Ethelwyn does not make it back to the hall

Ethelwyn hurried across the outer bailey to the gate of Nothelm keep. He was no farmer to feel the change in the weather by the prickling of his skin or the aching of his bones, but even he could tell that snow was imminent.

The last week had been sunny and almost pleasant, but a cold wind had blown in that morning, and the sky was grim. “Sheep by the wall, snow will fall,” Egelric had said sagely to him when they’d passed in the stable. But of course, Egelric had grown up a farmer.

Ethelwyn had feared that he’d lingered too long at Bernwald, but it appeared that he would make it back to the hall still dry and with only mussed hair and cold ears standing against him in the balance. Those could be easily remedied.

His only fear now was that Angharat of Thorhold would not be able to come on Saturday if the snow fell too deep. He had no intention of putting himself forward, of course, but if his lady would insist on throwing them together, he had to admit that there were many more disagreeable things in life than being thrown together with a lovely young lady.

He had no pretensions, and he doubted her uncle would consider him a suitable match. But he had not danced with a young lady since…

He preferred not to think of that. It was already difficult to sit at Her Grace’s table and see her with her husband, who was so shamelessly affectionate…

But he would not think of that. He hurried across the outer bailey to the gate and bridge.

“Afternoon!” the guard nodded.

It was Gwenabwy, a guard he liked. Ethelwyn decided his ears could bear another few minutes of cold.

“Afternoon, there! What a day to be stuck outside! Must be freezing your ears off.”

“What’s that?” Gwenabwy called, cupping a hand to his ear.

Ethelwyn laughed. “I don’t suppose a cloak and hood is part of your uniform?”

“Nah, I can handle the cold. The ladies don’t stop to stare at a man in a cloak. Fair warning,” he said and pointed at Ethelwyn’s own cloak.

“Kidding me? If they only stopped to stare, I wouldn’t mind. It’s the chasing after me that gets tiring.”

Gwenabwy laughed. “Lucky you, if you can run. I have to stay at my post, no matter how they cling and coo.”

“I shall try to serve as a distraction for you,” Ethelwyn winked. “Good day!”

“Good day!”

Ethelwyn was vaguely aware of the sound of running feet thumping across the bridge, but in his mind they remained only the imaginary feet of the flocks of ladies who supposedly chased after him and the guard, and so he turned and walked out onto the bridge without a glance.

Worse still, he was staring up at the towers rather than watching where he put his feet, and so the small person running directly at him passed beneath his gaze to come crashing against his legs.

“Oh!” he gasped, too startled even to swear.

Neither he nor the little boy lost their balance, which he realized was a lucky thing, for they were standing above the moat. However, the boy appeared outraged.

“Are you hurt, son?” Ethelwyn asked him.

“My cake!” he wailed.

And then Ethelwyn looked down at his cloak.

“Oh my God!”

There was a glistening smear of sticky honey all down his left hip, and smashed into the honey, firmly embedded in the weave of his cloak, was a trail of golden cake crumbs.

“Heafoc!” a woman cried at some distance away, but Ethelwyn was too absorbed in the mess on his cloak to look up at her.

Another little boy came to inspect the damage, his cheeks stuffed with what appeared to be an entire piece of cake squirreled away to prevent the other boy from demanding half. This greedy little boy he recognized as Sir Sigefrith’s son Haakon. And then, with a feeling of dread, he looked up at the woman who was running across the bridge to meet them.

“Oh my God!”

It was Red Boots.

“Oh, no!” she cried. “Oh, no! Heaf! Look what you have done! I told you not to run with your cake!”

“But you told me that so I wouldn’t choke,” he pointed out.

“I know, but—” She herself nearly choked on a stifled laugh, and then she stomped her foot. “Oh, Heaf!” she wailed. “Apologize to this—man!”

“I’m sorry,” the boy mumbled, but he appeared to be more sorry about the ruin of his cake.

Ethelwyn decided a lesson was in order. “Well, young man,” he said more gruffly than he had intended, “perhaps you will be wise enough to eat your cake at table, next time, rather than on the fly.”

“And perhaps you will learn to watch where you are going,” the boy muttered.

“Heafoc!” the girl cried. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I’m sorry for this boy’s manners, first of all, and—”

“They are no worse than I would expect,” Ethelwyn growled, thinking that if she was, as it appeared, the governess of Haakon if not of the other, then he would not have been surprised to have learned the boy had done it intentionally—and then laughed at his own impudence.

The girl was momentarily bewildered by this interruption, but then she came inching towards him. “And I’m so sorry about your cloak…”

“Now then…”

“Here, let me… just…” She reached out and began pawing at the mess on his cloak.

Ethelwyn tried backing away. “Oh, no! Oh, no! That will not be necessary!”

“No, just let me…”

“No, no! No, thank you! Excuse me! Good day!”

He could hear Gwenabwy laughing, and that was almost worse than the girl’s laughter the last time they had met: then, at least, there had been no witnesses.

“But I shall just—”

The girl would not stop coming after him, and so he kept backing away. Unfortunately, Ethelwyn was a rather tall man, whereas the wall on the bridge was rather short.

The girl kept coming, and her hands kept darting at him, and Ethelwyn kept backing away, so far and so hurriedly that when his legs came up against the wall, the rest of him kept going: back, and over the wall, and down head-​first into the moat.