After Thordia finished with the high table, she moved to the one where the soldiers sat. For this service, she carried pitchers of ale and each of the men thanked her, raising her estimation of the guard. As she worked, she was aware of a pair of piercing blue eyes that followed her progress—an intense stare that brought heat to her cheeks and kept a smile teasing her lips.
After setting a tray of full pitchers on a nearby table, she stepped back against the wall and trained her gaze on the shiny ribbons draping the candelabra. Staring at the flickering candles reminded her of a holiday years ago when her father served as metal smith for the priests at the Rock of Cashel. Her parents had always worked hard, but all she remembered were the happy times spent together as a family. And the laughter. Her heart ached for all that lacked from her life.
A sharp tap on a table brought her back to the great hall. She moved forward to refill tankards.
Finally, the tables were cleared, and the earl stood to make a speech.
Thordia scurried with the last two pitchers along the perimeter of the room toward the kitchen. Her thoughts swirled with the need to speak to Soren. Mayhap she and Embla could carry their food to their cottage, somehow, and eat there.
“Did ye hear, Thordia?” Embla skipped close and set her baskets with the others on a side table.
“Hear what?” Thordia moved to the space where a washerwoman dunked the ale pitchers.
“We’re invited to—”
“Quiet.” Mistress Tompkins entered from the hallway, and the buzz of conversations died. “The Earl of Kilburren is in a generous and festive mood and extends an invitation for those who wish to dance to join the assembly in the great hall. Best to leave your aprons and scarves behind. Kick up your heels for a spell”—she pressed folded hands to her waist—“but keep yourselves off to one side. And have a care that you are back here at seven on the morrow.”
Dancing? Who knew how long this would take? She bit back a groan.
Nodding, Embla clapped her hands and beamed. “Take off yer apron and scarf. How exciting.”
All she could manage was a non-committal sound. “Mmm.” Embla would have to be enthusiastic for them both. Thordia unwound the scarf, wrapped it inside her apron with Embla’s things, and tied the bundle with a knot she’d recognize later. With reluctant steps, she hung behind as Embla dragged her to the far side of the great hall. As soon as the fiddlers and the drummers played the first notes, she jumped right into the circle, moving to the familiar dances learned long ago. That she remembered the sequence of steps and hops amazed her.
Embla watched, imitating the patterns as best she could. “Slow down, Thordia. I cannot keep up.”
A strong arm circled her waist, and Thordia stopped. The scent of warm leather teased her nose. Rory.
“I wish to learn, too.” He grinned before giving a short bow. “As do my crew.”
Thordia glanced at a line of smiling soldiers. Well, this could be fun. “We’ll do an easy one.” With quick hand signals, she matched singles into partners and gave a few instructions. “Watch us and follow what we do.”
“We?” Rory cocked an eyebrow.
“Just let me lead.” For no understandable reason, she winked as she tapped out the count with her toe then launched into a sliding step, narrating as she moved.
Many missteps and wrong turns later, the group of all smiling people applauded the players.
Thordia couldn’t remember when she’d laughed so much. The heat from the man standing at her back seeped into her body and wrapped around her heart.
A fiddler jumped onto an overturned beer keg. “I see ye like the called dance. I’ve got an old favorite. Try to follow along.”
Thordia and Rory joined hands and moved as the caller instructed. Before long, she sought his gaze after every turn away or circle swing with linked elbows. As he did to her. The wish to be at his side grew until she became irritated when the dance forced them to change partners. When she could scarcely draw a full breath, she held up a hand and shook her head. “No more. Me sister and I must be getting home.” Stretching, she tapped Embla and waved her close.
“Allow me the honor of escorting you ladies.”
“Oo, don’t ye love how he talks?” Embla brushed damp tendrils from her forehead.
Thordia turned to face him. “Only if all the servant girls receive the same treatment.”
“Of course.” The captain stepped away to confer with his men, who nodded.
