steaming beakers from his hands. ‘They had a misunderstanding, Christopher. In the heat of the moment, Oliver said some horrible things. He instantly regretted it, but it hurt both of them. It is over now. They are reconciled, and it would do no good to rehash what was an unfortunately low exchange.’
She felt Mary’s eyes hop from one to the other of them, but she trusted that the woman was wise enough to hold her tongue. Christopher continued to scan her face.
‘Let me introduce you to the Lady Mary,’ she said gently, and Christopher relented with a sigh.
Mary was regarding him with a nervous type of curiosity and surprise. Wynter was familiar with the Midland idea of what a Merron would be. No doubt Mary had been expecting some looming great hulk of a creature, more hair than man, leering and making crude suggestions, battering people over the head left, right and centre. Christopher must have been quite a surprise: slim-built, small in stature and clean-shaven, he hardly conformed to the fables. Still, he lived up to the Merron reputation of being uncouth when he crossed without invitation and crouched at Mary’s feet, openly eyeing her pregnant belly.
‘How far gone are you?’ he asked.
Mary’s eyes widened in shock and she flung a panicked look at Wynter. Wynter sighed in exasperation. She’s not a God-cursed brood mare, you fool.
‘Lady Mary Phillipe D’Arden,’ she said. ‘Please allow me to introduce, insofar as he will permit the nicety, my very good friend Freeman Christopher Garron. Forgive his manners, he’s incorrigibly dubious.’
Christopher grinned wryly, tickled at Wynter’s use of their old private joke. He extended his hand. The Lady Mary automatically went to take it, then faltered at the sight of it. Christopher waited, and after a moment Mary tentatively closed her own small hand around his horribly mutilated fingers.
‘It’s all right,’ he said softly. ‘You ain’t about to hurt me.’
The lady looked into his face, searching; then she tightened her grip and firmly shook his hand.
Christopher glanced around the tent, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell. ‘How long has it been since you were out and about?’ he asked. At Mary’s blushing silence, he sighed. ‘This ain’t exactly a cosy harem, is it, Lady? Come on!’ He leapt to his feet and extended his hand to help the lady up. ‘T’aint good to sit about with a baby in your belly . . . all the waters head for the feet and you end up looking like an African Oliphant.’
‘Christopher!’ moaned Wynter.
He ignored her. ‘Come on, Lady,’ he said encouragingly. ‘There’s women in the Merron group. Their healer is a woman. They’ll be your entourage if you decide that you fancy a stroll.’
Mary gazed up at him, uncertain, her hand hovering as if trying to make up her mind.
‘They are admirable women,’ said Wynter, surprising herself with the depth of sincerity behind her words.
‘Though incorrigibly dubious,’ confided Christopher solemnly.
Once free from the shadow of the awning, the lady closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun and inhaled deeply. ‘Oh, my,’ she said, a look of almost painful pleasure on her face. ‘Oh, my goodness. Oh, how lovely.’ In the broad light, Wynter was shocked at how unhealthily pale she was; how dark the patches beneath her eyes.
Mary put her hands to her cheeks as if doubting the fresh air upon them. ‘Oh, my,’ she said again. Wynter’s heart twisted for her. The poor woman must have been cooped up for an intolerable length of time.
Razi was sitting by the Merron fire, a beaker of tea languishing in his hands, his thoughts miles away. Sólmundr glanced up as they led Mary from her tent. He grinned approvingly at Christopher, who was carrying the lady’s little folding chair. ‘It nice day for to eat outside,’ he rasped, and went back to turning sorrel-cakes against the hot stones of the fire.
Soma and Frangok were making their way back from the river, dripping waterskins hanging ponderously from their shoulders. The soldiers of the camp were leering and whistling. The women ignored them, but Wynter took cold note. She would have a word with Alberon as soon as she could, and the same men would be dipping their heads and saying ‘ma’am’ to the warriors before the day was out. Hallvor eyed Mary as she approached, her lips pursed in professional concern.
‘Lady Mary,’ said Christopher, ‘this is the Merron healer. Her name is Hallvor an Fada, Iníon Ingrid an Fada, Cneasaí.’