Dora has a question

All day long Sir Sigefrith had worked and puttered and talked and even read, but he had finally run out of strength. And strength was, sadly, what he needed if he wanted to face these dark thoughts like a man.

It was the fifth day before the Nones of May. It was Crouchmas according to the Church, or the Dismal Day according to the Scots. It was Wednesday, and all the Wednesdays of the coming year would be unlucky therefore. It was the day that the fallen angels had been cast out of heaven. It was the day that Hilda had died.

It seemed that much more than a year had passed. His children were only a year older, but he had grown so accustomed to his new life with Wynflaed that his old life with Hilda had already drifted into the misty past.

It did not help that he could not think of Hilda without a feeling of guilt, though he had not treated her cruelly, and though he did not think she had ever known he had a mistress.

But he knew it, and he could not help but think that somehow, by loving Wynflaed too much, he had not loved Hilda enough, and that – somehow – this had contributed to her death. Or if not to her death, he thought, then to her fear of being unloved.

It did not seem right to him that he should be made happy as a result of his wife’s death. But he was happy. He knew it. And today it grieved him.

The faint knock on the door was therefore a relief. He would have a distraction that required no effort on his part.

“Enter!” he called.

“Papa?” It was his eldest daughter Dora, already nearly five years old.

“What now, baby bee?” he smiled.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching the stars shine. What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing,” she sighed. “I want to tell you something, and ask you something.”

“All right. Just let your Papa sit down in a chair and we shall have a talk.” He sat in a chair and pulled Dora to stand between his knees. “So what does my baby bee have to tell me?”

“Papa, today is Crouchmas. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And my Mama died on Crouchmas. Did you remember that?”

This was not the sort of distraction Sigefrith had been needing. He had already had a talk with Haakon that morning, but he had not realized little Dora was old enough to recognize the day. “Yes, I did, Dora, but I didn’t know you did.”

“Haakon told me.”

“Ah.”

“And, Papa, do you know what happened to my Mama’s little baby that she had when she died?”

Sigefrith had always thought that his children believed what the rest of the world had been told: namely, that Hilda’s baby had died with her. But Dora asked the question as if she already knew the answer and was only wondering whether he did. Therefore he asked, “Do you know?”

Dora slipped her little hands into his big hands. “He got stole,” she mumbled.

Sigefrith was briefly stunned. That was far more than he had expected she would know. “How did you know that, baby bee?”

“Haakon told me.”

“Oh!” It seemed he would have to have a second talk with Haakon that day.

“But who stole him?” she asked.

“I don’t know who did.”

“But how come someone stole him? Haakon doesn’t know.”

Neither did Sigefrith. Fortunately he was not required to make up an explanation on the spot. He could simply repeat what he dearly hoped was the truth.

“Well, I don’t know, but I shall tell you what I think. I think that there was some lady who did not have a baby and wanted a baby very badly. And she saw that there was a baby who did not have a mama and who wanted a mama very badly, and that was your Mama’s baby. So I think perhaps she took the baby, and now he is her baby and she is his mama.”

Dora considered this for a moment, and finally she nodded. “Now may I ask you what I wanted to ask you?”

Sigefrith gasped. “Wasn’t that what you wanted to ask me?” he asked hopefully. He had a feeling that this conversation was about to take a turn for the even-​​worse.

“No. I want to ask you: do you suppose someone will steal me or my sister or my brother someday?”

“No! Dora!”

“But we don’t have a mama.”

“Yes, you do. You have Wyn.”

“But she’s not truly my mama.”

“She is now. Is there anything a mama can do that Wyn can’t do for you?”

Dora wrinkled her nose in thought, as her mother always had. “She can’t speak Norse,” she pointed out.

Sigefrith laughed weakly. “That’s true, but that’s not part of being a mother. Your Aunt Eadie can’t speak Norse, and she’s Drageling’s mama, isn’t she?”

“Yes…”

“And she’s also a mama to Brit and Caedwulf and Emma. Emma even calls her Mama Eadie.”

“I know.”

“And old Eirik does speak Norse. Do you suppose that makes him a good mama?”

“No!” she laughed. “He’s too ugly, anyway!”

“I shall tell him you said that when he returns!”

“He will be so mad!” she giggled in delighted anticipation.

“I think he will only laugh at you, baby bee. He already knows he’s ugly.”

She laughed again, but he remembered how they had come to discuss Eirik’s beauty, and he could not laugh.

“And, Dora, no one could steal you in any case. Do you see that sword on the wall there?”

“Yes…”

“You don’t suppose it’s hanging there for decoration, do you?”

“No!”

“No one I know is crazy enough to try to steal you runts. He would have to get past the guard, then get past Kottr, and if that wasn’t enough to finish him, he would have to get past me. And my sword is so long, he couldn’t even get close. So even if someone were crazy enough to try, no one is strong enough to succeed.”

“Sometimes my old grandpapa says that he will steal me,” she said slyly.

“He might be crazy enough to try!” Sigefrith laughed. “But I think you would like it if he did steal you and take you home with him.”

“Not to keep,” she said thoughtfully. “I should rather stay with you and Wyn.”

Sigefrith was almost surprised to hear that his daughter preferred him to her doting grandfather, who never made her go to bed on time, who never spanked her when she was naughty, and who never made her eat her turnips if she was to have any dessert. He was most definitely surprised at how it moved him.

He leaned down to caress her cheek with his big hand, and he was reminded that, of all his children, Dora was the one who most resembled Hilda. Her face had many of his own features, but she made even those seem to be Hilda’s by putting them through the many expressions and gestures she had from her mother.

Her poor mother! Hilda had so feared she would not be loved that she had done everything in her power to prevent people from loving her – or so Sigefrith believed. He did not think himself a particularly perceptive man, but he often thought that he was the only one among them who recognized the tragedy of her brief life. He did not know what had caused it, but he desperately hoped it would not be repeated. It was too late for Hilda, but it was not too late for Hilda’s children.

“You know I love you, don’t you, baby bee?” he asked their daughter.

“Yes!” she cried, laughing at his foolishness. “You only tell me every single night when you tuck me in!”

“That’s so you will never forget it.”