Page 8 of Viking in Love

They were all silent, trying to decide their best choice of action.

“There is one place we could go,” Tyra offered hesitantly.

“Where?” Breanne and Vana asked as one.

“A distant kinsman of Adam’s lives in the far north, one day’s travel by horse. Larkspur, his estate is called. Yea, we could go ‘visit’ Adam’s cousin Caedmon, a high-ranking knight. Surely, he would not deny us hospitality.”

“That might work.” Breanne tapped her closed lips thoughtfully.

“And, really, it would only be a temporary imposition,” Tyra added. “I will ask Adam to get the support of his Saxon family in our cause whilst we are gone. We have naught to worry about.”

Breanne was not so sure about that.

What do we know about this Caedmon?

CHAPTER THREE

Home, not-so-sweet home…

Caedmon had no sooner entered the great hall of Larkspur than he was assaulted from all sides. His steward, Gerard; his castellan, Henry; and what seemed like a dozen children.

Ominously, one of the serving maids stood nearby holding a wailing newborn babe. The whelp could not possibly be his, but still the hairs stood out on the back of his neck.

Wulf and Geoff chortled with humor and went off searching for ale. Lucky men!

First, his steward, Gerard: “Cook has quit. Slipped in the offal on her way from the kitchen, and—”

“Awful what?”

“Not awful. Offal,” Gerard gave him a disgusted look, and translated succinctly: “Dog shit in the rushes.”

“Oh.” Already the turmoil starts.

“Amicia says she will not return ’til new rushes are put down.”

“So, why not lay down new rushes?” I feel as if I live in the land of idiots.

“Because she also wants the dogs put outside.”

“Ah!” Caedmon knew that the men liked to have the dogs about to catch the odd bone. “What else?”

“We have run out of meat. The larder is nigh empty. The cotters were late planting spring oats and barley due to the rains. There are weevils in the flour. The sheep need shearing. A half dozen cows are in heat and need to be serviced, but we have no bull at the ready. Lice have infested the chicken flock, and—”

Mayhap going off to war with Edgar is not so unappealing, after all. Caedmon raised a hand. “Leave off for now.” Then he turned to Henry.

“We must needs replenish our supply of arrows and small swords. Three attacks by brigands did we sustain in your absence, and our weaponry is sorely diminished. In addition, cattle have been stolen in recent sennights. No doubt by those bloody Scots, the MacLeans. John the Bowman was killed in one of the attacks, and his widow is wanting more than a widow’s share for wergild.”

Without waiting to hear more, Caedmon exhaled with frustration, then gave his attention to the children he saw running about. Their garments and faces and hands were looking more than filthy. His widowed sister, Alys, who had been given charge of the children, had much to answer for.

“Where is Alys?” he asked no one in particular.

“Gone to Jorvik with a passing merchant. She said—” Henry stopped mid-sentence, as if he’d said too much. His aged face, framed by overlong white hair, bloomed red.

Caedmon arched his brows at Henry in a manner that said he best speak up or suffer the consequences.

Henry sighed deeply, then revealed: “She said Bowdyn…that is the merchant’s name…has wicked fingers that bring out the sinner in her. And she said she has been a saint too long, that she has waited overlong for you to find her a husband. You should have heard the lewd moans and groans coming from her bedchamber.” He rolled his eyes meaningfully. “Personally, I think the children got to be too much for her.”

What else is new? Well, one more problem to be dealt with, Caedmon decided, but naught he could do about it at the moment. Besides, Alys was thirty, far from a girling. As for him finding her a husband, she had buried three already.