"No fire smoke, and no coming and going from the water-well," came the glib answer. "But where can they be?"
Marc considered the stable, sweet with hay and with tubs filled with feed. "They succumbed to some kind of pestilence, perhaps, and wandered off in dying?"
But Sunniva was already shaking her head at this less than serious suggestion. "The place is too well ordered. The eggs and cheese are fresh, and look up —” she pointed to the rafters, were joints of meat had been hung to smoke. "And there are no rat nests, no refuse. There are crocks of urine outside, kept by the back of the house. For use in washing," she added, when Marc said nothing.
"I know that." Marc unbuckled his sword belt and laid it and his sword on the trestle. "What else, Mistress Nosy?"
"The pigs must have been driven out to the woods for the acorns in the past few days. Their tracks are old, but not yet faded." She pointed to a series of rutted marks on the floor, then planted her hands on her hips, "This was done recently, yes?"
Marc nodded.
"So where are the people, Master Wit?"
She was so challenging he wanted to kiss her but decided it was less complicated to answer instead. "It must be they have marched south, to join King Harold against William."
She looked puzzled, allowing her hands to fall her sides. "All of them? And where are the sheep? The horses? The oxen?"
"The dogs and hawks?" Marc added, walking to Alde and touching her forehead. It was cool. Hope flared like a beacon in his chest but he kept his voice steady, as he went to Judith and Isabella and asked, "What do you think, then, Mistress Nosy?"
"A wedding?" Sunniva ventured. "The whole household as guests? Their animals rented out to another farm for gold, or to settle a debt, perhaps? I have known it before." She watched him offering a drowsy Judith a cup of ale and when he had laid the child down again and Judith had settled on her side, Sunniva added, almost defiantly, "That is possible."
Marc said nothing. He was tiring of this discussion. The folk were absent, well and good, they could rest here and the children recover and that was an end of it.
Sunniva turned away, murmuring, "I have yet to find the salt."
Marc sat on the bench, savouring the thought of his first truly hot meal in days.
Sunniva washed the children's gowns, rinsed them and put them to dry on a hurdle which she suspected was usually used as part of a screen. She coaxed Alde and Judith to open their mouths to allow her to peer down their throats and was relieved to see that in both girls the swelling had gone down. Isabella was already dressed in a fresh gown, sitting up and chattering to Uncle Marc, explaining to him how to make a daisy chain from the few flowers he had found still blooming in the yard. Seeing the two shining brown heads bent together, Sunniva smiled, a great contentment blossoming in her breast. This might be her own small hall, her own children, her own husband.
Marc threw his daisy chain over Isabella's curls and, catching Sunniva watching, winked at her. An instant later, he frowned and marched from the house, hitting his forehead on the low lintel in his haste.
Again he withdraws from me, Sunniva thought, not inclined to see the humour in the moment, as she would have done with Cena. I work for him and wash his clothes and never complain and still he looks at me sometimes as if I am the worst of memories.
She imagined adding pepper to the egg and cheese dish she was planning to cook, pictured Marc red-faced and rushing to find some ale to wash out his fiery mouth. The childish thought pleased and saddened her in equal measure.
He likes me, he wants me, yet he does not trust me.
Are you any better? Sunniva asked herself, beginning a new culinary search, this time for pepper. You still have not told him that you have no betrothed, that you are free.
Daughter of a slave, yet free.
What would Marc make of that?
Chapter 18
Sunniva pinned back her trailing sleeves again, ready to cook. She enjoyed cooking and she knew she was good at it. If she could make Marc remember her kindly for anything, even if it were only her roasts, stews and possets, that would be something.
And the girls were mending: becoming thirsty, becoming hungry, becoming bored. It was with a glad, clear head that she could approach their meal today. She wanted, in truth, to show off to Marc. If she thought she could have given him a display of knife throwing, without making him trust her even less than he did already, she would have done that, too.
