Mutely I followed Baron Joachim down one long stone hallway after another. He walked quickly and never looked back, his shoulders broad and his spine ramrod straight. It was the posture of a man who’d never bent under a plough. Who’d never known a single day of hunger, not in his whole life.
I tried to stand taller myself as we passed servants and men-at-arms, each going about their business. Some looked at me strangely but said nothing. Others never raised their eyes to see whom they passed.
The castle streamed with life, and everyone’s spirits but mine seemed high: after Lord Sicard’s defeat, no one needed to wonder if Baron Joachim was up to the task of ruling his lands. He’d been tested, and he’d proven himself.
And if he’d done so thanks to help he hadn’t expected, did it matter? Surely his knights would happily forget how farmers and tanners from the surrounding villages had brought their crude weapons to the fight.
And no one—not even I—would know if my hastily scrawled letter had had anything to do with the baron’s victory.
“Hurry along now!”
I jumped. Suddenly Baron Joachim was at my side.
“There’s a long walk to make still.”
I turned away; I didn’t want him to see the confusion on my face. He’d only taunt me more. “Are you sending me home?”
He didn’t answer.
“I came, as your subject, to ask for help,” I said. “I beg you, don’t make me leave without it. You’re capable of mercy—I myself am proof of it.”
“Yes, and you’re not hungry anymore, are you?” he said lightly.
“I didn’t come for myself. I came for everyone else.”
“That certainly isn’t how it looked.”
But before I could respond, a man in velvet robes swept up, pulling the baron aside and speaking in hushed tones. I hung back, hoping not to be noticed. The man’s eyes shifted to me anyway, and as they did, his expression darkened.
“Why, my lord—” he began.
Baron Joachim cut him off with a flick of his hand. “She amuses me,” he said.
The man visibly shuddered. More conversation followed, too low for me to hear. And then the velvet-robed man glided toward me, smelling of wine and incense. “I have encouraged my lord to find a more suitable whore,” he whispered as he passed.
I froze where I stood. How dare he, that vile, oily—
“Come now,” the baron said, returning to my side. “Don’t mind Lord Ashling.”
“That’s easy for you to say. He bows to you and spits on me.”
“As he believes he should. But no matter, I will show you something that will make you forget your wounded dignity.”
He thrust open a heavy wooden door, and when we passed through it, we were in the muted gray light of the outer bailey, where two wagons, heavily laden with supplies, stood waiting. The baron walked up to one of the mules resting in its harness and gave its neck a gentle slap. “See?” he said.
I didn’t understand at first what he meant.
“Are you being stupid on purpose? Lead the way to your village,” he said. He gestured to the two drivers. “They will follow. Surely you can manage this?”
Without answering I ran to the nearest wagon and peered inside. There were wheels of cheese, crocks of butter, sacks of barley. Hay for our livestock. Smoked fish and goose eggs packed in straw. Toward the back of the wagon was a wooden chest held closed by leather straps.
“What’s in there?” I whispered.
“Medicine,” he said. “Salt. Spices.”
I held on to the wagon to steady myself as relief and gratitude flooded my body.
We would live!