moment, but she couldn’t. The cook might be snoring fit to rival Lady Morda but not even that old besom would snore through Liam, screaming. And scream he would, for certain, if his Ellyn set him down on the floor.
“Here,” said Nelda, pouring more ale. For all she was young and skinny, she hefted the pitcher as though it weighed light as air. “Drink up.” With the tankard full again she stepped back, and sighed at sleeping Liam. “Ah, he’s a fine boy, Ellyn. It’s strong milk you’ve got, him growing so fast.”
She swallowed half her fresh ale before answering. “True, he’s a bonny lamb. And yours, Nelda? Tygo? He seems fine, too.”
“Ais,” said Nelda, nodding. “No sign of sickly on him, at least not so far. Not as brave as little Liam, though, for all he’s a moon older.”
Ellyn hid her face in her tankard. And why would a kitchen drudge’sbrat be any like to her lamb, Tygo being planted in Nelda by a passing trinket-man, not a duke? But it seemed unkind to say as much, especially after that tasty pottage, so she drank more ale instead.
“If he stays small, he’ll find work here on the turnspit, like little Thom and his kind,” said Nelda, with a frowning glance at the three kitchen boys gnawing heels of bread along the wall beside the fireplace. “My mam’s told me I dursn’t hope for more.”
With a ripe burp, Ellyn pushed the emptied tankard to one side. “He’ll be warm in winter, any road.”
“Ais, and soused in sweat othertimes,” said Nelda, sighing. Then she ruffled herself, like a hen. “But tie my tongue for griping. There be fathers what drown their daughters’ bastard brats, and mams as tell them to do it. Tygo’s living and he’s with me. I’ve no cause to gobble.” Stepping briskly, she returned the ale pitcher to its slab-sided stone jar in the corner furthest from the flame-warmed hearth. “Not to you, leastways. You lost your own, I’m told. That’s a sad thing and I’m sorry for it.”
Fussing with Liam’s scarlet blanket, Ellyn made a grunting sound that could’ve meant anything. Let Nelda decide, it was easier.
“I’d ask you, Ellyn, if I could,” Nelda started, but then a coming-closer pattering of footsteps in the corridor beyond the night kitchen turned her. A moment later one of Heartsong’s pages scuttled in, puffed up in his green velvet tunic and fine wool hose, a little Clemen lordling.
“An’ it please His Grace the Duke,” the page piped, “but he’s wanting supper served.”
Because she had to, because this was a favoured lord’s son and she was common as muck, Nelda spread her apron and bobbed a curtsey. “An’ it please His Grace the Duke,” she answered, “fetch the other pages, sir, for you see the duke’s supper is here ready and waiting.”
“I see it,” said the page, his eyes wide with greed. “I shall return in a moment.”
“There now, Ellyn, you’d best go,” said Nelda, as the page scuttled out. “For in a tricket I’ll have him and his friends underfoot like mice. Aunt Cook, Aunt Cook—” An urgent hand shook the heedless woman’s shoulder. “Supper for the duke, Aunt Cook.” She turned to the kitchen brats. “Come on, you little toads! On your feet!”
Wrapped once more in her coarse woollen cloak, Ellyn left the old woman snorting awake, the kitchen brats cramming the last of their bread and Nelda pushing her bastard brat to safety beneath the longkitchen bench, and made her own way with Liam back to their eyrie. One pause on the minstrels’ gallery, to snatch a last glimpse of Duke Harald. For all his smiles he looked weary, packed about with pushing lords and ladies. After him for favours, always, they were. No matter what the duke gave them it was never enough. Never enough for the lady Argante, either. Greedy bitch. All the fine things he’d given her, and not once did she open her mouth to the duke if it wasn’t to ask for more. She was in his lap down there, wriggling. What a
“Here,” said Nelda, pouring more ale. For all she was young and skinny, she hefted the pitcher as though it weighed light as air. “Drink up.” With the tankard full again she stepped back, and sighed at sleeping Liam. “Ah, he’s a fine boy, Ellyn. It’s strong milk you’ve got, him growing so fast.”
She swallowed half her fresh ale before answering. “True, he’s a bonny lamb. And yours, Nelda? Tygo? He seems fine, too.”
“Ais,” said Nelda, nodding. “No sign of sickly on him, at least not so far. Not as brave as little Liam, though, for all he’s a moon older.”
Ellyn hid her face in her tankard. And why would a kitchen drudge’sbrat be any like to her lamb, Tygo being planted in Nelda by a passing trinket-man, not a duke? But it seemed unkind to say as much, especially after that tasty pottage, so she drank more ale instead.
“If he stays small, he’ll find work here on the turnspit, like little Thom and his kind,” said Nelda, with a frowning glance at the three kitchen boys gnawing heels of bread along the wall beside the fireplace. “My mam’s told me I dursn’t hope for more.”
With a ripe burp, Ellyn pushed the emptied tankard to one side. “He’ll be warm in winter, any road.”
“Ais, and soused in sweat othertimes,” said Nelda, sighing. Then she ruffled herself, like a hen. “But tie my tongue for griping. There be fathers what drown their daughters’ bastard brats, and mams as tell them to do it. Tygo’s living and he’s with me. I’ve no cause to gobble.” Stepping briskly, she returned the ale pitcher to its slab-sided stone jar in the corner furthest from the flame-warmed hearth. “Not to you, leastways. You lost your own, I’m told. That’s a sad thing and I’m sorry for it.”
Fussing with Liam’s scarlet blanket, Ellyn made a grunting sound that could’ve meant anything. Let Nelda decide, it was easier.
“I’d ask you, Ellyn, if I could,” Nelda started, but then a coming-closer pattering of footsteps in the corridor beyond the night kitchen turned her. A moment later one of Heartsong’s pages scuttled in, puffed up in his green velvet tunic and fine wool hose, a little Clemen lordling.
“An’ it please His Grace the Duke,” the page piped, “but he’s wanting supper served.”
Because she had to, because this was a favoured lord’s son and she was common as muck, Nelda spread her apron and bobbed a curtsey. “An’ it please His Grace the Duke,” she answered, “fetch the other pages, sir, for you see the duke’s supper is here ready and waiting.”
“I see it,” said the page, his eyes wide with greed. “I shall return in a moment.”
“There now, Ellyn, you’d best go,” said Nelda, as the page scuttled out. “For in a tricket I’ll have him and his friends underfoot like mice. Aunt Cook, Aunt Cook—” An urgent hand shook the heedless woman’s shoulder. “Supper for the duke, Aunt Cook.” She turned to the kitchen brats. “Come on, you little toads! On your feet!”
Wrapped once more in her coarse woollen cloak, Ellyn left the old woman snorting awake, the kitchen brats cramming the last of their bread and Nelda pushing her bastard brat to safety beneath the longkitchen bench, and made her own way with Liam back to their eyrie. One pause on the minstrels’ gallery, to snatch a last glimpse of Duke Harald. For all his smiles he looked weary, packed about with pushing lords and ladies. After him for favours, always, they were. No matter what the duke gave them it was never enough. Never enough for the lady Argante, either. Greedy bitch. All the fine things he’d given her, and not once did she open her mouth to the duke if it wasn’t to ask for more. She was in his lap down there, wriggling. What a
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