held onto “Taps,” presumably because of the sheer beauty of its simple melody. The Blue Company soldiers stood in the midst of their hosts, all with helmets off, as the bugle played the haunting farewell over the two new graves in the Quilichen churchyard.
The bugler lowered his instrument, the sextons took up theirs, and the soldiers turned away, mercenaries mixing with yeomen in muttered thanks and good-byes.
“I shall care well for your wounded,” Magda promised Cort, “and send them back to you when they are healed.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Cort bowed over her hand, but didn’t kiss it. “Your hospitality to them shall allow us to fare much better in evading our enemies.”
Magda turned to Dirk. “I trust you are no worse wounded than when you came, sergeant.”
“More filled with life than ever I have been, my lady.” Dirk bowed over her hand, too—but he did kiss it, and a bit longer than was really polite.
He straightened, and Magda retrieved her hand, reddening somewhat. “I think you had better go now. You have far to travel, after all.”
“Even so.” Gar nudged Dirk aside and bowed over Magda’s hand, the very picture of punctilious politeness. “I thank you for your hospitality, my lady, and hope that someday I may return your generosity.”
“Then I shall send for you when next we are besieged,” Magda said, smiling with relief. “Good day to you, gentlemen, and safe journeying.”
They mounted, waved with a chorus of farewells, and rode off without a backward glance—except for Dirk, who kept turning around for one more look. His heart leaped each time, to discover that Magda still stood, hand raised, eyes haunted.
They went into the woods, and Dirk sighed with regret, turning to look ahead, knowing that he couldn’t see the beautiful castellan again.
He was riding at the tail end of the dozen men, so he didn’t hear Gar say to Cort, “A very bad case, I think.”
Cort glanced back. “You’re right; he’s already sunken in gloom.” He frowned, turning somber himself.
“I wouldn’t think that to be a problem,” Gar replied, “in view of the looks she gave him.”
“Yes,” Cort said thoughtfully, “assuming she doesn’t give such glances to every man who comes within her sphere.”
Gar looked up, eyebrows raised. “You think she may be one of the ones who delights in winning the heart of every man she can?”
“There is that,” Cort said slowly, “especially if she’s truly devoted to her people and as much aware of her beauty as I think she is. She might try to sway every stranger to her, to help protect her town.”
“That could be,” Gar admitted, “but from the way she looked at him as we rode away, I think she may be having as much sadness now as our friend Dirk.”
“Maybe,” Cort allowed. “I’d certainly like to think so.” His face darkened even more. “For his sake, I hope so indeed.” He shrugged, his face clearing. “It really doesn’t matter, though—she’d have better sense than to marry him when she knows she’s barren.”
“What? Unable to have children?” Gar looked up, startled. “How do you know that?”
“It’s plain, isn’t it? She was married for most of a year, but when her husband died, she was’ still without child.”
Gar answered with a smile tight with irony. “Considering that they probably had fewer than thirty nights together, I scarcely think that proves much. She barely had time to conceive.”
“There is that,” Cort admitted. “Still, it’s the custom.”
“You mean there have been thousands of women down the centuries who might have had loving families, but were denied the chance because they hadn’t managed to conceive with their first husbands?” Gar stared, horrified.
“Well, there are always some whores who do bear children,” Cort admitted, “though never many.”
“That’s because prostitutes learn ways to prevent conception, lieutenant!” Gar shuddered. “Those poor women! You mean if a man dies without leaving his wife pregnant, she has to become a prostitute?”
“Usually, yes.” Cort eyed Gar warily, wondering why the man was so upset. “Of course, there’re always those beautiful enough to become bullies’ mistresses or bosses’ concubines. Then, too, gentlewomen, like the Lady Magda, may have fathers or brothers who’re willing to take them back into their homes.”
“I don’t suppose the wife could inherit her husband’s property.”
Cort shrugged. “How would she hold it? The neighboring bullies would attack her in an instant, and if she proved unable to lead her boots in battle, she would be captured and made to serve her conqueror.”
“And there’s no law to stop him,” Gar said, anger gathering in his face. “This is what anarchy comes to!”
“Of course, a woman of enough beauty might be able to persuade men to fight for her, and to lead her troops,” Cort offered. “In fact, that may be why the Lady Magda made her way into Sergeant Dirk’s heart.”
Gar shook his head. “If that had been her reason, she would have gone after the lieutenant, not the sergeant—and she certainly wouldn’t have sent him on his way so easily; she would have tried to hold him.”