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“Wretched stuff.” Edlyn stepped away from it. She’d suffered its effects more than once in her search for herbs.

Neda gestured to the keep. “It creeps up the walls of the castle all the way to the top of the battlements, finding root between the stones. I fight it constantly. We’ll tear it out and have it burned.”

“Be careful,” Edlyn warned. “Even the smoke is tainted and blisters the skin and claws at the eyes.”

“Then I’ll be sure to do it before the ceremony.” Neda smiled. “We don’t want to poison our guests before they can swear their fealty.”

17

“We’ll go to the blacksmith next.”

“Aye, let me see the man who will shoe my horse.” Hugh said it heartily, but in his wildest imaginings, he’d never thought he’d be following his steward, a dozen of his curious knights on his heels. So far, he had inspected muddy fields, village huts, storage barns, and all the while, rain dripped down his neck. Was this the life of a lord?

He walked slowly until Sir Lyndon had caught up with him. “This could wear on a diligent knight quickly.”

It was just a quip, a quick word to try to lighten Sir Lyndon’s displeasure, but it didn’t work. The corners of Sir Lyndon’s mouth lifted briefly, and he said distantly, “Aye, my lord, ’tis true.”

Hugh walked on, trying to think of something else to say, but Sir Lyndon sulked like a woman. No, like a child, because Hugh had never seen Edlyn behave so perversely.

“Ah, let th’ new earl alone, ye ol’ mule!” a woman’s voice brayed.

Hugh looked up and saw her standing in the doorway of one village hut, her generous bosom lightly laced into a flimsy shift.

She gestured at Burdett. “He wants a drink o’ me ale.” She grinned at Hugh and showed several missing teeth. “Don’t ye, m’ lord?”

“Ale.”

Hugh heard Wharton exhale the word like a man’s dying prayer. Wharton was no doubt bored, and all of Hugh’s men wore similar glazed expressions. Only Sir Lyndon looked polite, and Hugh couldn’t wait to escape his company.

Hugh made a decision of which Burdett would disapprove. “Aye,” he said. “I want a mug of ale to wet my throat.”

As Hugh anticipated, Burdett looked shocked. “But we’re not done with the inspection of the village, my lord, and after that—”

“Ale.” Hugh headed for the alehouse, his big feet squishing the charcoal-colored mud that Burdett claimed was so fertile. “Now.”

The warm rush of bitter air from the hut smelled like heaven to Hugh. He’d not been in an alehouse for too many moons, and he chucked the alewife under the first of her chins and said, “Bring us all a mug.”

“Aye, m’ lord.” She hustled away, her ample shape jiggling, while the men sidled around the table in front of the fire and relaxed with a sigh. They left the end for Hugh. He took a stool and straddled it, then pointed at the far end. “Sit down, Burdett.”

The steward found a stool. He wasn’t yet comfortable in this tight-knit company of knights and squires.

Wrapping his arm around the alewife as she placed a handful of mugs on the table, Wharton asked, “What’s yer name, ye fair young thing?”

The alewife let go of the handles and slapped his fingers. “I’ll not tell ye. I’m savin’ meself fer th’ lord.”

“Fer Lord Hugh?” Wharton burst into laughter. “Ye’ll wait a long time fer Lord Hugh, me pretty. He’s newly wed, an’ him an’ his bride fair shook th’ rafters all last night while they beat th’ mattress.”

The men rocked with raucous laughter while the alewife leaned back, arms akimbo, and inspected Hugh. “Does he speak th’ truth, m’ lord?”

Hugh pulled a horn mug across the rough wood of the table. “I’m newly wed,” he allowed.

“Then,” she said, wrapping her arms around Wharton, “me name is Ethelburgha.”

The knights roared this time, and Burdett joined in. “Easy Ethelburgha, we call her in the village.”

Ethelburgha shook a finger at Burdett. “Don’t be tellin’ all me secrets.”

“It’s no secret.” Burdett took the mug Sir Philip passed him. He waited until every man clutched one, then he rose. “I propose a toast. To Hugh, earl of Roxford, with my thanks and my eternal gratitude.”