Maric’s lips were surprisingly soft against her hair. He spoke of his adventures as if they were as common place as watching corn sprout in the fields. Nimue smiled to herself. Often brave men downplayed their tales and she wasn’t sure if it was because the reality of the tale was so harsh or if brave men were truly humble.  He then surprised her further by asking her to tell of her home before….<br/><br/>For a long time silence filled the room but Maric held her securely to his side. Finally, she began to speak softly.<br/><br/>“I was the youngest of four sisters. Our father was the town’s blacksmith. While he kept us fed and in shoes, he did not have the wealth to provide all four of us with a good dowry. Father decided to give Margo, our oldest sister a good dowry in hopes that she would prevail on her husband to help the sister just younger to have a dowry and so forth.<br/>I guess it could have been a good plan for Margo’s husband was a wealthy merchant, much older than she and he doted on her. She did provide for Nora and she did manage a small dowry for Emma, but when my turn came, Emma died in childbirth and her husband immediately remarried a rich wife from Sussex. There was no dowry for me.<br/><br/>Daffyd came to the market to sell his turnips. Fine ones they were,” she added. “ He was dressed in rough clothes and his hair was a terrible mess. I could see by the rents in his shirt that he had no woman to care for him. Our eyes met and I knew I was to be a farmer’s wife. Of course, my father protested but he couldn’t argue when I followed Daffyd home. Of course, Daffyd wouldn’t allow me to stay under the same room with him that night, but he did sleep in the barn. My father never knew that, though and he agreed to allow us to have the banns read. I never regretted my decision.” She grinned impishly as she remembered her father’s face of horror.<br/><br/>“Daffyd had a small croft, one room bigger than this one. He farmed and was a good husband to the animals. I milked and made good cheese to sell at market. We had enough. Our son, Miles was born within that first year. He was a sturdy child. Daffyd would sing to us at night as we sat on a pallet under the stars. He was never too tired to sing. My husband and my son were identical, both dark and barrel chested. One large and one small but with the potential to be the man his father was. Then the Vikings came. Now, enough about me. You must be bored with my homey tale. Are you tired? Surely your eyes are slamming shut.”