Free Avelynn by Marissa Campbell Page B

for the horses, the grain for bread and brewing.
    â€œNo, no, ’tis like this, m’lady,” Walther countered, sweeping his hand as he walked beside the trench, each seed landing in the groove.
    They argued amiably about proper technique. Though, in truth, I couldn’t tell the difference. They were genial men, well into their mid-forties, and though distant cousins, the familial resemblance was striking. They could easily pass for brothers. Tall and lean, their necks and arms dark and sinewy from years of hard physical labor, they had worked for my grandfather before swearing oaths to my father.
    As seneschal, or master of the feast, part of Milo’s responsibilities involved determining which plants to sow, where, and when, so that the manor was never left wanting. Walther was his assistant. Walther could always be found carrying a tally stick, on which he kept careful account of the grain supply for the manor. A meticulous notch or slash, carved into each stick, kept his records up to date.
    I grabbed another handful of grain from the pouch I’d made by folding up the hem of my apron and continued forward, emulating their steady swing. They nodded in encouragement and smiled at my technique.
    Spring was a grueling time. The instant the ground became workable, every slave, freeman, woman, and child was set to task, toiling from sunup to sundown. It was unprecedented for a noblewoman to labor in menial work, and many of the townsfolk came out to offer suggestions, not passing on the opportunity to poke and jeer. I endured their lighthearted comments graciously, and at the end of each day sent for mead to be shared amongst my spectators and patient tutors.
    With the barley laid and the furrows covered loosely with soil, I wiped the sweat from my brow and sat, eager to quench my thirst and wash the day’s dust from my throat. The villagers had built a roaring fire to keep the chill of dusk at bay, and each person found a comfortable seat close to the warm glow. Mead was passed around to all. I raised my cup in a toast, acknowledging a hard day’s work done well, but stopped midway, my lips set in a grim line. A horse and rider blazed toward the fields. It was Sigberht.
    He dismounted and whistled for a lad to take his horse. “Let him graze while I speak with the lady.” He handed the boy the reins.
    â€œSigberht,” I said.
    â€œI’ve returned from settling my father’s accounts. You can return to your cottage. I’ll finish things here.”
    â€œFinish what exactly?”
    â€œThe administration of the estate.”
    I left the fire and headed for a stand of hawthorn bushes, away from the curious ears and gossiping tongues of the villagers. Sigberht followed.
    â€œYou will do no such thing. My father gave me explicit instructions to see to the care of the estate in his absence.”
    â€œOnly because I was indisposed. I am back.”
    â€œAnd what is that supposed to mean to me?”
    â€œIt means that you can finish playing at house. The men of Wedmore are warriors, not chambermaids. They need a man to advise and lead them.”
    â€œI am quite capable of running my estate.”
    The sun was setting, and a pale pink glow tinted the land, but Sigberht’s color blazed red.
    â€œFor your mother’s sake, your father has coddled you—letting you sit in council, giving you a taste of power. But he was wrong to do so. The administration of Wedmore will never be your job. Your new husband will see to that, and I for one look forward to the day when you are properly submissive.”
    My hands curled into fists in the folds of my dress. “I suggest you leave. And don’t come back until my father sends for you. You’re not welcome here while I’m in charge.”
    He laughed. “I am still reeve of this estate, lady. No one but your father can strip me of my title. I will not be going anywhere.” He stormed back to his