Had Sophia not just known but also lived it, her walk toward the castle would have hit her like a runaway cart.
She supposed the land itself wasn’t so very bad. The fields were stark and barren, but so would any field be, early in the year; the cottages were squat and dark, but that too seemed typical. She couldn’t see rivers of blood or heads on pikes. Mayhap the village she was approaching was no different from the ones she and Alice had occasionally passed through with their merchants, and she was only letting her task nibble around the edges of her mind. Or the difference might have been that she was alone and aware of the danger ahead and its nature.
Yet there seemed a quality to the air that she couldn’t name, not quite the smell of rot nor a feeling of chill clamminess, but akin to both and just out of her perception.
She remembered that she’d thought Loch Arach unwelcoming when first they’d arrived—and it still seemed less than preciselywelcoming—but its remoteness had been honest. Walking toward the village, Sophia kept looking behind her, thinking to see…she didn’t know what, and she wouldn’t have wanted to name it if she had, not even in her own mind.
When dawn broke and she saw the first villagers emerging from their cottages, heading forth to milk goats or cows and do various other farming tasks she found more mysterious than Greek or Latin, she approached one of the larger buildings and tapped on the door.
The woman who answered was a year or two older than Sophia, dressed plainly but not poorly, but her face was more lined than Sophia would have expected, and very white until she saw who her visitor was. “Don’t have aught to spare for beggars,” she said.
“I’m not,” Sophia protested, trying to keep any hint of an accent out of her English. “I’m looking for work. My aunt—”
“I’m not your aunt, and I’ve got no work. You don’t want to stay here,” said the woman, and shut the door.
Having half expected a response of that nature, Sophia nonetheless found herself blinking, startled and disappointed to have her suspicions confirmed—and more nervous as well, because of the woman’s caution and her wary expression.
The next cottage was smaller, and the girl at the door almost a child. She stared at Sophia with wide eyes, but shook her head when asked about work. “Should I try the castle, then?” Sophia asked.
“Well…” The girl looked her over, taking in face, figure, and gown with a gaze older than Sophia had seen from most, even the poorer girls in Flanders. “Could be. You might do all right there for a bit. I…wouldn’t think to stay, though.”
“No,” Sophia said. “I’m not staying.”
She pulled her shawl tighter around herself and continued up the road. She’d hoped to gain admission long enough to ask questions, and that well before she got to the castle, but if she couldn’t even ask for work without meeting hostility, she didn’t think questioning would go very well. The castle it was, then, even if the sight of armed men in front of the main doors did tighten her stomach and make her skin crawl.
They’re soldiers. Every lord has them. Cathal does.
The back of her mind refused to accept that, and the rest of her feared that it was right. None of the guards offered her direct insult—Sophia guessed that the worst of the lot were away fighting with their master, and even here there seemed to be a few standards of civilization—but she wished it were still night, that they might not see her as well or at least that she might be less aware of their gazes.
“Kitchens. Maybe. Doubt it,” one of them said and shrugged a shoulder, then glanced to his companion.
“That’s Cook’s problem. Go on.”
In the courtyard of Valerius’s castle, thereweresmells, and not the unavoidable sort that Sophia was used to from both cities and Loch Arach. One could never do much about waste or spoiled food, but thereweremethods of avoiding at least the worst. The people she’d grown up with had used them, and so had those at Loch Arach. Here, either those in residence couldn’t afford to do so or didn’t care.
She endeavored not to think overmuch about it, averted her eyes, and breathed through her mouth. Up above her was the castle proper. She’d need a way into that, in case what she sought was written down. How did one become a maidservant?
A hand grabbed her by the elbow, interrupting her thoughts. Sophia yelped and turned to glare, then closed her mouth and cast her eyes down when she realized it was another of the men-at-arms. “What’s your business here, girl, and why aren’t you about it?”
“I-I was looking for the steward. For work.”
The man—scrawny and tall, with lank hair and the smell of wine about him—grinned. “If it’s a few coins you want…” He pulled her toward him, strong enough to ignore her resistance.
This would not be a good time to stab a man. “Sir,” she said, preparing an excuse, when another voice cut in.
“She’s here for us, Adney. Leave off, unless you want to waitanotherfortnight next time your horse needs shoes.”
The speaker was young, female, and very plainly dressed, but when she spoke, the guard let go of Sophia’s elbow. “Another girl, Gilleis?” he asked, looking Sophia over again and now with more dubiousness than lechery.
Gilleis tossed her dark head. “Well, since all themenare away at war—”
The slight was clearly intentional, and she was just as clearly prepared for the blow, ducking out of the way before Adney’s hand could do worse than clip the side of her head.
He spat. “Go, then, both of you. And Gilleis, you run your mouth while you can. Not much time left for it.”
The girl grabbed Sophia by the arm—it was getting to be a pattern, though her touch wasn’t nearly as offensive—and guided her across the courtyard, walking slowly enough that spectators couldn’t say she was fleeing. “Wouldn’t leave a dog with that pox-ridden son of a bitch if I could help it,” she said.
“He seems a bad sort,” Sophia agreed tentatively.
