Out!
Every bit of color drained from the monk’s florid face. His gaze shot to Clio. “What is she saying? A curse? Did she say wart? Will I awake in the morn with warts?”
Old Gladdys hunched over and stuck her wrinkled neck out like a vulture. “Ancient words, they are.”
She wiggled her bony fingers at him. “All Druids use those words”—she paused—”to choose their sacrifices.”
He gasped.
She gave him a long and calculating look.
He raised his crucifix so close to his face that his nose was pressed to the back of it. He began to back out of the room. At the doorway, he hollered, “Lady Clio! Lord Merrick is searching for you!”
A moment later he had fled, leaving nothing in his wake but a muttered “Hail Mary, Mother of God.”
Clio shook her head. “Shame on you, Gladdys.”
“’Tis true,” the old woman said with a certain gleam in her black eyes that looked suspiciously like amusement.
“You know he’ll be out of sight at least until evening mass,” Clio said with a sigh.
“Aye.” Old Gladdys crossed over to the huge black pot with the ale mash, wearing the same look Cyclops had when there were feathers sticking out of his mouth.
As for the Earl of Hardheads, Clio could not have cared less whether he was looking for her or not. With each grind of the pestle, she pictured her betrothed, wasting away his time looking for her the way she had wasted away while waiting for him.
Clio began to giggle a little wickedly. Her father always said she had never learned to win graciously. But truly, this was a fine bit of vengeance she had concocted. Learning to wait for her was an experience the earl needed to become familiar with. ’Twould be a part of his life for a long, long time.
She laughed out loud, then caught Old Gladdys spying at her out of the corner of her eye.
“’Tis nothing.” Clio waved her hand around.
Cyclops picked that moment to bat Pitt with a paw, then began to circle the stool, rubbing up against her foot and then circling again. Clio looked down at her cat. This was the most life she’d seen in him in days.
He kept bumping and rubbing against her foot. She reached down and scratched him behind the ears.
The fat devil tried to bite her.
She snatched her hand back and scowled at him. “What’s wrong with you?”
“A restless cat.” Old Gladdys nodded knowingly. “’Tis a sure sign that a storm is brewing.”
Clio glanced out the small window. The sky was blue and cloudless and the sun was shining through, casting broad amber light on the floor.
There was no storm brewing.
She shook her head and then went back to work. A few minutes later she was immersed in her recipe.
Thud had gone to the cooper to fetch some new ale barrels, but Thwack was puttering with a water cistern in the corner.
“Thwack?” she called out absently as she leaned over the huge black ale pot. “I need your help.”
“Aye, my lady?” The lad turned around.
“I need you to fetch something for me,” she said and looked up.
At that very moment Thwack took one step—right onto the blade of a fallen shovel. The handle sprang up and whacked him right in the forehead.
An odd, empty clunk rang through the room.
The boy wobbled for a moment, then rubbed his head, frowning.
Clio slid off the stool and rushed over to him, Pitt still swinging upside down from the end of her braid.
She looked into Thwack’s squinting eyes.
He stared back at her.
“Are you hurt?”
He blinked as if he were seeing double. “No. I’m Thwack. Hurd works in the stables, my lady.”
She tried again. “How is your head?”
His expression was confused. “I don’t know. We haven’t made the beer yet. Have we? Do you have a head on your barrel?”
“Your forehead . Thwack.”
“Do I have foam on my forehead?” He stretched his neck and jaw out trying to see his own head.
“We haven’t made the beer yet,” she explained slowly.
“Good. I thought I missed the brewing when I stepped
Every bit of color drained from the monk’s florid face. His gaze shot to Clio. “What is she saying? A curse? Did she say wart? Will I awake in the morn with warts?”
Old Gladdys hunched over and stuck her wrinkled neck out like a vulture. “Ancient words, they are.”
She wiggled her bony fingers at him. “All Druids use those words”—she paused—”to choose their sacrifices.”
He gasped.
She gave him a long and calculating look.
He raised his crucifix so close to his face that his nose was pressed to the back of it. He began to back out of the room. At the doorway, he hollered, “Lady Clio! Lord Merrick is searching for you!”
A moment later he had fled, leaving nothing in his wake but a muttered “Hail Mary, Mother of God.”
Clio shook her head. “Shame on you, Gladdys.”
“’Tis true,” the old woman said with a certain gleam in her black eyes that looked suspiciously like amusement.
“You know he’ll be out of sight at least until evening mass,” Clio said with a sigh.
“Aye.” Old Gladdys crossed over to the huge black pot with the ale mash, wearing the same look Cyclops had when there were feathers sticking out of his mouth.
As for the Earl of Hardheads, Clio could not have cared less whether he was looking for her or not. With each grind of the pestle, she pictured her betrothed, wasting away his time looking for her the way she had wasted away while waiting for him.
Clio began to giggle a little wickedly. Her father always said she had never learned to win graciously. But truly, this was a fine bit of vengeance she had concocted. Learning to wait for her was an experience the earl needed to become familiar with. ’Twould be a part of his life for a long, long time.
She laughed out loud, then caught Old Gladdys spying at her out of the corner of her eye.
“’Tis nothing.” Clio waved her hand around.
Cyclops picked that moment to bat Pitt with a paw, then began to circle the stool, rubbing up against her foot and then circling again. Clio looked down at her cat. This was the most life she’d seen in him in days.
He kept bumping and rubbing against her foot. She reached down and scratched him behind the ears.
The fat devil tried to bite her.
She snatched her hand back and scowled at him. “What’s wrong with you?”
“A restless cat.” Old Gladdys nodded knowingly. “’Tis a sure sign that a storm is brewing.”
Clio glanced out the small window. The sky was blue and cloudless and the sun was shining through, casting broad amber light on the floor.
There was no storm brewing.
She shook her head and then went back to work. A few minutes later she was immersed in her recipe.
Thud had gone to the cooper to fetch some new ale barrels, but Thwack was puttering with a water cistern in the corner.
“Thwack?” she called out absently as she leaned over the huge black ale pot. “I need your help.”
“Aye, my lady?” The lad turned around.
“I need you to fetch something for me,” she said and looked up.
At that very moment Thwack took one step—right onto the blade of a fallen shovel. The handle sprang up and whacked him right in the forehead.
An odd, empty clunk rang through the room.
The boy wobbled for a moment, then rubbed his head, frowning.
Clio slid off the stool and rushed over to him, Pitt still swinging upside down from the end of her braid.
She looked into Thwack’s squinting eyes.
He stared back at her.
“Are you hurt?”
He blinked as if he were seeing double. “No. I’m Thwack. Hurd works in the stables, my lady.”
She tried again. “How is your head?”
His expression was confused. “I don’t know. We haven’t made the beer yet. Have we? Do you have a head on your barrel?”
“Your forehead . Thwack.”
“Do I have foam on my forehead?” He stretched his neck and jaw out trying to see his own head.
“We haven’t made the beer yet,” she explained slowly.
“Good. I thought I missed the brewing when I stepped
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