Free Rhiannon by Vicki Grove Page A

gulls scavenging the rubbish heaps where wives had thrown peels and bones and duck innards, goats and cats and geese running into the cottages and back out, all flummoxed at so many people parading by. The milch cows in their byres watched as well, kicking their back feet at the confusion and rolling their large, bulging eyes. Porch dogs yapped and nipped at the skirts of the women, often earning a sharp kick in the ribs, which appeared not to discourage them from instantly resuming the same uncouth behavior.
    Rhiannon was edged to the ditch at one point by a packhorse piled high with bright cloths and led by a man with bristly gray whiskers to his waist. Many people walked in gangs and looked too swarthy, or elsewise too pale, to be from Woethersly. Around here folk, being farmers, were somewhat complected in the middle of at winter’s end. Rhia’s guess was that the swarthy were sailors, and the pale folk had come from some wooded settlement where the sun ne’er got through to them.
    â€œIt’s fine weather after a bitter winter, giving people itchy feet,” Granna remarked, her eyes glistening. “Under such conditions, folk will make a fair of any excuse.”
    A black goat ran kicking through the street with a tortoise tied to his back. Three boys circled the terrified ride and the hapless rider, laughing and prodding at them with thorny sticks of hedge. An oxcart swerved around the commotion and nearly tipped, and the driver raised his own leather switch to the boys. They hightailed it.
    Daisy knelt in the dirt to go eye-to-eye with the poor tortoise, who was all shrunk with fright into his shell. Rhia untied the creature from its similarly terrified ride, and the goat shook his fleece, felt his freedom, and sped away to find his owner’s toft.
    â€œI’m keeping her,” Daisy whispered, wrapping the tortoise into her skirt. “Her name is . . . King Henry.”
    â€œWell, you can’t go around with your clothes to your waist,” Rhiannon scolded, yanking down Daisy’s skirt but catching the tortoise as it unfurled. “Here, I’ll make you a carrying pouch.”
    Rhia pulled off her light woolen shawl, which had become too warm for the bright day anyhow, and bent to work. “Since you say she’s a girl, why not name her after our queen instead?” she suggested. “Queen Matilda would make her an elegant name.”
    Their queen had died a year before, much the pity, and there was rumor the king would soon wed another. Still, the old queen, come partly from Saxon stock, had been dear to most everyone. Even Granna had had a good word or two to spare for her.
    Daisy clapped with delight at that idea. “Queen Tildy, for short!”
    â€œRhiannon! Rhee! Over here!”
    Rhia jerked up her head and peered toward her good friend’s welcome voice. Maddy was with two of her mates from the lord’s dairy. The three were approaching from a distance, laughing as they elbowed through the crowd. Some group of uncouth men, rough cowherds or the like, stood watching them, smiling and nudging one another as they leaned together and drank from a jug.
    â€œEyeing up young girls, will ye?” Granna said, rushing over to thump one of them on the head. “Off with ye, galloots! G’wan now about your business!” For good measure she added a shoo with her skirts, and they fled, the one rubbing his noggin.
    Rhia quickly nestled Queen Matilda into her new sling and draped it over Daisy’s shoulder, then she stood. “Granna, may I go with my friends for a bit?” She glanced down at Daisy in hopes Granna’d get her meaning, then quietly added, “I mean, alone? To catch up with the news and all?”
    Granna took Daisy’s hand. “Daisy can come meet my cronies at the ale booth,” she said. “And Rhia, you tell Maddy her blouse gapes too low for modesty. I’m surprised Lord Claredemont allows such from his