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.