Everyone met at the back kitchen door and the group set off as one. When a destination was pointed out, one of the soldiers lit the way with a flaming torch to the girl’s front door.
Embla sang a tune in a low voice and a couple of others joined in.
Rory slowed his steps, and Thordia matched his. They spoke of everyday things. The topic was of little consequence, that they had a few moments together was what mattered.
****
A week passed in this fashion, minus the dancing. Both Embla and Thordia became experts at serving and chatting with the guests, when so engaged, or waiting silently when that skill was needed. Each night at the end of the supper service, the soldiers provided escort for the servers. Thordia grew to crave these quiet moments in Rory’s company. For all appearances, Rory did, as well.
One night as she refilled the earl’s wine goblet, she caught movement at the end of the dais and stepped back out of the way.
The steward rushed forward and handed the earl a scroll. “A message from Cashel, sire.”
A moment after the seal was broken, the earl slammed down a fist on the table. “Captain MacGuignard.”
Rory jumped to his feet and strode to the front of the dais.
Thordia watched the smooth movements of his legs, and flutterings danced in her belly. Only a week or so ago, she’d almost given up on finding a man to love. But since that first meeting in the castle entry, she couldn’t deny the way he made her feel. The better she knew him, the more she appreciated his strength of character.
The stiffness of Rory’s expression caused her to concentrate on what the men discussed. She caught a few words about “scouting out rebels” and “a stash of weapons in a secured vale.” While concern invaded her thoughts, she did her best to force a pleasant smile to her mouth. As she waited for the next signal from a thirsty guest, she fought the fear that erupted at hearing “rebels.” For months, she had nursed concerns that Soren’s grumbling about the earl involved more than mere words.
The fact that Rory turned to leave and didn’t once catch her gaze chilled her to her marrow. Something was wrong. Soren must be warned. Until the servers were excused, Thordia could barely stand still, so anxious was she to return to the cottage. Waiting outside the kitchen were half a dozen tradesmen to serve as escort. Not a soldier could be spotted.
“Thordia, why are we running? Is something wrong?”
Thordia forced her pace to slow, not wanting to garner attention. “I be working out the kinks from standing.” At the end of their walkway, she bobbed a curtsey to the miller, and then dashed through the front door with Embla calling out a cheery farewell.
Soren dropped a rasp onto the table. “Ye surprised me, flinging open the door like that.”
Tossing off her cloak, Thordia debated about including Embla in the discussion. She had no time for subterfuge. She dropped onto the bench at her brother’s side. “Does the talk of rebellion I have heard ye speak carry any weight, or is it only dissatisfaction boosted by the ale?”
“Who are ye to be askin’ me such questions?” His brows crashed low over his eyes.
“Someone who cares. A messenger delivered a note to the earl with details about rebels and weapons.”
Embla gasped and lifted a hand to cover her mouth. She walked the length of the room, then ladled water into a pot and hung it over the fire.
Soren shrugged, but he picked at a loose string on a seam in his leather apron. “Spend an hour in a tavern, any tavern, and ye’ll hear talk of rebels.”
The gesture was one he’d always done when telling a fib. She clenched her hands into fists and dug them into her thighs to fight her frustration. “Tell me the truth, Soren. The earl sent the soldiers away from the castle tonight, after supper was almost over. I have never seen that happen. Do you know what he’s looking for? Or who?”
“We’re not ready.” He jumped to his feet and ran a hand through his hair. “This wasn’t supposed to happen until the spring.”
“No.” Embla dropped to a bench and wrapped her arms around her middle.
Fear settled like a stone in her stomach. Thordia pushed to a stand and strode to his trunk, flinging back the lid. “Ye have to leave. Tonight. Gather what tools ye need to find work elsewhere.” She scooped up all the clothes within and carried them to the table. “Embla, grab some rope and help me roll these into bundles.”
Eyes wide, he looked between them. “I can’t leave ye two alone.”
