The Flower And The Sword by Jacqueline Navin

Author:Jacqueline Navin [Navin, Jacqueline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781459261310
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2013-06-21T03:34:23+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Sybilla woke Lily just before dawn the following morning.

“Here’s a dress,” she spat, throwing a rough woolen garment onto the bed. Lily sat up.

“Put it on and come to the kitchen. There’s work to be done. Lord Rogan’s gone, and I’m to make certain you don’t be lazing about just ’cause he’s not here.”

Lily dressed quickly and went downstairs.

Sybilla was waiting. “After you are done with the pasties, there is laundry to be boiled. You will find the cauldron outside. Make sure you stir roughly. Thomas has built the fire for you but you will have to light it when you are ready.”

Lily did not bother to respond. Resigned, she turned to the chore of baking the meat pies.

She kneaded the dough and rolled it out with the heavy pin. Placing a dollop of spiced venison in each small round, she folded the pie in half and pinched the edges, just as Sybilla had taught her. She could barely lift the heavy baking tray and several pies slid into the fire while she was struggling to put them over the hearth. The flames reacted violently, shooting up a shower of sparks that singed her sleeve.

It was only a short time later when the acrid smell of charred food caught her attention. Too late, she dove for the tray, burning her hand. Her efforts were in vain, for the pasties were blackened beyond hope. With a vengeance and some entertaining thoughts of Rogan doubling over when her fist connected to his stomach, she began again, cutting the fat into the flour to make the crusts and mincing and spicing a new slab of meat

When these were cooked and put on the flat sill to cool, she hurried to see to the laundry. Her hands were covered with tiny cuts from her misuse of the knife and the burn on her palm throbbed. But she was running too far behind, so she put the discomfort out of her mind while she vigorously stirred the boiling cauldron.

She was scalded once or twice, then had to repeat the agitating action again when she realized that she had forgotten to add the soap. By the time she wrung each piece and spread them on the rocks to dry, she was in agony. There was not an inch on her body that didn’t hurt. Shivering in the cold, she hastily stoked the fire, too preoccupied with wanting to return to the warmth of the house to notice when her hem caught on fire. She was beating out the flames when the first sounds reached her ears.

She stopped, lifting her head. All at once, she became acutely aware of the gloominess of her surroundings. The day was overcast, and the thick cluster of tree trunks around her made it dimmer. When another screech came, her first thought, she was ashamed to admit, was of spirits.

Her second, after picking up the distinct rustle of the dead bracken, was of animals. She remembered the cry of wolves that

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