Eirik grinned and shook his head at her overbearing attitude, but his amusement soon died on his lips when she added impishly, “Mayhap you could learn the same lesson, my lord.” Ripples of laughter echoed in her wake.
Eirik stared after her for several moments before he realized that the saucy lady had inferred that he needed to bathe and learn some manners. Hah! He would show her soon enough what her impudent words would gain for her. She was too high and mighty in her own estimation, by far. He would relish the task of bringing her down a peg or two.
A wicked thought occurred to him then. He threw back his head and laughed aloud. Oh, yes, it was a wondrous fine use he had just conjured for that sheer veil of hers.
With a jaunty step, he turned and called after the dog. “Come, Prince, we go to bathe. The lady says we stink.”
The dog yipped in agreement.
Chapter Four
By the time Eadyth reluctantly left the seclusion of her guest chamber, dusk already hazed the dimness of the closed corridor.
Dust motes danced merrily in the narrow stream of light coming through an arrow slit at the far end of the hallway. In contrast, eerie, moving shadows in the crevices of the stone walls loomed out at her, reminding her of the long history of tragedy that had haunted this keep for three generations.
Would her destiny as the mistress of Ravenshire be as sad?
Actually, Eadyth reminded herself, Ravenshire’s history was no more unfortunate than many manors in the vast north, Hawks’ Lair included. Northumbria had always been a bone of contention amongst the warring powers, wedged as it was between the Saxon kingdom to the south and the lands of the Scots, Cumbrians and Strathclyde Welsh to the north and northwest.
And the Northumbrians themselves! This mixed breed of different races, Norse and Saxon intermingled, guarded their independence fiercely. They delighted in provoking the supercilious, purebred Saxons by drinking too much, speaking with uncouth accents and refusing to conform to society’s standards.
Sometimes these rebel Northumbrians were successful in their revolts. But not of late, Eadyth reminded herself. Oh, no. Not of late. Since the Battle of Brunanburh nine years before, where thousands of Viking, Scots and Welsh soldiers had died attempting to shake the tyrannical yoke, Northumbria had never truly recovered.
Eadyth heard a shuffling noise behind her and almost jumped out of her skin. Startled, she pressed the widespread fingers of one hand to her chest to slow her wildly beating heart, then giggled, realizing it was only Prince following in her footsteps, tail wagging contentedly.
She continued on her way to the great hall, wishing once again that she could avoid the lord of this dreary keep and hide in the protective cocoon of her chamber until morning. But she knew she had to set aside her foolish fears and comply with Eirik’s demand that she celebrate their upcoming nuptials with him. Her prospective bridegroom had already sent three insistent reminders that it was past time to join him at the high table.
The last message had been quite blunt, if Godric’s artless honesty in the retelling could be trusted. “Tell her to get her malingering arse down here, or I will carry her down on my shoulder. Better yet, I will come up and launch the wedding festivities in my own way, and I do not mean with a cup of ale.”
The boor!
She had tried to convince Girta to go down and tell Eirik she suffered from a stomach cramp, but her faithful companion had turned stubborn, refusing to participate in Eadyth’s deceit.
” ‘Tis unseemly that you shame the lord by dressing so for a betrothal feast,” she had clucked disapprovingly before her exit. “And worse that you humiliate him with your tardiness. It smacks of contempt. You could, at least, wash that horrid smell from your hair. Good Lord, Eadyth, even I cannot bear to be near you for more than a few moments.”
Disgusted, Girta had left her presence long ago, presumably to oversee the food preparations, but more likely to escape her dour mood.