Father Brandt visits the Wodeheads

Spring had come in early, warm and golden, happily allowing the same number of fields to be planted by a smaller number of men. Egelric worked harder than ever, overseeing the construction of the new stables as well as the planting, and for the most part he dealt with the quarrels and problems of Alred’s serfs himself, only deferring to the Duchess in the gravest cases.

Still, he met with the Duchess every morning, and was surprised to find her neither gracious nor ladylike once seated behind a table spread with lists and plans. She cursed the farmers, swore at the weather, shook her little fist in a lazy groom’s face, and told Egelric a ribald joke—all in one morning! Egelric wondered that she did not chafe at being kept in the background while her easy-​going husband was at home and in command. Perhaps she did. But this Matilda was one he could work with.

Still, the best part of the day was nightfall, when he would return home. Elfleda would meet him at the door with a kiss, and while she would be getting supper on the table, he would play with Baby.

How he adored her after all! He would smother her in apologetic kisses every time he thought of the cruel night he had forced her to spend in the forest, cold and tiny and believing herself abandoned. Some of the peasants still eyed her askance when Elfleda took her out, but let them try to say a word against her!

There was one thing that worried him more and more, however. Of course no one knew how old she was, but she seemed to be about the same size as little Wynna Hogge, who had just turned three. Wynna was as chatty as a sparrow—at least around the people she knew and loved—but Baby had not yet said a single word. She was not mute: she could laugh and squeal as prettily as you please. And she could certainly hear. Indeed, sometimes she would stop and tilt her fair head as if she could hear things her parents could not.

One evening, Egelric came home to find a dead shrew on his doorstep. “The cats are not normally so generous,” he grumbled as he lifted his foot to knock it into the weeds. But he paused, his foot in the air, as he wondered whether there was a sign to be read in a dead shrew on the doorstep. He could think of signs regarding dead mice, but nothing for shrews. Aye, no doubt it was one of the new crop of barn kittens, hoping to buy a coveted spot by the fireside. Still, to be safe, he would ask Gunnilda tomorrow.

Elfleda had gone to bed after supper complaining of dizziness. Surely the shrew was not…? But no, of course not. Women were always like that at these times.

He had just settled down by the fire to tell Baby a story when a knock sounded on the door. Guiltily awkward, Egelric showed in Father Brandt.

He had been avoiding the priest these past weeks, ever since he had told him of Elfleda’s pregnancy and had foolishly mentioned the shadow of the evening star. Father Brandt, who believed in neither omens nor curses, had exploded: “Is thy child the Son of God, that thou shouldst see a star in the East announcing his birth?”

But this evening, he spoke first to Baby. “Bless thee, child,” he said, stroking her hair as she grabbed eagerly at his crucifix, dangling temptingly just beyond the reach of her hands.

“Young man,” he grumbled in his funny Saxon accent, “I’ve come to ask thee why thou hast not had this child baptized.”

Egelric hung his head guiltily. How could he explain?

“She should be baptized for her soul’s sake,” Father Brandt continued, “but if that be not reason enough, I shall tell thee why thou must bring her to the church. As thou knowest, there are people who are afraid of the child, bless her, and they begin to say that thou hast not brought her before the Lord because she is evil, and fears the touch of the holy water. What sayest thou?”

Egelric had not thought of this.

“The Queen tells me she will be the child’s godmother. Now, if the Queen wills it, willst thou not?”

“Of course I will, Father,” Egelric said quietly. “I didn’t… I didn’t think.”

“Thou thinkest too much, I believe,” Father Brandt scolded. “Await the command of the Queen tomorrow. Very good! Good night! I go see the scoundrel Bertie Hogge, who makes his little lordship to cry with dead mice. Good night!”