The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [87]
“I don’t.”
“Then my thanks.”
“Most welcome, and don’t trouble your heart about the lass.” Neb hesitated for a long moment, then glanced away. “There’s somewhat I’ve been wanting to ask you, and now’s as good a time as any. Do you think you could ever stoop to marrying a common-born man? Just as a matter of general principle, like.”
Branna wanted to blurt “I would if it was you.” Instead, she reminded herself that she was supposed to show her good breeding, which most definitely did not include being forward with possible suitors.
“Oh, I’ve naught against the idea on principle,” she said. “After all, it’s not like I’ve got land in my dowry.”
“That makes a difference, doesn’t it?” Neb suddenly grinned, then wiped the grin away in what was most likely his own attempt at good manners.
“Quite a difference,” Branna said. “My kin couldn’t have any objections based on a demesne passing out of noble hands.”
“Might they have other objections, do you think? Just as a matter of interest.”
“My father was glad to get rid of me. Why would he object?”
“But your uncle?”
It was Branna’s turn to hesitate. She was wondering if she should just tell Neb outright that Aunt Galla approved and would work her husband round to her point of view, but Neb took her silence wrong.
“I see I’ve gotten above myself.” His voice turned stiff and cold. “My apologies for troubling—”
“Oh, don’t be silly! You’ve not done anything of the sort. I was just wondering what Uncle Cadryc would say, is all.”
Neb started to speak, but their eyes met, and all at once they both burst out laughing.
“You’re being so formal,” Branna said, “but your hands are full of goose feathers.”
“So they are.” Neb held the bundle out. “May I offer my lady a token of my esteem?”
“Why, my thanks, good scribe!” Branna plucked out a feather and held it up. “I shall cherish this in honor of you.”
Neb started to laugh again, glanced over her shoulder, and abruptly fell silent. Branna turned and saw Gerran, standing some fifteen feet away, glaring at her with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Neb!” Gerran called out. “The tieryn needs you to write a message.”
“He’s right.” Branna felt herself blushing. “I was supposed to tell you.”
“Then I’d best go in,” Neb said. “Will you accompany me?”
Gerran remained where he stood, scowling, between them and the broch.
“I won’t,” Branna said. “I need to talk with Midda.”
She turned and strode away, then glanced back to see that Gerran and Neb were heading in the opposite direction. She shamelessly ran for the servants’ quarters, but before she reached them, she hid the goose feather in her kirtle.
Midda and the other maidservants shared a long loft, spread with straw and scattered with mattresses and blankets. The younger lasses shared mattresses, two and three at a time, but Midda, the cook, and a few other privileged servants had a mattress apiece, and wicker screens to set off little areas they could call their own. At one end of the loft, near the only window, stood a wobbly plank table with benches on either side. At the moment shorn fleeces lay strewn on the table. Midda and three other women sat pulling them apart into fist-sized chunks with formidable bone combs. Before it could be spun, all this wool would need carding, using finer combs.
When Branna came in, the women started to rise, but she gestured at them to stay sitting. “Our lady wanted to know how you’re coming along,” Branna said.
“Not too badly,” Midda said. She laid down her comb and stood up, stretching her back. “We’ve done a good half of them.”
“Splendid! If you’ve got some ready for spinning, give it to me, and I’ll get a start on that.”
“I can give you a sackful, at least, my lady. I’ll fetch it.”
While Branna waited, the other women went on with their work. So many odd tufts of wool flecked their clothes that they looked as if they’d just come in from the snow. Fibers drifted lazily in the air, picked out by the sun coming through the window. Branna sneezed,