Enica crouched beside a small pile of kindling that had already been arranged in the middle of the patch. Her skirts trailed in the old soot. “Things had just settled down again after the troubles,” she said. “Then he saw you and he had to bring you and the Roman here. All that talk of weddings.” She placed a couple of logs on the pile. “ ‘No more killing,’ he said. As if it would bring his dead son back. Of course, nobody listened to him except you.”
Tilla swallowed. “My husband—”
“Him? I saw the look on his face when the wedding idea came up. I wasn’t a bit surprised when he sent men to raid us.”
“That was a mistake.”
“And now his people have taken my son. And all because of you, and my old fool of a husband, and his stupid—oh!” Enica raised the last log in the air and sent it crashing down onto the pile. The others tumbled and scattered, one or two rolling several feet away. She sat back in the ash and buried her face in her hands and wept. “How can I help him?” she wailed. “If I search in one place, what if he is in another and I am not there?”
“I know—”
“You know nothing! You have no child! Leave me alone!”
Tilla recoiled, telling herself that Enica had only lashed out because she was in pain herself. She had not meant to hurt. “I am sorry.”
“It is as though I have a limb torn off,” Enica muttered, almost as if she was talking to herself. “No. It is . . . it is beyond words. And you know what is the worst thing? It may never stop. What if we do not find him?”
Watching her, it struck Tilla for the first time that at least the ache of being barren meant that she was spared a horror like this. You brought a child into the world and you gave a hostage to the gods. She tucked up her skirts to keep them out of the muck and crouched beside Enica. “I am not a mother,” she said, “But I know what it is to be torn away from your family. I will do everything I can to help you find your boy.”
Enica snatched up a fistful of skirt and wiped her eyes. Then she sniffed, looked at the damp wool, and wiped her nose on it too. “I should not have said those things. Take no notice. ”
Tilla said softly, “It may all still come right.”
“Nothing is right!” The voice became a howl. “I want my son!”
Tilla said, “I will fetch some food and we will think what to do.”
“I know what to do.” Enica sniffed. “I have to sacrifice the best lamb.”
“It is a good offering.”
“I cannot remember the words. My husband does that sort of thing.”
“The gods understand,” Tilla assured her, glad they were not Romans, whose gods demanded that mortals should get all the words right. It struck her that other families would be building their bonfires for tomorrow night’s Samain gatherings. This felt more like building a pyre. She put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Enica, when did you last take food?”
“I am not hungry.”
“Offering the lamb can wait. Come with me into the house and take some bread and put on some clean clothes.”
“Nobody knows what to say to me. They keep pouring me drinks and telling me to eat.”
Tilla said, “Do you want me to get rid of them for you?”
She sighed. “They are very kind. They all brought things they could not afford to give.”
“It is your house. You can say who stays here.”
Enica wiped her eyes with the back of her fist. “I want them to stay. But do not make me talk to them.”
Chapter 33
Just as Tilla approached the house Conn came out, gnawing on a chicken leg and with a jug clutched in his other hand. Two women carrying waterskins and a sack pushed past her and followed him across to the cart. She guessed he was taking supplies out to the search parties.
The faces around the fire seemed to lose interest when they saw her. Nobody moved to let her near the warmth. She hesitated, back to the wall, not wanting to retreat but not sure how to stay. Enica might think these people meant well, but she was not so sure.
She felt a surge of relief when Cata’s mother appeared from the shadows. At least she had one ally here. “Daughter of Lugh, you must eat.”
“Senecio asked me to look after Enica,” she said, wanting everyone to know that she had a right to be here.
“You must eat.” The woman pointed to a low table that, even now, after Conn had taken so much away with him, still held bread and cheeses and hard-boiled eggs and ham and jugs of beer and several jars that might contain honey or preserves or salt.
Each of the visitors must have sacrificed at least a week’s worth of supplies. Of course. She had forgotten how things were here. Yet there had been a time when she had thought people were the same everywhere. When they had their first civilian lodgings in Deva, she made the mistake of leaving some blackberries outside next door to share. The neighbor called round and offered to pay for them. She refused to accept, and they were both embarrassed.