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Authors: Georgia Fox
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stomach felt hollow. She realized she hadn’t eaten yet today, which must be the reason. “Boots?”
“Boots.” A man of few words, he would not expound further.
That was the end of their “conversation.”
Elsinora took herself off to the cookhouse, a good place to eavesdrop on gossip. This, she’d already decided, was the best way to find things out about the Norman without having to let anyone know she was interested. In fact, as soon as she’d heard enough, she could chide them all for spreading rumors and come out of it looking like the smartest woman there.
On this day however no one was talking of the Norman. For once. The gossip was of the blacksmith’s unwed daughter giving birth to her bastard child. The only other news was of the ongoing family feud between the two Godwin brothers who argued over the curiously moving fence that divided the property their father had left between them.
Elsinora listened as patiently as she could to all this worthless gossip and then said, “So I daresay you were all talking of the Norman before I came in. What is the latest rumor? You may as well tell.”
There was no immediate reply. Bertha was plucking a goose and the others were equally busy about the cookhouse. A few looked at her as if she suddenly had two heads. On a stool beside the great hearth sat Alric the shepherd, a couple of his newborn charges nestled under his coat.
“The Norman helped out with the lambing as if he were an old hand at it. Wouldn’t be surprised if he once lived on a farm. Has no fear of hard, honest work. Strong as an ox.”
This was not the sort of news she meant to hear, of course. “He certainly has the manners of an ox,” she remarked dryly.
No one made any comment.
“So there is nothing new then?” she exclaimed.
“Make use of yourself, little madam,” Bertha grunted, “and get a sack for all these feathers.”
One of the maids stirring stew in the large iron pot hanging above the fire offered politely, “Peter Paulsson has made himself a new hen house, Elsinora. He’s very proud of it.”
“Aye,” said Bertha, “the Norman helped him build it safer to keep out those rotten foxes.”
“And the old carpenter’s widow says the Norman mended the hole in her roof.”
“I wager there were more holes that lusty wench wanted filling,” Bertha muttered.
Elsinora gathered up fistfuls of goose feathers and rammed them into a sack.
“He has no eye for her,” said Alric, who was never known to participate in gossip of this nature.
She felt a quick surge of gratitude toward the old shepherd.
“And what would you know about it?” Bertha demanded. “Does he share his secrets with you, man?”
Alric shifted uncomfortably on the little stool and nestled his lambs closer. “I know a good, steady fellow when I see one. And the Widow Browd is not the sort he’d look at.”
The maid by the pot of stew ceased her stirring. “What sort would he look at then?”
“He’s too good for any of you wenches,” replied the shepherd with an unusual amount of boldness. “He’s a man of quality and deep thoughts.”
“Hark at you!” Bertha laughed. “Deep thoughts indeed! He’s a man who never has much to say for himself. Like you. That’s why you like him so much.”
The chatter then turned to mocking poor Alric who, after his brief foray into expressing an opinion, quickly retreated again under his tortoise shell.
Frustrated by her failure to uncover anything wicked about the man who would soon be her husband, Elsinora stuffed more feathers into her sack with a vast deal of energy.
Yes she’d seen how other women tried to catch his eye, yet the Norman did not appear to notice. As Bertha said, he spoke very little. More often than not he was thoughtful, keeping the workings of his mind to himself. There was a certain, dreamy quality to his eyes, she mused, as if he looked through her and saw things that weren’t there.
Boots! Of all things to fight over.
*
“Boots.” A man of few words, he would not expound further.
That was the end of their “conversation.”
Elsinora took herself off to the cookhouse, a good place to eavesdrop on gossip. This, she’d already decided, was the best way to find things out about the Norman without having to let anyone know she was interested. In fact, as soon as she’d heard enough, she could chide them all for spreading rumors and come out of it looking like the smartest woman there.
On this day however no one was talking of the Norman. For once. The gossip was of the blacksmith’s unwed daughter giving birth to her bastard child. The only other news was of the ongoing family feud between the two Godwin brothers who argued over the curiously moving fence that divided the property their father had left between them.
Elsinora listened as patiently as she could to all this worthless gossip and then said, “So I daresay you were all talking of the Norman before I came in. What is the latest rumor? You may as well tell.”
There was no immediate reply. Bertha was plucking a goose and the others were equally busy about the cookhouse. A few looked at her as if she suddenly had two heads. On a stool beside the great hearth sat Alric the shepherd, a couple of his newborn charges nestled under his coat.
“The Norman helped out with the lambing as if he were an old hand at it. Wouldn’t be surprised if he once lived on a farm. Has no fear of hard, honest work. Strong as an ox.”
This was not the sort of news she meant to hear, of course. “He certainly has the manners of an ox,” she remarked dryly.
No one made any comment.
“So there is nothing new then?” she exclaimed.
“Make use of yourself, little madam,” Bertha grunted, “and get a sack for all these feathers.”
One of the maids stirring stew in the large iron pot hanging above the fire offered politely, “Peter Paulsson has made himself a new hen house, Elsinora. He’s very proud of it.”
“Aye,” said Bertha, “the Norman helped him build it safer to keep out those rotten foxes.”
“And the old carpenter’s widow says the Norman mended the hole in her roof.”
“I wager there were more holes that lusty wench wanted filling,” Bertha muttered.
Elsinora gathered up fistfuls of goose feathers and rammed them into a sack.
“He has no eye for her,” said Alric, who was never known to participate in gossip of this nature.
She felt a quick surge of gratitude toward the old shepherd.
“And what would you know about it?” Bertha demanded. “Does he share his secrets with you, man?”
Alric shifted uncomfortably on the little stool and nestled his lambs closer. “I know a good, steady fellow when I see one. And the Widow Browd is not the sort he’d look at.”
The maid by the pot of stew ceased her stirring. “What sort would he look at then?”
“He’s too good for any of you wenches,” replied the shepherd with an unusual amount of boldness. “He’s a man of quality and deep thoughts.”
“Hark at you!” Bertha laughed. “Deep thoughts indeed! He’s a man who never has much to say for himself. Like you. That’s why you like him so much.”
The chatter then turned to mocking poor Alric who, after his brief foray into expressing an opinion, quickly retreated again under his tortoise shell.
Frustrated by her failure to uncover anything wicked about the man who would soon be her husband, Elsinora stuffed more feathers into her sack with a vast deal of energy.
Yes she’d seen how other women tried to catch his eye, yet the Norman did not appear to notice. As Bertha said, he spoke very little. More often than not he was thoughtful, keeping the workings of his mind to himself. There was a certain, dreamy quality to his eyes, she mused, as if he looked through her and saw things that weren’t there.
Boots! Of all things to fight over.
*
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