Ethelwyn is rudely treated

Ethelwyn had knocked twice, but within there were not even the sounds of a man trying to ignore him. He knew that Sir Sigefrith’s household was not as well-​run as Sir Egelric’s—few were, after all—but he had thought that someone would have been at work on a Monday morning after the big market, whether Thorric the steward or Sir Sigefrith himself.

The guard at the gate had been chatting with something feminine inside the gatehouse and had only waved him in without even asking his business. The courtyard was deserted. It was no surprise: the day was bitterly cold and the wind stung his ears, but all this only served to make him grouchier than ever.

Finally he did something he would ordinarily have considered beneath him, but he justified it by telling himself that someone should have at least told him the lord and the steward were out. He was not a mere servant, after all, as the guard would have known if he had been able to bear the cold for the thirty seconds it would have required to ask Ethelwyn who he was and what he wanted.

What he did was to walk around the corner of the manor and peer in the window of the lord’s study as if he were a grubby peasant with no manners—which, of course, he was not.

There was the dull gleam of the knight’s legendary sword on the wall, but it reflected only the leaden light of day. There was not so much as a fire in the hearth.

He knew it was not Sunday, as he had already transacted business at Nothelm keep. He knew that there had not been a death in the family, for the flags flew high. The only explanation was that the household was extraordinarily poorly-​run, and with this thought Ethelwyn justified to himself his next action, which was to do something that was rather above him: he went up the narrow steps that led to the door of the family’s living quarters.

Most likely he would meet an upstairs maid, but even if one of the family members came to the door, it was not as if he were a grubby peasant or a mere servant.

Just before he had climbed halfway to the top, the door opened and a woman stepped outside. He glanced up and saw that it was some sort of maid, as he had expected. Her heavy cloak was too fine to make her a mere house-​keeper. He thought she must have been one of the lady’s own maids.

Even so, he thought that the lady’s maids at Sir Sigefrith’s manor must have been excessively well-​treated, for the young woman began walking down the steps herself, as if she were either too distracted to notice that someone was coming up, or too accustomed to gentlemen getting out of her way to think that he would not.

So she thought he was a mere servant who had to give way before a lady’s maid, did she? Ethelwyn would not be cowed, and he kept climbing.

Fortunately the girl stopped, though she stared at him as if he were a new sort of creature.

“Excuse me, miss,” he scowled. “But there has been no one to receive me thus far.”

“Oh!” she said. “I’m… sorry about that. And you are…?”

“I am Sir Egelric’s steward, come on important business, and I should like to speak with your master’s steward, if not with your master himself. However, no one has troubled themselves with me thus far, and I have been obliged to come up the stairs.”

He stared pointedly at her feet, which stood on the second stair. He intended thus to remind her that she had not yet even allowed him to come all the way up, but he was distracted by the toes of her boots, which were a brilliant crimson. Rather flashy for a maid, he thought, though they did seem the sort of trim little feet a girl would like to show off.

“Won’t you come in?” she asked weakly.

“If you will kindly get out of my way, miss.”

“Oh!” she laughed. “How impudent of me!”

Ethelwyn choked, but at least she did back up the stairs and allow him to follow her into the entry.

“Ah… sorry about that. Won’t you have a seat?” she offered.

Ethelwyn granted that it was not generally among the duties of a lady’s maid to admit visitors, but he had thought that the innate graciousness ordinarily required of a lady’s maid would be sufficient to make her capable of the task. Even his own lady’s little German maid—even with her broken English—would have better known how to admit a knight’s steward come on business.

Ethelwyn began unhooking the fastenings of his cloak. “I think it would be more to the point, miss, if you went to inform your master or your master’s steward that I am here. I did not come to impose myself upon the family.”

“Oh, of course!” she giggled. “How impudent of me.”

She bobbed into an excessively low curtsey, which he suspected was meant to show off her pretty little boot. It was indeed red from toe to heel, and he wondered at Lady Wynflaed for allowing her maid to run about in such eye-​catching get-​up.

