hadn't gone round to haul him out. You've got a jewel in my son and you want to remember that and count yourself lucky. I hope that supper's ready, the poor lad'll be famished enough to eat a horse and its cart.'
Elena was too drained to reply. She felt as if she was going to vomit each time she tried to think how to tell them where she'd done. She tried not to think, and concentrated on ladling out the pigeon and bean pottage into a bowl, which she handed to Joan. Joan sniffed at it dubiously and took a sip from her horn spoon. She wrinkled up her nose in distaste.
'Too much salt. We've haven't got it to waste, my girl. Not at the price those thieves are charging in the market.' She pulled out her knife and speared a piece of pigeon breast, stuffing it into her mouth.
Elena hung her head, saying nothing, but she noticed that for all Joan's grumblings the pottage was disappearing fast enough down her gullet.
Joan thrust the empty bowl at her to refill. 'At least you got my grandson to sleep before Athan comes home.' She nodded towards the hooded wooden cradle in the furthest corner of the cottage. 'You see, you can manage the bairn well enough when you try. You just give up too easily, my girl, that's your trouble.'
Both women glanced up as Athan's bulk filled the doorway. He stumbled across to the fire, rubbing his aching shoulders, pausing to plant a kiss first on his mother's cheek, then on his wife's.
Joan flapped her hands impatiently at Elena. 'Stop pawing him, it's food my son needs, not your kisses. Quickly now, before the poor lad faints with hunger.'
Elena filled the bowl from the steaming pot and Athan tucked in, grunting in appreciation as he shovelled the food down. As Joan had predicted, he was ravenous. His mother beamed and affectionately ruffled his hair as if he was still a small boy, though she had to reach up to do it.
Elena watched him too, her heart aching with love for him. Even now that the first flush of youthful excitement had worn off and they were in all but name an old married couple, she could not look at him without a little jolt of pleasure. She even loved the foolish things about him, like the way his sandy hair, slick with grease from the shearing, glistened in the firelight, or the childlike way he ran his finger round the wooden bowl to catch every drop of the juices.
He must have felt her watching, for he glanced over at her with a smile, his blue eyes vacant and untroubled, like a dog who is thinking only of a juicy bone. How could she start to tell him? How would she begin? Her mouth was dry. He'd understand, of course he would. He loved her. If she could just speak to Athan alone, then he could explain the whole thing to his mother. Athan would stand up for her. She knew he would . . . when it really mattered.
Joan was already nodding off, exhausted by the long day in the fields. Her head lolled against the wall. Her mouth hung open. Elena caught hold of Athan's hand, and with her finger pressed to her lips began to tug him towards the door. Athan, with a glance back at his sleeping mother, grinned broadly, and followed Elena outside.
The wind, which had been sleeping in the heat of the day, had finally begun to blow in earnest and was skimming the clouds across the moon. Before Elena could speak, Athan pulled her round into the dark space between two cottages and drew her into his arms, his breath hot on her neck.
'I've been missing you all day, my angel,' he whispered, a
'Athan, I. . .' She had meant to explain she urgently needed, to talk to him, but Athan stilled her lips with a long and hungry kiss.
Feeling his warm, tender mouth on hers, Elena couldn't, help but respond. Her body ached for him. They had no made love once since she'd come to live in the cottage and she was as desperate for his touch as he was for hers. Today more than ever, she longed for his comfort. She wanted him to hold her and tell her everything was all right. She needed him to clasp her so tightly in his arms that all the pain and misery would be pushed