Sir Sigefrith makes and takes requests

Sir Sigefrith was unusually silent as he started down the hill between Wynflaed and her sister. He had been moved by the farewell of the little mother, which had been nothing like the clinging, tearful goodbyes he always received from his own mother and his sister. It was certainly nothing like the half-​hearted embrace he expected from his wife, who could not forgive him for going away again so soon, even while seeming scarcely to tolerate his presence when he was around.

No, the little mother had taken one of his big hands between her two tiny ones, smiled up at him, and prayed God to keep him safe on his journey—and told him she would miss him until he came home.

Home! For a moment he had basked in the belief that she meant that house: lately it had seemed more like home to him than his own.

He did not doubt that his mother and sister would miss him, but he was beginning to think that clinging and sobbing was not the best way to tell him so.

It was not because she did not care for him that the little mother had been able to smile, but rather, he thought, because she did. She would save her sorrow for after he had gone.

If he never saw her again, he would carry that smile with him for a long while. And if it were he who was to die, then he thought it would at least permit him to recognize the angels for what they were when they came for him.

“I think you’re already gone,” Mouse giggled, interrupting his thoughts. “We were hoping to get a little extra time with you by walking with you, but I think it hopeless. What do you think, Wyn?”

“I’m still here,” Sigefrith said before Wynflaed had a chance to speak. “I was just thinking that your little mother is some kind of angel.”

“Don’t try to tell her that!” Mouse said. “She will say it’s nonsense, even though it’s true.”

“If I don’t come home, ladies, I hope you will tell her that I said so.”

“But you said there was no danger!” Mouse protested.

“I said that before your little mother. It is a long journey. But I have made it before, and I have gone other places, too, by sea, so I’m not worried, and neither should you be. But, just in case, tell your little mother that I adored her—if you think it will please her, that is.”

“Of course it would please her,” Wynflaed said. “She is very fond of you. But I hope you will tell her yourself when you come home.”

“Is that what you told our little mother when you were alone with her?” Mouse giggled. “If you don’t come home, to tell us that you adored us?”

Sigefrith smiled. “I shall say that it wasn’t, for otherwise I fear that you two will be hoping for my death only to hear that I adored you.”

“Oh, never!” Wynflaed cried, scandalized.

Mouse only laughed. “You could avoid that by telling us now!”

“An excellent idea! That’s why I always say you girls are more clever than I. I do adore you. And now, will you both pray for my safe return?”

“Every night,” Mouse promised.

“Thank you.” They stopped at the edge of the birch grove, as always, and Sigefrith turned back to them. “And there is one more thing you may tell your little mother, but you may do so as soon as you go back to the house. Tell her that the end of her song is this:

“Now my love sleeps; No bed is under him.
The sky-​lambs leap; My lamb is deaf and blind.
Snow-​pale in the sunlight, So my love sleeps,
His head in the lilies, An arrow in his side.”

“But—that means he’s dead!” Mouse cried.

“Of course. That’s the meaning of the song.”

“I thought it was only about a lazy knight sleeping out in a meadow in the sun!”

“So it is. But if you only know the first few verses, you don’t realize that he will never wake.”

“But it’s so sad,” Mouse whimpered. “I thought it was so pretty.”

“It is pretty,” Wynflaed said. “And sad.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell our little mother when she was singing it?” Mouse asked Sigefrith.

“No, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why your father always claimed to have forgotten the last verse. I didn’t tell her because I was afraid that if she knew I knew the words, she would ask me to sing it.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Mouse cried. “Won’t you sing it for us?”

“Certainly not!” he laughed. “I don’t care to embarrass myself. My singing voice sounds like nothing so much as the bleating of a goat.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh no!” Mouse wailed. “Oh, Wyn! I forgot to let the goats out! All day! Oh no!”

“So hurry and let them out,” Wynflaed sighed. “There’s still a few hours of sunlight left.”

“But—can’t I wait until Sigefrith goes?”

“I hope you won’t,” Sigefrith smiled. “I would have to hurry home out of sympathy for your goats.”

“Will you wait? I shan’t be long!”

“I shall wait.”

Mouse took off through the birches at a run, and Sigefrith turned back to Wynflaed in time to see a lovely blush fan over her cheeks. He had not been alone with her since she had come to his house that first day. He could not say whether he preferred her naïvete of that day, or her exquisite self-​consciousness of this.

Before he could decide, Mouse called out from below, “Wyn! Don’t forget to ask!”

Sigefrith turned, but she was already out of sight. He was about to ask what Wynflaed was supposed to ask when Mouse called again, “Wyn!”

“I hear you!” Wynflaed shouted in reply.

“‘Wyn,’” Sigefrith smiled and turned back to her. “Nobody calls you Wynflaed besides me.”

“You may call me Wyn if you like.”

“‘Wyn,’” he said thoughtfully. “It makes me think of ‘wynsome.’ I believe I shall call you that.”

“Call me Wynsome?” she smiled.

“Wynsome!” he repeated. He was not ordinarily a clever man with words, so he was quite pleased with himself for coming up with this little idea. “And you may call me… Handsome!”

She laughed aloud.

Sigefrith was delighted. Whence this sudden cleverness? he wondered. But he would take advantage of it while it lasted. He loved to make her laugh, and her laughter did not come easily.

“You don’t seem to think it fits,” he said, pretending to pout.

“I wouldn’t say so,” she laughed. “I am only laughing because you seem to think it fits.”

