Twenty-Five

 

For the third night, Rosa dreamed of Midwinter night, and the rite she was required to undertake if she wished to take her grandmother's place as priestess. Only a few days hence, and the gods had given her a man who would be living under her roof that very night. Almost as though they wished she would choose him.

A far better choice than Alard, for the knight would soon leave. The highborn knight probably thought peasant women shared their beds with noblemen like him as a matter of course, and he'd probably never think of her again afterward. A good thing, she told herself as she forced herself out of bed.

Rosa crept outside in the predawn light, holding her cloak tightly closed against the cold. She longed to return to bed, and see if she could wake the knight with a well-placed squeeze or caress. She'd done more than that in her dreams, and so had he. She laughed softly. No man could be as good as her dream lover had been with his hands, even if last night he'd worn the face of Sir Chase.

With Midwinter approaching, she shouldn't be so surprised the gods of the forest were sending her such dreams. Better that she spend the day working outside, for the more time she spent with the knight, the more likely she was to say something about his prowess in her dreams. Or how much she'd liked the feel of his hand on her breast last night. His touch had been surprisingly gentle, even as it set her heart alight.

She blamed her mother's tales of knights and princesses, chivalry and other such nonsense. Tales for normal girls, like Lule and Piroska, for whom marrying some nobleman was the highest ambition they might have, but not suitable for a witch.

Her grandmother's tales had taught her far more, about the woods, and the history of this place, and magic. So much about magic.

But the tale uppermost in her mind now was about mead, and how one winter it had been so cold, the mead froze in the castle cellars. When the brewer had skimmed off the icicles and poured the remaining liquid into a new barrel, she'd found the mead more potent than anything she'd brewed before. The goddess of winter had blessed her brew, she decided, and offered up barrels of mead to her at Midwinter every year. When the longest night of the year ended, the Midwinter's Night mead was the best and strongest of all.

So Rosa had left some barrels outside last night, hoping they might freeze, and they told the truth of her grandmother's stories – frost rimed the sides of the barrels, and a thin layer of ice floated on top of the mead. She skimmed off the ice, poured the first barrel into a fresh one and dipped a cup into the liquid to taste it. Sure enough, it was stronger than the stuff she'd cellared yesterday.

By the time she was done with all the barrels, the sun was up, and the ice in the empty barrels had melted, so she left the casks in the sun to keep them from refreezing as she headed to the barn to milk the goats and fetch the day's eggs.

When she left the barn, he stood in the cottage doorway, squinting at the sun. Not naked any more – he'd found his clothes, and managed to put them on. He must be feeling better.

But that didn't mean he should be walking on that leg yet.

She opened her mouth to order him back to bed.

"Good morning, Mistress Rosa," he said, bowing, before he walked toward her.

He did not wince like a man in pain, nor did he limp. He was healed, Rosa decided, breathing a sigh of relief. Perhaps she could heal a man after all. Though that medicinal mead had definitely helped. She must make some more.

"Well met, Sir Chase. I was just fetching something for breakfast." She lifted the egg basket.

He frowned. "I should carry that for you. Leave it here. I will be but a moment..." He scanned the clearing, as if looking for something he'd lost.

Rosa smothered a smile. "The outhouse is that way." She pointed.

The knight flushed, muttering his thanks, as he loped off toward the outhouse.