Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] (4 page)

Eirik awakened to a loud pounding at the door of his bedchamber. Or was the pounding in his head? He sat up abruptly, then fell back down to his bed at the sharp pain in his temple.

God’s Bones!
He must be demented to have drunk so much ale with Wilfrid yestereve. He had not tilted his cup so much
since he was an untried boy experimenting with all the forbidden fruits. He raked the widespread fingers of both hands through his unruly hair and sat up again, remembering the reason for his drinking spree—the aged maid, Eadyth, and her mention of Steven of Gravely.
Blessed Lord!
Would he ever escape that evil beast? Two years away from English soil, and already Gravely’s hated specter ruined his home-coming.

With a grimace of distaste, he donned the same tunic and braies he had worn the night before. His servants must wash some clothing soon or he would be unable to bear his own stench. Better yet, he would throw the whole lot in the midden and have new garments made next time he ventured to Jorvik. It was past time he enjoyed his wealth, instead of letting it molder away in its hidden underground room. The tiresome game of pretending to be the beggared lord of a run-down castle wore thin these days.

Perhaps he should restore his grandfather’s castle to its former splendor, set the cotters to working the fields again. He drew his lips in thoughtfully at the prospect, one he had been weighing these two sennights since his return.

He smiled then as he remembered Lady Eadyth and her outrageous proposal of marriage. In truth, it was not the first time a maid had pursued him hotly with matrimony in mind. And many a devious plot had been devised to trap him into a betrothal pact—everything from seduction to blackmail. Luckily, he had escaped them all. One bad marriage was more than enough, to his mind. When Elizabeth had died ten years ago, he had vowed never to wed again—with good reason.

But now, the mistress of Hawks’ Lair offered him a temptation he might not be able to refuse. He creased his brow with irritation. Oh, it was not her handsome dowry that enticed, and certainly not her physical attributes,
God forbid
, but the prospect of revenge against Steven of Gravely—
that
he might not be able to resist. The means of finally being able to draw Steven out in the open for a fight to the death was certainly worth considering.

The pounding on his door resumed, and Eirik recognized Bertha’s whining voice. “Master! Oh, please, master, come afore she turns us upside down and shakes the lice from our heads.”

Eirik jumped to attention and walked to the door, opening it on the surprised cook who was about to knock again and, instead, pounded his chest. His stomach churned and the taste of stale mead rose nauseously to his throat.
Bloody Hell!
That was all he needed, on top of the pounding ache in his head.

Then his mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Bertha? ’Tis you?”

He barely recognized his old cook in her clean perse tunic. Her skin had been scrubbed red, and her clean hair lay wetly in snakelike clumps down to her shoulders, framing a face mottled with outrage.

“What is it, Bertha?” he finally asked, choking back astonished laughter.

“’Tis the lady, Mistress Eadyth. The bleedin’ harpy…beggin’ yer pardon, master, fer me disrespect…the lady woke ever’ one afore first light with her squawkin’ and put us all to work, she did.” She held out her red, roughened palms to demonstrate how hard she had labored.

Eirik frowned in puzzlement. “Do you not get up at dawn every morn to start the chores?”

Bertha’s face turned bright red. “Well, yea, I mean, sumtimes, but…but…’tis not
her
place to order us about, and she called us slugabeds and worse. Sez we be so lazy we got to, no doubt, lean against the wall to belch. Claims we got lice, and sez we got ’til this midday to git rid of ’em or she will turn us upside down and shake ’em off.”

Eirik laughed despite himself, and Bertha shot him a look of disgust.
Blessed St. Bonifice!
The cook’s shrill voice could peel the rust off armor, Eirik thought, but she failed to notice his wince as she gasped for breath and huffily straightened her wide shoulders before blathering on with her complaints.

“’Tis a fine foul humor she be in, I tell you. Mus’ be the
time fer her monthly flux, I wager. Ne’er have I heard a fine lady use such words. Why, she sez we smell like hogs, and she made ever’ one bathe, sez no one kin eat ’til they be sunshine clean, and—”

“Hold!” Eirik ordered, his lips twitching with amusement.

“’Tis jist that we…yer loyal servants, that is…thought ye should know what she be about,” Bertha added, slowing down as she realized that she had perhaps overstepped her bounds.

