Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] (3 page)

But she could not voice her thoughts. Not now. She had to get his consent to the marriage. Once they wed, if they did, then he would get an earful of her opinions on his begetting two bastards.

Her voice oozed forced politeness as she asked, “Oh? And where are the children?”

“Larise lives nearby with Earl Orm and his family. She is eight.”

“Will she live with you now you have returned to Northumbria?”

Eirik shrugged uncertainly. “I do not know yet. It depends on whether I decide to stay at Ravenshire.”

How heartless! Eadyth thought. How could he abandon his young daughter to the care of others? The poor child! And what was that about not staying at Ravenshire? Perchance his absence could work to her advantage if they wed. She wanted no bothersome husband around to interfere with her freedom.

“And the other child?”

A brief flash of misery clouded his eyes. “Emma is only six. She lives in an orphanage in Jorvik, has done since she was three. My foster uncle Selik and his wife Rain, my half sister, care for her there.” His voice cracked with emotion.

His words puzzled Eadyth. “But why an orphanage for such a young child, and one not a true orphan, at that?”

Eirik’s expression turned bleak as he answered bluntly, “I have been away from Ravenshire for a long time and have
had no home to provide her. Besides, Emma cannot speak, and she gets special care from Rain, who is an accomplished healer.” Then he stiffened and said resolutely, “I do not wish to discuss Emma.”

“And their mother? Could she not care for them?”

“Both mothers are dead.”

Both?
Eirik had abandoned not one, but two women to the shame she knew so well. The lusty wretch!

Still, she bit her tongue to stop the spill of ill-advised opinions. She must tread carefully.

“Perchance I could be the answer to your prayers.”

Eirik smiled broadly at her poor choice of words, and Eadyth was dazzled, despite herself, by the charismatic pull of his good looks.

“My prayers? I think not, my lady.”

“What I meant,” Eadyth persisted, “was that if you were to agree to the marriage I could care for both your children.”

“With all due respect, methinks a wedding would be too high a price to pay for the mere care of two children.”

Mere care!
Eadyth forced aside her repugnance and eyed his samite tunic, once a bright sapphire blue, now faded with age and wear, and the gold brocaded embroidery of his surcoat worn into a meaningless pattern. A fine dragon brooch of beaten gold with amber eyes adorned the shoulder of his mantle, but, in all, his attire spoke of poverty—that, and the crumbling walls of his castle and lack of servants to care for the filthy keep. Furthermore, she had noticed many empty cotter’s huts and long uncultivated fields as she approached his manor.

She decided to try a different approach.

“May I respectfully advise, my Lord Ravenshire, that the dower I offered you could be put to good use in getting your manor back in order,” she suggested, ignoring the look of surprise that swept his face. “I know much about these things, you see. If you had no interest in the running of your keep and wished to return to court…or…or wherever…I would be more than willing to manage your affairs. You
would have coin enough to purchase new fabrics for fine garments and restock your larders and…” Her words trailed off as she realized Eirik glared at her with consternation.

“And what would I be doing whilst you do all this…
managing
? Sitting around watching my fingernails grow?”

Eadyth just stared at him, unprepared for such a snide response to her kindly offer.

“Lady, you overstep your bounds mightily. Have you so little regard for me that you think I cannot handle my own affairs? How would I pass my idle time? Swilling ale? Bedding every maid in sight?”

Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts that she had, indeed, expected just that, because Eirik let out a loud bellow which drew the attention of several knights below him in the hall. Through gritted teeth, he snarled contemptuously, “Wouldst you find a means to fill your own sheath on the wedding night, as well? For, surely, you have no need of a man.”

Crestfallen, Eadyth sighed with resignation. Obviously, he would not wed her now.

“I meant no disrespect, my lord. You are wrong, however, in saying I have no need of a man. I desperately need a husband. Oh, ’tis certain I want no man in my bed. In truth, if we were to wed, you could keep your mistresses for all I would care.”

“Just how many mistresses do you think I have?” Eirik asked with amusement, no longer angry.

