Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

She was looking at me strangely. "You tell me the answer to that question, Merlyn of Camulod, because there's more to this than I can see. A babe's a babe, and there are countless others to be found where it came from. But here we have a baby causing great concern among grown men and soldiers, warriors and kings."

I shrugged, accepting and acknowledging her insight. "He will be a king in Britain, in his own right, and he is grandson to Athol Mac Iain. He is a very special boy."

"And you? You must be a very special man, to be his guardian."

"No," I sighed, shaking my head. "I'm merely his cousin and his uncle both, but I am sworn to see to the raising of him, in memory of his. . . mother." I hat was not strictly true, but better, I thought, than stirring up questions on his paternity. She might have asked me about that then, but that was when the boy awoke and voiced his own displeasure at his smell and his condition.

"Dia!" she said, and bustled away to where a wooden bucket filled with water sat in a corner by the door. She picked it up effortlessly, swaying with it slightly so that the slopping contents barely spilled as she carried it to the fireplace, where she poured the contents into a deep, blackened metal pot with a semicircular, iron bucket handle. Then, carefully and deliberately, she settled the heavy pot among the coals of the fire, twisting it and testing its balance until she was satisfied that it would not tip over. "Here," she said. "Watch this and don't let it spill over."

I moved my stool over to the low fire, where I could now see that the pot sat supported on an arrangement of flat stones that had been buried and hidden by the coals, and as Turga picked up the howling infant, I kept one eye on the iron pot while watching her openly and admiringly as she tended to the child.

The soiled breechclout was disposed of quickly, loosened and removed and thrown into another wooden bucket before I had had time to see how it was fastened. That done, she seized the child by his ankles, holding them easily in one hand while she lifted and twisted him gently, cleaning his caked and soiled nether regions with another cloth before throwing that, too, into the bucket. She showed no repugnance as she performed the unpleasant task, and watching her, it occurred to me for the first time that this was a commonplace thing in a woman's life, that all mothers and nurses must do daily for their helpless charges. The realization, new as it was, surprised me and filled me with a novel admiration. I had performed the same task, when I had first found the child abandoned in the birney that had borne us out to sea, but I had done so merely because I had seen no alternative, and the entire exercise had sickened me, with its stench and foul stickiness. Now I watched it done with dispatch and the confidence of long practise and found it fascinating. In moments, it seemed, the child was clean again and had stopped wailing. Turga half turned in my direction, glancing at the pot on the fire, then brought the boy to me.

"Here, hold him while I get his bath ready." I took him in my arms, holding him against my quilted tunic, but ready to turn him away the moment he showed any sign of pissing on my tunic as he had on my armour. He blinked up at me, then his features twisted into a tiny scowl and he began to wail again.

"He's hungry, the brat," Turga said, not even glancing at us. She had wrapped a rag around the metal handle and lifted the pot from the fire, holding it away from her as she carried it to the only table in the small room where she tipped it, using another rag to hold the fire-heated bottom as she poured water into a large, shallow basin that had been hollowed from a wide section of log. She tested the warmth of the water with her elbow—something I had never seen anyone do before—and then she set down the water pot beside the fire again and took the child from me. He stopped howling as soon as she lowered him into the tepid water and I moved to stand beside her as she bathed him, holding her left hand behind his head as she washed him with a soft cloth held in the other. His eyes seemed enormous, and I watched in amazement as he kicked and splashed, his tiny limbs jerking reflexively in the freedom of the warm water.

"He's swimming," I said, hearing the amazement in my own voice. "He was swimming in the sea, when I went after him the day they threw him overboard. I didn't see it until now."

"That's silly, babies can't swim." Turga did not even glance at me. "He's splashing, that's all. He likes the warm water. Don't you, you little ruffian?" She released the washing cloth and tickled the baby's ribs, and he smiled up at her and gurgled, kicking harder. She scooped water over him gently for several more moments, then took up the cloth again and wiped his face and head, and I laughed at the way he screwed his eyes shut but made no signs of protest. Finally she picked him from the water in both hands and dangled him above the surface, shaking him gently to dislodge the water that still clung to him, and nodded towards a thick roll of cloth on the tabletop.

"Hand me that towel."

She wrapped him warmly, drying the top of his head with soft, gentle movements, and then removed a small, circular box from a pocket in her robe. She twisted it open to reveal some kind of unguent, pale lilac in colour and smelling strangely familiar, then undid the wrappings of the towel and hoisted him again by his ankles, smearing a thin covering of the fragrant stuff over his buttocks and into the deep creases between them and around his groin.

"Lavender," she said, filling my mind instantly with recognition of the scent. "Replaces the stink for a while, and stops him from getting sores and rashes." Another, fresh, breechclout appeared in her hands as though by magic, and within moments the child was covered and securely wrapped again and I was holding him, moving to sit again on the three-legged stool by the fire. Gazing into the child's face, I was aware that Turga stood close by, gazing down at me. I looked up at her.

"What are you thinking?" she asked. I shrugged, smiling.

"That I've been foolish. I have learned more about infants in the past half hour than I have learned in all my life till now . . . And I was wondering how anything so small and helpless as this babe might ever grow to be a man, a warrior, and a king."

Turga said nothing at first, merely gazing at me with a speculative look that I could not define, and knowing she would speak when she was ready, I looked closely at her for the first time since meeting her earlier. She was a handsome woman, I decided, though large and somewhat coarse-featured, and I estimated her age as somewhere in the middle twenties. Large-breasted, as a wet nurse ought to be, and full-hipped, she had broad shoulders to support those breasts, and I knew her legs, beneath the long, plain homespun robe she wore, would be firm and muscular, heavy and strong. Her hair was dark brown but otherwise indeterminate in colour, and her eyes, evenly spaced and very slightly protuberant, were a pale, startling blue in the swarthiness of her weathered face. The pores on her nose were clearly visible from where I sat. As I examined her, trying not to stare too obviously, she pursed her lips and raised her hand to one breast. I saw the dark, wet discoloration of discharged milk beneath her finger.

"I need my stool. It's time for him to feed."

Flustered, I rose and she took the boy from me as she sat down. I did not know what to do then, whether to stay or to remain. She made the decision for me without embarrassment, adjusting the front of her gown and easing a swollen nipple out to where the boy could reach it. He needed no guide, and began to guzzle noisily. She leaned her head back slightly and closed her eyes and the skin of her face seemed to smooth itself as she drew a deep breath and then released it.