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‘What sort of challenge?’
‘I will give a bag of silver to the man who produces a song which is pleasing to your ear.’
‘Do warriors play music?’
‘You should have faith, my lady. We Norsemen can carry a tune as well as any other man. I don’t want you claiming the music is bad just to get out of playing me at tafl.’
* * *
Edith marked the fourth tafl win down on her diary in as many days. It was not a bad tally and she was beginning to gain ground on Brand. She looked forward to their nightly matches. After Brand had issued his challenge about the music, the hall reverberated to the sound of lyres and flutes as the warriors attempted to outdo each other.
‘Lady Edith, I had hoped to find you here.’ Margaret, Owen the Plough’s wife, lumbered in. Years ago, Margaret had served as Edith’s nurse, leaving only when she married the farmer after his young wife died in childbirth. She had never approved of Egbert and had stayed away.
Edith put down her book and held out her hands. Margaret enfolded her in her warm embrace.
‘Margaret, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ Edith asked after they had finished their greeting.
‘Father Wilfrid has been to see us.’ The elderly woman’s brow creased. ‘The new lord has ordered the corn be planted now, rather than waiting until Lady Day. Owen is afraid we will have no crop if it is not properly blessed. Father Wilfrid agrees with him. What am I to do, my lady? If my husband angers our new lord, he could lose everything, but he dares not displease the priest.’
Edith rolled her eyes. Father Wilfrid was stirring up trouble—nothing overt, just a few words in appropriate people’s ears and suddenly people started questioning the decisions. She had battled him before. She did not envy Brand. ‘Where is Owen?’
‘He is here.’ Margaret clapped her hands together before running off to drag her elderly husband in front of Edith. The farmer stood there, silently twisting his cap.
‘Margaret tells me you are in trouble, Owen the Plough.’ She held out her hand. ‘If I can help, I will.’
‘I knew you would do something, my lady.’ Margaret’s face became a wreath of smiles. ‘Didn’t I say my lady would help us, Owen? She will make the barbarian see sense.’
Edith cleared her throat as a distinct prickle went down her back. ‘How do you know Brand Bjornson is a barbarian?’
‘He is a pagan Norseman, what else can he be?’
‘He reads and writes Latin,’ Edith said quietly. ‘Which is more than Father Wilfrid can do.’
‘The more is the shame, then. He should know what is right and proper. Everyone knows that the corn must be blessed before it goes in the ground. It is in the good book. Father Wilfrid says so,’ Owen the Plough proclaimed. Tears filled his eyes. ‘Please, Lady Edith. Help us. Soften his heart.’
Her shoulders felt like a heavy weight had been placed on them. If Owen the Plough believed this, how many others would believe it as well? And the last thing anyone needed was more trouble, particularly around planting time.
‘Have you told Lord Bjornson how you feel?’
The colour drained from Margret’s face. ‘We could never...’
‘I understand.’ Edith pressed her hands together. She had to do it. Somehow she had to make Brand understand what was at stake if he persisted in demanding the concession.
* * *
‘Here I find you! I’ve been searching everywhere for you. No one knew where you were,’ Edith said when she finally discovered Brand in the exercise yard.
The sight of him in his shirt sleeves with his tunic plastered to his chest took Edith’s breath away.
‘Where else would I be?’ Brand tilted his head to one side. ‘I’ve no wish for my skills to get rusty. It is where I am every morning. Not to be here would be wrong. The men need to be put through their paces.’
‘I understand you have ordered the corn planted immediately.’ She took a deep breath and continued, aware that she had stared a little too long at his chest, rather than saying anything coherent or deeply meaningful. ‘Without having a blessing of the seed on Lady Day. It simply isn’t done. It will be a catastrophe otherwise.’
He tossed a wooden pole to one of his men and strode over to where she stood.
‘You have a problem? The year is getting on. If the corn isn’t planted soon, we will have nothing to eat come autumn. Why wait when the soil is ready?’
Edith resolutely kept her gaze from where his tunic clung to his muscular arms. But every particle of her being was aware of him and the fact that he stood close enough to touch. It made her thinking all woolly. Her entire speech vanished from her mind. She stole another glance at his arms before continuing.
