Osric looked up from the runner. ‘Where’s Aeffe?’
‘Still abed,’ Rosamund replied, giving him a tentative smile.
The smile was a mistake. Osric’s face darkened. ‘Watch your lip, girl. Your stepmother had a busy time yesterday, she’s resting.’ He bent over the stones.
With his back stooped and his belly hanging over his belt, her father was round as a wheel. What had happened to the tall man who walked through her memory? What did Aeffe see in him?
Aeffe was a pretty woman – she might have had almost any of the village freemen for her husband. But she had chosen Osric. Rosamund thought she knew why. Looks had nothing to do with it, nor a good nature. It was money Aeffe craved. Her father’s pilfering of the villagers’ grain – a handful here, a handful there – kept her well supplied.
‘Bone idle, that’s what you are. Bone idle,’ he muttered.
‘Father, that’s not true! I’ve been sieving the grain, so it would be ready when-’
‘Blast this stone!’ His voice was tight with anger. ‘And blast Alfwold. He swore blind he’d be here at daybreak. Where the hell is he? If I’ve managed to get to my feet, then by Christ, so should he!’
Rosamund’s heart cramped. ‘Alfwold’s in Eskdale?’
‘I thought that news might wake you.’
Rosamund’s father knew she had no particular liking for Alfwold, the betrothal had been Aeffe’s idea. It was a business deal, pure and simple. As far as Osric was concerned, his daughter didn’t need to like the man. What mattered was that Osric liked him. They had something in common – Alfwold knew how to put back his ale. Aeffe liked Alfwold too, she enjoyed hearing the stories he’d picked up on his travels. That was enough.
If Osric and Aeffe could put up with the thought of Alfwold sharing the upper chamber with them, that was what counted. Rosamund’s likes and dislikes were considered irrelevant. Petty. Business was business, and her father had said more than once that Aeffe was right to put it first. He was nearing forty, he was already old. With no son he needed someone reliable to take over the mill. Aeffe had pointed out to him most clearly that he should be thinking ahead.
Osric had never chastised his wife for forcing him to ponder on the problems that befell a man in his declining years. He had said he wasn’t afraid to think about dying. In his view, Aeffe was quite right, someone did have to think about these things, it wasn’t the least bit morbid. Aeffe was so much younger than he. Osric had smiled fondly. He was proud to have her – a mere child of eight and twenty and still a beauty, by God! He was a lucky man.
Osric grunted and moved a weight one last time. His brow furrowed as he thought about his plans for the mill. Aeffe was right, he would be dancing with Death before she. She did right to look to her future. With Alfwold running the mill as he, Osric, would teach him, Aeffe would be safe. Aye, it was only natural for a woman to plan ahead in this way.
‘It’s no good.’ He shook his head. ‘We really need Alfwold. I thought we’d get another day’s work out of these stones, but they’re ground out. Where the devil has he got to?’
Rosamund turned and stared blindly through the window slit overlooking the millpond. It was as though a fog had blown in off the sea, she saw nothing – not the dawn light shining in the millpond, not the road past the mill. Nothing.
‘Rosamund?’ Her father’s voice finally penetrated. ‘Rosamund?’
Her eyes refocused. ‘Father?’
‘Well? Do you see him?’
She tried to gather her wits. What had her father been asking? His words seemed to drift past, as vague and insubstantial as dandelion seeds. ‘See who?’
‘Heaven help me, the Lord has seen fit to bless me with a lackwit instead of a daughter!’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘I thought you were looking out for Alfwold. Do you see him?’
The path running past the mill was empty. ‘There’s no sign of him, Father.’ Her lips felt oddly stiff, as if they didn’t belong to her.
Osric made an impatient noise, like a growl. ‘Go down the road a ways and see if you can find him. Drag him from the hostelry if needs be, that man of yours has work to do.’
Rosamund closed her eyes.
‘Did you hear me, Rosamund?’
‘Yes, Father.’ She put her foot onto the top rung of the ladder.
‘And Rosamund?’
‘Father?’
‘Be nice to Alfwold. You know what I mean. Nice. He told me how much he’s been looking forward to seeing you, don’t disappoint him.’
‘No, Father,’ she said, outwardly the dutiful daughter. Inwardly...