Bronaa

Hild shielded the candle flame with her hand, to lessen its light, as she peered round the door. She did not want to wake Brona from her sleep. She just wanted to check. To make sure she was actually there, back in her own bed. 

That first week we had Waelden in the bed at home, Ethel and I would sit near him in the evening and talk about all sorts of things. In part it was to soothe our own anxiety over how well his foot would heal. It was to give him some sound in the background he could choose to listen to, or not. And it was to strengthen the bond between us all.

“Keep up that shrieking, woman, and I will slice both you and your brat’s throats,” the man, Ceadda, shouted. “Your husband should have let me kill you both back at the inn.”