Ethelwyn gets past the door

Ethelwyn did not think he could permit himself to creep around to one of the servants’ entrances. That would have been too far beneath Sir Egelric’s steward, even if he had only come in the guise of a messenger for Sir Malcolm’s wife.

Thus he crept meekly up to the great door, behind which he could already hear the muffled sounds of loud conversation and laughter: clearly, though Sir Malcolm’s presence ought to have been evidence enough, this was no simple family supper.

But when he peeked through the grille into the entry he saw that his luck was perhaps not quite run out: there on a bench sat a servant of some sort, apparently assigned to watch the door.

Ethelwyn knocked a few times with the heavy iron knocker, but it seemed that the man’s duties did not include actually opening the door, for his only reaction was a startled grunt. Finally Ethelwyn deigned to open it himself.

“Pardon me,” he began.

“Welcome!” the old man cried, far too loudly both for Ethelwyn’s aching ears and for his intention to pass unnoticed.

“I simply need – ”

“Right! You know the way!”

“Excuse me, but I – ”

“What?” the man shouted, cupping a hand to his ear. Was he deaf, too?

“I’m here to speak to Sir Malcolm!” Ethelwyn said, a little louder.

“What’s that?”

“I said: I’m here to speak to Sir Malcolm!” Ethelwyn shouted.

“That’s right! You’re welcome! Go on in!” The man dragged himself to his feet, as if his duties did include opening the inner door – though this was precisely what Ethelwyn did not want.

“No, I’m not invited!” Ethelwyn whimpered. “Listen! I need to see Sir Malcolm! Sir! Malcolm!”

“Thank! You!” the old man laughed.

“No! Sir Malcolm! Malcolm! The knight!”

“A fine night!” the man wheezed, far too close to Ethelwyn’s face to be agreeable.

“Have you been drinking?” Ethelwyn gasped.

“What’s that? What am I thinking?”

“Oh my God! Never mind! I believe I should simply go.”

“What’s that? Your coat? There was a girl here for that,” the man muttered, beginning to yank at Ethelwyn’s cloak with far less motherly good-​​will than Mother Curran had displayed. “But you showed up awfully late!” he scolded.

“But I’m not invited!” Ethelwyn whined. “Don’t you understand?”

“Stand still! Ho!”

Ethelwyn was about to protest again when the inner door began to swing open. He froze, waiting to see what form his doom would take – praying that by some miracle Sir Malcolm would have heard his own name being shouted – and meanwhile the drunken, deaf, old, and thoroughly worthy servant of such a house succeeded in removing his cloak and absconding with it.

His doom took the cutest form imaginable, which did not make it any less mortifying.

“Jupiter!” It was young Lord Cynewulf.

Haakon followed right behind. “Oh! I didn’t know you were coming!” he cried, clapping his hands in delight. “Now we’ll have some fun! Where’s Heaf?”

“My lord,” Ethelwyn whispered to Cynewulf, “I didn’t – ”

“Come on!”

Haakon took one of his hands and Cynewulf the other, and meanwhile Ethelwyn protested, “But I’m not here! I only want – Sir Malcolm! I didn’t – I won’t – I’m not – ”

It was absurd to think that two eight-​​year-​​old boys could truly drag a tall, thirty-​​one-​​year-​​old man across a room to the door, but so it would have appeared to witnesses.

Cynewulf only released his hand when they reached the door, and then only to permit himself to be the first inside so that he would have the honor of announcing: “Everyone! Look who’s here!”