But Lanovar had been murdered by the Moidart, and the beetlebacks had descended on the clan villages, killing and burning. For years those with Rigante blood were forced to stay away from towns and settlements, building homes in the bleak highlands. They survived by raiding Varlish settlements and convoys, stealing cattle and coin or any merchandise that could be useful. Life was harsh back then.
Maev Ring remembered without sentiment the squalid sod-roofed dwellings, the sickness and deaths among the old and the weak. As she sat now by the kitchen window of her six-roomed house she thought again of Calofair, his flesh eaten away by the fever, the wound in his chest festering and angry. He was beyond speech at the end, only his eyes showing any sign of life. Maev had sat with him, holding his hand. And then, as the light of life faded, she had kissed his brow. She had been tempted to take a dagger and slash open the veins at her wrists, to fly away from the woes of the world and travel with the spirit of Calofair. She shivered at the memory. Four-year-old Kaelin had approached her, tears in his eyes. ‘Will Uncle get better, Aunt Maev?’
It was a summer night, and the last of the sun’s rays was shining through the roughly wrought door of the hut. By its light the twenty-year-old Maev could see the flea bites on the child’s ankles and wrists. His face was pinched and sallow. Maev put her arms around him, drawing him into an embrace. ‘Uncle is better now,’ she told him. ‘He is walking across green hills with comrades he has not seen in years. He is tall and proud, and wearing the colours of the Rigante.’
‘He is still in the bed, Aunt.’
‘No, Kaelin,’ she said softly. ‘All that lies in this bed is the coat of flesh that Calofair wore. And we must bury that coat, you and I.’
Ten years on, and even now the memory brought a tear to Maev’s eye. Angrily she brushed it away and rose from her seat. She gazed around the kitchen, at the furniture crafted from pine and the iron stove set upon a bed of slate in the hearth, at the windows with their leaded panes of clear glass, at the floor with its neatly fitted flagstones. Pots and pans hung from brass hooks in the beams, and the larder had food aplenty.
Kaelin walked into the kitchen and sat down at the bench table. ‘Shula is sleeping,’ he said. ‘I left Banny with her.’
‘She should have come to me sooner,’ said Maev sternly.
‘Aye, she should,’ he agreed. ‘Banny said she went into Eldacre to the poor house to ask for food. She was turned away.’
‘Where did she get the cuts and bruises?’
‘Banny says it was Morain, Galliott’s wife. She and several other women beat her as she was making her way home.’
‘There is a deep well of bile in that woman,’ said Maev. ‘It shames us all that Morain has Rigante blood.’
‘Will Banny’s mam be well again, Aunt Maev?’
‘We will do our best for her, Kaelin. We will feed her and keep her warm. Do you still have that chailling Jaim gave you?’
‘I do.’
‘Then go to the storeman and buy a dozen eggs and three jars of honey. Then go to the butcher and tell him I want double the amount of beef for Holy Day. Then . . .’ She paused. ‘Can you remember all this, Kaelin?’
‘Aye, a dozen eggs, three jars of honey, double the beef. What else?’
‘Go to Apothecary Ramus and tell him I need some powders for fever and a potion for the cleansing of the blood. If he has any fat hen weed I will take that too. The woman has a festering wound on her lower back. Tell him that.’
‘Is that all?’ asked Kaelin.
‘Aye. Is Jaim still in the front room?’
‘Yes, Aunt.’
‘Send him in to me, and then be on your way.’
Kaelin smiled at her, then swung away. Maev walked to the larder and lifted down the stone milk jug. She filled a cup, then sipped the creamy liquid.