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‘Your belly’s as loud as a sky full of thunder!’ Goody chortled as she looked at her tablemate. Her knobby fingers cradled the cup of hot, strong coffee, as much for the warmth of it as for the drinking. ‘Don’t fancy naught but a hot drink of a morning any more,’ she went on. ‘Like as not, cook will be shaking her finger at me if she comes out and finds her good food gone cold.’
She eyed Willem and nodded her head. ‘Don’t suppose you could help an old woman out, could you?’ She nudged the plate of still steaming food toward his side of the table. ‘I’ve a mind to sit here and watch the fire burn into the new year. Keep me company for a bit and give us a tale of your own. I’ll trade this heap of savories for a heap of words from you.’ She pushed the plate right under his nose. ‘And what’s your name, lad. Let’s start with that. My name’s Guðælfr Holtsdottir. Old Goody, to most. But you can call me Granny if you wish. Seems respectful enough from your lips.’
In the fireplace, the flames drew down and she leaned forward to push the great log in just a little further. ‘Now tell me a tale, sir. And one I’ve not heard, if you can.’ She poked at the coals, pushing them about the unburnt wood. ‘Old Goody’s herbs are sleeping this time of year; so there’ll be no gathering of them to ease the aches and pains. And so she’s gone to gathering words,’ she crooned softly to herself. ‘So as to ease the spirit.’
‘Go on now, lad,’ she urged him once again, her gaze coming round to fix on him. ‘Eat your breakfast. And give Old Goody a tale.’
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