“Because you expect to need them?”
“Because neglected buildings become problems.”
Despite the rain and the ruined grain and the watching farmers, the corner of her mouth almost shifted.
Tomas was already thinking. “The hearth will smoke if we build it too high.”
“Then do not build it high,” Donal said. “Heat will save less than air. Open the upper shutters. Spread the grain thin. Turn it every half hour.”
Seamus grunted. “With whose hands?”
Aingeal answered before Donal could. “The three older boys from the yard. Nessa from the kitchens to oversee them.”
Tomas nodded. “Nessa will terrify them into diligence.”
“She will terrify the grain dry if necessary,” Aingeal said.
One of the farmers made a reluctant sound that might have become a laugh in kinder weather.
Donal looked toward the roof again. “The seam needs covering before the next hour passes.”
“With what?” Seamus asked.
“Spare hide. Pitch. Rope weight along the edge. Temporary only, but it will hold until a proper thatcher can work.”
Seamus’s mouth tightened. “Hide over grain stores?”
“Hide over rot,” Donal said. “Choose which offends you more.”
This time the farmer did laugh, rough and brief.
Aingeal felt the yard shift. Not toward ease. But toward motion, and motion was often the first mercy panic allowed. She lifted her voice. “You heard him. Tomas, mark losses. Seamus, take two men to the roof and do as Donal says. The farmers whose grain was lost will receive replacement from the lower stores, measured against levy already paid, not debt owed.”
Tomas looked up sharply. “Aingeal --”
She met his eyes. “Not debt owed.”
The old farmer’s face changed.
Aingeal turned to him. “Your children will not eat less because my roof failed.”
For a moment, the rain was the only sound.
Then the man bowed his head. “My lady.”
Work began at once.
Men carried sacks beneath the cart shed. Boys ran for baskets. Tomas knelt beside the spilled barley and began counting losses with grim care. Seamus barked orders and sent two guards for hides from the stable stores.
Aingeal stepped under the cart shed to examine the next opened sack. Donal followed, close enough to be useful, far enough not to crowd her.
“This one can be saved,” he said.
She pushed her hand into the grain and felt the dampness. “The top, perhaps. The bottom smells wrong.”
“Then split it. Save the upper measure. Feed the rest to pigs before it spoils further.”
“You have strong opinions about barley.”
