Agnes sighed, and for the first time that morning, the sharpness in her face eased enough for me to see how tired she must be. “I really appreciate your willingness to help, Isabella. It’s rare to find someone as hardworking as you. I want you to know, I notice when you’re the first up in the mornings and offer to do extra. I won’t forget it. Keep this up, and in a few years, maybe you’ll be the head housekeeper and replace me.”
She spoke as though this was the greatest aspiration anyone could ever dream of, then bustled off, all signs of tiredness goneas she resumed shouting at the girls who still had not climbed out of bed.
I let goof the linen cart and knocked on the heavy wooden door with my free hand. My left arm ached from the weight of the wooden bucket filled with soapy water, and the cart behind me was stacked high with fresh linens. I rapped once loudly to announce my presence, then twice softly, as if to apologize for the intrusion. It was the standard protocol for a servant, and already I was growing tired of pretending that every breath I took required permission.
“Maid service,” I called humbly.
“Come in,” a bored voice intoned.
I pushed the door open and awkwardly wheeled the clunky wooden cart inside. The wheel caught briefly against the threshold, and I had to nudge it hard with my hip before it rolled forward. The door closed behind me, and there was Prince John.
His desk faced the door, and he didn’t even glance up from the many scrolls spread out before him. Even seated, I could tell he was a short man, my height or possibly shorter, with a barrel chest and thinning hair. What surprised me most was the immediate memory of my mother that rose in my mind before I could stop it. Her hair had been brown, but the shape of his nose and the dimples near his mouth were unmistakably familiar. I could tell that when he stood, he would have likely been my mother’s same height.
This is a family member, I realized suddenly.
I didn’t think he was quite my uncle. It seemed that he counted as my first cousin once removed, but I wasn’t entirelypositive. Any time Friar Tuck had tried to diagram my family history, I’d quickly lost interest and tried to sneak out of his lectures. All those circles and lines had seemed far less important than archery practice at the time.
I quickly hid my surprise at the resemblance. As far as I knew, John had never been aware that my mother, his cousin, got married and had a child. He likely didn’t even know she was dead. Mother had been determined to sever all ties to the throne, and after one glance at the man before me, I couldn’t fault her for it.
I swept a grand curtsy. “Your Majesty.”
John still did not look at me. He merely waved one hand, indicating I should get on with my duties.
Royalty, I thought scathingly as I straightened. They truly believed they were made of finer material than everyone else. Many peasants believed the royal line was hand-picked by God to rule, but Father and I considered that utter nonsense. Anyone could govern better than the man in front of me, and several goats I had known would probably do less damage.
I entered the side bedchamber and stripped the rumpled sheets from the bed, switching them for clean linens. The old sheets smelled faintly of sweat and wine, and I was careful to keep my face blank as I worked. I tucked crisp corners, fluffed pillows, and even placed a small dish of spiced pastries I had snuck from the kitchen onto the bedside table. Then I set to work scrubbing the floor, moving quickly and efficiently.
If Prince John cared enough to notice, I wanted him to notice competence. I wiped down the surfaces and walls, then dusted the shelves of books stored along the bedchamber walls. Gwendolyn must have been rushed or inattentive, because a significant amount of dust clung to the shelves, far more than could have collected since the room had last been tended the day before. Of course, considering what Baron had told me aboutJohn’s temper, I could hardly blame the poor girl for wanting to leave as quickly as possible.
Once the bedchamber was done, I moved into the washroom. I pinched my nose as I emptied the chamber pot into the moat far below. After scrubbing the wash basin and refilling the water pitcher, I moved into the chamber I was most excited to study in depth—the office.
This was the antechamber through which I had entered, where Prince John still sat poring over his scrolls. He had barely shifted since I arrived, though the pile of discarded parchment on the floor had grown. I gathered the rumpled scraps that had been flung aside and placed them carefully on the top of the rubbish bin in my cart, where I could examine them later without having to rummage through the entire mess.
I busied myself with beating rugs and tapestries out of the window, wiping down the stone walls, and polishing the brass handles of the doors until they shone in the dull morning light. All the while, my eyes moved over the room, taking in the desk, shelves, maps, letters, loose notes, and a dozen more possibilities but not nearly enough time to investigate everything.
“Beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but is there anything else you need?” I asked when I could find nothing else to clean. “May I bring you anything? A meal or a drink?”
“Glass of red wine,” Prince John requested, dipping his quill into his nearly-dry ink pot. He muttered a curse when the quill scratched uselessly across the parchment.
I dipped a curtsy, which went unnoticed, and hurried from the room. I all but flew down to the kitchen to collect the drink, then paused twice more on my way back. Once, to wrench a dainty vase full of honeysuckle and foxglove flowers from the middle of a table arrangement, and the second time at a storage closet for a fresh ink pot.
Less than five minutes later, I hurried up the winding staircase while taking care to never spill a drop of the wine. I steadied my breathing as I turned the corner, curtsied to the two guards outside the door, then knocked the same way as when I first entered. One loud knock, followed by two quieter, more apologetic ones.
“Come in,” John’s voice called again.
I entered and bobbed yet another curtsy. “Your Majesty.”
I handed over his glass of wine. For the first time, he looked up at me. His eyebrows briefly furrowed, and for one uneasy heartbeat, I wondered if he saw the same familial resemblance I had. His eyes lingered on my face, vague recognition pulling at his expression.
I lowered my gaze at once. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but I thought you might need some more ink.”
I offered the fresh ink pot.
His confused expression cleared as he accepted it, and a smile tugged at his mouth. “It’s nice to see a servant anticipating needs for a change.”
“Your Majesty is too kind.” I swept into another curtsy. My knees would likely give out soon from all this confounded curtsying. It was no wonder women barely thirty years old complained of sore backs and weak knees if they spent their lives lowering themselves every time someone with a title was in their vicinity.
I walked across the room to place the flowers in the washroom.