Eadyth waved a hand in the air as if the number mattered not. “You have a reputation for having many women, and—”

“
Having
many women?” he choked out. “All together?”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Eadyth said, but then she felt her face heat at the image. Without thinking, she commented, “I had not realized
it
could be done with more than one woman at a time.”

Eirik hooted with laughter.

Eadyth wilted under his ridicule and tried to go on. “I know you have a mistress in Jorvik, and, if there are others, it matters not to me.”

He lifted a dark brow in surprise. “You know of Asa? Your spies have done your work well, my lady.”

Eadyth shrugged dismissively. “’Tis of no importance. I see now that you will not wed me. ’Twould seem I will have to begin my search anew to find another highborn man with black hair and blue eyes.”

“Truly, you intrigue me, my lady. Explain yourself, if you will. Why those requisites?”

Eadyth hesitated to discuss her son John with this man, but, her chances for wedding Eirik now being nonexistent, she thought he might be able to advise her.

“The boy’s father has had second thoughts after all these years of having disclaimed paternity. He petitions the Witan to gain custody of John for his own wicked purposes. I need a husband to protect me in my fight. And”—she hesitated, questioning how much information she could trust him with—“and it could not help but aid my cause if the man swore he was John’s father, especially if he has black hair and pale blue eyes, as my son does. As does his true father.”

Eirik threw back his head and laughed uproariously. When he finally regained his composure, he shook his head, amazed at her devious mind. “’Twould seem you have thought of everything. But what makes you think the king’s council would heed such a belated request for custody from the father?”

Eadyth leaned closer to explain. “King Edmund has supported me at the Witan against…against this horrible man these many years, mainly in deference to my father who served him loyally, as he did his brother King Athelstan afore him. ’Twas the wound my father sustained at the Battle of Leicester, in Edmund’s service, that led to his death. My position has weakened with my father’s death.”

“Edmund is a good man. He does not renege on his promises of protection.”

Eadyth raised a hand to indicate there was more. “As you well know, many attempts have been made on the king’s life, and Steven, the unspeakable fiend, toadies up to young Edred, who is bound to be his heir since Edmund’s children are so young. There is no question Steven will succeed if Edred takes the throne.”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes wearily. She was deathly tired of all the turmoil, and now she would have to start her search all over again. After several moments, she noticed Eirik’s odd silence. When she opened her eyes, his dark, angry expression stunned her, all the emotion seemingly directed her way.

“Wha-at?” she gasped as he stood abruptly, without warning, and grabbed her by the upper arms, lifting her out of the chair and up off the floor so she faced him, nose to nose, with her arms pinned at her sides.

“The father of your child—do you perchance refer to that
nithing
, Steven of Gravely?” he asked in a steely voice.

Eadyth nodded, realizing she must have inadvertently spoken Steven’s name. And she could not deny that Steven deserved that most offensive of insults,
nithing
—the lowest of all men.

“You spread your legs for that slimy snake and dare to question
my
character?”

He shook her so hard her teeth clicked together. She knew she would bear bruises on the morrow. Leaning her head back, she gazed into his icy eyes. His stormy countenance frightened her, but she refused to defend herself to this loathsome lout. In truth, only a woman could understood what she had done with Steven and why his betrayal had cut so deep.

Finally, he dropped her to her feet. Wagging a finger in her face, he ordered in a voice that brooked no argument, “You will remain in my keep this night. We will talk more in the morn when I have had time to think through all you have told me. God’s blood! Steven of Gravely! I can hardly credit the coincidence.”

“I do not understand.” Eadyth’s mind reeled with confusion.

“You need not understand, wench,” he told her with contempt, “but know this: you may very well have a marriage pact yet. And may the Good Lord and all the saints have mercy on your hide then. For I will not.”

Eadyth awakened at dawn the next morning. Truth be told, she lay wide-eyed long before first light, thanks to her flea-infested bedding.

Her servant was sleeping on a pallet laid over the dirty rushes near the door. Poor Girta! The vermin had probably held a bloody feast on her plump flesh. On closer inspection, though, Eadyth noticed that her trusted maid was snoring evenly, undisturbed by the pests.

Perhaps Girta’s hide was thicker, or more likely Eadyth’s fair skin just tasted sweeter, she thought, chuckling softly.
Hah!
The insufferable master of this crumbling heap of a castle would beg to differ on that subject, she would wager.

