The bakehouse barn smelled of dry flour dust, split oak firewood, and warm hearth stone. It was a long, low building with heavy timber rafters blackened by generations of tallow smoke, its stone foundations sunk deep into the gravel terrace fifty yards north of the orchard wall. Under ordinary circumstances, Master Dunstan Harl used the floor to store dried grain sacks and stack split oak for the three brick ovens; tonight, the swept stone floor was covered by thick bundles of rye straw and six heavy wool wagon sheets.
Seventy-four people were huddled in the dim space.
They did not make the noise of seventy-four people. They made the faint, dry rustle of dry leaves caught in a drafty corner. A few children coughed into their sleeves—harsh, barking sounds that echoed faintly off the grain bins—while their elders sat with their backs pressed against the rough timber planking, their eyes wide and hollow in the lantern light.
At the center of the threshing floor, Elin stood beside a three-legged iron brazier that she had hauled from the scullery on a hand barrow. A twenty-quart copper soup kettle simmered over the charcoal, sending up a thin, fragrant steam of boiled barley, dried leeks, and salted mutton trimmings.
