bread wafting through the undercroft. The rude bastard could not even bother to see her fed before demanding her presence.
Golde marched through a screens passage, a freestanding wooden wall that partitioned the stairs and undercroft from the great hall. So determined were her steps, she near collided with a small boy spinning in circles. She halted and eyed the cooking pot perched atop his head. Grime encrusted the fine blue material of his tunic.
“Away with you, bug, lest I squash you ’neath my heel,” she snapped.
The child, perhaps five or six, paused. Tilting his head back, he tried to stare at her, but his eyes refused to focus. He fell sideways, dizzy as a drunken sailor on a gale-blown ship.
Golde snorted. Were all children lunatics?
A sudden, high-pitched shriek erupted behind her, causing her to shudder. Before she could locate its source, something solid thwacked her rear.
“None attack my brother, but that they will be gutted!”
Golde spun to face yet another boy, this one seven or eight. Dressed in a filthy black tunic with gray braies, he brandished a wooden sword at her. Grabbing its tip, she tried to shake it from the brat’s grasp, but he would not leave go.
Narrowing an eye, she taunted, “Only a fool would gut a person’s buttocks. Unless, of course, he lives in a privy and has learned to tolerate fetid odors.”
The boy glared at her, dark eyes sparking with anger. With his black hair and dark complexion, she recognized immediately ’twas the baron’s get. At the same moment, she realized the hall was silent as a tomb. Glancing about the enormous room, she noted that the servants had frozen midtask.
“Dare you imply my son is dullwitted?” a voice demanded from the dais behind her.
She would have known the sour voice, even had he not identified himself as the boy’s father. Ignoring the baron, she continued to address the angry child. “In future, master swordsman, where will you gut a person?”
The little brat’s features were hate-filled. “In the belly.” He shoved the wooden blade toward her stomach with all his might.
Rather than resist the motion, Golde jerked the sword forward, pulling the boy with it. Taking advantage of his surprise, she swept a foot behind his and shoved him backward. He fell on his rear, loosing his grip on the weapon.
Golde placed one foot on his stomach. Flipping the blade in her hand, she pointed the tip at his throat. He flushed darkly, embarrassed.
“Now, master swordsman,” she affected a threatening tone. “I will tell you something only dead men know.”
The boy’s eyes grew round and his throat worked as he tried to swallow.
“Never underestimate your opponent.”
Tossing the wooden sword on the ground, she turned and approached the dais without looking back. If the child dared strike her again, she would beat him senseless, baron’s get or no.
Climbing the steps to the raised platform, she nodded at the steward, Nigel, who stood grinning near the seated baron. His merriment only fueled her anger. ’Twas telling of a man’s character that he would find pleasure in the humiliation of a child.
She frowned as a thought occurred. Had she not . . .
Nay. That she’d felt a sense of satisfaction at the boy’s chagrin was different, she told herself. She’d done naught but teach the brat a well-deserved lesson.
The steward cleared his throat and addressed Sir Gavarnie in an overloud voice. “’Twould appear the servants will idle the morn away, my liege. Mayhap ’twould be an opportune time to dig a new privy.”
Instantly the hall came alive with bustling activity. Breakfast remains were carted off and linen tablecloths snapped as servants shook crumbs from them.
Golde turned her attention to Sir Gavarnie. “What grave matter is so pressing that I am prevented from a moment’s rest?”
Though his eyes remained blank when they shifted to fix on her position, the lord’s features reflected displeasure. “I have e’re
Golde marched through a screens passage, a freestanding wooden wall that partitioned the stairs and undercroft from the great hall. So determined were her steps, she near collided with a small boy spinning in circles. She halted and eyed the cooking pot perched atop his head. Grime encrusted the fine blue material of his tunic.
“Away with you, bug, lest I squash you ’neath my heel,” she snapped.
The child, perhaps five or six, paused. Tilting his head back, he tried to stare at her, but his eyes refused to focus. He fell sideways, dizzy as a drunken sailor on a gale-blown ship.
Golde snorted. Were all children lunatics?
A sudden, high-pitched shriek erupted behind her, causing her to shudder. Before she could locate its source, something solid thwacked her rear.
“None attack my brother, but that they will be gutted!”
Golde spun to face yet another boy, this one seven or eight. Dressed in a filthy black tunic with gray braies, he brandished a wooden sword at her. Grabbing its tip, she tried to shake it from the brat’s grasp, but he would not leave go.
Narrowing an eye, she taunted, “Only a fool would gut a person’s buttocks. Unless, of course, he lives in a privy and has learned to tolerate fetid odors.”
The boy glared at her, dark eyes sparking with anger. With his black hair and dark complexion, she recognized immediately ’twas the baron’s get. At the same moment, she realized the hall was silent as a tomb. Glancing about the enormous room, she noted that the servants had frozen midtask.
“Dare you imply my son is dullwitted?” a voice demanded from the dais behind her.
She would have known the sour voice, even had he not identified himself as the boy’s father. Ignoring the baron, she continued to address the angry child. “In future, master swordsman, where will you gut a person?”
The little brat’s features were hate-filled. “In the belly.” He shoved the wooden blade toward her stomach with all his might.
Rather than resist the motion, Golde jerked the sword forward, pulling the boy with it. Taking advantage of his surprise, she swept a foot behind his and shoved him backward. He fell on his rear, loosing his grip on the weapon.
Golde placed one foot on his stomach. Flipping the blade in her hand, she pointed the tip at his throat. He flushed darkly, embarrassed.
“Now, master swordsman,” she affected a threatening tone. “I will tell you something only dead men know.”
The boy’s eyes grew round and his throat worked as he tried to swallow.
“Never underestimate your opponent.”
Tossing the wooden sword on the ground, she turned and approached the dais without looking back. If the child dared strike her again, she would beat him senseless, baron’s get or no.
Climbing the steps to the raised platform, she nodded at the steward, Nigel, who stood grinning near the seated baron. His merriment only fueled her anger. ’Twas telling of a man’s character that he would find pleasure in the humiliation of a child.
She frowned as a thought occurred. Had she not . . .
Nay. That she’d felt a sense of satisfaction at the boy’s chagrin was different, she told herself. She’d done naught but teach the brat a well-deserved lesson.
The steward cleared his throat and addressed Sir Gavarnie in an overloud voice. “’Twould appear the servants will idle the morn away, my liege. Mayhap ’twould be an opportune time to dig a new privy.”
Instantly the hall came alive with bustling activity. Breakfast remains were carted off and linen tablecloths snapped as servants shook crumbs from them.
Golde turned her attention to Sir Gavarnie. “What grave matter is so pressing that I am prevented from a moment’s rest?”
Though his eyes remained blank when they shifted to fix on her position, the lord’s features reflected displeasure. “I have e’re
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