“I appreciate your information, Bertha. Now, go back to the kitchen. I will be down shortly.”

Eirik splashed cold water on his face, then dunked his entire head into the deep bowl to sober himself. With a shiver, he shook the droplets from his hair, cursing at the icy shock. Thinking he should probably shave, he turned to a square of polished metal on the wall and grimaced with distaste. He looked like a bloody barbarian. He grinned. It would be good for the dour dowd from Hawks’ Lair to see just what she would be getting in her marriage bed—
if
he chose to so honor her.

He smiled to himself as he walked down the steps toward the great hall, remembering her words of the previous night. “Bees!” he muttered to himself. “Did the wench actually try to buy my favors with bees?” He shook his head in disbelief. Well, it was certainly a first for him.

Eirik stopped dead in his tracks at the bottom of the steps. He blinked several times to clear his vision. Everywhere he looked, servants worked industriously—scrubbing trestles and table tops, using long-handled brooms to reach spider webs in the highest corners of the hall, removing old ashes from the hearth.

He stepped forward, and the sweet smell of herbs jarred his senses. He inhaled deeply, then looked down at the clean rushes crunching under his soft leather shoes.

He marveled at the bug that had bitten his lazy servants to bring about this reformation.

Feeling a rush of cool air, he swept his eyes to the open
door of the hall, which led out to the bailey and outbuildings. Wilfrid leaned lazily against the doorjamb, a brace of dead rabbits over one shoulder, and a wide grin plastered across his smirking face.

“Where have you been?” Eirik grumbled as he moved closer.

“Hunting.”

Eirik frowned. “Why did you not awaken me? I would have joined you.”

“’Twas no time.”

“Why?” The annoying grin on Wilfrid’s lips drew Eirik’s puzzled attention.

“The lady ordered us from our warm furs at dawn and said we would have no food this day unless we bring fresh meat to the table.” Wilfrid paused, obviously relishing the telling of this tale. With a barely suppressed laugh, he continued, “Methinks she said something about you swilling ale all night with me and sleeping off the effects this morn.” He tapped the side of his head in an exaggerated fashion, as if thinking deeply, then smirked. “Or did she imply you did something other than sleep in your bed? I disremember now.”

Eirik snarled, “Where is the interfering witch?”

Wilfrid shrugged. “Mayhap she is out rebuilding the castle walls.”

“I find no amusement in your…amusement,” Eirik growled, putting a hand to his throbbing head. Lord, he needed a drink.

“Does your head hurt, my lord?” Wilfrid asked with mock concern. “Mayhap you need a wife to soothe it with sweet words and a gentle hand.”

Eirik said something very foul and turned toward the kitchen. Wilfrid followed closely on his heels, no doubt wanting to witness the inevitable scene.

He passed quickly through the kitchen, noticing its clean condition and the appetizing smells coming from the hearth. The little urchin, Godric, stood diligently turning the spit on a joint of meat the size of a hog. Probably was.

“The mistress set me to this chore, m’lord. Dost want me ter leave?” Godric offered apologetically at Eirik’s frown. Eirik saw the tears brimming in the child’s wide eyes and knew he thought Eirik’s annoyance was directed at him.

“Nay, ’tis a good job you are doing, Godric. Continue, if you will. Where is the Lady Eadyth?”

Godric pointed to the open door of the kitchen courtyard.

Eirik had not been in this section of the keep since his grandmother Aud kept a fine herb and vegetable garden here years ago. Each time his father Thork or grandfather Dar had returned from a trading voyage, they had always brought her exotic plants from faraway lands, to her delight. The painful memory of his grandmother, long dead of a wasting disease, and the sweet hours spent in her company, weeding the precious thyme and rosemary and chives, held Eirik immobile for a moment.

He shrugged, bracing himself for the fine mess he fully expected to see in the long-neglected yard. Guilt nagged at him like an aching tooth. Like the rest of the keep, it would, no doubt, need a total refurbishing.

At first, the bright sunlight blinded him to the whirlwind of activity surrounding him, setting his head to throbbing once again. When the din of the chattering voices finally penetrated the pounding in his head, he stopped in mid-stride, struck speechless.

