everyone else should live that way also.
She’d also heard from the cook she met on her way to the garderobe this morning, that everyone felt as if they were walking on eggshells and never wanted to make the man upset. He’d had so much disappointment in his life already with the death of his children and also his wife, no one wanted to see him unhappy.
She threw open the shutters and took a deep breath of crisp morning air as she got her first good look at the castle courtyard. Servants scurried around busily, and the serfs from town were lining up at the door to the kitchen with baskets in their hands, waiting to use the castle’s ovens to bake their bread.
Alewives gathered at the well to hear the daily gossip, and the falconer walked through the courtyard with a hawk on his arm. A jester had a crowd of children around him as he juggled wooden cups, and the washwomen loaded up the back of a cart with baskets of clothes to be brought to the river to wash.
She looked atop the battlements and saw the guards watching over the side of the battlements. Two of the guards seemed to test the portcullis, lowering it and raising it again by use of chains and a pulley, testing it out.
The sun had just started to rise but already Conlin was in the practice yard sparring with his steward, Sir Jackson. She could see the practice yard well from her second floor window.
Conlin was bare-chested, and with every swipe of his sword his body turned and glistened in the sun. His muscles bulged and stretched in ways she didn’t think possible. He was good with a blade. Much better than her uncle or any of her uncle’s soldiers. She watched as he raised it over his head effortlessly, swiped it from side to side, and even turned a full circle, coming back with the sword in both hands to block an overhead blow from his steward.
He unarmed the man three times, then handed his sword to his squire and walked over and wiped his face in his discarded tunic.
She could see he was a man who knew how to use a weapon, and started to doubt that he’d lower himself to pushing a king over the side of a cliff. Nay. If he wanted to kill a king, he’d have used his sword - not killed him in a cowardly way. Wouldn’t he?
Toft sat down atop a wooden barrel and started cleaning the blade with a rag. She couldn’t hear what they were saying and wanted to know what Conlin talked about with his men since it surely wasn’t about shoes. She was curious by nature and wanted to get to know more about the baron. So she dressed quickly and made her way out into the corridor, intending to go to the practice yard to eavesdrop.
But as she passed a chamber, she heard the muffled sound of crying from within the room. She stopped outside the door, and listened. The crying was soft but she’d heard it. It almost sounded as if it were being muffled by a pillow. A chambermaid walked past and Isobel stopped her.
“Can ye tell me whose chamber this is?”
The woman looked at her suspiciously. “And who might you be?” The old woman squinted one eye, obviously having heard her Scottish burr and deciding to proceed with caution.
“I’m Lady Isobel MacEwen o’ Fife.”
The lady didn’t respond.
“I’m the proxy sent te marry the baron.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry m’lady.” The woman almost dropped her linens when she curtseyed, holding onto her skirt with one hand. “I didn’t know. Please don’t tell the baron I spoke so disrespectfully to you.”
“Get up,” she said, helping the old woman stand. “Ye didna ken. Now jest tell me who is inside this chamber.”
“That is the baron’s daughter’s chamber. Lady Rose,” she said, and bowed once again.
“Thank ye.” Isobel nodded, thinking the woman would leave. However, the woman didn’t move. “Ye may go,” she added, and the woman curtseyed one last time and finally left.
“Och, and they say I’m the crazy one.” She’d never had people bowing to her or respecting her in such a
She’d also heard from the cook she met on her way to the garderobe this morning, that everyone felt as if they were walking on eggshells and never wanted to make the man upset. He’d had so much disappointment in his life already with the death of his children and also his wife, no one wanted to see him unhappy.
She threw open the shutters and took a deep breath of crisp morning air as she got her first good look at the castle courtyard. Servants scurried around busily, and the serfs from town were lining up at the door to the kitchen with baskets in their hands, waiting to use the castle’s ovens to bake their bread.
Alewives gathered at the well to hear the daily gossip, and the falconer walked through the courtyard with a hawk on his arm. A jester had a crowd of children around him as he juggled wooden cups, and the washwomen loaded up the back of a cart with baskets of clothes to be brought to the river to wash.
She looked atop the battlements and saw the guards watching over the side of the battlements. Two of the guards seemed to test the portcullis, lowering it and raising it again by use of chains and a pulley, testing it out.
The sun had just started to rise but already Conlin was in the practice yard sparring with his steward, Sir Jackson. She could see the practice yard well from her second floor window.
Conlin was bare-chested, and with every swipe of his sword his body turned and glistened in the sun. His muscles bulged and stretched in ways she didn’t think possible. He was good with a blade. Much better than her uncle or any of her uncle’s soldiers. She watched as he raised it over his head effortlessly, swiped it from side to side, and even turned a full circle, coming back with the sword in both hands to block an overhead blow from his steward.
He unarmed the man three times, then handed his sword to his squire and walked over and wiped his face in his discarded tunic.
She could see he was a man who knew how to use a weapon, and started to doubt that he’d lower himself to pushing a king over the side of a cliff. Nay. If he wanted to kill a king, he’d have used his sword - not killed him in a cowardly way. Wouldn’t he?
Toft sat down atop a wooden barrel and started cleaning the blade with a rag. She couldn’t hear what they were saying and wanted to know what Conlin talked about with his men since it surely wasn’t about shoes. She was curious by nature and wanted to get to know more about the baron. So she dressed quickly and made her way out into the corridor, intending to go to the practice yard to eavesdrop.
But as she passed a chamber, she heard the muffled sound of crying from within the room. She stopped outside the door, and listened. The crying was soft but she’d heard it. It almost sounded as if it were being muffled by a pillow. A chambermaid walked past and Isobel stopped her.
“Can ye tell me whose chamber this is?”
The woman looked at her suspiciously. “And who might you be?” The old woman squinted one eye, obviously having heard her Scottish burr and deciding to proceed with caution.
“I’m Lady Isobel MacEwen o’ Fife.”
The lady didn’t respond.
“I’m the proxy sent te marry the baron.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry m’lady.” The woman almost dropped her linens when she curtseyed, holding onto her skirt with one hand. “I didn’t know. Please don’t tell the baron I spoke so disrespectfully to you.”
“Get up,” she said, helping the old woman stand. “Ye didna ken. Now jest tell me who is inside this chamber.”
“That is the baron’s daughter’s chamber. Lady Rose,” she said, and bowed once again.
“Thank ye.” Isobel nodded, thinking the woman would leave. However, the woman didn’t move. “Ye may go,” she added, and the woman curtseyed one last time and finally left.
“Och, and they say I’m the crazy one.” She’d never had people bowing to her or respecting her in such a
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