Elizabeth Chadwick - The Conquest

He was short of stature and slightly bow-legged, his hands permanently darkened from working the steel, but his warm smile and his diligent, amiable nature, made him the most handsome of men in her eyes.

'Aldred and Lyulph are bringing the Yule log tomorrow eve.' Ailith returned her attention to Goldwin, taking pleasure in seeing him enjoy the food. 'I'll have to neck those chickens before dark, I suppose.' She pulled a face. Although she was competent at all domestic tasks, killing the yard fowl was the one she disliked the most. It seemed such a betrayal of trust. You offered the birds corn from your hand day in, day out, talking to them, caring for them. Then you stole their eggs and wrung their necks at the whim of the cooking pot. She could have bought freshly killed poultry from the booths in West Chepe, but to her housewife's conditioning, that was a shocking price to pay for squeamishness.

Goldwin wiped his lips on a napkin, poured himself a mug of ale from the pitcher, and stood up. 'It'll be good to see Aldred and Lyulph again,' he commented. 'Now Earl Harold's almost sitting on the throne, they're in attendance of him all the time.' He took a long drink, topped up his mug, and stifling a replete belch, walked to the door. On the threshold he turned round.

'Aili, I forgot to tell you; old Sitric's house next door, it's going to be occupied. I saw the abbey steward this morning and he told me.'

Filled with curiosity, Ailith raised her brows. Their elderly neighbour Sitric had retired to St Peter's at Martinmas, bestowing all his worldly goods upon the monks in return for board and lodging until he should die. His house had stood empty these past four weeks, checked over now and then by the abbey's lay steward, but otherwise forlorn. 'Did he say by whom?'

'Apparently it has been rented until next hogtide by a wine merchant.' Goldwin looked down into his wine. 'A Norman wine merchant, from Rouen.'

'Oh.' Ailith did not quite know how to respond. There were plenty of Normans in London. King Edward had spent his youth across the narrow sea and his preferences were for all things French. Rumour said that he even desired to bequeath his childless crown to Duke William of Normandy, when every decent-thinking Saxon knew that it ought to go to Harold of Wessex. She grimaced. To speak of Normans in front of her brothers was to invite a tirade of abuse. But it did not follow that a person was to be spat upon just because they were foreign. Harold of Wessex himself was half-Danish.

'Don't mention it to Aldred and Lyulph,' she said. 'Leastways not tomorrow. I don't want the feast to be spoiled.'

'Why should I tell them when it is none of their business?' Goldwin answered bluntly. 'I only told you because you keep saying what a disgrace it is to have that house standing empty and unused.' He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. 'I would lief as not have Normans for neighbours myself, but I trust I can keep a civil tongue in my head. And while Aldred and Lyulph are under my roof, I will expect them to do the same.'

Ailith nodded, but looked uncertain, knowing how hot-tempered and impetuous her brothers could be. 'Is this merchant alone or does he bring a family?' she asked.

'A wife, I think the steward said, and the usual household clutter of servants.' His tone bore mingled amusement and irritation. 'You'll see when they arrive.' He left the hall. Moments later Ailith heard the clang of his hammer in the forge. Her optimistic mood somewhat dampened, she cleared the trestle and went to inspect the fruits of the shopping expedition.

When everything had been put away on the storeroom shelves, she set the women to making a bacon and pease pudding for the evening meal, together with fried fig pastries for the morrow's Yule feast. Then she took herself down the garth to the chicken run, intending to neck three victims to honour the pot.

Immediately outside the door, within easy picking distance, were Ailith's herb garden and vegetable plot. She lingered among her plants, twitching stray late weeds out of the soil, admiring the fat, white stems of her leeks, and frowning over a slug-chewed cabbage. But she could not procrastinate forever. Reluctantly she walked among the slender trunks of the young apple orchard, paused at the pig pen to scratch the sow behind her floppy grey ears, and came at last to the killing ground of the chicken run where she had intentionally kept her hens this morning. Not a bird was to be seen. Even Alaric, the indolent rooster who never did anything but eat corn and make love in a bored, absent-minded fashion with his wives, had taken advantage of the freedom offered by the latch which Ailith had failed to secure in her haste to be about other tasks.

'Bollocks!' Ailith swore, and, hands on hips, stared round the empty garden. Soon it would be dusk, and they were close enough to the countryside for foxes and stoats to be a real threat. 'Chook, chook, chook,' she called, then held her breath to listen. A light drizzle drifted down, grey and cobweb-fine. Shivering, rubbing her arms, Ailith called again.

A single, speckled biddy came running from the direction of Sitric's empty garth and began pecking hopefully in the grass around Ailith's feet. She stooped, grabbed the indignant hen, and tossed it into the fowl run, this time making sure that the door was properly latched behind it. Then she heard Alaric's unmistakable harsh crow from Sitric's side of the wattle fence. Swearing again, Ailith hitched her gown through her belt for ease of movement, marched down her own garth, round the back alley, and entered Sitric's property.

Some of her hens were pecking in the long grass of his orchard. One actually sat in the branches of a gnarled pear tree and watched her with a beadily cocked eye. The others had ranged as far as the stable buildings adjoining the house and were scratching with great gusto in the heap of old dung and straw beside the stable door.

Ailith sighed heavily and smothering the urge to scream, said instead, 'Chook, chook, chook,' in a soft, encouraging voice. The greedier, less canny ones fell for it, but the others kept their distance, revelling in their illicit freedom. Abandoning the gentle approach, Ailith waded in with grim determination. Amidst a squawking flurry of bright eyes and beaks, scaly legs and a snowstorm of detached feathers, she managed to grab two hens by their feet and toss them across into her own garth. Shouting for Wulfhild and Sigrid to come out and catch them, she made a grab for two more. Alaric, in an unaccustomed display of temper, pecked her hand and flapped to the top of the midden. Ailith looped another swatch of her kirtle through her belt and began scrambling up the damp straw after him. If she could catch Alaric and throw him over the wattle boundary, she reasoned that his wives would probably follow.

She had reached the top of the heap and was about to throw herself upon the rooster when the first rider guided his mount around the side of the building and, reining to a halt, stared at her, his mouth gaping in astonishment. Horrified, Ailith scrambled down from the dung heap, frantically tugging her gown out of her belt and shaking it down to conceal her smeared white legs.

'I beg pardon,' she stammered, gesturing at Alaric who was belligerently fluffing out his feathers at the top of the midden. 'The hens have escaped and I'm trying to catch them!' Even through her panic she assumed that the rider was a representative of the abbey, for he was dressed in the sober, good-quality garments typical of an administrator. Her notion was disabused even before he spoke by the appearance of a second rider who certainly had no connection with the church. It was a young woman, her oval face possessed of symmetrical, delicate features, her eyes soft and dark beneath plucked, Romanesque brows. Slim, beringed hands competently checked her high-stepping chestnut mare. Her cloak and overgown were richly embroidered.