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Authors: Georgia Fox
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was purely a practical decision.
Chapter Six
She watched the newborn lambs stumbling about on their trembling legs. The base rumble of the ewes filled the field of pens, a sound both sad and yet full of pride. She’d spent nineteen springs listening to that sound, waking early to it, while the sky was still dark, dashing out with a lantern to help the shepherd. Alric had no wife or sons to work at his side and he needed every hand he could get. Sometimes Elsinora was out in the field of sheep until late in the morning, by which time she staggered home, hungry and thirsty, bone cold, glad to have been of some use. But today the Norman had also joined the shepherd and he was there even before she arrived. He did not speak a word to her, but chatted occasionally with Alric, the two quiet men soon forming a bond of comradeship.
In Elsinora’s mind the warrior was evidently out to usurp not just her father’s land but every friend she’d ever had. Watching him with the newborn lambs however, the gentle way he held them, wiped them clean and led them to their mother’s teats for their first meal, she could find nothing else to be angry about. Nothing else to disdain. He was tireless and seemed to feel no cold. Only when they finally walked back to the great hall did she see the frost that lined his nostrils and tipped his dark brows. His hands were chapped raw and his boots crackled as he walked. Still he made no complaint, although he accepted the mug of warm cider from Bertha’s hands with a deep, resonating “thank you” that told of his internal and external pains.
The flock birthed a record number of healthy lambs and Gudderth, hearing this, was elated, declaring this would be a good year for Lyndower. “In more ways than one,” he added, glancing at his daughter with a wary smile.
It was a matter of pride now that she should purse her lips and turn her head when anyone spoke of the impending wedding. There was a chance the Norman might change his mind and leave. She kept telling herself that and, as a consequence, was astonished each day to see him still walking about the place. He slept in the hayloft with the grooms, refusing a pallet in the hall, despite continued pressing from her father. He was more at home with the horses it seemed. She could not understand why he stayed, when he’d admitted he had no need for a wife—had never wanted or sought one—and thought her a shrew. He had not sent for any belongings to be brought to Lyndower, had sent no messages anywhere. It was almost as if he did not exist until he walked into that tavern and accepted her father’s wager.
“Do you have no family?” she asked him as they sat warming their feet by the fire and he sank his lips into Bertha’s cup of hot cider.
He shook his head.
She squinted. “You must have someone somewhere.”
“No.” She thought he looked guilty when he said it. For all she knew he could have a wife and children somewhere. How could she possibly believe his talk about mating for life? No man she’d ever heard of would do that. He could have said that to lull her into a false sense of security. Well, it wouldn’t work. She did not trust a curl on his head or a prick of stubble on his chin. He was a foreigner, a stranger, and a man who had a habit of overwhelming her more sensible thoughts until she became a weak-boned hussy. The other women of the manor were falling over themselves for his notice. She would not be one of them.
In which case, she’d better stop asking questions and showing her curiosity.
“How were you scarred?” Oops! There she went again. She bit her lip and stared at the flickering flames in the fire pit. What was wrong with her that she could not hold her tongue? First her body betrayed her with him and now her mouth.
“A disagreement. A dispute.”
“Over?” Oh, she could not stop herself.
He swallowed his cider and kicked a log of wood that had fallen from the fire. “Boots.”
Her
Chapter Six
She watched the newborn lambs stumbling about on their trembling legs. The base rumble of the ewes filled the field of pens, a sound both sad and yet full of pride. She’d spent nineteen springs listening to that sound, waking early to it, while the sky was still dark, dashing out with a lantern to help the shepherd. Alric had no wife or sons to work at his side and he needed every hand he could get. Sometimes Elsinora was out in the field of sheep until late in the morning, by which time she staggered home, hungry and thirsty, bone cold, glad to have been of some use. But today the Norman had also joined the shepherd and he was there even before she arrived. He did not speak a word to her, but chatted occasionally with Alric, the two quiet men soon forming a bond of comradeship.
In Elsinora’s mind the warrior was evidently out to usurp not just her father’s land but every friend she’d ever had. Watching him with the newborn lambs however, the gentle way he held them, wiped them clean and led them to their mother’s teats for their first meal, she could find nothing else to be angry about. Nothing else to disdain. He was tireless and seemed to feel no cold. Only when they finally walked back to the great hall did she see the frost that lined his nostrils and tipped his dark brows. His hands were chapped raw and his boots crackled as he walked. Still he made no complaint, although he accepted the mug of warm cider from Bertha’s hands with a deep, resonating “thank you” that told of his internal and external pains.
The flock birthed a record number of healthy lambs and Gudderth, hearing this, was elated, declaring this would be a good year for Lyndower. “In more ways than one,” he added, glancing at his daughter with a wary smile.
It was a matter of pride now that she should purse her lips and turn her head when anyone spoke of the impending wedding. There was a chance the Norman might change his mind and leave. She kept telling herself that and, as a consequence, was astonished each day to see him still walking about the place. He slept in the hayloft with the grooms, refusing a pallet in the hall, despite continued pressing from her father. He was more at home with the horses it seemed. She could not understand why he stayed, when he’d admitted he had no need for a wife—had never wanted or sought one—and thought her a shrew. He had not sent for any belongings to be brought to Lyndower, had sent no messages anywhere. It was almost as if he did not exist until he walked into that tavern and accepted her father’s wager.
“Do you have no family?” she asked him as they sat warming their feet by the fire and he sank his lips into Bertha’s cup of hot cider.
He shook his head.
She squinted. “You must have someone somewhere.”
“No.” She thought he looked guilty when he said it. For all she knew he could have a wife and children somewhere. How could she possibly believe his talk about mating for life? No man she’d ever heard of would do that. He could have said that to lull her into a false sense of security. Well, it wouldn’t work. She did not trust a curl on his head or a prick of stubble on his chin. He was a foreigner, a stranger, and a man who had a habit of overwhelming her more sensible thoughts until she became a weak-boned hussy. The other women of the manor were falling over themselves for his notice. She would not be one of them.
In which case, she’d better stop asking questions and showing her curiosity.
“How were you scarred?” Oops! There she went again. She bit her lip and stared at the flickering flames in the fire pit. What was wrong with her that she could not hold her tongue? First her body betrayed her with him and now her mouth.
“A disagreement. A dispute.”
“Over?” Oh, she could not stop herself.
He swallowed his cider and kicked a log of wood that had fallen from the fire. “Boots.”
Her
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