The Conqueror

“I would not worry too much, my lord,” she said, gently removing the linen cloth from between his calloused, and dirty, fingertips. “Some of the men coming to pledge fealty to you are their fathers.”

He picked up a needle and twirled until she plucked it free and put it with the others, punched through a thick, boiled stretch of stiff leather, which she then deposited in a small brown pouch. “Everyone is pleased the war is over, Gwyn, except you,” he observed. “Glad to have a peaceful transition.”

“’Tis true,” she agreed pleasantly. “But I wager these ones are more grateful than most, because their daughters are here, safe and sound.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “So the girls are about politics.”

She laughed. “Hardly. Especially as most of them are not noble.”

“Ah, and we turn to another timely topic: the servants one cannot turn around but for tripping over. Why are they here?”

She paused in folding up the small square of fabric. “Their husbands have died, or their fathers and brothers, fighting for my father and the king. They have no homes, no place in the world. We need washerwomen and milk maids.”

“And almoners,” he added wryly. “I noticed our almoner is a woman.”

She smiled brightly. “She’s quite good.”

He reached for her hand. “We don’t need eighteen washerwomen, nor twelve dairy maids, Gwyn.”

“Of course we do,” she said placidly, and entwined her fingers in his. “You’ll see. Your linens will be cleaner than anyone’s in Northumbria.”

“Even the Archbishop’s?” he asked with mock astonishment, pulling her to her feet.

“Especially his.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Come, I have something for you to see.”

He walked her outside the chamber to the landing. Three slitted windows were cut deep in the six-foot rounded walls of the keep tower, which formed the landing and stairwell.

“Look,” he ordered. “Out the window.”

She walked to the northeastern window. Outside, a curl of smoke and a hub of activity bustled just inside the line of trees marking the eastern woods. She tipped her chin over her slim shoulder and smiled at him. “You’re assarting some land.”

She poked her head into the deep stone opening as far as she could. “’Tis wonderful,” she said, her voice an excited muffle. “Really, wonderful.” She pulled out, not smiling anymore. “For next year, of course. We shan’t have seed enough for the fields that are already marled and ready for planting come spring.”

He turned her by the shoulders and pointed towards the southern-facing window. She peered through. “Wagons?”

“How many?”

She looked again. “Four, five.”

“There are more coming, Gwyn. Look.”

She did. “What are they bringing?”

“What do you think?”

She leaned back and peered at him, arms crossed lightly, one eye narrowed. “Luxury or staple?”

He smiled. “Both. Something we need, but having it will make us feel rich indeed.”

She laughed and rested her cool, slim fingertips on his forearm. “Babies.”

He laughed, slung his arm around her shoulders, and pointed out the window again. “They don’t come in wagons, Gwyn. Your mother should be ashamed. Now, what do you think is inside the wagons?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion.” She snuggled into his chest. “You could have ordered us herbs from the Holy Lands or harps for the hall.”

“Grain.”