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Goody sniffed her mug of tea and nodded at what the rising steam had told her. She raised her head and saw Cook standing just to the side of the doorway from the kitchen. Before the woman could duck out of site, Goody raised the mug to her lips and took a sip, giving the woman a wink as she did so. Though, once the cook was out of sight, she sat the mug on the hearth to keep warm, knowing it was most likely she would drink no more of it.
‘Do you think they will fare well?’ Willem’s question brought her attention back round to him; she watched him as he spoke. And she could just barely hear the flow of words he tried out in that tongue the two old masters had spoken. ‘Or perhaps “old Lords”,’ she thought. Not Elvish lords, though they had that other worldly sense about them. As if they trod here on this familiar ground her own feet rested on, and yet stepped lightly, too, in places just beyond her reckoning. Lords of some power and of grace who saw fit to keep those under their charge safe. ‘And with whose bidding do they come?’ she wondered. Not from twisted shadowed halls, there was too much of light shone in their eyes and in their aspect.
‘Yes, I think they will fare well, Willem.’ She gave him that simple answer and kept the reasonings to herself.
‘And you . . .,’ she went on, giving him a wide smile. ‘That was a lovely image you conjured for old Goody. ‘And though my eyes have never beheld such trees, yet your words brought them right to life. I could see and hear them truly.’ She leaned back and gave him a long sideways look as if taking his measure. ‘You would make a great story-teller, you know!’ She nodded and cackled a bit at her new image of him. ‘In the great lords’ halls I’ve heard tell they’re called bards and have places of honor at the table. They wander, these story-tellers and collect bits and pieces of things they’ve seen or heard about and weave them into stories and songs.’
She poked at the fire, stirring up the flames. ‘Yes, I could see you doing that . . .’
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