Who am I to think of him trusting me? she mused, setting the newly-washed-and-dressed Alde and Judith to stirring her mixture for oak cakes and giving Isabella a spoon to pretend-feed her rag doll. Why am I trusting him? Because she did. She could not believe he was a murderer, much less a woman killer.
Whatever he was, she was determined to create a feast for him. The housewife of this farm would understand — for her man loved her enough to have bartered her some good cooking pots — and the woman in turn would be pleased with her gift of linen. The cloth in this house was serviceable, but not as fine as she could make it. She would add three strong, richly-patterned belts to the linen and gather berries, nuts, mushrooms and greens for the farmer's wife, too. All would else go to rot, but she could dry these and save them. If she could find more honey in any of the nearby woodland, that would be a crowning touch — the mystery mistress of this place would be well pleased.
A fair exchange, Sunniva comforted herself, as the rich smells of roasting meats and baking vegetables filled the long house. She heard Marc whistling as he went out to the horses and later for water and wished again they could stay here forever.
Marc drew a trestle and benches beside the fire, close to the griddle and the cooking cauldron so that he or Sunniva could reach across from their bench without stirring from their places. After a swift, Breton prayer of thanks from Marc, he and his squirming, hungry girls started with fresh, crisp oatcakes, lightly baked, washed down with warmed ale.
Sunniva was glad to see them eat.
"Please forgive the informality," she told Marc, as they moved without ceremony to the next course. "Unless you prefer to carve?" she went on, offering Marc a freshly sharpened knife across the table, her heart drumming in her chest as she did so. What if her instincts were wrong? What if the rumours were true?
As if guessing her thoughts, he lounged back on the bench. "Nay, your talent is greater than mine."
She could sense him staring as she handled two blades at once, slicing through the roast in long, sure strokes, and was not at all surprised when he remarked, "You never did tell me how you saved that juggler from the mob."
"Sunniva!" Alde sat up with a sudden clatter of her stool. "You fought off a mob?" she demanded breathlessly. "Even our uncle has not done that!"
"It was not so dramatic," Sunniva said, with an ease she did not feel. "The man had asked for my protection. I gave it, that is all."
Marc cleared his throat, silently warning Isabella to wait as Sunniva dished out the food into the finely carved wooden bowls she had found in the small back room of the hall. "The mob?" he prompted.
"It was just a mob of villagers, a few youths and the daughter of the farrier, who has the mind of a child. They knew me, knew me to be the daughter of their lord. The juggler had fled into our barn. I merely barred the way to those trailing him."
Hunting poor Osric Red-beard would be more accurate, but Sunniva did not forget the prick-eared Alde. She did not want the child to think her people were narrow-minded, suspicious of strangers. She remembered them, fifteen angry young men, a disappointed shepherd-boy and one middle-aged, pox-scarred, simple woman wielding a hammer, each one shouting that they had paid for a show and that Osric had short-changed them. Cena saw their approach and disappeared into his hall. She snatched up a broom to fend them off and shouted more loudly than she knew she could and all the time her eyes saw the villagers with massive clarity and swiftness, while her throat was bone dry. When they had finally slunk away, she tended Osric's scrapes and bruises ve
ry poorly, her fingers were shaking so much.
"They would not push past me," she went on. "Not even Arni No-Hair."
"No, I warrant they would not," Marc observed dryly, his amber eyes warm with something. Approval? Sunniva dared to speculate. Please Freya it was so.
"What talent?" Alde demanded, sucking nosily on her ale, while further down the bench Judith reached over and snatched the last of the oat cakes from the griddle.
"Judy, remember your manners. You are at table," Marc warned.
"Who is Arni No-Hair?" Alde went on.
"I want to eat now!" Isabella whined, kicking her heels against the table leg.
Sunniva hastily set out the bowls, reflecting that trying to impress a man with three hungry youngsters was not so easy. To her relief, Isabella and Judith fell upon the succulent pork and braised vegetables at once and nothing was heard from them save chewing. Alde, however, was like her uncle — she would not be put off. She had forgotten the mysterious Arni No-Hair, but as soon as she had finished eating she returned to another question.
