Sir Sigefrith cuts short the walk

Sigefrith could not remember the last time he had spent an afternoon so at ease among ladies. His own family was so complicated that no relations between them were simple.

His mother was jealous, and he could never spend time with her without being reproached for not spending more time with her. His sister was a dear, but they never agreed about what to think of their father, and lately she was unhappy about the nonchalance with which he treated the subject of Matilda’s daughter. And his very thoughts shuddered away from his wife.

He had been thinking that the only ladies he could stand for long were his Dumble-​Dora and his new baby daughter—and she only when she was sleeping, or at least well-​fed and clean and dry—so this afternoon spent with the wife and children of Brid Oswaldsson had been a revelation. There were such things as families at peace within themselves, as husbands who adored their wives, as mothers who were not jealous of their daughters, as siblings who lived in harmony.

It was no wonder Brid had not allowed guests. One would not risk allowing the serpent entry into this Eden.

By the end of the afternoon, and after several cups of the girls’ excellent elderberry wine, Sigefrith had nearly forgotten that he was not a part of it. He had spoken of his children at great length, as if his children were relations of their own and of unending interest to them. Once the boys had returned, he had begun recounting the sorts of adventure stories that he had loved to hear at their age—and he had laughed to observe that, if he could tell such stories about himself, he had finally become what he had always dreamt of being when he was a boy.

Indeed, he had talked so much that he suddenly realized, as he ambled down the hill between Wynflaed and her sister, that he had also become what he had once dreaded—namely, a pompous, long-​winded looby.

“Why didn’t one of you two kick me or yawn or roll your eyes or something? To shut me up?”

“What?” Mouse laughed.

“Did I ever let any of you get a word in?”

“Heaf asked lots of questions.”

“Questions about me!”

“And? You’re more interesting than we are.”

“I’m not certain of that. Anyway, I must have tired your mother. You should have stopped me. And I kept you from your work.”

“Oh, we shall forgive you for the work!” Mouse laughed.

“I hope you won’t stay away because you think those things,” Wynflaed said. “I know you haven’t the time to visit around amongst your tenants, but if you ever come by the farm, I hope you will step in and say good day to our little mother. She was so pleased.”

“Do you think so?” he asked hopefully.

“Of course. Our father never allowed visitors because he didn’t want her to be tired, but I think a few visits would have done her more good than harm. She is so often alone, because we children are always so busy now. The days are so long for her, and I could see that you made this one pass quickly.”

“I did?”

“Of course,” Mouse said. “Don’t you believe us?”

“I shall, if only because I would like it to be true. You may tell your mother that I shall stop in when I can, until she has had her fill of me.”

“Or you of our wine,” Mouse giggled.

“Mouse!” her sister hissed.

“I’m afraid I drank a lot of it,” he said sheepishly, “but I suspect someone was slyly refilling my cup when I was not looking.” He winked at Wynflaed.

“You are welcome to it,” she said evenly.

“I shall send up a cask of my own wine, which is to say grape wine, if you think your mother will drink it. It is just the thing to put color into a pale face.”

“Oh, would you, please?” Mouse gushed. “It helped her so much when Heaf was born.”

“Mouse!” Wynflaed reached around in front of Sigefrith to pinch her sister’s arm, but he and Mouse both ignored her.

“Then I shall,” he said, “and hope to make up for my own ill manners thereby.”

“What ill manners?” Mouse asked. “I’m certain you were no less than what a gentleman should be.”

“Fortunately for me, you have never met a true gentleman. I am nothing but a pompous, long-​winded looby, as I realized a few moments ago.”

“What’s a looby?” Mouse asked.

“It’s a… eh… it’s what I am.”

“I thought you were a knight,” she giggled.

“That too—but I was made a knight. I was born a looby, and a looby shall I die!” he sighed. “Wait—stop—please, ladies,” he said as they reached the edge of the birch grove.

“What is it?” The two stopped and looked up with eyes that were unshadowed by the least suspicion.

“I believe I shall leave you here.”

“Oh—all right,” Mouse said. “Why?”

“Mouse!” her sister whispered.

He himself only dimly understood why. He wanted them to stay on the hill, above the trees, in the sunshine and the stillness that their father had provided for them. He did not want to see them descend into the dust and commotion of the farmyard, and more than that, he did not want to think of them being in the company of those grim-​eyed men whom he suspected of slowly and steadily robbing them of their income.

He would see to the hands later, but for now he wished to leave them on their hill, out of the reach of such creatures. His man’s instinct to protect had flared into a passion during the afternoon he had spent with these three frail women and the two young boys. They needed a man to look after them. He was a man. The conclusion was obvious to him.

“I don’t wish to tire you with the walking after tiring you with my talking,” he smiled.

“But we go up and down this hill all the time,” Mouse said.

“Mouse!” her sister whispered frantically.

“Very well!” Mouse said and rolled her eyes at her sister. “We shall say goodbye to you here.”

When he had come up the hill that day, he had only wanted to ask Wynflaed about Greybeard, to find out whether any of the other neighbors were being difficult, and to learn whether she had noticed any problems with the hands.

Now he didn’t wish to speak to her of any such matters. Her green-​bronze eyes were sad, but they were unclouded by suspicion. He would leave her in peace. He said goodbye to them there.