This is from my WIP Steorrum (c) 2015 Amelia Grace Treader.
Cynric had previously gone to the stars as payment for curing his beloved from TB. He's come back home at the wrong time.
At the White
Hart.
Dr. Bridget Heartney blearily scanned the menu at the White Hart.
She said to her best friend Madge, “It's been twenty days
quarantine. I did my twenty-three days in-country and when I came
back, another twenty-three. Damn idiots.”
Madge, a new-age believer, nervously fingered the quartz crystal
she wore from a silver chain around her neck and said, “Can't blame
them. There's not much hope if you have that virus.”
“That's not true. Not if you aren't half starved before you
catch it.”
“Still, they're scared. Afraid they might catch it from you.”
“That's truly daft. I mean it. You have to have body fluid
contact. Not like that's going to happen here in Wroughton. Bloody
stockbrockers.”
“You never know. Your aura says something's afoot. A big change
in your life.”
Bridget ignored her friends superstitious worries and said, “Damn,
I missed this bitter in Liberia. Even if it is just Courage.”
“You shouldn't drink that much, Bridge. Not good for you and,”
she paused, “Your aura is showing red.”
“Stop it. What aura?” Bridget rather uncertainly, because two
pints on an empty stomach is one too many for her, stood. She walked,
almost stumbled, to the bar and placed her order. “Another pint of
bitter, and a.”
“What, Dr. Bridget?”
She looked up at the barman. He seemed half her age, and she'd
given him his school physical when she was newly qualified. “What's
good?”
“It's all rubbish.”
“Then the bangers. Bangers, beans and chips. Tha's what lipitor
is for, and I missed them.”
The man smiled at her. In exactly the way he'd smile at his
mother. “Ta love. You're over at table four, with that crazy
woman.”
“Madge isn't crazy. A bit odd, but not crazy.”
“If you say so. On the tab?”
“Why not? Thanks.” Then she walked back to the table with her
friend. Miraculously, or perhaps from years of practice, she didn't
spill her pint.
Bridget was halfway through her pint, and listening with barely
concealed credulity to Madge telling her about the corn dolly's she'd
left in Wayland's smithy and the Long barrow at Avebury when it
happened.
“Come on Madge, you don't really believe that tripe, do you?”
“Tripe? I'll have you know this is the old religion, the way of
the druids. It's you new believers that cause trouble. There were
lights last night; didn't you see them? It is the coming of the new
age for the old gods.”
“New believers? I don't believe in much of anything. We're just
meat. When we die that's it.”
Madge looked at her friend and said in sorrow, “No, Bridge,
there's more than that. You know it.”
“Maybe. Can't tell. Where's that damned banger and beans? Missed
that in-country, more than you can possibly know.”
She was about to stand up and demand her food when the man came
in. Tall, brown-haired, dressed in coarse linen and followed by a
bobby, he looked completely lost.
“
Is there something to eat? And some ale, mead?”
Bridget looked up, “Sound's Swedish
or Danish. Most of them know English.” She stood up and walked to
him. “Ale?”
He nodded, “Ale
and food.”
Bridget nodded to the barman, “Get
him a pint, and double that order of bangers. Where's mine, or do you
have to kill the pigs first?”
“It's coming Dr. Heartney.”
“Good.” She turned to the bobby who
was shadowing the man. “He's just a lost foreigner. Swedish or
something like that. I'll look after him.” She looked at the man,
“Probably an extra from some remake of Robin Hood, or a similar
piece of dreck.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, lot's of Swedes in the MSF. Got
on well with most of them.”
“Did they carry swords?”
“
No, didn't need them. Good
enough with
their fists when it came to it.
I'll keep him out of
trouble.” Then
she turned to the man and said, “This way.”
He seemed to understand and
replied, “Fair maid, thank you for your kindness.”
“Whatever. Don't forget your pint.”
The man picked up the pint and
drained it. “Another.”
“Thirsty much? Get him another, but
I'll carry it. And hurry up with that food.”
“
Yes, Dr. Bridget.”
Bridget thought, “I should
never have encouraged them to use my first name,” but
she took the pint and led the man to her table.
“This is my good friend Madge. What's
your name?”
The man almost understood, so she tried
again, slowly. “What, is, your, name?”
“
I'm called Cynric son of Cedric.”
“Cynric Cedricson. I'm Bridget
Heartney, well Dr. Heartney, but you can call me.”
“
Bridget? Is it really you?”
He grabbed her arm. Bridget
could not help noticing the strength of his grip and
the muscles in his arms.