"What talent does Uncle Marc mean, Sunniva?"
"Why not show us after dinner?" Marc asked, his stark, handsome face glowing with innocence.
"As you wish." Sunniva smiled, though inside she was seething. To be invited to perform — did Marc think she was a juggler? A mountebank?
It is what you want to do, so why complain? her conscience pricked. She glanced again at Marc, seated across from her, the dark of the hall outlining him. His dark green tunic and leggings were new to her: was he trying to impress? She could only hope so. Now he smiled back at her.
"This pork is delicious," he said, stabbing another piece with his eating dagger. "How is it so sweet?"
Did he truly want to know? "I rinsed it to take out the excess salt and braised it in mead. The onions and leeks add sweetness, too."
"As does the cook." He reached across and brushed her shoulder. "You had a spider about to spin a web on you."
"My thanks." His touch was gentle, soothing, and suddenly, she was pleased, simply pleased that she would be giving — no, granting — Marc a show. No one else, except Osric, had ever seen what she could do. In a way, she would be giving herself to him, her secret self.
Will he like what he sees?
She gave the three girls their sweets — a mix of eggs and soft cheese, sweetened with honey and sprinkled with pine nuts — and left Marc's on the griddle for him to help himself. Without a further bite of pork or sweet herself, she rose. "If you will excuse me," she muttered and sped away, taking the things she needed into the small private room at the back of the hall, where the farmer and his lady had their own bed. There, with many small, nervous fumblings, she changed, the high, rasping voice of Osric running in her head, reminding, prompting, soothing.
"You will own any audience, child. Shake free your hair and they are yours to start: the women will ache to be you and the men will ache to be with you.
"Prepare with care. A trick is like a flower: what blossoms at the front is what you want your paying customers to see, not the dark, tangled roots.
"Smile! Always smile. Never mind if your heart is smitten and you think of your beloved and you feel as if a great invisible hand has wrenched inside you and grabbed and shaken your guts. Smile and someone will always smile back. Grin if they spit and avoid being hit. Duck if they pelt you with bones and never, never, mark you, toss them back! Keep yourself trim and clean. Bright and clean wins the crowd. Move fast but clear. Be graceful. A juggler is always a dancer.
"Go out there, Sunniva and win them. Dance for them. Dance for him."
Wish me luck, Osric, she thought, patting her final pin and tuck in place.
"You will never need it, girl," came back the wry reply, rich with memory, as she took several large breaths and opened the door to the hall.
Chapter 19
She glided out into the hall, blue and gold, her hair uncovered, unbound and falling halfway down her back, as soft and wild as a mermaid's tresses. Marc put down his plate and cup to stare, lust hardening his loins in an instant.
She was Sunniva, yet not. Instead of her usual loose, long-sleeved gown she now wore a robe with sleeves that came only to her elbows, revealing her slim shapely arms. Such skin she had, smooth and flawless, pale and glimmering in the fire-light. He thought of bracelets to place on her narrow wrists, rings to adorn her graceful fingers, and yet in truth she needed none: she was a jewel in herself.
"Her feet are bare!" Alde hissed, kicking off her own shoes, while Marc could only nod, his eyes busy. The light blue robe Sunniva had changed into skimmed her lithe figure, fitting snugly about her breasts and narrow waist, then gently flaring at her hips, its skirt made in two colours, blue and red, that flickered and tumbled together as she walked.
With a tense, painful pleasure he revelled in her approach, in the lush, spectacular beauty that was enhanced by movement. He thought of moving with her, the ancient dance of woman and man, and only the presence of the three girls stopped him from taking her now! On the table. Over the table. By the table. His body and head ablaze, he joined in Alde's furious applause.
Cool and gold as a mermaid, her sea-green eyes flicked over him and then she smiled, bowed from the waist like some saucy page and came up grinning.
