Read Online The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) by P. J. Fox - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: P. J. Fox
Tags: Historical, Literature & Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Genre Fiction, dark fantasy, Sword & Sorcery
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Isla stifled a yawn. She hadn’t slept well after her nocturnal interview. Hadn’t slept barely at all in fact; what minutes of unconsciousness she’d snatched had been troubled with unusually vivid dreams. She’d woken up with anxiety gnawing at her belly. Finally giving the night up for lost, she’d risen before the dawn and washed away the stale sweat in a half-filled tub of nearly frigid water as she contemplated her failure.
All efforts to talk with Rowena had also been met with failure. Rowena had been inconsolable since the topic of her betrothal was broached. Isla was glad, now, that she hadn’t shared her plan; the fact of the marriage going forward would have been even harder to bear. Uncharacteristically, Rowena had refused all meals and even the tidbits that were sent up to her. She’d lain on her bed in a funk, breaking her silence only to bemoan the unfairness of her existence.
Isla had dressed alone.
That she and Rowena slept in separate rooms and in separate beds wasn’t a function of their status but, rather, their lack thereof. What the peasantry pictured, when it came to the supposedly glamorous lives of the nobility, was mostly rooted in fantasy rather than reality. The manor was extremely depopulated, due to their financial circumstances. Had there been a full compliment of residents, Rowena probably would have shared a bed with Isla; high-born women got cold at night, just like everyone else. But since fully half the rooms were unoccupied, why not spread out?
Isla would have liked a maid if, for no other reason, than to have someone to talk to. She could hardly ask Hart for his opinion on Rowena’s woes. What would a man know or care of such things?
Clad in a simple brown linen shift with a corset belt lacking in ornamentation of any kind, she’d come downstairs shortly after dawn and been discouraged to see that the household was still recovering from the night before. The same benches on which most of them sat at dinner did double-duty as beds; shoved close to the fireplace for warmth, they each held one or two occupants. Bedding was a rarity; most wrapped themselves in their cloaks. Isla had heard that things were different in the city; urban apprentices slept in their own rooms sometimes, or dormitories that they shared with other apprentices, and some had blankets and pillows and things of their own that they’d either made or had been allowed to purchase on credit. But the West was still rural, and here no one had anything like that.
A few unfortunates had rolled off their benches to land face-first in the straw for the dogs to lick. They snored open-mouthed, surrounded by flies. The earl had ordered new rushes strewn for the duke’s arrival, of course, but after three days even the sweetest smelling rushes were like an old fish: they stank. Pennyroyal killed fleas, while fennel and hops smelled sweet. In the capital, the queen used violet and rose and meadowsweet. A faint breath of fragrance was released with each step, as the rushes crushed underfoot, along with the ripe odors of urine and dog. Few, man or beast, went outside to relieve themselves. Even in the capital, there were rules about how and when a gentleman could pee into the fireplace. Unlacing the breeches was appropriate; removing one’s manhood was not. At least, not in the sight of ladies.
Now, several hours later, the hall was empty; wine-soaked as they were, everyone had finally roused themselves for the day and gone about their work. But the cavernous hall still stank. Odors were a fact of life, in Enzie and everywhere else, but Isla would’ve liked a little less of them all the same. She’d been known to bathe frequently, as often as every other day, an affectation both friends and family found strange. The earl bathed at least once a fortnight, or so he bragged, and considered himself fastidious. Isla doubted if Hart bathed at all. He seemed to consider the smell of his own sweat to be quite alluring,
All efforts to talk with Rowena had also been met with failure. Rowena had been inconsolable since the topic of her betrothal was broached. Isla was glad, now, that she hadn’t shared her plan; the fact of the marriage going forward would have been even harder to bear. Uncharacteristically, Rowena had refused all meals and even the tidbits that were sent up to her. She’d lain on her bed in a funk, breaking her silence only to bemoan the unfairness of her existence.
Isla had dressed alone.
That she and Rowena slept in separate rooms and in separate beds wasn’t a function of their status but, rather, their lack thereof. What the peasantry pictured, when it came to the supposedly glamorous lives of the nobility, was mostly rooted in fantasy rather than reality. The manor was extremely depopulated, due to their financial circumstances. Had there been a full compliment of residents, Rowena probably would have shared a bed with Isla; high-born women got cold at night, just like everyone else. But since fully half the rooms were unoccupied, why not spread out?
Isla would have liked a maid if, for no other reason, than to have someone to talk to. She could hardly ask Hart for his opinion on Rowena’s woes. What would a man know or care of such things?
Clad in a simple brown linen shift with a corset belt lacking in ornamentation of any kind, she’d come downstairs shortly after dawn and been discouraged to see that the household was still recovering from the night before. The same benches on which most of them sat at dinner did double-duty as beds; shoved close to the fireplace for warmth, they each held one or two occupants. Bedding was a rarity; most wrapped themselves in their cloaks. Isla had heard that things were different in the city; urban apprentices slept in their own rooms sometimes, or dormitories that they shared with other apprentices, and some had blankets and pillows and things of their own that they’d either made or had been allowed to purchase on credit. But the West was still rural, and here no one had anything like that.
A few unfortunates had rolled off their benches to land face-first in the straw for the dogs to lick. They snored open-mouthed, surrounded by flies. The earl had ordered new rushes strewn for the duke’s arrival, of course, but after three days even the sweetest smelling rushes were like an old fish: they stank. Pennyroyal killed fleas, while fennel and hops smelled sweet. In the capital, the queen used violet and rose and meadowsweet. A faint breath of fragrance was released with each step, as the rushes crushed underfoot, along with the ripe odors of urine and dog. Few, man or beast, went outside to relieve themselves. Even in the capital, there were rules about how and when a gentleman could pee into the fireplace. Unlacing the breeches was appropriate; removing one’s manhood was not. At least, not in the sight of ladies.
Now, several hours later, the hall was empty; wine-soaked as they were, everyone had finally roused themselves for the day and gone about their work. But the cavernous hall still stank. Odors were a fact of life, in Enzie and everywhere else, but Isla would’ve liked a little less of them all the same. She’d been known to bathe frequently, as often as every other day, an affectation both friends and family found strange. The earl bathed at least once a fortnight, or so he bragged, and considered himself fastidious. Isla doubted if Hart bathed at all. He seemed to consider the smell of his own sweat to be quite alluring,
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