Page 26 of Castle of Refuge

She used to think it would have been better to be a man. She would have had more opportunities to do good things. But she was not a man. She was a woman who loved flowers and poetry and playing with kittens. She would not have made a very good man, and she certainly did not wish to fight other men in battle like knights had to do.

A woman she was, and a woman she would always be. A woman could be a servant, a shopkeeper, or a wife and mother. Some women owned property and commanded their own estateand servants. If she were wealthy in her own right, it would be easier to do something significant. But she and Maris would never be able to inherit her father’s property, and she wasn’t sure what would become of Maris. If Audrey did not marry or find a life of her own somehow, she and her sister would both be homeless one day.

For now she was content to take these sheets to the laundry maid, who would begin work before dawn the next morning by boiling water for the washing. She could strip this bed a day ahead because it was no longer slept in, though it was very luxurious, with velvet bed curtains, a tall and sturdy frame, and ornate carvings in the bedposts. The walls were covered with intricate and colorful tapestries.

It was so dark, Audrey went to the window and threw open the shutters. The sun was shining and birds were singing. And down below, on the grassy area between the castle and the forest, Lord Dericott was walking.

He moved slowly, his head down. When she’d seen him four years ago, he had held his head high and smiled throughout the meal. He still looked strong and capable, but his face was often downcast. What could she do to cheer him?

Perhaps it was foolish even to think about that.

She carried the sheets down the back stairs that the servants used, trying not to trip on the bedclothes. Mistress Wattlesbrook met her at the bottom.

“Just put those down over there,” she said, pointing into the adjoining room where clean sheets were kept on the shelves along the walls.

Audrey complied.

“Come here, child.” Mistress Wattlesbrook waved her over and looked intently at her face, her brows scrunched together. “You look pale. Have you been coughing?”

“Only a little.”

“But you are feeling a mite peaked, I dare say. Well, it is time to sit for a bit and eat the midday meal.” She motioned Audrey into the kitchen where a trestle table and benches were set up at the back of the warm room next to the oven.

Audrey sat and then saw that the other servants were serving themselves their food. Audrey jumped up, and a maiden handed her a wooden bowl. She was a short girl a bit older than Audrey, and she smiled shyly.

“I’m Joan.”

“I’m Audrey.”

“I know you were sick. I am so very glad you’re feeling better now.” Joan spoke with a strange high-pitched, breathy voice.

“Thank you. I am grateful to Mistress Wattlesbrook and everyone who helped her take care of me. Were you one of the ones who sat with me?”

“Yes, but only twice, and not all night long.” Joan’s eyes were big and wide.

“Thank you so much.”

Joan held out a hand as if to stop her. “I don’t want you to think I did anything special, although I would have done more—I gladly would have, if Mistress Wattlesbrook had asked me to. You were so very sick, I could see, and suffering terribly. I wanted so much to help you.” She had a pained look on her face.

“That is kind of you. You are very kind.” Audrey had never met anyone like Joan. She was so childlike, both in her voice and in her manner, Audrey couldn’t help but wonder if she was a bit addled.

“Can I get your stew for you?” Joan reached out to take Audrey’s bowl, then snatched her hands back. “You will want to get your own stew. Forgive me. I’ll just get your bread for you, since you are new and probably don’t know where to get it.” She hurried over to another table, lifted a linen towel, and drew out a fresh roll. She stood waiting for Audrey to spoon up a ladle of stew into her bowl and sit down, then she handed her the warm bread.

“Thank you so much,” Audrey said, humbled by the woman’s eagerness to help her.

She watched, making sure the woman got her own food and found a place at the table across from Audrey. Then they all bowed their heads and Mistress Wattlesbrook said a short prayer of thankfulness.

The stew was flavorful and even contained bits of meat. Overheard conversations between her own servants had given her the impression that servants were rarely given meat by her father except on holidays. But this was certainly not a holiday.

She ate the food quickly, suddenly realizing how hungry she was. But as she neared the bottom of her bowl, a wave of sickness crashed over her—weak arms and knees, foggy thoughts, and a queasy stomach. Audrey put down her spoon and her half-eaten roll and closed her eyes.

“Audrey?” Mistress Wattlesbrook’s voice was low. “Are you well?”

“Just a bit of dizziness, but I am well.”

The head house servant frowned. “Are you finished with your food?”

“Yes, I thank you.”