Robin Hood, 1192 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series, Book 7) by T.L.B. Wood

Author:T.L.B. Wood [Wood, T.L.B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ePublishing Works!

I was put into service with three other women, our job being to gather up the cut wheat to bind and stack it. Reeve Johnson, for a big, tough guy, had almost seemed apologetic as he asked me to take to the fields consistently. His intuition had told him, despite my gameness, that the hard work required was not something that I’d been doing regularly. Of course, his gentle attitude towards my work had more to do with Kipp than me. After all, Kipp had saved his grandson and Anne, and as “mistress” to Kipp, Johnson felt beholden to me. Ordinarily, I don’t care for people feeling obligated to me, but if I could benefit a little in this harsh world, I wasn’t going to complain. As I bent over to gather some wheat for binding, my hand went to my lower back, which had decided to throw a fit of muscle spasms. As I rubbed my back, I realized my main job with Anne had been pretty cushy. Perhaps it’s true that you really don’t appreciate something until it is gone. I glanced down at the palms of my hands, which had been almost raw but were improving. Anne had taken one of her healing salves made of lanolin from the wool of the sheep and coated the abraded flesh before binding my hands with strips of wool. Unfortunately, I’d lost the strips of wool hours earlier, since my hands had been put to hard work.

“We’ll miss your brother, Petra,” Johnson had told me. His dark eyes seemed sad and preoccupied, and indeed he was, since the visit from Sir Donald had left him worried and unsettled. “He’s a good lad with a cheerful heart, and the other men liked working at his side.” Johnson’s eyes fixed on mine. “But we need all the help we can get.”

I assured him that although I might lack Peter’s strength and probably endurance, I’d do my best. And the gathering of wheat for binding and stacking might not sound like hard work, but it was, and I was grateful to be on Mary’s team. She was over six feet tall, with arms like a heavyweight prize fighter. The women were willing laborers, and I usually found we were either laughing at some ribald commentary on the men or singing a song. Mary had just finished a tale about her husband’s lack of proficiency in terms of their marital bliss—a story he might not have cared for being shared as we toiled—when she lifted her head. With her great height, she served as our herds’ lead giraffe.

“Sir Donald is back,” she intoned, her heavy brows drawing together to form a line across her forehead. “He’s a right nasty fellow, is that one.” She knew, as did the others, that the best defense was a good offense and bent to her work, pretending not to see the seneschal as he turned his palfrey towards our field.

“Kipp, time to beat it,” I said, my thoughts finding my partner who was on the edge of the field, basking in the sunlight.

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