Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

D ear Lord.

Not only was his grandmother still alive, but she was now standing in front of him, looking just like he remembered her.

"Gran." He almost dropped Ingrid in his shock. She gripped his neck more tightly and let out a little squeak of alarm. He instantly tightened his hold around her, securing her in place against his chest. "Apologies."

"You can let me go now," she whispered, sounding rather daunted at being seen in such an intimate position with him. And then he remembered what his grandmother had just said.

You've brought your bride for me to meet.

Yes, from the way he was holding Ingrid, it certainly looked like he had come back from London with a wife in tow. And if the old woman had heard him call the woman in his arms his beautiful bride, as he suspected, then there would be no convincing her it was not the case.

There was no time to think. No sooner had he released Ingrid than his grandmother threw herself into his arms. "My boy! I had not hoped to see you again before I left this life. And now not only do I see you hale and hearty, but I get to meet your lovely wife as well. I was so worried about you, on your own in a strange city. Oh, you have brought me such joy this day."

He should speak out, Caedmon knew, he should rectify the mistake, tell her Ingrid was not his wife, but just a friend. But how? His first words to his grandmother, his only living relative, in more than ten years, could not be to crush her hopes that he was happily settled when it was all she'd ever wanted to see. He stole a glance at Ingrid and saw she understood his dilemma and was letting him decide on the best way to handle the situation. He cleared his throat, unsure what to do.

Just then two men rounded the corner and the old woman beckoned them over.

"Aethelred, Baldwin, come met my grandson, Caedmon. I told you about him many times." The two men exchanged knowing looks. Apparently she had mentioned him many, many times. Caedmon was not surprised. "He's freshly returned from London with his wife."

This was excruciating. Soon the whole town would know he was back and married. He should have spoken immediately, because it was now too late. As much as he didn't want the two men to think he and Ingrid were husband and wife, he was loath to reveal the painful truth to his grandmother in front of witnesses when he knew she would be crushed.

He stole another glance at Ingrid, hoping she was not taking exception to the farce. It was one thing indulging an old woman and his only living relative, quite another allowing complete strangers to think her his wife. Thankfully she appeared more amused than anything else. Such misunderstandings seemed to be the way it worked between them. She had pretended they were lovers the moment they'd met, he had then faked an abduction, and they were now playing the role of husband and wife. It seemed like a natural progression. He found his lips curling of their own accord. What next? One thing was sure, there was never a dull moment when this woman was around.

"London?" one of the wizened old men said, eyeing up Ingrid suspiciously. "I would say this woman comes from much farther away, wouldn't you, Baldwin?"

His friend nodded, as if that was the wisest thing he'd heard all week. "Indeed."

All hints of amusement vanished from Caedmon's face. He bristled and took Ingrid's hand in his. "She's a Dane but she was born here, in the village just beyond the valley. Not that it matters one way or the other where she comes from."

The man raised both hands in surrender. "Of course, it doesn't, son, not when she looks so lovely. And I suppose being foreign she might know some tricks in bed Saxon women do not even?—"

"She also speaks—and understands—our language," Caedmon barked, "so I would watch your mouth, if I were you, old man! I will not have anyone speak ill of her."

"Yes, what is the matter with you, Baldwin!" his grandmother chided, giving the man a swat on the arm. "No need to be rude! Now be gone with you."

The two men shuffled along, a scowl on their faces.

"I'm sorry," Ingrid murmured while Caedmon glared in their direction. "I had no wish to see you fall out with your friends."

"They are not my friends, merely neighbors, and if they are going to be so dumb then I'm sure I don't want to have anything to do with them," his grandmother assured her. "Come. You two will need a drink and I need to sit down. This heat is getting to me."

Without waiting for an answer she headed toward the northern gate and there was no other choice but to follow her back to the house he remembered. This was the only place where he had been happy growing up, cherished by a grandmother who thought the sun shone in his eyes. A wave of nostalgia hit him hard when he walked through the door and the smell of dried herbs, cheese and woodsmoke reached his nostrils. Suddenly he was a child again, no bigger than the old woman stooping over the fire.

Immune to the evocative smells, Ingrid waited in the middle of the room, unsure what to do, while his grandmother placed a few branches on the glowing embers and stirred the fire back to life. She looked rather anxious and his chest constricted. The misunderstanding had lasted long enough. Now that they were alone, he had to speak out. The more he waited, the harder this would be. He owed it to the two women to tell the truth.

"There," his grandmother said with satisfaction. "While the pottage simmers, you are going to tell me all about how the two of you met."

"Erm, Gran, actually, there's something you need to know," he started cautiously. "Ingrid and I are?—"

"Do not tell me you have a babe on the way? I knew it! That's why you came back, to tell me the happy news in person. Oh, that is all I needed to hear before I went to meet my maker. Thank you, thank you."

