Wulf seemed totally absorbed in his task of raising the hall’s defenses. He came to bed late, tired, and never woke her. She had tried several times to wait for him, but to no avail. She was exhausted herself, for her days were long and began early.
A ray of sun cut through one of the two narrow windows, partly illuminating the room, and Cailin began to visualize it as she had once planned it. Her loom would be by a window to catch the light. There would be a rectangular oak table and two chairs where they might dine in private. The bed spaces would be empty, but for the one in which they would sleep. Eventually their family would share the solar, but not at first. They would have their privacy for now!
Why not? A determined look came into Cailin’s eyes. Why should she not complete the solar? She had her loom, and the furniture was sitting in a distant corner of the hall below, gathering dust. Going over to each of the two narrow windows in the room, Cailin unfastened the small casements, with their panes of animal membrane. Warm sweet air filled the solar, and she was immediately encouraged. Leaving the windows open, she climbed down into the hall again. She saw her cousin Corio at the high board eating bread and cheese, and called to him.
“Corio, come give me your aid.”
He arose. “How may I help you, cousin?”
Cailin explained, and before she knew it, Corio, with the help of several young men, had lifted her loom, the table, the chairs, and the bedding to the solar above. “Take the brazier, too,” she told him, handing him up the iron heater they had traveled with through Gaul.
He grinned wickedly. “I do not think you will need it, sweeting. Wulf’s passion is poorly pent up. He is set to explode with it.” He chuckled. “But give him the chance, cousin, and you’ll have no need for yon little charcoal burner.”
“Is nothing a secret in this hall?” she demanded, her cheeks red with her embarrassment. Did everyone know she and Wulf weren’t coupling?
“Very little,” Corio answered her dryly. Then he took the brazier from her. “But if you insist, cousin,” he said, grinning mischievously.
When the men had gone back to their assigned tasks, Cailin clambered back up the ladder to the solar. Corio, bless him, had had far more sense than she. He had seen that the chests they used to store their personal belongings had been brought up into the room, as well. She fussed with the positioning of her loom and its stool so she would have the proper light. The table was not quite centered, Cailin thought, but she righted its position and straightened the chairs.
She filled their bed space with fresh hay she lugged up the ladder, and mixed it with lavender sprigs, handfuls of rose petals, and sweet herbs. The feather bed, in its practical cotton ticking, she slipped into a cover of sky-blue silk that she had made for it. It was an outrageous luxury, but who would know but them? Fluffing the feather bed, she placed it over the hay, where it settled on the fragrant herbage. Removing the small alabaster lamp from the niche in the bed space, she filled it with scented oil, and putting a wick into it, replaced the lamp in its space. She lay a fox coverlet across the foot of the bedspace. The bedspace was now ready for occupants.
Cailin looked about the solar. Although it needed wall hangings and more pieces of furniture to make it really comfortable, they would manage for the time being. At least it was ready for habitation. Although privacy was not something the Saxons held dear, Cailin was used to it, having been raised with it. Wulf would not find it a burden, she thought, smiling. Then she heard him calling her from the hall below. Cailin scrambled down the ladder from the solar, hurrying to greet her husband.
“We have finished the defenses for the hall,” he told her proudly, obviously well-pleased. “The gates have just now been fitted to the entry.”
“The barns within the walls are finished also,” she told him, “and the harvest is almost all in. I did not go to the fields today, for I was about other business, my lord.” She looked askance at his filthy condition. “You need a bath, Wulf Ironfist. You stink of your labor.”