Chapter 8: The Hart and Plough

Hild sent me to the Hart and Plough with a jar of goose grease and orders not to come back until my back stopped smelling.

"She has the only good salve in Thornwick," she said. "And she'll do it better than Mam. Mam cries."

The alehouse was shut for the night.

Merewyn Tyas opened the side door with a candle in her fist and her apron still on.

"Hild's idea," I said.

"I know. She came by an hour ago to ask if I'd mind." She stepped back. "I do mind. Come in."

The taproom was low and warm, with a fire banked in the hearth and benches stacked on the tables.

She pointed at a stool by the fire.

"Shirt."

"I'm fine."

"You were crushed by a beam. Shirt."

I took it off.

The cloth had stuck, and it came away with a sound I tried not to make.

She was behind me, and I heard the breath go out of her.

"God," she said. "Why did you walk around all day?"

"I had a court to attend."

"You're an idiot."

"I've been told."

She worked in silence for a while, her hands quick and sure.

The grease was cold, and her fingers were not.

"You shouldn't have stood up for me," I said.

"Stood up for you."

"Said it was Ranulf's horse."

"It was Ranulf's horse." The fingers paused. "I've been seeing things in this village for eighteen years and keeping my mouth shut. I got tired."

"Of what?"

"Of watching."

I turned my head.

She was close, with the candle behind her, and a curl had come loose from her kerchief.

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