And with those words, the old woman wrapped Ingrid in a fierce hug.

I'm so sorry , he mouthed when she threw him a glance over his grandmother's shoulder. She shook her head as if to indicate it didn't matter and even gave him a small smile that warmed his chest.

"No. No. Gran. We do not have a babe on the way," he said, laying a gentle hand over the old woman's shoulder. This misunderstanding, at least, he would nip right in the bud. "But we?—"

"But we hope it might happen very soon," Ingrid cut in, smiling at his grandmother.

"Oh, I do hope so, my girl, and it will, if my grandson applies himself to the task properly."

"Erm, quite."

Caedmon stared at the two women, stunned. Well, it was too late to tell the truth now. They were in league against him.

His grandmother let go of Ingrid and took his hand in hers, squeezing it with surprising force. "I spent the last few years bemoaning the fact that with you living at the other end of the world, I would never know about any family you might have. To know I have actually been reunited with you, met the love of your life and might get to see my first great grandchild soon means everything. Your mother would have been so proud. I know she never told you she loved you, but she did, in her own way. She wanted the best for you, a family life such as she had never been able to offer you."

Caedmon's throat went so tight he thought he was going to cry. What a fool! But in that moment he felt proud to have brought the old woman some joy and comfort, even if it was all a lie. Gratitude toward Ingrid invaded him. She could have fled in protest, blurted out the truth, or even mocked the old woman for making ridiculous assumptions. Instead she had decided to indulge her.

"Shall we eat?"

It was only then that Caedmon remembered the pies he'd left on the bench under the tree. Too stunned by all that had happened, he had completely forgotten about them. "I bought food this afternoon but I'm afraid I left it by the wash house. There's little point me going to get it back. Someone will have taken it by now."

"It matters not, there's enough to eat here. My friend brought me a couple of trout this morning to go with the pottage, and I have plenty of cheese left."

Caedmon's mouth instantly started to water. "Gran makes the best cheese I've ever eaten," he told Ingrid. "You'll see."

"I don't doubt it. Grandmothers usually do, or so everyone says."

Ingrid sounded wistful. So despite her happy childhood, it seemed she hadn't known her grandparents. His heart went out to her.

"We do," his grandmother confirmed. "Now, do you mind gutting the trout, my girl?"

He stepped up, a smile blooming on his lips. "I'll do that, Gran. I'm afraid Ingrid will only butcher the poor beasts. She told me once she's not very experienced with anything relating to fish and fishing."

Seeing Ingrid blush all the way to the roots of her hair gave him such satisfaction that it was almost indecent. Deciding he had tormented her enough, he went in search of the trout and they all started to work in companiable silence.

Later, when they all sat down to a hearty meal, his grandmother asked. "I say, you have such an unusual name, Ingrid. What does it mean?"

Caedmon watched as Ingrid bit her bottom lip. She appeared reluctant to answer. He knew that Norse names could sometimes be animal names. Wolf, Bear, Eagle to name a few. That was not bad, but what if she was called something she was ashamed of? Cow? Mole? Perhaps he should make something up to spare her from embarrassment, but what could he choose? No animal seemed fitting for her.

"It means ‘fair', ‘beautiful', " she said eventually, keeping her eyes lowered.

"Well, look at that!" his grandmother was delighted. "No name could suit you better."

"No," he confirmed.

Indeed, no name would be better for her. Mole…Really, what had he been thinking? Of course, the parents who had loved her would have chosen an appropriate name for her. Briefly, he wondered what the three women who'd disparaged her looks earlier would say if they knew what her name meant before pushing them out of his mind. They did not deserve another moment of his time.

Instead of commenting, Ingrid took another bite of the cheese. "Caedmon was right. This is the best cheese I've ever eaten. You'll have to tell me your secret before we leave."

He understood that she was trying to avoid having to talk about the meaning of her name and he did his best to help her along. After what she'd done for him, he owed it to her to make the stay under his grandmother's house as comfortable as possible.

"I would be surprised if you managed to extract that secret. Gran has always refused to reveal it to anyone."

"Bah! I think I can make an exception for my grandson's wife, can't you? In fact, I know I should. You're my only family and it would be a pity to have the secret die with me."

He sat back and listened while the two women started to detail the process involved in giving the cheese its unique flavor. The more he watched Ingrid, the more beautiful she seemed to him. Had he really lived for three weeks in her hut without seeing her for the marvel she was? Was it because they had kissed that something had changed and he was seeing her differently? Maybe. But all of a sudden he felt like a prisoner in awe standing in front of the first sunrise he'd seen in years.