Eadyth stepped over her prone maid, whose mouth now played a veritable chorus of sounds—soft snores interspersed with a few contented grunts and wheezes. She gazed fondly down at the stout woman who had served her faithfully these many years, first as nurse when her mother died in her birthing, now as companion.

Looking for a bowl of water, she hoped to refresh herself
before facing Eirik’s stormy resistance once again. She could find none. In fact, not only had the fire gone cold in her room, but an air of total silence encompassed the halls outside. Surely, the Ravenshire servants ought to be about by now, preparing for the new day.

Pensively, Eadyth donned her dowdy garments and smoothed her hair back under its wimple and head-rail. As an added measure, she grabbed a handful of ashes from the hearth and smeared them carefully on her face to give her skin a grayish cast.

She smiled, remembering Girta’s outrage yestermorn when she had deliberately sought out the most drab and concealing garb she could find.

“’Tis a poor temptation you make for the marriage bed,” Girta had complained tartly.

“Just so, Girta dear. ‘Tis exactly my aim. I would entice a husband with my dowry and my abilities in managing an estate, not my flesh.” She had shuddered with repugnance at that last prospect, adding, “I have more than learned my lesson in
that
regard.”

“Ah, child, ’twas one bad experience. Not all men are cut of the same cloth.”

Eadyth’s demeanor had hardened then. “Nay, you are a good woman, Girta, but harsh reality has proven to me that more men than not share Steven’s evil designs where women are concerned. They consider us mere chattel to be used and set aside when the pleasure fades. I would have more than that.”

Girta had shaken her head with worry. “I cannot fathom how you will be able to accept the strictures of wifehood.”

“I will not. My prospective groom must agree to my conditions aforehand,” she had asserted with more confidence than she felt.

“Oh, Eadyth, dear child, I fear you will be sorely hurt.”

Hurt?
Eadyth pondered now as she opened the door of her bedchamber onto the drafty hall. Nay, she had long since hardened her vulnerable heart. But John…he was a different
matter. She would do all in her power to protect her son from pain—even if it meant marrying the loathsome lout of Ravenshire, or some other equally detestable man.

Eadyth walked through the hall and down the stairs of the two-story, wood and stone keep. Much larger than Hawks’ Lair, it had been an impressive castle at one time, or so her father had often said, but crumbling stone and rotted wood bespoke years of neglect. In truth, she hated to see any fine thing, whether person or building, treated so poorly. It said something about the man. Eirik had much to answer for in his abuse of his heritage, Eadyth thought as she shook her head woefully.

She looked for a servant who could direct her to the garderobe, then to fresh water for drinking and bathing. No one was about. Some drunken knights she had seen yestereve slept on wide benches and in bed closets edging the great hall, along with some of the servants.

A few of the women lay naked under the sleeping furs, limbs entwined with the highborn men. Through the partly open door of an alcove, Eadyth saw a red-haired vixen sharing the bed place of Wilfrid, the seneschal she had met yestereve. In the cradle of Wilfrid’s arms, the woman’s bosom pressed provocatively against his dark-haired chest and a long leg was thrown over both of his massive thighs. More outrageous, her callused fingers lay intimately over his limp man part.

Eadyth’s eyes widened at the erotic scene. Then her upper lip curled with revulsion. Knowing what she did of the nature of men, Wilfrid could very well be married and his poor wife asleep above stairs while he fornicated like a rutting rabbit with the servant girl.

Not really surprised, Eadyth knew that bed sharing was common practice in many manors, especially a male-dominated one like Ravenshire. But she did not permit such bawdiness at Hawks’ Lair. She encouraged marriage among her churls, and no unwilling maid was ever bedded by visiting nobles in her keep.

She considered shaking them both awake to vent her disapproval, but, unlike yestereve, she vowed to follow a more sensible path today. After all, it was not her keep—nor likely to ever be so. Instead, she headed toward the separate kitchen area, connected to the keep by an enclosed passageway. Even though the castle had no chatelaine, some servant should be in charge of the household…perchance the cook.

