Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(5)
Ceolwen emerged, scrubbed and bright-eyed, from her chamber. “Why did you not wake me earlier? The day is half gone already.”
“You needed it, lady.” Aelfhild found a bowl and ladled out a dollop of stew from the cauldron over the hearth. “We both did.”
Ceolwen’s nose wrinkled. “Fish for breakfast? Stew does not agree with me this early.”
“You slept through breakfast, lady. Now it is bread, stew, or nothing.”
“But I want porridge.”
Aelfhild took a deep breath while mustering her response, but then she noticed that sly glint in her mistress’ eye, the look of a spoiled child who had always delighted in winding up her caretakers. She played along.
“You shall eat what you are served, young lady, or get the hard end of my ladle!”
“Yes, matron,” replied Ceolwen, grumbling.
Their eyes locked for a moment and they dissolved into giggles.
“Remember her pies? Oh, but I would kill for her boar and kidney pie right now. Even at breakfast.” Ceolwen stirred her stew, gazing through the table into years long past.
Matron Sif had ruled the kitchens of the Great Hall for several generations with iron fists and a sturdy ladle. The silver-haired giantess, each fearsome knuckle the size of a walnut, had waged war against the two young girls and their nighttime raids on the kitchen.
“The stewed cherries were my favorite. I cannot say I miss her voice, though,” said Aelfhild.
“Her bellow, more like.” Ceolwen laughed. “How long has it been, now?”
“Eight years; nine, maybe.”
“Well, in memory of the Matron, then.” Waving a salute with her spoon, Ceolwen dug into her breakfast. Aelfhild had to refill the bowl three times; the stew agreed with her mistress more than she had at first admitted.
Ceolwen pushed back her bowl and let out a throaty belch. “Cuthbert will be out talking to the other Eorls, looking for support,” she began with no preamble. “Osric will be doing the same. Wictred will see to the preparations for the burial. We will…” She trailed off.
“What will we do today, my lady?” asked Aelfhild.
Ceolwen chewed her lip for a moment, then sighed. “There is little we can do,” she said. “Cuthbert is dear to me, and I do trust him, but he and the others will do whatever they think is best for their own people, and for themselves. We are pawns in all this. Our task is to fidget and wait and do nothing of use.”
That does sound like nobles’ work, Aelfhild thought, but decided not to share. She did not like the tone of resignation she heard in her mistress’ voice, though. Ceolwen had always had that stormy nature which came with a rich upbringing; her whole life, whenever she spoke people listened and obeyed, or at least feigned obedience, and so her moods had free reign. Now that power was gone, at least for a time, and she clearly felt its absence. She needed a distraction.
“We should walk out in the market, my lady,” she said, “let the common folk see your face and know that you are with them. That you are not afraid. As a queen should be.”
Ceolwen was silent for a moment. “You think I am so easily distracted from my worries, Aela?” she asked with a hint of a smile. There was the old nickname again, and all this talk of the Matron. Aelfhild did not know what to make of this newfound wistfulness from her mistress.
“Very well,” said Ceolwen, “let us go out and see what distractions our city has to offer today.”
They wrapped themselves in woolen cloaks before leaving the hall, as the chill of winter still clung to the land even with spring’s arrival. It was just noon as they ventured out, and the city was abustle with life.
Cuthbert’s hall sat in the center of the merchant’s district, just a brief walk from the market square, where merchants behind sagging tables hawked goods from every corner of the kingdom. The cries of fishmongers mixed with those of butchers, furriers, coopers, tailors, farmers, and countless others into a wall of sound that was felt as much as heard. Livestock bleated, blacksmiths hammered on their anvils, and the thrum of commerce resonated through the entire square. Aelfhild loved to come here, to merge into the crowd, to soak in the sounds and the smells and the ceaseless cascade of motion.
As she followed Ceolwen through the market, Aelfhild noticed little change from her previous visits. A few of the merchants and peasants wore black bands of cloth around their arms or soot on their foreheads to mark the passing of the King, but for most the day was the same as any other. Kings lived and died with little real effect on these people.
Some of the commoners spared a glance at the two interlopers with their armed guards, but stopped short of staring. Aelfhild had heard stories that staring at one of the touchier nobles might cost a peasant his eye. And besides, there was real work to be done.
Ceolwen and Aelfhild were clearly out of place, marked by their clothing, their faces, their bearing. The peasants wore coarse fabrics, undyed and oft-mended. Their hands were creased, their faces sunburnt, and their backs bent by hard labor and heavy loads. Some of the wealthier merchants wore finer wool or sported brighter dyes, but nothing to match the fur around Ceolwen’s collar or the silver around her neck.
Aelfhild knew her hands were rougher than her mistress’, for few could be smoother. But they held not a patch on the woman’s palms into which Ceolwen pressed a copper coin. Standing a head taller than most folk in the market, and with hair that shimmered in the sun, Ceolwen always drew a crowd of beggars. The guards kept a few of the rougher-looking ones back, but a gaggle of women and children came to get what alms they could from the pale lady. Aelfhild could not say whether it was her appearance or demeanor, but the beggars always ignored her. She tried not to mind. They would disperse as soon as Ceolwen’s purse was empty, anyway.