“Do ye wish to be free of the dungeon?” She held the roll while Embla tied then she dashed to Soren’s side, grasping his forearm. “Because I do. I want to know my brother is alive somewhere in Ireland. And that a chance exists I mayhap see him again this side of heaven.” She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. Then she grabbed his shoulders, turned his body, and pushed him toward the door. “Go to the smithy and pack. Ye must hurry.”
Within the hour, Thordia sat in front of the dying fire, comforting a sobbing Embla, as sad tears wet her own cheeks. A quick discussion among the siblings decided on the best plan to keep Thordia and Embla safe. Only reluctantly had Soren carried with him all the food and most of the coins. Now, the sisters were on their own with no male to protect them. What had she done?
Before the sun rose over the horizon, heavy thumps pounded on the door.
Thordia sat up with a gasp then reached over to shake her sister. “Embla, they have come. Hurry, and get dressed.” By the time she rested a hand on the door latch, she’d composed her expression. Although she wished her heart didn’t pound so in her ears. The door swung open to reveal four soldiers on her stoop, the captain standing in the center. She searched his face for any sign of compassionate but his expression was granite.
“Move aside, maiden Thordia.” Rory pulled a parchment from his cloak. “I have a warrant for Soren the Hammer Ulfsson.” He stepped into the cottage and glanced around. “Where is your brother? We’ve already checked the smithy.”
“I know not.” She slipped her arm around Embla’s waist and pulled her close. “I did not see him leave, but his belongings are gone. Search for yerself.” Every word she spoke was the truth, though the words tasted like sand in her mouth. The half-truths ate at her conscience, but Soren was blood, and family loyalty ranked higher in her judgment.
“Gather your cloaks. We’re to escort you to appear before the earl.”
The sisters did as instructed and walked through the village and both baileys surrounded by burly guards. Embla slid her hand into Thordia’s, and they squeezed encouragement to one another. Although facing the stern man in his grand chair was frightening, the women knew what to say and repeated the statements already made in the cottage.
Finally, the earl waved a hand and turned to his steward.
The sisters curtsied and walked across the great hall, Embla leaning hard against Thordia for support. Thordia did her best to keep her back straight as she glanced around, hoping that Rory waited nearby.
He was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Four
Without nightly talks with Rory to look forward to, Thordia moved through the serving tasks as if another person was inside her skin. No complaints were voiced about her skill, but neither did she go out of her way to be cheery. Since that awful day that split her and Rory apart, Thordia heard of other families being interviewed by the earl. Within a day of Soren’s escape, four other young men also disappeared. No one spoke their names.
The weight of providing for her sister now lay across her shoulders, and the responsibility was heavy. She stayed up late at night, working on the tapestry for as long as she could keep her eyes open. Soon, weaving would be their only source of income.
Epiphany passed, and the guests drove away, heading to visit other friends or back to their homes. The extra servers were no longer needed and thanked for their service. Now, Thordia had no business being in the castle each day where she might catch sight of Rory. Her heart ached from missing him, and she tucked away memories of a love that was not meant to be. Somehow, Embla knew to leave her alone, and she assumed responsibility for all the household chores.
Finally, Thordia pushed the shuttle through the tapestry for the final time. Letting out a sigh, she arched her back. “The weaving be done. Tonight, we’ll work to tuck in any loose threads.”
Embla walked across the floor and rested a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “’Tis beautiful. Just look at the detail in the ducks on the lake.” She leaned close. “I think I see their wee feet paddling.”
“Thank ye.” Thordia frowned, glancing between the tapestry and the painting. “I hope the likeness will please the countess.” She couldn’t help wishing for another similar order.
“Will we deliver it on the morrow?” Embla moved to the window and eased back a shutter, allowing a shaft of dim sunlight to slant on the floor.
Thordia glanced at the exposed sky then quickly looked away. The color reminded her too much of Rory. “If another snowstorm doesn’t prevent us.”
