Child of Flame (Page 129)

“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?”

Anna smiled and nodded, but what flashed across Frederun’s expression was difficult to understand: Pain? Longing? Envy?

“She’s done well, has your aunt. None knows better than I what she suffered in Steleshame at the hands of Lord Wichman. I remember pitying her there. How could I have known it was to come to me in my time?” She straightened up sharply with a frown. “No sense in sorrowing over what’s past, is there, little sister? You’ve suffered more than I, poor child, not able to speak a word.” She wiped a smear of soot off Helen’s delicate face. “And this poor creature, what will become of her with such a pretty face to plague her all her years?”

Helen smiled beatifically up at Frederun, for she was always the happiest of creatures as long as she was fed and clean. A pang gripped Anna’s heart, hearing truth in Frederun’s words. Probably Helen would never be quite right in the head, and her child’s beauty, if it held as she grew, would only bring her grief.

“Come now,” added Frederun briskly, “you finish that up and get you home or Mistress Suzanne will be fearing for you and the little one with dusk coming on.”

Standing, she had just turned to call to one of her women when the door slammed open, helped by a gust of wind, and two of the mayor’s guardsmen came in, beards tipped with ice, slapping their hands together to warm them.

“Ho, Mistress Frederun!” cried one in a voice too loud for the hall, pitched to carry over the wind. “There’s a great party of soldiers and their noble lord ridden in, come to beg hospitality of Lord Hrodik.”

“And to grant themselves first pickings at the armory,” added his comrade irritably.

Frederun froze, as might a rabbit when the shadow of an owl skimmed across it. “Who might it be? Is it Wichman, returned?”

“Nay. They come from the west. They’re riding east to fight the Quman. I saw no banner, nor did I speak to the outriders. You’ll have to go into the hall to see who it might be.”