closest to them went quiet, staring at the district commander and his tall companion. Face after face turned, half hidden by shadow, fitfully lit by lamps or hearth fire. Children and adults appeared between gaps in the loft railings to see why the room below had gone still.
“If you’ve come to share supper, my lord, we’ve none to spare,” announced a woman by the fire. “We ate it all and could have eaten more.”
She walked forward. There had been more of her once, from the way her stained red wool dress hung on her stocky body. Her eyes were brown and heavy-lidded, the eyes of someone who had seen hard times. Age had scored deep lines around her nose and mouth. Her nose was broad and fleshy at the tip, her lower lip fuller than the upper, giving her a look of dissatisfaction. A kerchief of black wool kept reddish-brown hair from her face; a black wool shawl hung from her elbows.
She stopped before Wyldon and Kel. “Giving this pup a look at the unfortunate?” she asked, her husky voice scornful. “Something for the lad to write home about?”
It seemed the woman thought she was a boy. Kel looked down at her bosom. She wore a quilted tunic, which hid her small breasts, and it had been so long since a knight had worn the double ring on her badge that most wouldn’t know it signified a lady knight.
“Good evening, Mistress Fanche,” Wyldon said courteously. “This is one of the knights who has come to defend the border, Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan. Lady Keladry, Fanche Weir.”
His voice was loud enough that everyone nearby heard. For a moment there was no sound. Then a whispered rattle of talk broke out, spreading to fill the room. Kel heard “lady knight” repeated over and over.
Kel bowed to Fanche, glancing at the woman’s left ring finger. Fanche wore a ring of black braid: she was a widow.
“Fanche’s husband Gothar was the miller of Goatstrack,” Wyldon explained.
“‘Was’ bakes no bread,” Fanche said. “I’m single enough now, and I’ve work to do.” She returned to the hearth to stir whatever simmered in the biggest pot.
“The Scanrans hit Goatstrack last October - burned the mill, killed the miller and their daughters,” explained Wyldon softly. “Thirty-seven dead in the entire village. Fanche mustered those who remained and got them here, fighting Scanrans the whole distance. She saved fifty-eight lives.”
“She’s a handful, that one,” commented the man who now stood by Wyldon’s elbow. He was shorter than Kel, unshaven, with ears that stuck out and an impish glint in his blue eyes. He was going bald in an unfortunate way, losing strands of brown hair in clumps, giving his crown the look of a field gone to weeds. He was weathered, the sun having put deep crows’ feet by his eyes and two long creases down either cheek. Like Fanche - like all the refugees - he wore clothes that would fit someone with more meat on his bones. He stood casually, hands dug into his pockets. “Gods, I love a tough woman,” he admitted.
“You have your work cut out with her,” Wyldon said with a chuckle.
“Oh, well, I like work,” the man replied.
Kel, startled, looked from him to Wyldon. Her training master always stood on dignity; Neal’s epithet “the Stump” was justified. Never had she heard Wyldon laugh or joke. Never had she seen him smile for amusement’s sake, as he did now.
He’s happy, she realized, stunned. Training us - that was his duty. But he didn’t like it. He’s comfortable here, in the dirt and the cold, with people to defend.
“Keladry of Mindelan, this is Saefas Ploughman,” Wyldon said. “He’s a trapper.”
The man bowed. “Not from Goatstrack, so I’ve had little time to wear her down,” he said with a grin. “The way Squire Owen tells it, milady, you’re ten feet tall and eat ogres.”
Kel smiled. She could see that Owen would like this man. “I shrank in my last hot bath,” she replied. “I’m very disheartened by
“If you’ve come to share supper, my lord, we’ve none to spare,” announced a woman by the fire. “We ate it all and could have eaten more.”
She walked forward. There had been more of her once, from the way her stained red wool dress hung on her stocky body. Her eyes were brown and heavy-lidded, the eyes of someone who had seen hard times. Age had scored deep lines around her nose and mouth. Her nose was broad and fleshy at the tip, her lower lip fuller than the upper, giving her a look of dissatisfaction. A kerchief of black wool kept reddish-brown hair from her face; a black wool shawl hung from her elbows.
She stopped before Wyldon and Kel. “Giving this pup a look at the unfortunate?” she asked, her husky voice scornful. “Something for the lad to write home about?”
It seemed the woman thought she was a boy. Kel looked down at her bosom. She wore a quilted tunic, which hid her small breasts, and it had been so long since a knight had worn the double ring on her badge that most wouldn’t know it signified a lady knight.
“Good evening, Mistress Fanche,” Wyldon said courteously. “This is one of the knights who has come to defend the border, Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan. Lady Keladry, Fanche Weir.”
His voice was loud enough that everyone nearby heard. For a moment there was no sound. Then a whispered rattle of talk broke out, spreading to fill the room. Kel heard “lady knight” repeated over and over.
Kel bowed to Fanche, glancing at the woman’s left ring finger. Fanche wore a ring of black braid: she was a widow.
“Fanche’s husband Gothar was the miller of Goatstrack,” Wyldon explained.
“‘Was’ bakes no bread,” Fanche said. “I’m single enough now, and I’ve work to do.” She returned to the hearth to stir whatever simmered in the biggest pot.
“The Scanrans hit Goatstrack last October - burned the mill, killed the miller and their daughters,” explained Wyldon softly. “Thirty-seven dead in the entire village. Fanche mustered those who remained and got them here, fighting Scanrans the whole distance. She saved fifty-eight lives.”
“She’s a handful, that one,” commented the man who now stood by Wyldon’s elbow. He was shorter than Kel, unshaven, with ears that stuck out and an impish glint in his blue eyes. He was going bald in an unfortunate way, losing strands of brown hair in clumps, giving his crown the look of a field gone to weeds. He was weathered, the sun having put deep crows’ feet by his eyes and two long creases down either cheek. Like Fanche - like all the refugees - he wore clothes that would fit someone with more meat on his bones. He stood casually, hands dug into his pockets. “Gods, I love a tough woman,” he admitted.
“You have your work cut out with her,” Wyldon said with a chuckle.
“Oh, well, I like work,” the man replied.
Kel, startled, looked from him to Wyldon. Her training master always stood on dignity; Neal’s epithet “the Stump” was justified. Never had she heard Wyldon laugh or joke. Never had she seen him smile for amusement’s sake, as he did now.
He’s happy, she realized, stunned. Training us - that was his duty. But he didn’t like it. He’s comfortable here, in the dirt and the cold, with people to defend.
“Keladry of Mindelan, this is Saefas Ploughman,” Wyldon said. “He’s a trapper.”
The man bowed. “Not from Goatstrack, so I’ve had little time to wear her down,” he said with a grin. “The way Squire Owen tells it, milady, you’re ten feet tall and eat ogres.”
Kel smiled. She could see that Owen would like this man. “I shrank in my last hot bath,” she replied. “I’m very disheartened by
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