“See. Mine wobble. ‘Tis why the men’s tongues hang out when I pass by.”
Eadyth’s mouth dropped open in amazement at the thought of any man being interested in Bertha’s overblown form, but, come to think on it, the bawdy cook did seem to have a continuous supply of bedmates. Britta’s eyes widened with interest, as well, and then they both looked down at their own bosoms. While Britta’s lush breasts might wobble if she walked with an exaggerated sway, Eadyth knew her smallish breasts would never develop the slightest wobble, even if she jumped up and down.
One side of Eadyth’s mind told her that Bertha was just an ignorant old hag who knew nothing of the world or its men, but another side whispered slyly that perhaps that was why Eirik had not consummated their marriage yestereve. He found her woman parts lacking.
She looked over at Britta, who was still studying her own chest. Then their eyes made contact with sudden understanding, and they burst into giggles like young children.
Wobbling breasts! What next?
Chapter Eleven
For the rest of the day, Eadyth enlisted every servant inside the keep to help with her honey gathering. The spring blossom harvest always netted the most bountiful and best quality honey, but honey production was, at best, an arduous, sometimes messy process.
Basking in this work which she adored most of all a chatelaine’s chores, Eadyth forced everyone who entered her kitchen to scrub their hands with strong soap and to wear clean overtunics. She even examined the honeycombs for cleanliness and removed all particles of dirt or insects with meticulous care.
She cut some of the honeycombs into sections and placed them in special pottery containers for those customers who preferred their honey still in the comb. But mostly Eadyth preferred to keep the waxy combs for her own use and sell only the nectar.
She insisted on performing some chores herself, those requiring expertise. With a critical eye, she first examined the color of the honey in the combs, and sorted them accordingly.
“What difference does it make? Honey is honey,” Bertha complained, wanting all the workers gone as soon as possible from her cooking domain. Now that Eadyth had forced rules of cleanliness on the castle, Bertha took proprietary pride in her sparkling kitchen.
“It makes a great deal of difference, Bertha. See that bright yellow honey? ‘Tis from the dandelion flower. The whitish yellow comes from clover. Fruit blossoms, like the cherry trees, produce a light, golden yellow. I like to label my pots so people who purchase my honey know what kind they are getting.”
Bertha grumbled, “Seems to me sum people are too pertic-ya-ler.”
Eadyth just smiled as she sliced the caps off the honeycombs with a fire-heated, sharp knife. The process had to be carried out quickly and with a deft touch to avoid losing any of the precious honey or making a sticky mess in the work area.
She immediately handed the honeycombs to Britta, who placed them in loosely woven cloths hanging over huge earthenware crocks near the warmth of the cook fire so the sweet nectar would strain through, leaving only the wax combs behind. Later, Bertha would mash the drained honeycombs in a massive bowl. Then they, too, would be placed in another clean straining cloth over a second crock near the fire. This second extract would be of poorer quality, but suitable for kitchen use, never for selling in the market stalls of Jorvik.
Eadyth placed the comb fragments and the wax caps she had cut off previously in warm water to clean them thoroughly, then set them out to dry. They would be saved for autumn when she made her beeswax candles.
Finally, she cut the straining cloths into strips and gave them to John and Larise and Godric to suck on for a special treat, shooing them out to the courtyard. The children, always in the company of at least two of Eirik’s guards, had been hovering all morning in the kitchen, ostensibly to help, but more often causing mischief.
“Can we play with Prince in the orchard?” John asked as Eadyth wiped his sticky fingers with a damp cloth.