she asked a cook one afternoon while they cleaned stones and insects from the lentils.
The woman explained. “If in battle a crow flies by with flapping wings, victory is certain. But if it glides with mo-tionless wings, defeat will soon follow.”
Pondering the many differences between two peoples so closely connected by land, Bronwen wondered if these dis-parities had something to do with Olaf’s rejection. Perhaps she had broken some Viking custom. She could only hope the cause would become clear to her before his return.
Outside, Bronwen ordered a large garden staked out and tilled near the kitchen. Workmen brought marl from the fields and turned the lime-rich soil into the ground. She selected seeds from all manner of vegetables and legumes to be saved for spring planting. The sad condition of the few tattered basket beehives made her wonder how any of the valuable honey and wax was retrieved. Thus she set several women to begin weaving new hives at once, and she instructed the herders to be on the lookout for wild swarms with which to replenish the depleted stock.
Several dead fruit and nut trees were chopped down and burned while dairymaids scrubbed the buttery from top to bottom. Most of the cheeses that had gone blue during the winter were tossed away, though a few were saved to place Catherine Palmer
95
on sores and wounds for their healing powers. It was well known that a piece of moldy cheese placed on an open infection usually healed it within a week.
Two light snowfalls ushered in the busy days of February, and several stormy days marked the beginning of March. One morning late in that month, Bronwen espied a red-haired man carrying dung to the kitchen garden, and she recognized him as the peasant who had been so seasick at Rossall.
“Good morrow, my lady,” he greeted her.
“You are called Wag.” She smiled at his obvious amazement. “I see you made your way back to Warbreck.”
“Indeed. And you—have you found the place to your liking?”
“It pleases me well enough.”
The redhead wiped his hands on the apron at his waist.
“May I ask the health of your sister? Are things improved with her husband?”
“You speak of Gildan and Aeschby?” Bronwen stepped forward. “How could they be better? What do you mean by this question?”
The man swallowed and looked away. “Never you mind, madam. I must be about my work now.”
“Stop at once.” Bronwen lifted her skirts and strode toward him. “Do you have news of my sister? I demand to hear it.”
He chewed his lower lip for a moment. “’Tis said there is trouble in the marriage, madam. But that is only a rumor, and I put no great stock in such talk.”
Rooted to the garden soil, Bronwen numbly watched the fellow shrug and go his way. Was something wrong with Gildan? Trouble in the marriage? But she had been so happy at her wedding. What could have happened?
Knowing she could not leave Warbreck to go to her sister, Bronwen later spoke to Enit about her encounter with Wag.
96
The Briton
But the nursemaid reinforced the peasant’s nonchalance.
“People love to gossip, child,” she reminded her mistress.
“They want nothing more than to imagine intrigues for their lords and ladies. It enlivens their own dreary days.”
Deeply troubled, Bronwen decided to send another courier to her sister. These riders reported messages by word of mouth, and too often the information got muddled along the way. By the time they returned, news they brought might be old or distorted. But as Bronwen was forbidden to leave Warbreck, she had no choice. When the courier arrived from Aeschby’s keep, he brought no reply from Gildan. He said he had not even seen the woman. Indeed, weeks passed with no word from Rossall Hall, nothing from Gildan, and utter silence from Olaf Lothbrok.
As the days of April bloomed brightly one after the other, Bronwen tried to convince herself that all was well. May slipped by and then lapsed into the warm,
The woman explained. “If in battle a crow flies by with flapping wings, victory is certain. But if it glides with mo-tionless wings, defeat will soon follow.”
Pondering the many differences between two peoples so closely connected by land, Bronwen wondered if these dis-parities had something to do with Olaf’s rejection. Perhaps she had broken some Viking custom. She could only hope the cause would become clear to her before his return.
Outside, Bronwen ordered a large garden staked out and tilled near the kitchen. Workmen brought marl from the fields and turned the lime-rich soil into the ground. She selected seeds from all manner of vegetables and legumes to be saved for spring planting. The sad condition of the few tattered basket beehives made her wonder how any of the valuable honey and wax was retrieved. Thus she set several women to begin weaving new hives at once, and she instructed the herders to be on the lookout for wild swarms with which to replenish the depleted stock.
Several dead fruit and nut trees were chopped down and burned while dairymaids scrubbed the buttery from top to bottom. Most of the cheeses that had gone blue during the winter were tossed away, though a few were saved to place Catherine Palmer
95
on sores and wounds for their healing powers. It was well known that a piece of moldy cheese placed on an open infection usually healed it within a week.
Two light snowfalls ushered in the busy days of February, and several stormy days marked the beginning of March. One morning late in that month, Bronwen espied a red-haired man carrying dung to the kitchen garden, and she recognized him as the peasant who had been so seasick at Rossall.
“Good morrow, my lady,” he greeted her.
“You are called Wag.” She smiled at his obvious amazement. “I see you made your way back to Warbreck.”
“Indeed. And you—have you found the place to your liking?”
“It pleases me well enough.”
The redhead wiped his hands on the apron at his waist.
“May I ask the health of your sister? Are things improved with her husband?”
“You speak of Gildan and Aeschby?” Bronwen stepped forward. “How could they be better? What do you mean by this question?”
The man swallowed and looked away. “Never you mind, madam. I must be about my work now.”
“Stop at once.” Bronwen lifted her skirts and strode toward him. “Do you have news of my sister? I demand to hear it.”
He chewed his lower lip for a moment. “’Tis said there is trouble in the marriage, madam. But that is only a rumor, and I put no great stock in such talk.”
Rooted to the garden soil, Bronwen numbly watched the fellow shrug and go his way. Was something wrong with Gildan? Trouble in the marriage? But she had been so happy at her wedding. What could have happened?
Knowing she could not leave Warbreck to go to her sister, Bronwen later spoke to Enit about her encounter with Wag.
96
The Briton
But the nursemaid reinforced the peasant’s nonchalance.
“People love to gossip, child,” she reminded her mistress.
“They want nothing more than to imagine intrigues for their lords and ladies. It enlivens their own dreary days.”
Deeply troubled, Bronwen decided to send another courier to her sister. These riders reported messages by word of mouth, and too often the information got muddled along the way. By the time they returned, news they brought might be old or distorted. But as Bronwen was forbidden to leave Warbreck, she had no choice. When the courier arrived from Aeschby’s keep, he brought no reply from Gildan. He said he had not even seen the woman. Indeed, weeks passed with no word from Rossall Hall, nothing from Gildan, and utter silence from Olaf Lothbrok.
As the days of April bloomed brightly one after the other, Bronwen tried to convince herself that all was well. May slipped by and then lapsed into the warm,
Similar Books
