Well, that’s to be expected after two straight days of working in an infirmary,she thought, biting the tip of her tongue hard enough to sting.
“I’m fine,” Senga answered bluntly, turning away so that Sister Abigail could not read her face. “I’m only tired.”
Sister Abigail gave a huff, as Senga had known she would. “Well, we arealltired, lass.”
Senga said nothing and set off through the Keep at a trot.
There weren’t many people around at this time of night, only a few sleepy guards inside, a good many more alert guards outside. The air was frigid, cold enough for her breath to blow out in front of her like a cloud.
I wish I’d brought a shawl or a cloak.
Too late now. The ride would warm her anyway.
The courtyard still stunk of death, and Senga breathed through her mouth as best she could to avoid the smell. However, as she approached the stables, a worse smell filled up her senses.
Some people adored the smell of a stable, but not Senga. She felt the familiar dizziness swell up inside her and clattered to a halt at about forty feet away. She could taste blood.
“Excuse me,” she called to a passing guard, “could ye bring out a horse for me from the stables? I’ll need somebody to open the gates for me, too.”
He scowled. “What for? What are ye wanting to leave the Keep in the middle of the night for, lass? It isnae safe.”
Senga swallowed a prickle of irritation. Already, she’d begun to notice a sharp difference between life at the convent and life here. Firstly, there were men everywhere, and they either seemed to ogle her in a most unpleasant way or simply ignore her existence. The nuns floated around, careful to always wear their habits, and got a little respect that way, but Senga had already lost count of the times she’d been roughly pushed aside by men strolling along the hallways.
She was interrupted when she spoke, talked over, ignored, laughed at, and even sent unceremoniously away. Some Grahame councilors had strode into the Great Hall, demandingto speak to the man in charge. They were always baffled when they were directed towards Sister Abigail or Senga.
Still, Sister Abigail had the authority of her habit, while Senga had none. It was rapidly becoming clear that an unmarried young woman like herself was not going to be easily listened to in a place like this. She wondered, briefly, how Freya managed to act as Lady Grahame. However, Freya had the kind of strength of will that Senga could only dream of. And her husband, of course.
“I am going on an errand for Sister Abigail,” Senga responded, holding the man’s gaze. “I have important herbs to collect.”
The man huffed. “Can’t it wait till morning? I don’t feel like opening the gates now.”
Senga swallowed down a rush of fury. “Nay,” she snapped. “It cannot wait, unless ye would like to explain to Laird and Lady Grahame why more of their loyal, injured soldiers were allowed to die through the night for lack of care.”
That did it. The soldier paled and cleared his throat.
“Right. Well, I see. I’ll open the gates for ye. Just hammer on them when ye want to be let back in. Ye can go and choose a horse for yerself.”
Senga stiffened, an all too familiar fear inching through her. It pressed down on her chest, and she suddenly wanted to vomit.
“I cannot do that,” she said at last, her voice taut. “I don’t want to go into the stables. I… I find that confined spaces make me ill.”
Not confined spaces in general. Just stables.
There was something about the dark, earthy-smelling place that just brought Senga all the way back to the beginning. She remembered how it had been, how the horses’ eyes had rolled in fear—howhereyes had rolled in fear.
And then how fear had turned to misery and anger when she realized thathewas not coming.
She could still smell blood, the scent of blood and fresh straw, mixed with her own feelings of terror and despair.
Somehow, that feeling was all bound up in the smell and sounds of a stable. It had been easy enough to avoid the stables in the convent, but going forward, it might be a little bit trickier.
The man gawked at her. “What on earth do ye mean?”
“I mean what I say, man. Go fetch me a horse.”
He heaved a furious sigh. “Fine. Do ye have a preference?”
She thought for a moment. “There’s a gray one in there called Bluebell. I’d like that horse.”
