Free Alvar the Kingmaker by Annie Whitehead Page A

at his lady before he grappled once more with the headstrong beast. Káta laughed as the lamb sheep-smiled at him. All the lambs and kids born this year were healthy. If they remained blessed, the hungry winters were behind them.
    She slowed her pace to climb the upward slope on the far side of the field. As she came down the other side her toes pressed against the soft leather of her shoes, and she turned her feet sideways until she reached the path which linked the field with her home, the settlement of Ashleigh. Káta pushed open the gate and stepped into the enclosure.
    Outside the bake-house Siflæd, wife of Wyne the miller, was sitting with her back against the wall. Her cheeks were flushed and, beneath the edge of her headscarf, wisps of damp hair clung to her face. She used a scarf which was Norse in style; a silk cap fitted closely to the head and tied at the nape.
    Káta smiled and said, “I see Gytha has lent you another hat. Is it hot work today?”
    Siflæd scrambled to her feet. “It is, my lady. But the first loaves are cooling and the next batch is baking. I stepped out only to get away from the heat of the oven for a while.”
    Káta gestured with her open hand towards the ground. “No, no, all is well; you sit. It is cooler here in the yard. I was thinking, though, that the roads from the south might be hard enough to ride now, which means that Lord Helmstan might be home soon. Can we bake a few more loaves? Would it help to knead the dough outside?”
    “It would, my lady, thank you. There is enough flatbread, but if my idle daughters hurry with the grinding, I can bake with yeast and the finest ground meal to make risen loaves for the lord. With your leave, I will go now and get my man Wyne to lift me down another bag of meal.”
    On her way to the main hall, Káta stopped outside the cook-house. Amongst the sacks of dried beans and mushrooms stacked against the open doorway, a bag of peas was flapping open. She reached down and let a scoop of the hard pellets run through her fingers before she caught the corners of the sack and tied them. She turned sideways to peer through the doorway but stepped back as two flustered chickens squawked through the doorway in a flurry of feathers and outraged dignity, followed by Leofsige the cook, brandishing a knife with a blade that shone sharp enough for any meat, dead or still living. Káta took a step back and slipped. Leofsige lifted the knife and pulled himself to a halt before he bowled into her.
    “My lady, forgive me.” He offered her his hand to help her back onto her feet, his giant strength pulling her almost beyond upright. “I had some oats ready to boil up when those hens came in and began pecking at them.”
    Káta lifted her kirtle with one hand and twisted round to look at the back of her skirt. “It will dry and brush off, do not worry. I am not bruised, only startled.” She righted the sack of peas. “A good thing I had tied it up. And see, you always get cross when the cats come up from the mill, but they are on your side today.”
    He looked behind him. The cats had stretched out low, front paws forward, as the chickens settled to peck outside the bake-house, unaware.
    Leofsige clapped his hands and the cats melted away. “They should be warding off the rats from the corn and meal, but I will forgive them this time,” he said.
    Káta left him to his muttering and brushed again at her skirt when she entered the weaving shed. Looking down to check that Gytha had replaced the straw rushes, she saw that she had been followed. “Away, cat,” she said. She let go of her kirtle and glanced up at the loom, propped up against the wall with the red and green cloth still awaiting completion. The cat slid round her legs and as she bent down, it opened its mouth in a silent meow. She tickled its chin. “Well,” she said, “It takes two to shift the loom. You are not strong enough, and as we do not have Gytha’s big hands to help, I can leave