"Do you know, Caedmon," his grandmother said when the cheese's secret had been thoroughly exposed, "some time ago, I bumped into your old friend, Frigyth. You'll never believe it but she, too, is married to one of the Norsemen living in the village yonder. I could scarcely believe my ears when she told me. And then her husband came to join her and it was my eyes I couldn't believe. Little old Frigyth married to such a handsome giant! Who would have thought it?" The old woman chuckled. "I bet she's not bored at night with a husband like him next to her!"

He gritted his teeth. His grandmother had always been blunt, and he'd always loved that about her. Right now, though, he wished she would keep her observations to herself. He already knew that Frigyth was getting what she needed in Sigurd's bed. He didn't need to hear it.

"Did she tell you where her sisters were?"

"Dunne is in the village, too, married to another Norseman whose name I don't recall, and Birgit has gone all the way to Mercia." She waved the information away and he didn't insist. He already knew where his old friends were. He'd only asked to avoid having to hear what she thought Frigyth and Sigurd were up to in bed because he knew she was not above telling him. "But what about you? What have you been doing all this time?"

There wasn't much he could tell her. The misadventure with Mildred was out of the question, so were his years of misery looking for fulfilment and his fake marriage to Ingrid. That left only one thing.

"I'm a goldsmith now. I learnt the trade with an old Londoner who took me under his wing when his only son died."

"A goldsmith? Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." She turned to Ingrid and winked. "He's always been very good with his hands, that one. Although I suppose I don't need to tell you as much. As his wife, you probably know."

Caedmon rolled his eyes. Really, she was unstoppable. "Gran, please. You're making Ingrid uncomfortable."

"Tuh! You're not uncomfortable, are you, my girl?"

"Talking about your grandson's skill in bed? No, of course not, why would I be?" Ingrid murmured.

Caedmon could see that his grandmother missed the sarcasm but he felt his lips curl up. This woman was incredible. No one he knew would have handled the odd situation better. In fact, the way she fit in so easily, gave him pause. It was as if she had always been a part of his small family. As if to prove it, she started to clear the table as naturally as if she had grown up in the house. Gesturing to his grandmother to stay where she was, he stood up to help her. Everything felt easy with this woman.

Kissing her that morning had been a spur of the moment thing and it could, and should, have been awkward. It had only been natural. It was the aftermath that had been difficult. Mercifully, though, they seemed to have recovered from it.

"Time to sleep, methinks," his grandmother announced once everything had been cleared away. Night had started to fall while they ate but it was not dark yet. "You two are going to share my pallet and I?—"

"I will not hear of you sleeping anywhere other than your own bed," Caedmon interposed, raising a hand.

"Of course, not!" Ingrid sounded just as outraged at the notion. "You already offered us a splendid meal, we cannot possibly?—"

"This is my house, so it will be my rules. As I was saying, you will share my bed and I will go sleep in my neighbor's house. She is away tonight, tending to her daughter, who's just given birth to her second son, so it is the best solution. I will not hear any protest," she added before anyone could say anything else. "Now, I know it's still early but my old bones urge me to get into bed. All the emotions of the day quite tired me out. Good night, you two."

Once they were alone, he and Ingrid looked at each other, slightly stunned. Caedmon cleared his throat, not knowing what to say or what to do. He felt as if he'd been picked up by a whirlwind and deposited somewhere far away from home. Now he had to get his bearings and decide on the best course of action in strange surroundings. It was all the more disconcerting that he was in a familiar place. This house, with its comforting smell, was where he most felt at home.

And yet he was utterly at a loss.

"So, shall we..." Ingrid started, eyeing up the pallet behind him.

"No," he ruled. "You've already done more than I could have expected of you by pretending to be my wife. I cannot ask for anything else. I will sleep on the floor, next to the fire pit, like we did in your hut."

"And if your grandmother comes back before we wake up and sees us sleeping separately? How will you explain that?" She shook her head and sat on the fur-covered pallet without further ado. "I trust you, Saxon. We can sleep next to each other."

She trusted him.

Caedmon swallowed. The question was, did he trust himself? Did he think he could keep his urges to himself whilst lying next to her? Earlier that day he had kissed her, just because they'd happened to be in the place where he had shared his first kiss with Frigyth. Then he had taken her into his arms and pretended to be her husband and felt rather unsettled by their proximity. As if that was not enough, he had spent the whole evening ogling her and marveling at her beauty. There was no telling how he would react when he felt her warm body next to his, or rather, he could predict it only too well.

He would get hard.

He reached out to his boots with the distinct impression that he was making a mistake.

But there was no stopping it now. He had been well and truly swept away by the whirlwind.