She turned for the tower stairwell, but Ethelwyn cleared his throat pointedly, and she hesitated. He held out his cloak to her, and she laughed again.

“Oh! Sorry! May I take your cloak?”

Ethelwyn looked heavenward and sighed. “If you please.”

Rather than folding it neatly over one arm as a maid ought, she clasped his cloak to her chest in a rather undignified and wrinkle-​producing way. She then trotted to the stairs in an even less dignified way, though it did seem the most fitting form of locomotion for a girl who would wear crimson boots.

Ethelwyn had scarcely had the time to warm up his aching ears by the fire when Thorric came in.

“Wyn! How are you? I haven’t seen you since…?”

“Spring. I’m well. How are your wife and child?”

“Beautiful! Beautiful! Have one or both of your own yet?”

“Not even on my list of things to do. Tell me, who was that impudent maid who just let me in here? I don’t think even Sir Egelric would put up with her sloppiness for long.”

“What maid?”

“The one who went to tell you I was here.”

“It was one of the kitchen boys who told me. She must have sent him.”

“Oh, I like that! She was too busy even to go all the way to where you were. Now I wonder what has become of my cloak!”

“I hope she didn’t steal it,” Thorric winked. “What did she look like?”

“I didn’t even notice. I was too distracted by her boots. Bright red!”

“Red boots!” Thorric laughed. “Some maid. If we have one of those it’s probably a refugee from Sir Sigefrith’s father’s castle. She probably found she couldn’t outrun the old lord in her red boots. Come on down.”

He led Ethelwyn to the study, where a fire had since been lit.

“What’s your business today? It’s always Sir Egelric himself who comes.”

“He sent me today. Hurt his back too much to ride.”

“Oh, no! What did the old man do to his back?”

“I don’t know. His wife might know though,” Ethelwyn said slyly.

“You don’t say!” Thorric laughed. “Well, there has to be a disadvantage to old men who take young wives, if only because it’s a little unfair to young men such as you, eh, Wyn?”

“Oh, I don’t begrudge him his wife. He can have her! She’s not the type for me.”

“What’s your type?”

“Quiet and well-​behaved.”

“You sound like you’re looking for a lapdog, not a wife.”

“Indeed I am not looking for a wife, so it’s no matter. And can we talk about something else? Where were you hiding? I knocked several times before I had the impudence to climb the stairs and be greeted by greater impudence than my own.”

“Oh, I was down questioning some of the servants and taking stock of the buttery. We’ve had a few ‘defections’ amongst the cider barrels lately.”

“Oh! ‘Defections!’” Ethelwyn chuckled. “Better that than mutinies, though, I suppose.”

“What do you call a mutiny among cider barrels?” Thorric asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps that fire-​water His Grace nourished in the bosom of his buttery for three years, all unknowing.”

“Would that we had a few such mutinies!” Thorric laughed. “Did you ever try the stuff?”

“Sir Egelric brought a bit home and tricked me with it.”

“‘Tricked you’ how?”

“He didn’t tell me what it was. He said afterwards he had wanted to see me foolish once in my life.”

“I’m sorry I missed that! Did it work?”

“I am told I captured my lady’s maid in my lap and would not let her go.”

“She’s probably hoping you’ll have another taste of the stuff! But you know, Wyn,” Thorric winked, “that drunken men merely do the things they wish they could do when they’re sober.”

“I believe that mutinous cider must be something else entirely. I think it must make men do the things they would only do if they were mad.”

“Now, Lady Lili’s maid is a pretty little thing, as I recall.”

“She’s too silly for me. And a maid.”

“I know, I know,” Thorric laughed. “You need a serious, sober gentlewoman. A nun would be just the thing, if she were not already the bride of Christ.”

“Let’s not be blasphemous as well, Thorric,” Ethelwyn grumbled. “Now, shall we talk business? I insist: I am not in search of a bride.”