“Good. I tire of lingering inside.” With a rag in hand, Embla dusted the table, benches, trunks, and any flat surface as she’d done each day. The clear notes of a ballad filled the cottage as she worked.
Hearing her sister’s sweet voice lightened Thordia’s spirit. Maybe their life was improving.
****
Rory paced the length of the archery field, watching the village youth at target practice. The rebel threat shook his complaisance, forcing him to review the security of the castle. He’d convinced the earl that all males over the age of twelve should be trained as archers. Shooting an arrow from the palisade walk was the safest place for a young defender. The memory of Thordia insisting on her rights to transact business had him considering the possibility of training the women, as well.
As if the memory conjured the woman, Thordia walked into his line of vision. Her back was hunched, and she strained at her sister’s side to push a laden cart across the bailey. A thick roll balanced atop the wooden sides.
The tapestry must be completed. His first impulse was to step in and offer help. In his heart, he knew she’d reject him. He had to be content with tracking their progress, wishing he had a closer view of her face. How was she coping without the help of her brother? Was she getting enough to eat now that she no longer worked in the castle? The few times he’d ridden through the heath village on a trumped-up excuse, he’d only glimpsed her from afar.
Curiosity compelled him forward. He walked to where Peadar watched the youth. “I have an errand in the castle. Let them empty their quivers three more times, then dismiss them.” He headed off before Peadar could add a rude comment to his chuckle. Watching the sisters struggle with hauling the cart backward up the steps was hard, but he couldn’t deny the pride at their accomplishment when they paused at the bridge into the keep.
A stable hand waylaid him on the walk to the stairs, and he changed direction toward the barns to speak with the stable master. Reaching the entry to the castle about ten minutes later, he paused, listening to determine where the countess met with the weaver. As he suspected, the meeting was in the great hall. He eased his head around the corner and spotted how the tapestry spanned the length of a table, and the Ulfsdottir women stood at its end.
The countess held the cloth in one hand as she walked the length of the table, bringing it close in certain spots. “The color shading is exquisite. I can’t tell where the blue ends and the aqua begins. You’ll have to tell my master weaver what dyes you used.”
Thordi
a’s back stiffened, and her head came up. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Countess, but each weaver has his or her special methods. Sharin’ me secrets would put me out of business.”
Before he was noticed, he ducked back into the entry. Good for you. Rory bit back a chuckle as he settled his shoulders against the wall.
The countess laughed. “Of course, you’re right. I guess what Gaspar says is true. I have no head for business.” Several seconds passed in silence. “But I do recognize quality. You, maiden Ulfsdottir, have done excellent work. Allow me to locate the steward to see about your payment.”
“Thank ye, Countess.”
“Steward.” The patter of footsteps diminished down the hallway.
“See, Thordia, I told you the countess would love your work.”
“That, ye did. I’m glad we’ll receive coins today. I worried about that.”
The jagged note in her voice clamped Rory in the gut. He remembered their special night of dancing and the wide smiles that lit her face. Joy should be part of each of her days. As hard as he’d tried, he couldn’t extinguish his feelings for the stubborn woman. He couldn’t hold her accountable for her brother’s suspected treason—even if he did believe she might have warned him to leave. Instead, his protective nature surfaced, and his mind turned over ways to help lessen her worry.
“Sister, ye worry too much.” Shuffling footsteps sounded in the rushes. “Remember how we danced right on this floor?” Sweet notes of a tuneless song floated in the air.
The countess would certainly share Thordia’s name whenever she showed guests the tapestry. But visitors had departed only a week hence, and more wouldn’t be expected for several fortnights. No, he needed something closer to home.
****
That afternoon, Thordia and Embla tumbled the foodstuffs from their bulging aprons onto the table. Flour, oats, barley, carrots, parsnips, turnips, even a rabbit. On the walk home, Thordia had planned four different ways to prepare the meat. Gazing at the food that would sustain them for more than a week filled her with satisfaction.
One Winter Knight Page 23