A serf fumbled and dithered with the hauberk, adjusting and readjusting whilst Sigurd Syr stood with a horn of ale in hand and tapped his feet with impatience. Finally he could take it no longer and he shoved the serf away with a curse, “I"ll do it my damned self!” He threw the ale away, the horn clattering against the far wall, and struggled with the leather straps. The serf, sitting on the floor, whimpered and struggled to his feet just as the door flew open and Queen Asta strode in. She dismissed the serf with a glance and he ran out at a sprint, grateful to be free of his master"s rage.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like,” he breathed, grunting as he tried to get his hands around the side of the chain mail.
Asta clicked her tongue and stepped forward, swatting his hands a
