“Nay. Go on, boy. There will be other boars.”
After they left, everyone looked at each other at the high table, then burst out laughing. Gorm laughed hardest of all. And the wagers flew hot and high.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
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Oh, the webs we weave when first we deceive…
It was the second sennight of December. Snow and ice storms had made prisoners of them all at Ravenshire, except for Eirik, Tykir and Bolthor, who’d gone off before the weather change to Winchester to address the Witan. And except for Toste, who was, of course, a real prisoner these past five days.
Toste’s “disappearance” had raised no alarm bells the day after Esme had tricked him into going to the woodcutter’s hut. Everyone assumed that he had gone with Sister Margaret and was off somewhere searching for his brother’s killer. Actually, a stableboy had traveled with Sister Margaret, thanks to the release of another of Esme’s precious coins.
Esme’s plan was not going at all as she’d expected. In fact, she felt as if she’d put her head in the mouth of a tiger, and now she didn’t know how to pull it out. As a result, she had taken to biting her fingernails to the quick and wringing her hands in nervousness—gestures which did not escape Eadyth and Alinor, who assumed that Esme was distressed over potentially bad news their husbands might bring back from the king. If they only knew! That was the least of her problems at the moment.
Girding herself with resolve, she entered the hut. She brushed snowflakes off her cloak, laid it over a chair and her bundle of food on the floor, then stoked the fire to make sure it would adequately heat the small room. Only then did she turn to look at Toste. The gag was in his mouth, as it always was when he was alone, to prevent him from yelling for help, but his eyes shot blue daggers at her. Somehow the fur pelt had slipped off him, and he lay there as nude as any man could be. She tried not to look below his neck.
No one would go near Toste with a razor to shave his face, not even Lars, Bertha’s bed companion. So his face was covered with bristles. Instead of looking scruffy, he looked dangerous. Which of course he was.
Walking over, she removed the gag from his mouth. “Would you like a drink of water?”
He refused to answer, just continued to glare at her.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Release me.”
“Only if you will agree to stay till I am secure in my place at Evergreen.” Really, the man was as stubborn as a mule. She’d thought for sure he would have acquiesced by now.
“Release me,” he demanded again, refusing to agree to anything.
“I can’t,” she said.
“I’m going to kill you, Esme. You give me no choice. Once I am free, I am going to kill you.”
He said that often, every time she visited him at the hut. One of the things he objected to most was the fact that Bertha or her aged lover came several times a day to put a pan under his buttocks so he could take care of bodily functions. Bertha also bathed him daily, and took great delight in that chore. Esme knew it all must be demeaning for Toste, but what choice did she have?
Seeing that his death threats were getting him nowhere, Toste said, “If I lie here much longer without exercising my body, I will develop bedsores on my arse.”
He was probably correct. Esme had seen Mother Wilfreda treat many such sores on elderly people who were unable to walk about.
“Well, couldn’t you contract and release the various muscles in your body? You know, focus on a particular body part. That should bring blood to the surface.”
His eyes went wide. “Are you suggesting that I flex my arse cheeks?”
“Coarse clod,” she muttered under her breath.
“Better yet, mayhap it is another body part you wish me to flex.”
And while she watched, he showed her which body part he meant by making it flex and then grow, without any touching. Even the birthmark on his inner thigh seemed to move. It was probably a talent that men considered awe-inspiring. But to a woman, it was just yawn-inspiring.