“I hear you are betrothed, Edward.” She tried to make conversation—a futile effort when faced with the three brooding men, who would rather be anywhere in wintertime but a remote nunnery.
“Yea, and what is it to you, sister?”
Well, that was certainly pleasant.
Mother Wilfreda made a tsk-ing sound of disgust. “Have you taught your sons such ill decorum, John?” the nun inquired of Esme’s father.
Good for you, Mother. Stick out your tongue, too. That would show them. Bloody boors! Oops, I guess I will have to go to confession again for saying “bloody.” Oh, well, it was worth it, even if I didn’t say it aloud.
“Behave thyself,” her father said to Edward, clouting him on the side of the head with one of his calfhide gauntlets.
Ouch! Note to myself: Stay out of clouting distance from Father.
Edward winced and backed away, scowling at Esme, as if it were her fault he had such poor manners.
Well, that was certainly pleasant, too.
“How is Elsbeth?” she asked Cedric. As if I care! Cedric was the oldest of her brothers at thirty. Elsbeth was his wife of at least ten years. Most times, Elsbeth had her nose so high in the air she could scarce see in front of herself.
“Big with child,” he replied grudgingly, casting a surreptitious glance at their father. No doubt he feared a slap with the same gauntlet if he spoke to her with disrespect. “She should be dropping the babe any day now.”
Blessed Mary, those two breed like rabbits. “Your seventh, as I recall.”
“Yea, and all girls,” he spat out as if girls were on a par with slugs. How like our father he is!
“Go, holy man, get us some of that mead this abbey is famous for,” her father ordered the priest, as if he were a menial servant. Then he sank down into an armchair far too close to Esme. Her brothers stood on either side of the open doorway since there were no other chairs in the room.
Oh, good Lord, he’s sitting down. That must mean he plans to stay for a while. Should I discuss the weather? Or ask about his health? Nay, best to shut my teeth and wait till he tells me the purpose of this visit.
The priest scurried off, no doubt thankful to be out of the nobleman’s presence. Esme would scurry off, too, if given the chance. She doubted Father Alaric would return. He would probably go to the chapel and pray. A good idea. St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes—that’s who would get her pleas if she had the chance.
Just then, through the open doorway could be heard a cacophony of animal and human sounds. “Oink-oink. Ruff-ruff. Come here, you thievin’ animals.” Almost immediately, they saw the five-legged pig shoot down the corridor, past the open doorway, with a string of sausages dangling from its mouth, followed closely by a dog the size of a pony, drool hanging from its mouth, and those two followed by Sister George. Who knew the piglet could trot so fast? The oinks and barks and shrieks could be heard for a long time after the trio passed. Eventually, the noise faded to silence.
Her father’s and brothers’ jaws dropped practically to their chests. In the end, her father muttered, “I always knew this abbey was strange. I did not realize how strange.”
If you only knew! Pray Sister Stefana doesn’t have a nude dancing epiphany about now.
“Not so strange. Have you no animals at Blackthorne?” Mother Wilfreda asked with a chuckle.
“Not a freakish five-legged pig!” he said, giving his head a shake of disbelief at what he’d just witnessed. “Who keeps a pig indoors?”
“There’s probably pig shit all over this place,” Edward added with a sniff of disgust.
Well, sometimes. And dog, and goat, and horse, and cat, and duck, and whatever animals Sister George has rescued this week.
“Someone ought to give them all a good sharp kick in the arse, including the nun.” That was Cedric’s contribution.
Nice fellow, Cedric. Kicking a nun.
Her father turned his attention back to Mother Wilfreda and said, “Take your seeds and stinksome powders elsewhere, Freda. I wish to speak with my daughter in private.”