Chapter 1.4

Lord Reinard’s bath was large enough to lay down in, and fashioned from copper and bronze. The water was heated by a fire in the base, and already it steamed. Six castle maids stood beside it, with brushes, soaps, and oils in their hands. A pile of thick towels waited at the side. This looked serious.

"Morning, Gerard," said one, who was older than the others. "Ready to get all clean?"

The others, mere girls, giggled. My face grew hot.

"Come on," said the matron. "By the Goddess of the River, ain’t you never had a bath before?" She stepped forward and tugged on my tunic.

I hastily brushed her hands back, then pulled off my clothes. One girl pushed the rags aside with her foot while the others dragged me into the warm water. I was scrubbed, sanded, and polished over inch of bare skin, as if they were determined to scour off every trace of Heathen from me.
For the ten years that the old lord forced me to live in the stables, and the four months that his son had allowed me to sleep in the keep, I had not had such a thorough cleansing. If it had not been for the motive, it might have been enjoyable.

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As a child, my favorite place to bathe had been an ice-cold stream that sprouted from the moutainside above my hometown of Jerden. It was a magical place, the elders said, and anyone who could stand to stay in those waters would be filled with the strength of the mountains. Later, as an apprentice Bard in Slattern, I went to the public baths and wallowed in the bubbling springs. There, it was said, the sulfuric taint of the water carried both magic and healing from the depths of the earth. Between the ice and the steam fall all other baths, none quite as magical as the favorites of my youth.

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Author note: Sorry, guys, at this point, this is as steamy as it gets.