Pushing open the heavy door, Eadyth gasped with horror at the nightmare of greasy pots, darting mice, spoiled food, unwashed trenchers and goblets, and even two chickens pecking contentedly at food droppings on the dirt-encrusted stone floor. Eadyth grabbed a broom and shooed away one fat mouse feasting on a hunk of mutton atop the table, then stomped over to a pallet near the cold fire where a servant, probably the cook, was snoring loudly through the rotten teeth of her open mouth. She rolled over onto her stomach with a grunt and broke wind loudly. Using the broom, Eadyth gave her a whack across her wide buttocks, and the woman shot upright, rubbing her bottom.

“WHA..AT?” the woman shrieked as she jumped up off the pallet, coming only to Eadyth’s shoulder, but twice as wide in girth. “Have ye taken leave of yer senses, bedevilin’ an honest servant like me?” Narrowing her eyes—small black pinpoints in her bloated face—the cook asked caustically, “Who do ye think ye be—a bloody queen?”

“Lady Eadyth of Hawks’ Lair, you lazy slut. Are you responsible for the filthy condition of this kitchen?”

Obviously frightened now that she realized her insult had been addressed to a noble lady, the woman nodded hesitantly, rubbing the sleep from her beady eyes. When she yawned widely, Eadyth almost swooned from the wave of foul breath that came her way, a combination of bad teeth and stale mead, not to mention a body and clothing that probably had not been washed since Easter. Thank the Lord, she had eaten no food prepared by the grimy hands of this old hag.

“What is your name?” Eadyth demanded in a steely voice.

“Bertha.”

“Well, Bertha, what say you of this pigsty of a kitchen?”

“Huh?”

Eadyth snorted with disgust. “How many servants are about this keep?”

Bertha scratched her armpits indolently, then began a mental count on her fingers. “’Bout twelve inside, mayhap another twelve outside. Many a servant and cotter left durin’ these two years the master has been gone.”

“Who was in charge in his absence?”

The cook shrugged her bulky shoulders. “Master Wilfrid, but he be gone much of the time, as well, since his wife died last year. Bless her sweet soul!” Bertha looked dutifully sorrowful at the loss of Wilfrid’s wife.
Hah!
Wilfrid had not looked to be in mourning when last she had seen him, Eadyth remembered cynically, picturing him with the naked servant.

“I want you to gather every single servant—thrall or churl—in this kitchen immediately. Do you understand me?”

The cook nodded dumbly.

When the scurvy group of sluggards crowded into the kitchen area a short time later, Eadyth already had water heating on the hearth and pots and trenchers and goblets soaking. She gave the servants a tongue lashing they would not soon forget, then specific directions on tasks she wanted accomplished within the hour.

“Bertha, I want the floors and walls of this kitchen swept and scrubbed. All the cutting boards are to be scoured, and fresh flour brought in for baking. I will check the food supplies in the larder for spoilage and worms, which will be considerable, I warrant.

“Lambert, get another man to help you cut and stack a five-day supply of firewood for the cooking fires. Agnes and Sybil will gather the eggs and milk the cows.” She hesitated then and looked to Bertha. “There are cows, are there not?”

Bertha nodded her head slightly. “Only one cow be left, and mayhap two dozen hens.”

“Good, we will churn some butter when the milk is brought in.”

On and on she went with her instructions until a few of the servants rolled their bleary eyes in their heads.

Then Eadyth turned to the great hall, ordering some of the men to sweep out all the filthy rushes and replace them with fresh, herb-scented ones. Others she set to scrubbing the trestle tables and sweeping cobwebs from the walls. Still others lifted dusty tapestries from the stone walls and took them out to the bailey for a good shaking.

Most important, to her thinking, she banned all dogs from the great hall for the time being. Even so, the stupid hound from the night before kept following her around like a love-struck swain. Giving in momentarily, she looked about quickly to make sure no one watched, then bent down and scratched him lightly behind the ears, causing the beast’s tongue to loll out in ecstasy. Eadyth shook her head in mock disgust.

