Chapter 3.10

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As the great hall filled for supper, I waited by the door to the ladies’ tower, my bouquet in hand. Charles and Ison were my guards tonight, a comforting presence at my back.

The door opened and a half-dozen blossoms of womanhood poured out – some mere buds and some past their prime, and one so withered and wilted that she may have nursed Lord Guerney’s father in his cradle. Both blonde and dark, they all wore colorful bliauts with wide sleeves that brushed the floor. At the center walked the Lady Victoria, with gold trim and white lace, the most delicate flower of them all.

"She’s not here tonight," Ison muttered, so low that only I and Charles could hear.

I turned my palm upwards.

"The Lady Laurice. Ah don’t see here."

"Unless she’s hiding in the monk’s cowl," Charles said a little too loudly. He gestured toward the Silent Monk who followed them out.

The ladies stopped and looked at us, then giggled. I hastily thrust my wild roses toward the Lady Victoria, a gesture of supplication.

She turned her face toward me, and I was trapped in the emerald beauty of her eyes. How smooth her skin was, how soft and full her lips. A faint rose blushed her cheeks, and she smiled.

And laughed. "What do you make of that?" she said to her companions.

"It’s like that little monkey your Uncle brought back from the Southern Wizardlands," said one of the other women, a thin-faced maid with limp hair. "It used to follow you around, didn’t it? What happened to it?"

"The dogs caught it." She didn’t sound sorry. Without further acknowledgment, she turned and led the entourage off.

My shoulders slumped. I shoved the roses into Ison’s hand and turned, then found myself face-to-face with Sharp. His was dressed in the formal clothes of a Guilded Bard – buckskin leggings and a linen shirt with Bardic symbols embroidered along the sleeves and hem, leather boots and belt embossed with more symbols of strength, and a woolen mantle lined with fox fur. I felt all too aware of my Christian clothing. Yet in that instance, I knew the gulf between us would be bridged, and we would be old friends in each other’s arms.

Sharp drew his sword.

On either side of me, my guards drew their weapons – a sword for Charles and a hunting knife for Ison.

"At least your keepers know what this means," Sharp growled. He slid his blade back into its scabbard. "A pity, though, that you can’t understand why I hate you."

With that he turned on his heel and stalked away.