‘Why?’ Burrich asked in consternation. ‘What have we ever done, that you attack us and threaten to kill my daughter?’ The stout man looked down at the red-faced baby screaming in his arms. ‘She’s not yours,’ he sneered. ‘She’s the Wit-Bastard’s bastard. We have it on the best authority.’ He lifted Nettle high as if he would dash her against the floor. He stared at Burrich. Burrich made an incoherent sound, half-fury, half-plea. He dropped his sword. By the door, the injured man groaned and tried to sit up. ‘She’s only a tiny baby,’ Burrich said hoarsely.
