Free Wonderful by Jill Barnett Page A

that sat at the far end of the hut.
    Lined up along the wall near the pipe drain were large ale pots filled with liquid, some cooking on small wood fires, others sitting cold. But even the cold pots had bright flower petals, dark green leaves, and earth-colored powders floating on top of the contents, like some desert sheik’s bathing pool.
    He turned and studied the cistern. It only took him a moment to see what had gone wrong. The siphoning pipes were too wide and too strong for a small cistern. So the iron pipes had pulled at the well water with such force that the walls of the well had caved in, leaving the castle with absolutely no water.
    He leveled a pointed look at Clio. “I gave you my consent to brew ale, not to suck the well dry.” He studied the pipes again, shaking his head. “I’d like to flay the skin from the fool who did this.”
    When he faced his betrothed, she had that stubborn stance he was beginning to find all too familiar and all too irritating.
    She swiped a strand of stray blond hair from her face and said, “There was plenty of water in that well.” The challenge in her voice did nothing to cool his anger.
    “There was water. Until the walls of the well collapsed. Now there is nothing but a mud hole.”
    She blanched slightly.
    He took a step toward her. “There are hundreds of men at Camrose. The castle workers, builders and masons and craftsmen, and my own troops. All those men are here and the castle has no working well.”
    She looked from him back to her steaming vats. “The men can drink ale until a new well is dug. I’ve made plenty.” She waved her hand at the pots. “See?”
    “And shall I order the horses and oxen, the chickens and pigs, to pull out their ale tankards? Shall the cows give milk tainted with malt?”
    From her face he could see she hadn’t thought of the animals.
    He crossed his arms over his chest. “What? No quick answers, Clio? And how do you propose the stonemasons mix the lime and sand to cement the new walls? Should they use your ale? How do the sawyers cool their saws? The rough masons their stones, and the blacksmiths their iron?”
    She was quiet, chewing her lip for a long time while she twisted a ring on her finger. Then her face lit up so suddenly it looked as if she had stepped before a bonfire. “They can use the foul water from the moat,” she said, then gave him a smug look.
    “The moat was drained into the fields this morning.”
    “Oh.” She bowed her head.
    ’Twas the first sign of feminine meekness he’d seen from her. He looked at the floor, too, where he saw the flat, thin flagstones the master mason had reported were missing. There had been a fight that morning between the stonemasons and the rough-masons over the missing tiles.
    Someone cleared his throat behind him, and he turned around. One of those inept lads that followed his betrothed like guard dogs was standing a few feet away from him, rocking from one bare, dusty foot to the other. He looked as if he needed to either speak or visit the privy.
    Watching the boy was enough to make him dizzy. “Have your say, lad, or stand still.”
    “I have a question to ask you, my lord.”
    Merrick gave him a nod.
    “Did you take a table from here?”
    He heard Clio utter something and frowned at her. She was shaking her head and waving her hands at the boy.
    “I have no idea what you are talking about. What table is missing?”
    “Not a ‘what’ table, but a ‘that’ table.” The boy paused, frowning, then muttered, “Or was it the ‘other’ table?”
    Clio was suddenly at the boy’s side, guiding him toward the doorway. “Never mind the tables, Thwack. You go along to the cooper’s and see if you can help Thud.”
    A flash of brown sped through the doorway a second later, and Merrick spun toward it, his hand on his dagger.
    The other boy scrambled to a clumsy stop in front of his mistress, who grabbed his shoulders to keep from being plowed over.
    “My lady! My lady!