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The tall men had come back into the room. Shaking off the snow from their cloaks as ordinary men would do before they entered, stamping the slush from their boots on the rushy mats of the vestibule. And now they sat at their ease near the fire, drinking another cup of the warm wassail. Again, much as ordinary men would do.
Their boots had clopped solidly on the wooden floor when they walked she noted, but their footsteps, in her mind, trailed off to and from lands beyond her ken, she thought. And their eyes took in all with a considering look, as if weighing the scene and those involved in it in some hidden balance. She wondered if this little gathering was found wanting.
Goody felt a prickling on her scalp, and a sudden chill that trickled down her bent old back bone, though truth be told the chill was more of an excitement than a feeling of ill will. Some would say the Sight’s come on her. But Goody would laugh and poke fun at such nonsense. ‘Nothing but my years!’ she would cackle. ‘And I pays attention and remembers.’
She eyed the man nearest her as he bent forward to feed a stick of holly to the fire. Her old ears strained to hear the melody he seemed to hum. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, her curiosity roused at the unfamiliar tune. ‘Your tune – are there words to it?’
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