“I think it might, for a few years yet,” he said and patted his face gingerly with his fingertips, as if to reassure himself that the mask wasn’t slipping.

“And do you think I am winsome?”

“I don’t know,” he mused. “I thought so the first day I saw you. But now I think that you are hiding a good many cares and sorrows beneath your pretty face and your occasional smiles.”

Her smile faded. “I miss my father.”

“In many ways, I think,” he said gently.

“What do you mean?”

“As your father, of course. But I also think that your father tried to keep all of the worries of life off of your little mother and your family. And now that he is gone, I think you are trying to do the same.”

She was silent for an awkward moment. “I’m the oldest,” she finally said.

“You’re also the smallest, except for Heaf. Those are frail shoulders to be carrying such a burden.”

She lifted her hand unconsciously to one of her slender shoulders. The sun was setting not quite behind her, and it gilded with light the left side of her body, her fingertips, the line of her long neck, and her cheek.

He longed to trace that gold outline with his finger, but she looked so delicate that it seemed she would shatter if such a crude being as he dared touch her.

“Someone must,” she said. She seemed to be suffering merely under his gaze, but he could not look away.

“Let someone else,” he said softly. “Let me.”

She breathed in short gasps. He felt that he was crushing her somehow, and that she was afraid to cry out.

“I mean,” he said, “you should tell me of your worries and allow me to take care of them for you. You might be surprised at how many things that seem impossible to you would be quite easy for a man.”

Still she did not reply. He couldn’t touch her as he wanted to—he could only talk to soothe her, and so he talked.

“I asked my friend, Sir Egelric, to come to your farm once a week or so while I am away and check on your workers. You needn’t worry about them while I’m gone. He can make men work like no one else, and if there are any problems with the neighbors, or anyone else, only send to him at Nothelm and tell him you are Brid Oswaldsson’s children, and he will help you. Is that acceptable?”

She nodded hesitantly.

“And you know—or perhaps you don’t—that I have been looking out for you, and I shall continue to do so when I return. So you needn’t worry. Let me worry for you. I should like to see you looking winsome again someday.”

She nodded again and tried to smile, but it seemed to him a smile that feigned agreement while only intending to push him away. He couldn’t bear it. She would have to consent.

“You can’t do it,” he said firmly. “Up here alone, only three women and two boys. You need a man.”

“Then why do you allow it?” she cried. “When I told you we could do it, why didn’t you disagree?”

“Because I meant to help you. And you must allow me to. You need a man,” he repeated stubbornly.

It was such a simple, obvious thing! Why could she not understand it? He pressed his hands together to prevent them from doing as they desired: to take her between them, to crush her, to shake her, to show her how fragile she truly was—to show her what he meant by a man.

She bowed her head and looked down at the long grass. The sunlight rimmed her dark hair with a golden halo. “You mustn’t tell my little mother.”

“We shan’t. Only you and I shall know. Tell me whenever you have troubles, and we shall deal with them together if you like, but you mustn’t try to bear them yourself. Will you do as I say?”

She nodded.

“Tell me so.”

“I shall…” She looked up at him. “Do as you say.”

“Trust me?”

She nodded.

He relaxed and sighed. “Do you have any worries that you would like to tell me now, before I go?”

“Here comes Mouse,” she said, gazing off behind him.

He stiffened. Mouse was a charming girl, but just then he wished her back with her goats.

Mouse came upon them at a run, panting heavily. “You waited!” she said. “Did you ask him, Wyn?”

“No, I forgot.”

“You forgot! What did you talk about then?”

“How handsome I am,” Sigefrith said.

Mouse laughed.

“It’s true! Isn’t it?” he asked Wynflaed.

“You did,” she said.

Mouse laughed again. “You were stupid not to wait for me. I would have agreed with you.”

“And that is why I always say what a clever girl you are,” he said. “Now what was your sister supposed to ask me?”

“Oh, only something for Heaf, but we couldn’t ask you in the house because our little mother told Heaf it wouldn’t be polite to ask for anything.”

“On the contrary, you may ask anything, and if it is in my power to grant it, I shall.”

“Heaf only wanted a shell from the sea, if you could find him one,” Wynflaed said.

“But not cracked or with holes or anything,” Mouse added.

“That’s all?” Sigefrith said. “Poor Heaf, to think it too great a favor to ask me! I shall endeavor to bring him back the finest shell on the shore. And what shall I bring for you ladies? The pearls?”

“Oh, nothing for us!” Wynflaed gasped.

“No, nothing for us,” Mouse said and shook her head firmly. “Only bring yourself home so that you can tell us all the new stories.”

“You are easy ladies to please if all you want is me,” Sigefrith smiled.

“Well then…” Mouse said thoughtfully. “Bring yourself home and learn a new song while you are there, and when you come home, you shall sing it to us.”

“With my goat voice?”

“I can’t believe it’s so bad, just as you always say you’re stupid and I know you’re not. But even if it is, it will be good for a laugh.”

“Granted. A shell for Heaf, a goat song for you, and what do you want besides me, Wynsome?”

“Wynsome!” Mouse laughed.

Sigefrith ignored her. He was watching Wynflaed, whose eyes had gone wide—at the request or at his use of the nickname, he could not tell. But he knew how cleverly he had her trapped. She must either tell him that she wanted nothing besides him, or ask him for something more.

“I should like…” she murmured. “The seeds from a Danish flower.”

“A charming idea,” he smiled. “Will you plant them here?”

“Yes. Golden flowers, if you can. For my little mother’s summer fires.”