Chapter 1.2

His frown deepened. "Stand up."

I obeyed. He is, after all, the lord of the holding, and I was but a common musician. I had trained to be a Bard, a singer of the Songs of Life and a servant of Justice, but the old lord had taken that from me and trapped me here. I was but a silent harpist in Songless Castle, a slave to the whims of my Christian master.

Lord Reinard looked me over critically, his blue eyes finding fault with everything. "Get a bath. Use my bath, not that wash basin of yours. I want you cleaned like a nobleman."

I raised my eyebrows. All noblemen are Christians, but I, still barefoot as Bard-in-Training should be, was resolutely Heathen. Did he mean to insult me, or did he simply wish for me to embrace his hypocritical faith?

Lord Reinard ignored my expression – or perhaps he missed it. He continued to talk. "I’ve set out some proper clothing for you to wear after you’ve bathed. And shoes. Hurry – you don’t want to keep the girls waiting."

I was not willing to walk off and leave my work undone. I pointed to the scrub brush and bucket, then turned my palm upwards. A daring gesture, when he was in a mood, but his insult deserved one back.

"There are maids to do that," he snapped. "Don’t waste any more time."

#