Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(15)
Turning inland, she peered into the murk beyond the beach, past the shadows of the tree line. The evening light revealed no secrets, so she used her other senses. She drew in a deep breath. The smell of loam, earthy and sweet, was thick on the air, with a tinge of something manmade: woodsmoke.
She mentioned it to Cuthbert, and the old bear flashed a toothy grin. “Well done, you are getting the hang of it,” he said. “And what do you hear?”
“Birdsong,” she replied, after cocking an ear toward the trees.
The Eorl nodded. “I think we left our friends behind some way back. But still, no reason to take chances. They might have gone to fetch more friends.”
They carried the boat up from the water’s edge, each lending a shoulder, and set it amongst a patch of ferns. Fronds and branches from the surrounding copse further concealed the hull. When Cuthbert seemed satisfied that the boat was well enough hidden, he slung his linen sack over his shoulder and turned to the others.
“There is a safe spot, not far from here, where we can rest for a while. Watch your footing—there are no cobblestones on these streets.” He paused, but no one laughed. Aelfhild knew the comment had been pointed at her and her mistress, and was more offended than amused. True, they were born and bred in the capital, but they had both in fact walked in the woods before.
Bercthun and the Eorl led them through the trees in the dying light, making even, quiet progress through the spring ferns and branches heavy with early growth. Aelfhild and Ceolwen followed behind, tripping, stumbling, slipping, and muttering choice phrases.
The snarl of a protruding root hooked Aelfhild’s foot, and she flailed out ahead of her. She grunted as her palms scraped against bark, coming away raw and throbbing. In her mind, she willed Cuthbert not to turn around. In part, she did not want to show him he was right, but she also worried that any smug words on his part might cause her mistress to say something they would both later regret. Ceolwen was faring no better herself.
After a fair hike, they stepped—or stumbled, according to their ability—onto a dirt path, two ruts worn deep into the dark soil with patches of anemic grass in between. Cuthbert took them north along it. The track meandered through thicket and forest, leading them to a clearing where a cottage stood.
A sod roof rose directly from the ground to a peak in the middle, and a ring of limewashed stones was spread about to mark out the edges. Smoke rose in lazy wisps from a hole in the eaves, and cracks in the shutters over the lone window hinted at warmth within.
Past a stretch of split rail, Aelfhild could see a yard swept painstakingly clean. At one end was a chicken coop, shuttered for the night. At the other, rows of firewood stacked with somewhat alarming precision and arranged according to size. She liked these folk already. Good order was the key to keeping any house, be it a hut or a hall. Bercthun opened the gate, allowing the others to pass through and taking care to fasten it again behind them. An aged, rheumy-eyed wolfhound looked up from the bone it was gnawing as they crossed the yard. The dog watched them pass without much interest, then returned to its work.
The entrance to the cottage was sunken into the earth at the foot of a few dirt steps. Cuthbert rapped on the flimsy wooden door with his knuckles.
There was a commotion inside, something clattered to the floor amidst muffled oaths. “Who knocks? I told you already we got nothing for you little bastards to steal!” came a rasp from within.
“Open this door, you old brigand!” shouted Cuthbert, mirth in his voice belying the harsh words, “Or have you forgotten your old friend Cuthbert?”
After a moment of scraping and fumbling with the latch, the door opened to reveal a hobbled old man beneath a crown of unruly white hair. He beamed at the Eorl in his doorway, his eyes wide and watery with surprise.
“My lord Cuthbert!” he said, hobbling out of the doorway to greet his visitors. “It has been an age!”
The old man made as if to hug the Eorl, a task complicated by the fact that he had only a single arm. Aelfhild noticed with a start that his left arm ended in a nub just below the shoulder. She tried not to stare but failed. Cuthbert returned the gesture with a sort of ginger affection, not insincere but clearly trying to hold back his accustomed bone-crushing squeeze.
“Good to see you, old friend,” the Eorl said. “I bring guests, Swidhelm, and come to you for shelter on a cold night.”
“Of course, of course,” said the old man, peering past Cuthbert at the other travelers. “All are welcome, get yourselves inside.” He waved them in over the threshold.
They introduced themselves as they passed into the cottage, Swidhelm offering a short bow to each in return. As he went to close the door, Aelfhild heard his last comment to the wolfhound.
“Some watchdog!” he muttered and slammed the door.
Swidhelm’s home was not the King’s Great Hall. No, Aelfhild thought, it is better. They had to duck beneath herbs, fish heads, and dried game that hung from the rafters as they entered. Boxes, sacks, and barrels filled every corner and nook, hemming in a living space just large enough for two people, provided the pair got on well enough. A rickety table and two benches stood in front of the hearth where an iron cauldron hung from the spit, bubbling over the embers. Aelfhild smelled soup—cabbage and a hint of leek. Her mouth watered.
There was only one piece of decoration. A sword in its scabbard hung over top of a shield above the mantle, and they were the only items in the house that did not show the withering of age. The leather of the scabbard was dark with oil, the boss of the shield polished to a ghostly gleam in the firelight.