Everywhere he turned, his laggard servants had been transformed into vigorous, busy bodies of activity. And they were cleaner than he had seen them since his return. Even their tunics, shabby as they were, looked newly washed. Eirik stroked his mustache pensively. He hadn’t realized there were so many servants left at Ravenshire.

Some stirred boiling cauldrons of soapy water. Others removed clothing from those pots and dropped them into clean water. Still others wrung them out and hung them on nearby trees and bushes, which were as overgrown and uncultivated as he had expected. Eirik’s eyes almost popped out then as
he recognized his own small clothes hanging ignominiously from a mulberry bush.

“Argh!” he choked out, then spied the cause of his distress. Lady Eadyth stood chastising a young housecarl, whose wet hair bespoke his recent return from the bathing pool. Pulling on his earlobe, she shrewishly ordered him back to the pond, exclaiming over the dirt remaining on his neck and in his ears.

“Dost think she will check our ears, as well?” Wilfrid asked dryly at his side.

Eirik shot him a look of disgust, then strode purposefully over to the outrageous woman. Gritting his teeth to gain control, fearing he might do her bodily harm in view of his servants, Eirik finally said with forced calmness, “Lady Eadyth, may I have a word with you?”

The skinny wench jolted to attention and turned. They locked eyes across the suddenly silent courtyard, and Eirik’s heart lurched oddly against his chest walls at the questioning vulnerability on her face which she quickly masked with its usual hauteur.

The servants froze in a tableau of frightened curiosity, but the dimwitted wench did not have the sense to fear him. Nay, she just stared brazenly back at him through luminous violet eyes. Witch’s eyes! He had not noticed their odd color yestereve. Mayhap they were just rheumy with age, as his grandmother’s had been before her death. Of course, that must be it.

Her cool, unflinching manner irritated him sorely. That, and his unexplainable, but undeniable, attraction to the older woman. Cursing himself disgustedly, he caught her by the arm in a pincerlike grip and steered her back to the keep, ignoring her sputtering protests.

“Sit,” Eirik ordered when they were in a small, private chamber off the great hall, under the stairs. Having no windows, the room was dark and musty with neglect. He lit a candle but could see little except the thick layer of dirt and grime that covered every object in the room. Eadyth appar
ently had not attacked this room yet.
Bloody Hell!
What had his servants been doing while he had been gone these two years?

Eadyth grumbled under her breath and rubbed her arm where he had grasped her. Then she pulled a small scarf from her girdle which she used to dust the chair with wide sweeping motions before sitting down obediently. He noticed that she studiously averted her face and fidgeted with her head-rail, as if she did not want him to look too closely at her face. No doubt because she was so ugly. She dropped her eyes under his steady gaze, but not with humility, he noted.

Eirik sneezed repeatedly at the dust Eadyth had raised. She had probably done it apurpose, just to annoy him. He glared at her, having still another reason to mislike her intensely.

Eadyth pretended to be unconcerned as she shifted in her seat under Eirik’s scowling countenance. Then she remembered that he thought her older than her years and pulled her head-rail forward slightly, hunched her shoulders a bit, and averted her face so she was not in his direct line of vision. She pulled one tiny strand of greasy hair from under the wimple to remind him of its “gray” color. Peering up slyly, she saw that her appearance displeased him greatly and knew she had succeeded for the time being.

“How dare you order my servants about?” Eirik finally asked angrily. “You insult me and my home by doing such.”

“I meant no disrespect, my lord. Truly, I did not. ’Tis just that idleness sits ill with me. When I saw how your servants took advantage of you, I thought…well, ofttimes women notice more of these things than men. And you have been gone a long time…”

“Still, ’twas not your place.”

Embarrassment overwhelmed Eadyth suddenly as she realized just how inappropriate her actions appeared to him. Had she lost all sense of decorum in her continual fight for independence?

With difficulty, Eadyth swallowed her pride. “I realize now
that I acted out of place. But how can you bear to eat food that comes from that filthy kitchen? Or walk in rushes that squish with animal droppings and bones and spoiled food? Or…,” and here she spoke challengingly, looking him directly in the eye, “…or sleep in beds so live with bugs ’twould be a real raven’s paradise.”

A flash of triumph swept over Eadyth when she saw Eirik wince at her harsh criticism. He seemed to choke back a quick retort. Raising his chin defiantly, he refused to explain himself to such as her.