place, not about the Welsh.”
“A castle is for defense. A place made to keep those inside safe.”
“I was only daydreaming aloud,” she snapped, watching him.
He leaned across the table and snatched up a chunk of bread before she could move it from his reach again.
“I understand you clearly, my lord.”
“Daydreaming.” He snorted. “A foolish and female pastime.” He ripped off a hunk of bread with his teeth and chewed the bloody hell out of it.
She watched him swallow the bread and her expression lit with something akin to victory. She lifted the platter with a suddenly sweet expression. “More bread, my lord?”
“No,” he barked, not liking her sudden sweetness or her clear use of his title instead of his name. A moment before he had been “Merrick.”
She waited a moment, as if she were savoring something tasty, then set down the bread platter. “So you contend that men do not daydream.”
“Aye. We have better things to do.”
“Oh? And what about you, my lord?”
He looked up. “What about me?”
“You claim daydreaming to be foolish and female.”
“Aye.” He almost laughed. “Men do not have such a weakness.”
“Ha!”
“What are you implying with your ‘ha!’?”
“Only that you aren’t female and your mind can surely wander as well as mine.”
He could no longer hold back and gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Me? Daydream? What foolishness. A warrior whose mind wanders is a dead warrior.”
She placed her palms on the table and leaned toward him. “I think I must be speaking to a ghost.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Shall we lower our drawbridge and invite the Welsh in for a feast?” she repeated in the same impatient tone he had used, which annoyed him more.
He stood up then, not liking her boldness or her argument. She was a woman. She should defer to him in all things. He planted his hands on the table, too, and leaned over, glowering down at her.
“You must have been daydreaming, my lord. “
“I don’t think so, my lady .”
“Oh? Ha!”
He was learning to hate that word.
“We don’t have a drawbridge,” she announced, then spun around with her nose so high in the air she would have drowned if it rained.
A moment later she was gone, her angry footsteps tapping up the stone stairs. He stood there with his hands still planted on the tabletop and he felt as if he were struck dumb. A moment later he asked himself, what in the bloody hell had happened?
He straightened and stood there feeling as if he were waist-high in the midst of a marsh, sinking. He shook his head, then downed another glass of weak watered-down wine.
It did not help.
He reached up and massaged the tenseness in the back of his neck, wincing when he squeezed too hard. ’Twas not his own neck he wanted to choke.
It dawned on him then that any thoughts of that ideal and peaceful life he’d sought for so long had just gone straight to hell.
Before him was his future, a future with one small woman. Lady Clio of Camrose. And at that moment he knew with surety that she would be more trouble than every rebel Welshman in all of Wales.
Bragawd Ale
Soak barley and allow to sweeten,
Dry until malted.
Mash with yeast and water for fyne wort.
Mix fyne wort with:
Honey, cinnamon, ginger,
Cloves, pepper, heath flowers and galingale.
—Medieval Welsh Ale Recipe
Chapter 7
The castle brewery had been a mess. Dirt and mud on the floors and rats in the rushes. The vats were old, rusted, and filled with stale ale and mold, and the iron pipes that fed water to the cistern in the corner were not siphoning from the castle well, but instead came from the filthy moat.
It took a few days to clean up and that was with Clio, Thud, Thwack, and Old Gladdys all working hard. But by midday on the third day, the spicy scent of herbs and dried flowers was all you could smell if you happened to pass by the open shutters.
Inside, Lady Clio was perched on a wobbly wooden stool before
“A castle is for defense. A place made to keep those inside safe.”
“I was only daydreaming aloud,” she snapped, watching him.
He leaned across the table and snatched up a chunk of bread before she could move it from his reach again.
“I understand you clearly, my lord.”
“Daydreaming.” He snorted. “A foolish and female pastime.” He ripped off a hunk of bread with his teeth and chewed the bloody hell out of it.
She watched him swallow the bread and her expression lit with something akin to victory. She lifted the platter with a suddenly sweet expression. “More bread, my lord?”
“No,” he barked, not liking her sudden sweetness or her clear use of his title instead of his name. A moment before he had been “Merrick.”
She waited a moment, as if she were savoring something tasty, then set down the bread platter. “So you contend that men do not daydream.”
“Aye. We have better things to do.”
“Oh? And what about you, my lord?”
He looked up. “What about me?”
“You claim daydreaming to be foolish and female.”
“Aye.” He almost laughed. “Men do not have such a weakness.”
“Ha!”
“What are you implying with your ‘ha!’?”
“Only that you aren’t female and your mind can surely wander as well as mine.”
He could no longer hold back and gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Me? Daydream? What foolishness. A warrior whose mind wanders is a dead warrior.”
She placed her palms on the table and leaned toward him. “I think I must be speaking to a ghost.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Shall we lower our drawbridge and invite the Welsh in for a feast?” she repeated in the same impatient tone he had used, which annoyed him more.
He stood up then, not liking her boldness or her argument. She was a woman. She should defer to him in all things. He planted his hands on the table, too, and leaned over, glowering down at her.
“You must have been daydreaming, my lord. “
“I don’t think so, my lady .”
“Oh? Ha!”
He was learning to hate that word.
“We don’t have a drawbridge,” she announced, then spun around with her nose so high in the air she would have drowned if it rained.
A moment later she was gone, her angry footsteps tapping up the stone stairs. He stood there with his hands still planted on the tabletop and he felt as if he were struck dumb. A moment later he asked himself, what in the bloody hell had happened?
He straightened and stood there feeling as if he were waist-high in the midst of a marsh, sinking. He shook his head, then downed another glass of weak watered-down wine.
It did not help.
He reached up and massaged the tenseness in the back of his neck, wincing when he squeezed too hard. ’Twas not his own neck he wanted to choke.
It dawned on him then that any thoughts of that ideal and peaceful life he’d sought for so long had just gone straight to hell.
Before him was his future, a future with one small woman. Lady Clio of Camrose. And at that moment he knew with surety that she would be more trouble than every rebel Welshman in all of Wales.
Bragawd Ale
Soak barley and allow to sweeten,
Dry until malted.
Mash with yeast and water for fyne wort.
Mix fyne wort with:
Honey, cinnamon, ginger,
Cloves, pepper, heath flowers and galingale.
—Medieval Welsh Ale Recipe
Chapter 7
The castle brewery had been a mess. Dirt and mud on the floors and rats in the rushes. The vats were old, rusted, and filled with stale ale and mold, and the iron pipes that fed water to the cistern in the corner were not siphoning from the castle well, but instead came from the filthy moat.
It took a few days to clean up and that was with Clio, Thud, Thwack, and Old Gladdys all working hard. But by midday on the third day, the spicy scent of herbs and dried flowers was all you could smell if you happened to pass by the open shutters.
Inside, Lady Clio was perched on a wobbly wooden stool before
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