an oaken table with two legs that were shorter than the others. Pitt, the goshawk, had the end of her long blond braid in his beak. His wings were spread out as if he were in flight, and whenever the stool would wobble, he would swing back and forth, back and forth, like a cradle, while Cyclops watched from his one eye, his paw batting at him every so often.
The hard dirt floor had been swept clean with a long and thick willow broom that Brother Dismas handed Old Gladdys as a means of transport when she threatened to leave Camrose to the Fates.
But a dirt floor in a brewery was not a good idea. The first small testing of ale she’d brewed had been gritty with dirt and sand, and she would have to lay down cloth to protect the malt.
So, early yesterday morn, Clio and her helpers had pilfered flat slate stones for the floors from the freemasons who were working for the earl. In the last week, the road to Camrose had been busy with the arrival of masons, smithies, sawyers, and other building craftsmen.
There were so many piles of floor stones that the stacks were taller than the Earl of Bluster himself. Clio decided the few tiles they needed to floor the brewery would not be missed.
Like most of the thatched huts in the two baileys, this one in the upper bailey was long and narrow, and the walls were of wattle and daub that was cracked and needed patching. But the inside was usable now. The dried herbs and small bags of spices she’d brought from the convent were scattered haphazardly in a corner near the window.
Bundles of sorrel and rue, toadflax and hyssop, sat atop cloth bags containing willow bark and rowan leaves, acorns and walnuts. Foxglove, marsh reeds, and cattails poked out of the wide mouths of earthenware jars, and a row of small hemp pouches with unraveled drawstrings held fat nutmegs and brittle cinnamon sticks, black cloves, and saffron-colored cumin seeds.
Mortars and pestles made of brindled stone, hardwood, and glazed pottery were stacked in every size from those small enough to cup in your hand to large ones that you could only hold if they sat in the crook of your arm. There were three pepper horns and two brass coffers with small locks that each held precious pale sugar and fine granules of pure white salt.
Clio glanced down at the parchment on which Sister Amice had scribbled her list of herbs. “ Hmmmm . What is next?” she muttered and dragged a finger down the list. “Milkwort? No … I did that one. Fennel powder. No, I added that one. Ah-ha! Here it is. I need three gills of salix.”
She crumbled willow bark and leaves into a stone mortar and vigorously mashed them into a fine powder of salix.
Old Gladdys had quietly spent the last hour or so moving about the room and arranging the herbs, oils, and tinctures into positions corresponding to those of the moon and stars during the spring equinox.
Brother Dismas had come inside only once, hiding behind his crucifix, which he’d wrapped in dried holly. It seemed God had warned him to do this, since the Lord knew that witches were afraid of holly and there would be no way for the old Druid to give Brother Dismas the evil eye.
Old Gladdys looked perfectly capable of giving anyone the evil eye. She had frizzy white hair that stuck out from her head like carded lamb’s wool. Her nose was so hooked that Thomas the Plowman had once claimed if he ever misplaced his scythe, he could use Old Gladdys to cut grain. Her eyes were sharp and ageless, but they were dark, almost black, and they looked even darker because the only color she would wear was black.
So as Brother Dismas faced her, peering uneasily around his raised cross, Old Gladdys had turned around, stuck out her bony jaw, and closed one devilish eye. Suddenly she began to wildly wave her scrawny arms in the air, then pointed at the monk while she chanted:
Eena, meena, mona, mite,
Basca, tora, hora, bite,
Hugga, bucca, bau,
Eggs, butter, cheese, bread,
Stick, stock, stone dead!
O-U-T …
The hard dirt floor had been swept clean with a long and thick willow broom that Brother Dismas handed Old Gladdys as a means of transport when she threatened to leave Camrose to the Fates.
But a dirt floor in a brewery was not a good idea. The first small testing of ale she’d brewed had been gritty with dirt and sand, and she would have to lay down cloth to protect the malt.
So, early yesterday morn, Clio and her helpers had pilfered flat slate stones for the floors from the freemasons who were working for the earl. In the last week, the road to Camrose had been busy with the arrival of masons, smithies, sawyers, and other building craftsmen.
There were so many piles of floor stones that the stacks were taller than the Earl of Bluster himself. Clio decided the few tiles they needed to floor the brewery would not be missed.
Like most of the thatched huts in the two baileys, this one in the upper bailey was long and narrow, and the walls were of wattle and daub that was cracked and needed patching. But the inside was usable now. The dried herbs and small bags of spices she’d brought from the convent were scattered haphazardly in a corner near the window.
Bundles of sorrel and rue, toadflax and hyssop, sat atop cloth bags containing willow bark and rowan leaves, acorns and walnuts. Foxglove, marsh reeds, and cattails poked out of the wide mouths of earthenware jars, and a row of small hemp pouches with unraveled drawstrings held fat nutmegs and brittle cinnamon sticks, black cloves, and saffron-colored cumin seeds.
Mortars and pestles made of brindled stone, hardwood, and glazed pottery were stacked in every size from those small enough to cup in your hand to large ones that you could only hold if they sat in the crook of your arm. There were three pepper horns and two brass coffers with small locks that each held precious pale sugar and fine granules of pure white salt.
Clio glanced down at the parchment on which Sister Amice had scribbled her list of herbs. “ Hmmmm . What is next?” she muttered and dragged a finger down the list. “Milkwort? No … I did that one. Fennel powder. No, I added that one. Ah-ha! Here it is. I need three gills of salix.”
She crumbled willow bark and leaves into a stone mortar and vigorously mashed them into a fine powder of salix.
Old Gladdys had quietly spent the last hour or so moving about the room and arranging the herbs, oils, and tinctures into positions corresponding to those of the moon and stars during the spring equinox.
Brother Dismas had come inside only once, hiding behind his crucifix, which he’d wrapped in dried holly. It seemed God had warned him to do this, since the Lord knew that witches were afraid of holly and there would be no way for the old Druid to give Brother Dismas the evil eye.
Old Gladdys looked perfectly capable of giving anyone the evil eye. She had frizzy white hair that stuck out from her head like carded lamb’s wool. Her nose was so hooked that Thomas the Plowman had once claimed if he ever misplaced his scythe, he could use Old Gladdys to cut grain. Her eyes were sharp and ageless, but they were dark, almost black, and they looked even darker because the only color she would wear was black.
So as Brother Dismas faced her, peering uneasily around his raised cross, Old Gladdys had turned around, stuck out her bony jaw, and closed one devilish eye. Suddenly she began to wildly wave her scrawny arms in the air, then pointed at the monk while she chanted:
Eena, meena, mona, mite,
Basca, tora, hora, bite,
Hugga, bucca, bau,
Eggs, butter, cheese, bread,
Stick, stock, stone dead!
O-U-T …
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