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Bregoware
Meghan
‘Now, lass, I’ve been thinking . . .’
They had traveled in companionable silence for a while, letting the miles slip by without comment. Meghan had leaned over Ash’s neck and murmured a few sweet words to her. The March-warden’s wife had chosen well; the horse was a gentle ride and seemed attuned to what her rider needed. ‘A measure of oats for you, my dearie, when we reach our campsite for the night,’ Meghan had said to her.
Rædwald’s words broke in upon her thoughts of what her family might be doing now. Did they have all the belongings loaded on the hay wagons? Had they gotten one of the neighbor lads to help herd the goats along? The herd would probably number two score and ten or so now with the addition of Rædwald’s goats.
‘And what have you been thinking, Rædy?’ she asked, focusing her full attention on him now.
He was only a few more sentences into his thoughts when she pulled her horse to a stop and looked at him in a horrified manner. He was going on about the bargain he had made with her brother Leof, and she was aghast at what he was saying.
‘What do you mean . . . When you die?’ she said in a loud voice. ‘You’re giving me your goats should you not make it through to the end of this journey. And what store of coins are left from days as a Rider for their keep!’ She fumed and spluttered, her cheeks turning bright red in anger and disbelief. ‘Don’t even think on it! You’re going back just as I will, hale and well. And if we’re lucky our two herds will have increased by several more with the interbreeding. But that’s it . . . And don’t say another word about your being killed. I won’t hear of it!’
But go on, he did . . . his helm and mail shirt, the thick leather vest for padding beneath it, and his oaken lance with the sharp iron tip . . . well, they, he hoped, she would save for her first-born son as a present from his late Uncle Rædwald. And yes, he knew they looked a bit worse for wear at the present. But he’d brought his oil and polishing cloth and at the first opportunity would set them to gleaming once again.
Meghan choked and coughed as he finished his list for her. He’d brought his horse up close to hers and pounded her lightly between the shoulder blades with one hand as he offered her a drink from his waterskin with the other.
‘First-born son!’ she squeaked, her brows inching up toward her hairline. ‘Are you mad! That would require a husband to be got and I don’t see one in my near future nor farther down the road, either . . .’
‘Now lass, I’ve been giving that some thought, too,’ he said, nodding his thoughtfully at her. And with that began a litany of various eligible males from the village that she ought to seriously be considering.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath letting it out slowly. Perhaps the earth will open up and swallow me whole! But no, there he was, ticking off the good points of Gareth, Grindan’s son, the one who farmed near the eastern edge of the village proper.
Oh, this will be a long, long ride to the river . . .
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