If only women had more choices in life!
But Eadyth knew full well that, even if her husband were ugly as a toad, the Holy Church and Saxon law said a wife must submit to her husband. Submit! What an ugly word! That was why women like herself were forced to revert to subterfuge in resisting the attention of lust-minded man.
Even so, misgivings hammered at Eadyth’s brittle composure. She agonized over pretending to be old and uncomely, despite her perfectly understandable reasons.
Would Eirik consider them reasonable?
Hardly, Eadyth answered herself. How well she knew that men cherished their pride like a precious appendage, and the least thing a woman did to make them appear less than manly could prick them sore. Eadyth sensed—nay, she knew without a doubt—that Eirik would be very, very angry when he, discovered she had been less than honest. He would not see the humor in her disguise, and the longer she fooled him, the greater would be his outrage.
But what could she do? Confess before the wedding and take a chance on his canceling their betrothal agreement? Nay, she had to carry off her pretense for at least another three sennights. Then she would devise a clever way to disclose her true self—one that would not demean his pride in any way.
Once she weathered this evening’s events, she would be back at Hawks’ Lair until the wedding. Even then, she decided, she would tell him her true age but would do naught to enhance her appearance in his eyes, not a thing to incite his lustful impulses. That was not really dishonest, she tried to convince herself.
All she had to do was get through this night.
Sweet Mother of God, help me, and I vow to bend my prideful ways. No more will I make jest of Father Benedict. Or look down my nose at weak-willed women. Or…
Eadyth saw her mistake the moment she entered the great hall, where scowling men impatiently awaited her arrival before beginning the feast. She had forgotten one major consideration. In her dawdling, she had given Eirik and his knights excessive time to drink ale on empty stomachs. Annoyed at the delay, they were in a fine temper to taunt her with their ribald remarks as she passed, red-faced, through their whistling, snickering ranks to the dais.
“The Raven awaits anxiously, m’lady,” one young warrior called out. “Will you stroke his ruffled feathers smooth?”
“Nay, just that one hardened quill atween his loins,” a gnarly old warrior snickered in a quick rejoinder. It was the same knight she had chastised yestereve for body odor.
The other men guffawed loudly at the jape.
A handsome, blond-haired knight blocked her path momentarily, a retainer from Eirik’s Viking side of the family, no doubt. All the men were well on their way to being fall-over drunk, including this handsome Norseman who swayed on his feet. Before Eadyth had a chance to brush past him, the arrogant lout belched hugely, then asked, loud enough for all his friends to hear, “Mistress Beekeeper, will you let the master taste your honey this night?” Then he fell back, laughing uproariously at his own jest.
“Nay,” still another bantered coarsely as she swept past, “she will teach our lord to make his own honey.”
“Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz,” they all began chanting as they pounded on the tables with their goblets.
Eadyth finally pushed her way past them all, her chin held high and her eyes welling with embarrassed tears. Where was Girta, her only ally here? And why didn’t Eirik call a halt to the indelicate jesting? As her betrothed, he should protect her from such insult. Truly, he should, she cried inwardly.
Past humiliations flashed through her mind, memories Eadyth thought she had put to rest long ago. How naive she had been in those days! She had never really expected her peers to forgive her indiscretion with Steven, but their cruelties had been beyond anything she had ever experienced in her sheltered life. No wonder she had shut herself away these many years!
She lifted her chin defiantly and refused to slink away to lick her wounds. No more would she let such people hurt her.