‘Aye. And if you want to keep the birch off your hide, you’d better make a better job of it than you did last time.’
She stifled a sigh. Given the state her father and Aeffe had been in when they had returned from the evening’s revels at the hostelry, she wasn’t surprised at his ill temper. It was not uncommon and she’d learnt that the best way to avoid a birching was to rush to do her father’s bidding.
Once she had tried defiance – about two years ago, she had run away. Osric had caught her and hauled her back, and he’d beaten her so hard she hadn’t slept for a week. Rosamund had little love for the man who’d sired her and if a real chance of escape had presented itself, she’d have flown the coop years ago. Her fists clenched as she recalled that beating. Aeffe’s barbed remarks had stung as much as her chastised body. However hard Rosamund tried to please – and she did try – it would seem she could do no right.
‘The devil finds work for idle hands,’ Aeffe had sneered, her eyes bright with malice. ‘Laziness, my Osric, has twisted your daughter’s mind. She’s a wicked, wicked girl. Keep her busy, Osric, my love, and she won’t have time for foolish fancies. I’ll teach her where her duty lies. And think how our profits will rise...’
Aeffe had smiled winningly at Osric. Osric, who denied Aeffe nothing, and his daughter everything. Osric, who never asked his wife to lift a finger if she didn’t want to, but who only had to look at Rosamund to set her racing hither and yon. She frowned, wishing it could be otherwise.
Naturally, her father noticed the frown. ‘I’ll have none of your lip, girl, get to work.’
Rosamund scurried to obey. The plain truth was that her father didn’t love her. She had to make the best of it. She might have been born the daughter of a freewoman, but that didn’t mean she could really run off and leave. Where should she go? What should she do? She held in a sigh. What use was freedom if you could do nothing with it? She was tied to Ingerthorpe and the mill in much the same way as the peasant farmers were tied to the land.
At least her father never starved her. He needed her strong to work. I expect if I could work on nothing, he would give me nothing, she thought bitterly. Notwithstanding, she kept trying to please him. She worked hard, hoping that if she was good, if she pleased him, he’d learn to love her.
She tilted her head to one side and with an expert eye examined the level of the grindstones. She shifted one of the weights. No, that was no better. She shifted another. Nor that. ‘Father?’
‘What?’ Her father was clutching his forehead, his expression pained. He was nursing a monumental hangover and it looked as though Rosamund was going to suffer the consequences of his excesses. His usually florid face was the colour of flour paste. His head probably felt as though a warhorse had done a dance on it. An image took shape in Rosamund’s mind – she could see a great grey stallion called Lance and his handsome rider, tall and straight and...she could feel a smile forming. Quickly, she concealed it.
‘Father?’
Her father groaned. ‘There’s no need to shriek like a fish-wife.’
‘These grindstones aren’t balancing any better than the others.’
‘Saints, you’re useless. Can you do nothing?’ Osric stumped towards the ladder and climbed up, muttering curses with every step.
‘It’s not my fault,’ Rosamund said, as her father shoved her unceremoniously out of the way and bent to peer at the stones. ‘The furrows need re-cutting. Same as those.’ She pointed at the millstones currently out of use. ‘It’s a good while since Alfwold was here and until he dresses the stones, they’ll only get worse. Where is he? Wasn’t he due a month back?’
Her father gave her a sly grin and pinched her cheek. It wasn’t a loving gesture and it hurt.
‘Longing to see your betrothed, are you?’
‘No!’ She swallowed. ‘Normally, Alfwold comes to dress the stones before May Day. Has anything happened to him? Shouldn’t he be here by now?’ Rosamund didn’t want to see Alfwold, but she knew it was inevitable. She’d rather know when the meeting was to be, than have it sprung on her when she wasn’t braced for it.
Osric grunted, he was frowning as he moved the weights on top of the runner, first one way, then another. He didn’t seem to have heard her. It struck her that he had grown almost ugly. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one to suffer the consequences of her father’s excesses, he looked completely wrecked. He was over-weight and his chins wobbled when he shook his head. He was unusually pasty today, though she had seen those jowls darken to purple when he was enraged. There were great lines and wrinkles in his forehead – lately he seemed to be wearing a permanent frown. His eyes were shifty, but that wasn’t surprising given what Aeffe had him do. Rosamund couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen his eyes look clear. He hadn’t always been like this...