“’Twas a lackwit thing you did yestereve, hound, in front of a gentle lady, no less, but I did not mean to hurt you, even if ’twas only a mild nudge of my shoe.” She sat back on her haunches and examined him closely. “Ah, you are a fine breed. I can see that now. Surely, your lineage is impeccable. Do you have a name? Nay? Well, then, I shall call you…what? Prince?”

The dog wagged its tail enthusiastically, and Eadyth laughed softly. “You like that name, do you? Well now, we must come to an understanding on another matter.” Picking up the foul-smelling animal, she walked outside and deposited him in the bailey. “Do not come back ’til you have bathed, Prince,” she advised the dumb beast, whose eyes watched her soulfully as if it understood perfectly.

Turning back to the hall with a chuckle, she saw that some of the highborn gentlemen were awakening groggily from their drunken stupors, and she set them to hunting fresh meat for the table, even Wilfrid, who seemed too stunned by her bullying to protest. In fact, he smiled enigmatically, asking innocently, “Didst the Lord Eirik ask for your help, my lady?”

Eadyth felt herself blushing—a habit she would as soon control, but could not. “Nay, he did not. I presume he still lies abed after swilling ale the night long with you,” she snapped back tartly, then turned defensive. “I do him a service setting his lazy servants to their work.” She cast a quick, meaningful glance at Wilfrid’s bed companion of the night before, implying that Eirik probably did something other than sleep in his chamber, as well.

Wilfrid flashed a knowing smile her way and gave a quick kiss to the maid, who, standing beside him, had managed to cover her nakedness with a fur pelt. “I will see you later, Britta,” he said, tweaking the maid on the rump with a lascivious wink.

Britta blushed prettily and looked up at Eadyth with blank innocence.

Eadyth tried to glare angrily at the foolish maid, but Britta was little more than a child, probably no more than fifteen. Truly, she knew no better. “Britta, please cover yourself with more suitable raiment, then remove all the bedding from whatever pallets or chambers are unoccupied. Bring them out to the kitchen courtyard for washing.”

Britta nodded obediently. “Be you the new mistress?” she asked shyly. “Will you wed the master?”

Eadyth felt another unwelcome blush heat her cheeks. “I doubt that we will wed, and, nay, I am not your mistress. I merely act as…as friend to Lord Ravenshire in getting his keep in order.”

Eadyth tried to sit politely then and await Lord Ravenshire, but her body bubbled with its usual restless vitality. She could not bear idling uselessly while awaiting the master’s convenience, especially when her hands itched to tackle the vast amount of work surrounding her. She soon gave in to her instincts.

By midday, she felt a glow of satisfaction as she gazed at the remarkable progress already made. The kitchen gleamed. The hall smelled sweetly of fresh rushes and newly crushed herbs. Clean clothing and bedding boiled in large kettles over
open fires and lay out to dry on bushes in the neglected kitchen gardens.

Some of the servants had already been sent to bathe at a spring-fed pond behind the keep, and the rest would soon follow. Eadyth had forbidden anyone from breaking fast until they had performed their chores and bathed. She wished they would hurry. Her stomach growled noisily, along with the rest, at the tantalizing aroma of fresh bread baking in the stone ovens to the side of the wide hearth. Newly churned butter rested golden yellow in a large crock atop the massive wood table dominating the center of the kitchen. The grain of the oak had finally emerged after the table’s harsh scouring with sand and strong soap, despite Bertha’s whining about her raw-skinned fingers.

Admiring the basket overflowing with recently gathered chicken and goose eggs, Eadyth wondered if Bertha knew how to make a good pudding. If not, she could advise her with one of her own receipts.

Eadyth’s stomach roiled again with hunger as she heard the sizzle of juice popping in the open fire from a side of salted pork. A small boy, Godric, the orphan of a long dead castle thrall, turned the spit slowly as he looked up at her, his gaze adoring, thankful to be given his own small chore. A stock pot of venison bones and leftover winter stored vegetables had been started in a cauldron at the back of the fire, with a cloth-wrapped pease porridge hanging in its center.

There was still much to be done, but a good start. Eadyth preened with satisfaction. Would Eirik appreciate her efforts? For the first time, Eadyth wondered if perchance she had been hasty in her well-meaning actions.