“Huh.”
Anya’s brows rose.
“It’s good.”
“I know.”
The basin of water she’d brought was warm enough to wash the salt from my face and neck, along with my other bits.
She shoved a bundle at me. Inside was a linen shift gone soft from years of washing, a brown wool kirtle that laced along the sides, and a rectangle of heavier cloth.
The shift looked like the sort of nightgown a gothic heroine might wear while fleeing the husband who’d married her for her money and now wanted to lock her in the attic.
Not sure what my captors were planning to do with me, I’d slept in my clothes. My jacket and jeans were still wet and smelled of saltwater, smoke, and mud.
Anya pinched the sleeve of my jacket between two fingers.
“The blue cloth frightens the little ones.”
“It’s waterproof.”
Her expression suggested this was not an improvement as she touched my jeans.
“And these?”
“Also clothing.”
She made a face. The dressing process was less dignified than I’d hoped.
The linen shift came first, loose and long enough to reach my calves. Then the brown wool dress, which Anya called a kirtle, went over it and laced at the sides. The wool scratched, the ties required more coordination than I currently possessed, and I discovered that a thousand years of women had survived without elastic. Heroes, all of them.
Anya showed me how to fold and pin the heavier cloth around my shoulders as a cloak, then she handed me the shoes which were little more than leather that was shaped around my foot and tied into place.
“I’d rather wear my boots.”
“No.”
“They’re very good boots.”
“The children fear them.” She pointed to the leather shoes.
With a sigh, I let her help me into the boots. The first surprise was that the wool was warm. The second was how quickly the dress stopped feeling like a costume.
The cloth was rough, the shoes were terrible, and it felt a bit scandalous to go without a bra while my breasts moved around inside the dress. It took conscious effort not to cross my arms over my chest.
Anya had given me woolen foot wrappings which weren’t socks, but had clearly been invented by someone who loved feet more than whoever had designed the shoes.
Ten minutes later, I stepped outside dressed like everyone else. Fewer people stared at me as though I might turn into a goat.
Smoke curled from thatched roofs into a sky the color of old pewter. Axes rang against timber. A pair of boys rolled a barrel toward the hall while three women packed sacks into a cart. Chickens scratched in the mud as though invading armies were someone else’s problem.
It was like I’d stepped into an authentic historical village for ye olde tourists, except nobody was selling refrigerator magnets and the smell was considerably more pungent.
Men moved shields and spears toward the southern edge of the settlement. The hunters had already marked the paths through the woods. Food was being divided into what stayed and what could be carried. Grain was hidden in more than one place. The livestock would be moved before armed men came near enough to take them.
These people had survived raids before, they knew how to prepare for enemies.
I found Wulfric near the meeting house, bent over a rough hide stretched across a board. He’d traded the mail he’d worn yesterday for a dark green tunic belted at the waist and a heavy wool cloak. A sword still hung at his side.
