“Truly,” said Frederun, “Mistress Suzanne has outdone herself this time!” The cloak had a rich scarlet hue, fur lining, and a beautifully sewn trim in a fanciful design of elegant dragons outlined in gold-dyed thread.
“Surely that’s not for you, Frederun?” demanded an older woman whose face bore an unsightly scar, the mark of an Eika ax.
“Nay, it’s for Lord Hrodik. Now that Lord Wichman is gone, he fancies himself the proud defender of the city. It’s to go over his armor.”
The women laughed.
“His sister’s armor, you mean,” continued the scarred woman. “He’ll never be half the fighter Lady Amalia was, may God bless her name.”
All the women there drew the Circle of Unity at their breasts and murmured a prayer for peace. Many of them remembered the noble lady who had died of her wounds after the battle for Gent that Count Lavastine and King Henry had won.
“No sense in calling the poor young man names, for all his faults,” scolded Frederun. “The rats have fled the nest, and the mouse that’s left us is a kinder master than they ever were.”
“True-spoken words,” agreed the scarred woman, resting a hand on Frederun’s shoulder. “You took the brunt of it, friend. We’ve none of us forgotten that.”
Frederun traced the outlines of dragons embroidered along the edge of the rich fabric. She had dreamy eyes of a limpid brown, the kind one imagined gazing into a lover’s ardent gaze, set off by light hair caught back and covered by a shawl tied so loosely that curling strands of hair had escaped to frame her pretty face. She was, everyone agreed, the second handsomest woman in Gent.
“Come, now,” she said, shaking off her reverie impatiently without responding to her companion’s comment, “here’s these two lasses who must be cold from walking outside in that wind just so Lord Hrodik can have his cloak the instant he desires it! Here, child, let you and your sister come in and have a bit of hot cider to drink for it’s that cold out, isn’t it now? Sit by the hearth.” She addressed one of the younger servants. “Give them a slice of apple, and be sure they have a bit of cake from the lord’s table as well.” She clapped her hands sharply twice. “Back to work! Let’s have no sleeping in the hall. We’ve little enough light these months as it is. Fastrada!” The scarred woman had taken the cloak from her to fold it up. “I pray you, will you see that the cloak is delivered to Lord Hrodik?”
“Truly, Frederun, you know how he will complain if you’re not the one to deliver it to him.”
Frederun exclaimed sharply on a gusty sigh, but she reached for the cloak and finished folding it with practiced ease. She had strong hands from years of hard work, although certainly she couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age. “Why must he believe he is owed what Wichman took?”
No one else appeared to be listening, perhaps only because of the boring familiarity of the situation. “Can you not speak to Biscop Suplicia?” asked Fastrada.
“She is kin by way of certain cousins to Lord Hrodik’s family. Why should she feel any compassion for a bond servant like me? Do I not owe service to their noble house?”
“I thought you served at the mayor’s palace, not in the lord’s bed.”
“You know as well as I that Mayor Werner was the last of his family. Nay, the noble lords have hold of Gent now, and they won’t give it up.”
The older woman frowned sourly. “Very well. I’ll take the cloak up to him, and let him bleat as he may.”
Frederun cast down her gaze, as though in exhaustion. “I thank you.” She straightened one of her sleeves and wiped a fleck of ash, floating out from the hearth, out of an eye. “He has grown worse—”
“Since the weather keeps him locked inside instead of out hunting. Truly, he has more cock than sense!”
“Isn’t that true of most men!” interposed one of the younger women. She had a pretty mouth, bright eyes, and pox marks on her cheeks. “Here, Fastrada, I’ll take the cloak up to his lordship. He fancies me, and I want some of that honey he hoards, for my family to trade for cloth for my sister’s dowry.”
“Take care, Uota, that you don’t walk into a fire so hot that it burns you,” replied Frederun quietly.
“I hadn’t heard you were so shy,” retorted Uota with a flash of anger, “in the days before Lord Wichman took to beating you for his pleasure. It’s said you gave yourself freely enough if the lord was of princely disposition.”
“Hush, Uota!” cried Fastrada, although Frederun made no reply except to sink down on the bench beside Anna. “You’re a latecomer here. You can’t know what any of us suffered—”
Uota took the cloak and flounced out.
“Here, now,” began Fastrada as the other servants turned away to give the illusion of privacy, although truly there were no secrets in the servants’ hall. “Frederun—”
The younger woman raised a hand to forestall further comment, and after a moment Fastrada moved away to supervise three women polishing the silver plate.
Anna examined Frederun with interest and pity. It seemed to her that they shared something in common, she and the servingwoman: they had survived the worst kind of hardship and found themselves in a decent and even prosperous life, with a warm bed and two ample meals every day, yet she recognized in Frederun’s expression a discontent like her own, bothersome and mysterious. Why couldn’t she just be satisfied, as Matthias was?
Little Helen looked up suddenly, slid the rose from behind her ear, and presented it to Frederun.
“Ai, thank you, child!” Tears welled up in Frederun’s eyes. She brought the rose to her face and sniffed at it, smiling ruefully. “All the scent’s gone. Where did you find such a lovely treasure?”
Anna signed as well as she could, and unlike many people, Frederun watched her hands carefully, intent on what she was trying to communicate. “By the city wall? Nay, here, the palace wall. Ah, of course! It’s one of the offerings folk leave.” Her face shuttered, growing still and thoughtful, as she touched the wooden Circle that hung from her neck. “Some things are hard to forget,” she muttered, stroking the rose’s withered petals before collecting herself with a shake of the head. “Will your aunt make a wedding cloak as fine for her betrothed, the tanner she’s to marry in the spring?”