Wynflaed tries to clear her mind

Mouse fell back onto her bed with a hearty sigh. “What a day!”

Wynflaed smoothed out her blankets in silence.

“How old do you suppose he is?” Mouse asked her.

“Who is?”

“Ha! Don’t pretend you don’t know who, or I shall know that you have thought of nothing but him ever since he left!”

“Oh, Mouse,” Wynflaed sighed wearily and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Sigefrith, I mean. How old do you think he is?”

“Sir Sigefrith, you mean.”

“He said we could call him Sigefrith!”

“We might when we speak to him, but not when we speak of him, I think. And don’t you dare call him Sigefrith when other people are around.”

“I shan’t. So, how old? Did he tell you?”

“He certainly never did. He never told me anything about himself other than what he told us today. We only talked about the farm when we were alone. I already told you everything.”

“I wish I had gone! I wish I could have seen his sword.”

“You’ve already seen him fighting with it. I haven’t.”

“From far. I would have liked to have seen the sword up close.”

Wynflaed settled back onto her pillows. She could talk about his sword. “I think it’s as tall as I am. I wonder how he swings it.”

“He must be strong. But you saw how he lifted our little mother in her chair. He didn’t even bend his back—simply lifted her with his arms!”

“I doubt he’s as strong as father was.” Wynflaed did not like to think of any man being better at anything than her father had been.

“Father was taller, though, so he had an advantage.”

Both of the girls lay quietly for a while, subdued by this mention of their father. On the western horizon, a narrow strip of sky dimmed into violet between a bank of black storm clouds and the dark hills.

“He said his sister will be eighteen tomorrow,” Mouse said abruptly. “He must be well older if he has a boy of nearly five.”

“Oh, Mouse! Next time, simply ask him, and meanwhile, please leave me in peace! I don’t care how old he is.”

“He knows how old you are—after you told him the truth!” Mouse giggled.

“He didn’t return the favor.”

“Perhaps he was afraid you would think him dreadfully ancient.”

“He’s not that old.”

“So, how old do you think?”

“Oh, Mouse! I don’t know. Twenty…four. Satisfied?”

“No!” Mouse sighed dramatically. “Ten years older than I! He must think me a mere child.”

“You act like one.”

“Oh! Anyway, he only had eyes for you.”

“Don’t even say such a thing!” Wynflaed gasped.

“He did! Every time he said something funny, he looked at you to see whether you were laughing. And half the time you weren’t!”

“That’s probably why, then. He wondered what was wrong with me, since I didn’t find him funny.”

“No! You sly thing. You only meant to drive him mad with the desire to make you laugh.”

“No, I only spent the entire time worrying that Heaf would spill something on him, or you would say something embarrassing, or that a mouse would walk across his boot, or something.”

“Oh, but I told him about the mice already.”

“You what?” Wynflaed sat up in her bed.

“I told him to pretend they weren’t there if any came out.”

“Oh, Mouse!” she groaned and fell back onto her pillow. “What must he think of us?”

“He seemed to think it funny. He’s not afraid of mice, I’m certain. A big, strong man like that!” she laughed. “And handsome! Heavens! If he would only sit still and let me look at him, I would be satisfied for a long while.”

“Mouse, don’t,” Wynflaed pleaded softly.

“What?”

“Don’t talk about him like that.”

“I’m certain he would be delighted to know we do. Any man would.”

“What do you know about that?”

“I don’t know. But I think they do. They’re so vain. And anyway, didn’t you talk about Sir Brede Stearn all the time a year or two ago? And how handsome he was, and how blue his eyes, and—”

“That was before he was married. And before he was a knight. And before I was old enough to think seriously of young men anyway.”

“In that case, I am not yet old enough, and I shall think about him all I like. Don’t you love his beard? I think it must be easier to kiss a man without a mustache.”

“Mouse, don’t!”

Mouse laughed wildly. “If he offers, I shall at least kiss him once to find out. Heavens! That way, if my sweethearts don’t kiss me at least that well, I shall let them drop.”

Wynflaed sat up again. “Mouse, listen to me. I don’t want to hear any more of this. He is not Sir Brede Stearn, whom we only ever saw a few times in our lives, and from afar. Sir Sigefrith is our lord, and he may come to our house again. Do you hear?”

“Yes, little mother,” Mouse grumbled.

“And! Don’t you dare even hint such a thing to our little mother. You know what her mother’s life was like. And hers!”

“I know, I know. I’m not suggesting we do that.”

“Then don’t talk about kissing him, please. That’s already too much. Don’t say anything you wouldn’t have said to father.”

The mention of their father, though it had cost her a little more of her dwindling strength to make it, had the effect intended. Mouse rolled over onto her side and spoke no more.

Wynflaed lay still and tried to empty her own mind of men, concentrating her attention instead on the distant grumble of the thunder, and on the damp, rain-​scented air that spilled through the slightly opened window and flowed across her breast and neck and face.

When he had built this house, her father had wanted to provide everything that had lacked in their old cottage by the river: dry, pure air; sunlight; silence—everything their little mother needed to get strong again. He had wanted to shut out all worry, all harm.

Now, what lacked was he. He had been their strength and their peace. Already worry was creeping in and chilling her like the night air.