The Valcourt Heiress (Medieval Song 7)

Garron stared at her, blanching at the picture forming in his mind. “It is difficult for me to see you as a young girl, Miggins.”

“That is because ye are a man with little enough brain. It is very sad. Ye must stop abusing her. Now ye’ve frightened her with yer lust.”

“He does not frighten me, Miggins. Look at him, he is getting scared because he knows I will make him pay for walloping me.”

She was enjoying herself, the little witch. She rubbed her bottom harder.

Garron heard a laugh, then another. Soon laughter filled the inner bailey.

“Gentle sweet girl,” he whispered in her ear, “by all the saints’ hairy knees, yielding? That is nearly enough to make me burst my guts laughing.” He patted her face. “Ah, what wonderful laughter. Just listen, everyone knows how yielding you are. Come now, Merry, ’tis time for you to show respect to the Chancellor of England even if he is in the sweet-smelling jakes puking up his guts with all the ale.”

She stared up at him. “Will you lick me like Miggins’s Ulric did to her?” Whilst he gaped at her, she turned to Miggins. “This licking behind the knees, do all men want to do it?”

Garron didn’t think the laughter could be any louder, but he was wrong.

“Aye, and a fine thing it be,” Miggins said, her scratchy old voice suddenly sounding girlish with memories.

That terrifying image undoubtedly flashed in every man’s mind in the inner bailey.

He grabbed her arms and pulled her up close against him, to every eye, a sign he was not through chastising her. “Do you know, if you like, I will allow you to visit my bed and we can see what this licking is all about.”

Merry sighed. “There is only one bed and it is for Robert Burnell.”

Garron realized he had no problem with kicking Burnell out of the master’s bed. “If I set the men to work, there will be another by nightfall. What say you?”

“There isn’t enough time.”

His eyes nearly crossed. Everyone was still laughing, listening for all they were worth. Everyone had misunderstood, which was the point, only not really. The point had changed remarkably in the past few minutes. He had to change that—and so he hammered in one more nail. He said, his voice hard and loud, “You are a nag. Even at your tender years, you have the rudiments of nagging down quite well.” He saw her purse her lips, but she understood. He then tapped his finger to her nose, and said, his voice perfectly serious now, “Did you learn it from your precious Lady Anne?”

“No, my mother left and went to an abbey.”

A small piece of the truth, and that was something. Her mother had become a nun? He waited, but she shook her head.

“You are stubborn as one of those mules,” and he turned on his heel and walked to the soldiers barracks, where ten men were alternately looking at the dark sky and sawing wood. No more laughter now, only fierce concentration on completing tasks before the rain came.

Miggins, thankfully deceived, petted Merry, straightened her hair, tucked in two small braids that had come out of the crown of braids on her head, smoothed down her skirts. “Do ye want to tell me who ye really are? Ye can practice on me, smooth out all the hillocks in yer story before ye tell the young lord.”

“The young lord is content to wait,” Merry said. She noticed the women standing behind Miggins, all of them leaning toward her, worry on their faces. Worry for her? Because they believed Garron had whipped her?

Miggins said, “Heed me, Merry, he is a man, a warrior, strong and fearless, just like ye said. Oh aye, ye are a warrior too, little mite.”

The women all nodded.

“Surely I did not say he was fearless. Did I?”

“Something close to that. Listen to me. Sometimes men need to drink ale so their brains will loosen their tongues so they may air their worries, their fears, their doubts. Aye, ale smoothes out all the boulders in their brains so they may begin to think again, to plan, and take action, once they are sober.”

“Evidently the chancellor had a great many boulders in his brain.”

Miggins nodded. “Aye. Now women fret in a different way.”

Elaine said, “My Eric never drank himself into a stupor, he ate.” She sighed. “Not that it mattered. He was thin as a nail, thinner than the arrows he shot.?

?

“Like Elaine’s Eric, I eat,” said Tulia, who carried a bowl of almonds in her large, rough hands. She handed them around. All the women laughed.

Merry kicked a pebble at her foot. “Other than eating, what is our different way?”