He roused to the flickering light of the bonfire behind his eyes, to the shouts and laughter of the people who still danced, the whispered moans of those who had succumbed to the lure of wearing the green' in the form of grass stains on their clothing. Slowly he withdrew himself from the woman and tucked himself back inside his braies. .
'What was that word you shouted, my lord?' His partner tugged her bunched-up skirts back down over her legs and sat up beside him. Her fingers combed through her coarse blonde hair and she straightened the hawthorn crown on top of her head. 'Was it a charm?'
Rolf shook his head. He had not intended to cry out at all, but the intensity of his climax, the fair hair, the body arched beneath him in passion, had roused a powerful spectre from his imagination and clothed it with life. 'A charm,' he repeated and smiled with irony. 'I suppose you could call it that. An English one.' He tugged a strand of her hair and grinned. 'Riding always gives me a thirst. Go and fetch a jug of cider, there's a good lass.'
She wove unsteadily away to do his bidding. Rolf reclined on the grass, pillowed his head on his hands, and looked at the stars.
The worse for drink, old Ragnild tottered out of the shadows and regarded Rolf with gleaming, weasel eyes. 'You will get what you desire, Rolf de Brize.' She nodded as if listening to an invisible presence. 'But not without a reckoning. Break your faith, and the axe will break you.'
He jerked to a sitting position, intending to ask her what she meant, but his companion returned with a brimming jug of cider and plumped herself down beside him. Ragnild rummaged in the pouch at her waist and brought out a scrap of linen which had been twisted and tied to hold herbs. 'A pinch is all you need,' she cackled, dropping it in Rolf's lap so that it landed over the area of his genitals. 'Keep you firm as a quarterstaff all night if you've a mind to pleasure.' With a lascivious roll of her hips and a wink, she moved on towards the bonfire.
Rolf swore and hurled the scrap of linen after her, but later, in the aftermath of a second, more leisurely mating, he retrieved it from the grass and stowed it in his pouch. His head spinning with the force of the cider and the Beltane scents of crushed grass, sweat and sex, he wondered what Ragnild had meant about the axe and breaking faith.
CHAPTER 19
'It is time you ceased mourning and thought about finding another husband,' Felice told Ailith. The two women were sitting around the winter hearth peeling withies to make rush dips. It was past Yuletide and the days would gradually begin to lengthen, but there were still a three full months between now and the warmth and light of spring. 'I know that you miss Goldwin, but it is more than a year since he died. A man and household of your own would make you miss him less. And in the fullness of time you would have children too.'
'I do not want another husband.' Ailith made a conscious effort to keep her voice firm and steady. 'I am not ready yet. And Benedict still needs a wet nurse.' She glanced at the black-haired infant playing on a fleece rug near their feet. He was sturdy and strong, on the verge of taking his first steps. Morning and evening he still suckled at her breasts, and for comfort when he was tired, but more and more, urged by Felice, he was relying on other foods for sustenance, on bread smeared with marrowjelly, on wheat porridge, buttermilk and whey.
'But by the summertime he will not.' Felice added her stripped rush to the pile at her side and frowned at Ailith. 'You are welcome to live here as long as you choose, you know that. I am only thinking that it will be difficult for you. If you had a home of your own again, it would give you a new sense of purpose.'
Feelings of hostility and panic rushed through Ailith as she heard these words. Felice was making it obvious that once Benedict had dispensed of the need for a wet nurse, she intended taking full responsibility for him, and that there would be little room for Ailith.
'Perhaps I could find somewhere down by the wharves and take in washing for the sailors,' Ailith suggested cuttingly.
'Don't be so foolish!' Felice snapped. 'I said that you were welcome here — for the rest of your life if need be.'
'If you have to support me you mean!'
'Ailith, I do not wish to quarrel.' Felice's voice took on a conciliatory note. 'I just want you to think about the future. Look at us now. Will it get any better?'
Ailith blinked. She could not see to peel the rush in her hand for a sudden film of moisture. 'No,' she shook her head. 'No, it won't.'
'Oh don't cry, you will make me cry too!' Felice's own eyes filled with tears. She gave Ailith a warm, pleading hug. Ailith accepted it passively and wiped her eyes on her under-tunic sleeve. Benedict came to join in, clawing himself to a standing position at Ailith's knee, demanding to be taken on her lap. She lifted him in her arms and nuzzled his hair, drinking in his warm, heartbreaking infant smell. How could she give this up? And yet she knew it was inevitable. The child came first, she could not put her own needs before his. She had once heard a priest recite a story from the Bible about a great king called Solomon who had been asked to judge between two women as to who was the mother of a disputed infant. He had commanded that the child be cut in two and each claimant be given a half. One woman had relinquished her right so that the child might live, and she had been deemed the true mother. Ailith knew that she could not let Benedict be torn in two. She had to let him go.
Felice allowed her to cuddle Benedict and with a sigh, returned to stripping the withies. 'Aubert is bringing a guest home to eat. I thought when we have finished this, we could prepare the food.'
Ailith nodded dully. 'As you wish,' she said.
Felice pursed her lips, then added nonchalantly, 'It's Wulfstan the Goldsmith – do you remember, he was here last month?'
Ailith started to say that no, she did not remember; Aubert and Felice were always entertaining guests of one kind or another, but then an image did come to her – a tall, blond bear of a man with twinkling grey eyes and hands that he could not keep to himself. 'Yes, I know him. He palmed my rump when I took his cloak.' She had quickly disabused him of the notion that she was a serving wench with whom he could take liberties.
'That is just his way,' Felice dismissed with a wave. 'He's a superb goldsmith, the best in the city, and he's so rich. Aubert says that Wulfstan is having a grand house built near the Fleet river and that he owns a half-share in a merchant galley too.'
'Being rich does not give him the right to grope and fondle at will,' Ailith said tartly.
Felice sighed again, and expression pensive, let the subject lie.
That evening, to her displeasure, Ailith found herself seated next to the goldsmith and forced to share her dish with him as was the custom. The scented oil he had used on his beard and hair cloyed her nostrils. His tunic was crusted with gold embroidery and the belt encircling his ebullient waist was elaborately tooled with gold leaf. Rings cluttered his broad ringers. She noted that his nails were trimmed and clean. He had obviously taken great care with his appearance, and to his own taste, no doubt thought himself magnificent. Ailith thought that he looked as if he had just staggered out of the dragon's cave in one of the tales of Beowulf, laden with the monster's hoard. She smiled to herself at the whimsy, but then, feeling Wulfstan's thigh insistently brushing against hers, she thought with a chill of fear that perhaps Wulfstan himself was the dragon.
He expertly carved the small roast fowl that they were sharing, and laid the choicest breast slices on her trencher; he plied her with Aubert's best wine and kept up an amusing flow of conversation. There were deep laughter lines surrounding his grey eyes, but the eyes themselves were assessing and shrewd and never relaxed for a moment.
'Tis good to eat such fine food in good company,' Wulfstan rumbled in his gruff, bear's voice. 'Since my wife died, my own household's been mighty dolorous.'
A lump began to constrict Ailith's throat and after a few bites of the chicken, she was unable to eat any more. She sipped the wine and glared at Felice and Aubert. How dare they try and pair her off. She had not the slightest interest in Wulfstan; indeed, she found his attentions distasteful.
'You must visit more often,' Felice said sweetly, adroitly avoiding Ailith's despairing, furious stare.
'That is most kind of you, mistress,' the goldsmith acknowledged. His hand slipped beneath the table and
