Page 18 of Viking in Love

Gerard inhaled with exasperation. “The lady has ordered all dogs out of the hall.”

“You have?” He turned to the woman.

“They are a peril to people’s health.”

“Dogs are unhealthy?” Methinks women are the unhealthy ones…unhealthy to a man’s well-being.

“Well, not dogs as such. Dogs in an eating place. The dog products, I mean.”

“She means shit and piss and fleas and such,” Gerard explained.

“Christ’s cross! I know what she means.”

“And drool,” she added, as if one more dog sin mattered.

“The men will not be pleased,” Gerard pointed out. “They like to toss bones and rotted meat to the rushes.”

“My point precisely. Rotten rushes.” She preened as if she had won some important argument.

“Should I countermand her orders?” Gerard asked.

“I am standing right here. You do not have to speak over me,” the lady said.

Caedmon was about to say something rude, when he sniffed the air. There was the most delicious odor.

Without asking, Lady Havenshire told him, “My sister Ingrith has taken over…I mean, she is helping to straighten out your kitchen. That is bread you smell baking.”

He was fairly certain that his eyes had crossed again at the words “taken over.” But, at the same time, his traitorous stomach growled with hunger.

“Princess Ingrith is making quail in dill-cream sauce for dinner,” Gerard further informed him, indignant. “Such fancy fare for fighting men! But she would not heed my warning.”

“Ingrith tends to be a bit domineering,” Lady Havenshire conceded, even as she turned and ordered a maid—a maid with big bosoms fair pouring out of her ill-fitting gown—to work faster, with a sarcastic observation, “We are raking hay here, not growing it.” For such a small woman, she had a booming voice that nigh made his brain explode inside his head, which was surely twice its normal size.

Just then a bare-arsed boy toddled up to him and grabbed at his knees, staring up at him with huge brown eyes. ’Twas one-year-old Piers, who was at least clean today, his hair definitely a pale blond. In truth, the mite looked more like Geoff than him. He lifted the little one up into his arms and chucked him under the chin, which caused the child to giggle and say, “Fafa.”

“I think he means ‘Father.’” Lady Havenshire smiled wistfully at the child.

He scowled at her. “Where is this child’s nursemaid?” he yelled at the top of his lungs, causing Lady Havenshire to jump, Gerard to flinch, and the child to whimper.

A big-chested girl, no more than sixteen, came hurrying from the kitchen area. “Sorry, master, but the boy got away from me.”

“Who are you?”

“Mary. Me mother is the dairymaid.”

“Edgiva?”

She nodded and reached out for the child. “Come, Piers. You need a nappy and a warm gown.”

“He could have fallen into one of the hearth fires,” Lady Havenshire remarked, the criticism levied more at him than the child’s minder.

Piers chose that moment to prove that he was all boy by aiming his little pizzle at Caedmon’s chest, soaking his clean tunic. Then he flashed him a toothless grin.

Shaking his head, Caedmon handed over the child, then headed for the double doors leading out to the bailey and the still continuous pounding.

Bam, bam, bam!

“Can my life get any worse than this?” he muttered.