Assassin's Quest

"Well, it annoys me!" Molly declared, and turned to the fight. "She will just have to cry it out. I'm too tired to deal with her. And she's getting spoiled. All she does is cry to be held. I never have a moment to myself any longer. I can't even sleep a night through. Feed the baby, wash the baby, change the baby, hold the baby. That's all my life is anymore." She listed off her grievances aggressively. That glint was in her eye, the same one I'd seen when she defied her father, and I knew she expected Burrich to stand and advance on her. Instead, he blew on a tiny glow and grunted in satisfaction when a narrow tongue of flame licked up and kindled a curl of birch bark. He didn't even turn to look at Molly or the wailing child. Twig after twig he set on the tiny fire, and I marveled that he could not be aware of Molly seething behind him. I would not have been so composed were she behind me and wearing that expression.

Only when the fire was well established did he rise, and then he turned, not to Molly but to the child. He walked past Molly as if she were not there. I did not know if he saw how she steeled herself not to flinch from the sudden blow she half-expected from him. It wrung my heart to see this scar her father left on her. Burrich leaned over the baby, speaking in his calming voice as he unwrapped her. I watched in a sort of awe as he competently changed her napkin. He glanced about, then took up a wool shirt of his that was hanging on a chair back and wrapped her in it. She continued to wail, but on a different note. He propped her against his shoulder and used his free hand to fill the kettle and set it on the fire. It was as if Molly were not there at all. Her face went white and her eyes were huge as he began to measure out grain. When he found the water was not yet boiling, he sat down with the baby and patted her back rhythmically. The wailing became less determined, as if the baby was wearying of crying.

Molly stalked over to them. "Give me the baby. I'll nurse her now."

Burrich slowly turned his eyes up to her. His face was impassive. "When you're calm, and want to hold her, I'll give her to you."

"You'll give her to me now! She's my child!" Molly snapped, and reached for her. Burrich stopped her with a look. She stepped back. "Are you trying to make me ashamed?" she demanded. Her voice was going shrill. "She's my child. I have a right to raise her as I see fit. She doesn't need to be held all the time. "

"That's true," he agreed blandly, but made no move to give her the child.

"You think I'm a bad mother. But what do you know about children, to say I'm wrong?"

Burrich got up, staggered a half step on his bad leg, and regained his balance. He took up the measure of grain. He sprinkled it over the boiling water, then stirred it to wet it evenly. Then he put a tight lid on the pot and pulled it slightly back from the fire's reach. All this while balancing the babe in the crook of one arm. I could tell he had been thinking when he answered, "Not babies, perhaps. But I know about young things. Foals, puppies, calves, piglets. Even hunting cats. I know if you want them to trust you, you touch them often when they are small. Gently, but firmly, so they believe in your strength, too."

He warmed to his subject. I'd heard this lecture a hundred times before, usually delivered to impatient stableboys. "You don't shout at them, or make sudden moves that look threatening. You give them good feed and clean water, and keep them clean and give them shelter from the weather." His voice dropped accusingly as he added, "You don't take out your temper on them, or confuse punishment with discipline."

Molly looked shocked at his words. "Discipline comes from punishment. A child learns discipline when she is punished for doing something wrong."

Burrich shook his head. "I'd like to `punish' the man that beat that into you," he said, and an edge of his old temper crept into his voice. "What did you really learn from your father taking his temper out on you?" he demanded. "That to show tenderness to your baby is a weakness? That to give in and hold your child when she cries because she wants you is somehow not an adult thing to do?"

"I don't want to talk about my father," Molly declared suddenly, but there was uncertainty in her voice. She reached for the baby like a child clutching at a favorite toy and Burrich let her take the infant. Molly sat on the hearthstones and opened her blouse. The baby sought her breast greedily and was instantly silent. For a time the only sounds were the wind muttering outside, the bubbling of the porridge pot, and the small stick noises of Burrich feeding the fire. "You did not always keep your patience with Fitz when he was little," Molly muttered chidingly.