It was impossible not to smile back, not to gasp, like Alde and Isabella, as she rippled her empty fingers through the waves of her red-gold hair, clapped her hands twice and held them up, showing the five glinting daggers that had not been there before.
Thrice, she whirled them about her head and around her body, so close that Marc found himself clenching his teeth lest she cut herself. Up her arms flew and the daggers flew higher, spinning, flashing in the fire-light, coming down, point-first -
She caught them point-first, flipped them again, high and this time they soared in a curving arch, dropping like tired birds, bouncing handle-first on her wrists, then her elbows, then her wrists, then swooping off and aloft again.
"How does she do it?" howled Judith, her square jaw working in frustration as her eyes widened and narrowed.
Laughing, Sunniva threw what seemed to be a tiny bolt of lightning, and now Judith was giggling as she found her head-square pinned to the beam at her back and before she could free it, another bolt issued from Sunniva's nimble fingers and the small dagger was knocked from the beam by a second, heavier blade and Judith's head-rail was free again and she had a small dagger lying, flat and harmless, in her lap.
"I want —” Isabella began, and then she and Alde were both bemused, touching shiny blades that had just appeared and fallen safely onto their knees, a dagger for each girl.
From the very edge of his sight, Marc glimpsed a falling gleam of light, like a shooting star, and jerked backwards. The small dagger bounced flatly off his knee to land under the table, and by the time he had retrieved it, Sunniva was moving again.
Smiling still, Sunniva raced forward, running, juggling three more blades, turning a cartwheel that flashed her skirts suddenly from blue to red and back again. Bouncing lightly on her bare feet, her ankles kicked up slight puffs of dust and ash from the fire as she made a handstand — on top of two stout knives.
"King Christ!" Marc was hollering and on his feet but the slippery mermaid was already down again and demure, showing no sign of pink toes or shapely calves as her skirt swished into quietness down her thighs. Smiling, she hefted the two daggers again, high over the central cross-beam, caught them and then showed her bloodless palms.
Before he could draw breath to praise or reprove her she sank into another low bow, tucked her knives somewhere into her gown and said breathlessly,
"Now, who will fetch me a drink, pray?"
As one, all three girls rose from their bench and scampered off.
A moment later she was sitting across from Marc, pouring herself another ale, while Isabella nagged to see the daggers again. Prudently, Sunniva had retrieved all of them while the girls were distracted f
inding her a cup.
"They are gone, child, that is part of the magic," Sunniva replied, as Marc scowled at his youngest. "Is that not so, Marc?"
Feeling himself relax at her careless use of his name, he answered at once, "For sure it is and I for one am dazzled by it. Well done!" He applauded her again, clapping harder as her flush of pretty colour deepened.
"Will you show me how to do it?" Alde asked, tugging nervously on the sleeves of her own gown.
"For sure when you are older."
"And you will show me, too?" demanded Judith.
"None of you will grow to be older unless you get to bed," Marc broke in, pointing to the three pallets ranged at the other side of the fire. He was eager to have Sunniva to himself.
Replete, full and happy, the girls fell asleep quickly and soon their soft, even, beautifully healthy breathing filled the air. Marc put more logs on the central fire to ensure they were warm and placed two hurdles as screens at either side of their beds.
"I know they are well now, and fully recovered, but this will cut down drafts," he told Sunniva, who was looking sceptical.
"Surely it will cut down what they can see as well," she remarked, rising to clear the table.
"Leave it," Marc said quickly. "I will clear our crocks in the morning." Taking advantage of moving, he prowled round to Sunniva's side of the table.
"May I?" He jerked his eyebrows at the bench.
She nodded and he slipped in beside her, refilling his own and her cup without asking.
"How long did it take you to learn?" he asked, nodding to her wide, innocent-looking skirts.
Sunniva smiled and withdrew the sharp, narrow blades from their hiding place, setting them down on the freshly-scrubbed board. "A few weeks. I cannot really remember. The time when Osric stayed with us seemed to pass so quickly."
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 41