Chapter Three
‘Hurry up with the stew, Rosamund,’ Aeffe said, calling out from the mill doorway where she was combing her yellow hair with her favourite ivory comb. ‘I’m famished!’
From the cookhouse across the yard, Rosamund sent her stepmother a look of exasperation. Twilight was falling and she was being as quick as she could, she hated cooking in the dark. ‘If you stopped preening and came to help, it wouldn’t take so long.’
Aeffe scowled and opened her mouth to reply, but just then Alfwold and Osric appeared and she folded her lips together. Even from across the yard, Rosamund could see Aeffe’s eyes glittering with dislike. She’d have to pay for that unguarded remark, albeit not with Osric and Alfwold watching, Aeffe was too clever for that. She would bide her time and it would be done in such a way that no-one knew what she was about.
‘That smells good,’ Alfwold said. He came to stand on the cookhouse threshold, as oblivious of the undercurrents flowing between the two women, as he was of the fact that he was blocking Rosamund’s light. ‘So good that it distracted me and made me lay aside my tools too early for your father’s liking.’ Squeezing into the tiny cookhouse, he craned his neck to peer into the blackened pot hanging from the central roof beam.
Rosamund smiled and went on stirring the stew.
‘Have you done, girl?’ Osric called from across the yard, he sounded as impatient as his wife. ‘Why isn’t it ready? I thought fish was quick to cook.’
Under her breath Rosamund muttered, ‘It is when it’s not been dried as hard as a board.’ Aloud she said, ‘Almost.’ She was grateful the fishing season had started, cooking fish-meat that bore the texture of leather was a thankless task in Osric’s mill. She’d not be the only one to welcome fresh fish.
‘Bring it over then, for pity’s sake,’ Osric said. ‘And then you can go and fetch a pitcher of ale, I’ve the thirst of the devil. Take the large pitcher, mind.’ He wound his arm about his wife’s waist and they disappeared into the mill.
Rosamund sighed.
‘I’ll go to the alewife,’ Alfwold said.
‘Thank you, but they want me to go.’
‘Give me a kiss, and I’ll do it. You’ve done enough today, my lass.’
Rosamund willed herself not to flinch as he brought his scarred face closer. Fingers clutching the wooden spoon, she offered him her cheek.
‘That’s all I get?’ he said.
‘M...my vow.’ Her eyes avoided his.
‘Oh, aye, the vow. For a moment I forgot. Where’s the jug?’
Rosamund pointed at it and bent her head over the thick stew. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him hesitate in the doorway. Reluctantly, she looked across. ‘Alfwold?’
‘When we are wed, Rosamund, I shall expect you to be more...demonstrative. You must be prepared to give me more than a peck.’
‘I know. I will. But you must wait until after the wedding.’ She turned back to the pot, and stirred vigorously. The pot swung to and fro on its chain.
‘We’ll be eating pulp at that rate,’ Alfwold said, gently.
‘What?’
He smiled. ‘The pottage.’
‘Oh!’ Rosamund snatched the spoon from the cauldron and the light strengthened. Alfwold had gone.
***
‘Tomorrow I’ll go to up to the castle and ask Baron Geoffrey how much merchet he’ll be wanting for the wedding,’ Osric said, speaking through a mouth full of stew.
Rosamund paused in the middle of serving Aeffe’s portion. ‘Merchet?’
‘Aye, you half-wit.’ Aeffe’s voice held a sneer. ‘Merchet. Though it doesn’t seem fair that we should pay for the privilege of seeing you wed.’
The family was seated round a trestle table next to the millwheel gearing on the ground floor. Alfwold had yet to return from the tavern. They were wearing their cloaks – Osric wouldn’t allow anyone to light a fire in his mill. They’d heard about another mill which had caught alight – there’d been an explosion and the miller and his family had been killed.
‘The merchet.’ Rosamund’s heart sank. ‘You mean the maiden rent.’
‘At last, it takes a while, but she gets there in the end,’ Aeffe said. She was still dragging the comb through her hair.
Osric grunted and paused with his spoon half way to his mouth. ‘Where’s Alfwold with my ale?’
‘Here, Aeffe, your supper.’ Rosamund slid a bowl across.
Her stepmother looked at it down her nose. ‘You call that supper?’ She was using what Rosamund thought of as her ‘lady of the manor voice’ and just then her comb caught in a knot. ‘Holy Mother,’ Aeffe said, giving it a sharp pull.