Out of the Darkness

Krasta tossed her head. “So what?” she said, as if Bauska had made the accusation out loud. But the rest of her impassioned defense was silent, too. What if I did? The Algarvians looked like winning the war. Everybody thought so. I was better off with a redhead in my bed than I would have been without. I wasn‘t the only one. I wasn’t even close to the only one. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

It had been a good idea at the time. Krasta remained convinced of that. Once she got an idea--which didn’t happen all that often--she clung to it through thick and thin. But she’d never expected times to change so drastically. Taking an Algarvian lover didn’t look like a good idea any more. What it looked like these days, in a Valmiera no longer occupied, was something very much like treason.

With her own sandy-headed little bastard, Bauska couldn’t very well say that. She had to count herself lucky that she hadn’t had her head shaved and her scalp daubed with red paint, as had happened to so many Valmieran women who’d given themselves to Mezentio’s soldiers. With a sigh, the maidservant repeated, “What can I do for you, milady?”

“My trousers don’t fit me anymore,” Krasta said peevishly. “Hardly any of them even come close to fitting any more. Look at me! I’m still in these summery silk pyjamas with the elastic waist, and I’m about to freeze my tits off. Maybe I ought to get a great big long loose tunic to cover all of me, the kind Unkerlanter women wear.” She shuddered at the mere idea.

But Bauska’s voice was serious as she answered, “Maybe you should, milady. The Unkerlanters have done so much to fight the Algarvians, everything about them is stylish these days. One of their tunics might be just the thing for a woman with child to wear.”

“Do you think so?” Krasta asked, intrigued. She considered, then shook her head. “No, I don’t want to. I don’t care whether their clothes are stylish or not. They’re too ugly to stand. I want trousers, but I want some that fit me properly.”

“Aye, milady.” Bauska sighed. But that sigh wasn’t aimed at Krasta, for she went on, more to herself than to the marchioness, “Maybe you’re right. When I think about Captain Mosco, I don’t suppose I want to see Unkerlanter-style clothes catch on here in Valmiera.”

Mosco had been Colonel Lurcanio’s aide--and was father to Bauska’s bastard daughter. He’d never seen his child by her, though. Before Brindza was born, he’d gone off to fight in Unkerlant. He was one of the first Algarvians pulled west by the ever more desperate battle against King Swemmel’s men, but far from the last. He’d never sent so much as a line back once ordered away from Priekule. Maybe that meant he’d been a heartbreaker from the start. Maybe, on the other hand, it meant he’d died almost as soon as he made the acquaintance of warfare so much more savage than any that had washed over Valmiera.

With a sniff, Krasta said, “Remember, you silly goose, he had a wife somewhere back in Algarve.”

“I know.” Bauska sighed again. What that meant was, she didn’t care. Had Mosco walked into the mansion right then--assuming he could have come anywhere close to it without getting blazed by vengeful Valmierans--she would have greeted him with open arms and, no doubt, open legs. Fool, Krasta thought. Little fool.

Lurcanio had a wife somewhere back in Algarve, too. He’d never denied it or worried about it. Krasta hadn’t cared. Men, in her considerable experience, got what they could where they could. She’d never imagined herself in love with Lurcanio, as Bauska had with Mosco. He’d given her skill in bed and protection from other redheads, and she hadn’t really looked for anything more.

Now that Lurcanio was gone from her bed, gone from Priekule, gone--she thought--from Valmiera (though he could have been one of the Algarvians hanging on in the rugged country of the northwest), there were times when Krasta missed him. Now that he was gone, she remembered with a warm glow what he’d been able to do for her . . . and she conveniently forgot how he’d frightened and intimidated her. He being the only man who’d ever managed to do that, forgetting came all the easier.

But she couldn’t forget how even these pyjama bottoms were starting to grow cruelly tight. “Where in blazes do I go to find clothes I can wear?” she demanded. “As far as I know, there was only one shop on the whole Boulevard of Horsemen that catered to pregnant women, and it’s been closed up with night and fog scrawled across the window for two years now.”