I tapped it against the wooden bowl with a thud.
“These could be useful when the Normans come.”
Wystan grinned. “You mean to throw them at the soldiers?”
“I mean to build a wall,” I said as I tossed him the oat cake. He chomped into it with a smile on his young face.
The pottage had improved dramatically since my first encounter with it. Someone had added leeks, beans, onions, and salt. There was a little smoked pork in it too, and the whole thing had cooked overnight in an iron pot until it was thick, hot, and unexpectedly delicious in the morning chill.
I took another spoonful as Gilda, seated across the fire with a spindle in one hand, watched me.
“You like it.”
“I’m reconsidering my previous judgment.”
“About my cooking?”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
She barked out a laugh, then nodded toward the edge of the clearing.
Wulfric had just come through the trees. He’d been gone since before dawn checking the southern approaches. His dark green cloak was damp at the hem, mud covered his boots, and his fair hair had come loose again from its leather tie. It was annoying how good he looked while I looked like I’d been camping for a month with no access to running water or a brush.
Gilda leaned closer. “He has a fine backside.”
I inhaled my spoonful of pottage in a coughing fit that nearly killed me.
Wystan helpfully pounded me between the shoulders hard enough to dislodge a rib.
“I’m fine,” I gasped.
Gilda looked offended. “I merely spoke truth.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why?”
There was entirely too muchwhyin this century.
Wulfric crossed the clearing toward us, which meant I had approximately three seconds to stop coughing and erase all knowledge of his fine backside from my face.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“Pottage,” I said.
Wystan said, “Gilda.”
Gilda said, “Nothing.”
Wulfric looked from one of us to another. “Aye,” he said at last. “I see.”
Clearly, he didn’t, thank God.
When he turned, I caught sight of the blood. It had soaked through the sleeve of his tunic near the upper arm, not much, but enough to make me set down the bowl.
“You’re hurt.”
“It is nothing.”
