bejeweled messengers on horseback, bearing missives to their even richer betters.
Beaten into permanence by thirty years of use, this being a favored dwelling place for the Plantagenets, a pathway marked the route from the king's hall to the queen's. That there were two halls at Winchester Castle laid at the feet of old King Henry, John's father. When Henry's family had grown too large to fit easily into this first hall, he'd ordered the construction of a second, and in it housed his womenfolk.
They passed the clutter of outbuildings that every defended residence needed to serve it: the stables and barns placed farthest from the living quarters to spare delicate noses, barracks to house the king's soldiers, the bath house to keep them clean, smithies to arm them, and, above all, the kitchens that kept them all fed. What with feasting tonight, fragrant smoke streamed out from the kitchen sheds, filling the wind with the scents of stews, roasting meats and baking bread.
Although the queen's hall was almost the same size as the one John used, it had no defensive purpose therefore looked more house than final refuge with its wooden walls and shingles, and wide windows to let in air and light. Homey it might appear but it was still a prison.
As Ami started up the stairs to its doorway her escorts fell away to retreat to their barracks. No man save those vouchsafed by John entered this hall. The porter waited for her upon the landing, shielded from the weather by the porch roof. As with the king's hall, the door behind him stood slightly open so air might be drawn within to feed the hall’s central fire.
What went one way could go another. Wafting out of the doorway came the sounds of those trapped beyond it. Women laughed. Dice clacked and clattered. Those spinning lifted their voices in a song that matched the turn and pull rhythm of their distaffs. And Lady Sybilla played the same mournful tune she ever played on her zither.
The porter, Walter by name, bent a friendly smile on Ami. Broad of face, with the fair hair, pale eyes and red beard of his Saxon ancestors, Walter could afford to be amiable. He took coins from the women he guarded, turning his back as they went about their business, never questioning what that business might be and never remembering their absences.
“Well now, you look none the worse for wear, my lady,” Walter said, sending a meaningful glance at Ami’s clothing and her yet perfectly arranged headdress.
That Walter overstepped himself in how he addressed her was because Ami encouraged it. The porter was a veritable fountain of information about courtly folk. That he commented on the state of her attire was a reflection of what Ami would face when she stepped through the doorway behind him. Even though she had no hope of redeeming her repute, it didn't hurt to do what she could.
“It was to discuss business that the king called me and Sir Enguerran into his presence,” she said, wishing she could snip Sir Michel's presence out of her life as easily as she had from the picture she displayed for Walter.
Before she could continue, Walter laughed and dared a bold wink. “Glad I am to hear it for your sake, my lady but know I put my trust and coins in you. I was certain you would be the victor in any encounter with our John. There were others with less confidence in you, and they will now forfeit their riches to me.”
Ami's stomach, already knotted at the thought of the mercenary stealing what little wealth left to her, tightened again. Such was John's court that folk wagered over a good woman's ruination. As she had so aptly learned to do these past four years, she hid what hurt her behind an uncaring grin.
“Fie on you, Walter. Has your confessor not told you gambling is a sin? Since I've helped you win, I do believe you owe me a small favor.”
Magnanimous in his victory, Walter gave a nod. “If it is in my power,” he told her, no expectation in his tone that what she asked would be
Beaten into permanence by thirty years of use, this being a favored dwelling place for the Plantagenets, a pathway marked the route from the king's hall to the queen's. That there were two halls at Winchester Castle laid at the feet of old King Henry, John's father. When Henry's family had grown too large to fit easily into this first hall, he'd ordered the construction of a second, and in it housed his womenfolk.
They passed the clutter of outbuildings that every defended residence needed to serve it: the stables and barns placed farthest from the living quarters to spare delicate noses, barracks to house the king's soldiers, the bath house to keep them clean, smithies to arm them, and, above all, the kitchens that kept them all fed. What with feasting tonight, fragrant smoke streamed out from the kitchen sheds, filling the wind with the scents of stews, roasting meats and baking bread.
Although the queen's hall was almost the same size as the one John used, it had no defensive purpose therefore looked more house than final refuge with its wooden walls and shingles, and wide windows to let in air and light. Homey it might appear but it was still a prison.
As Ami started up the stairs to its doorway her escorts fell away to retreat to their barracks. No man save those vouchsafed by John entered this hall. The porter waited for her upon the landing, shielded from the weather by the porch roof. As with the king's hall, the door behind him stood slightly open so air might be drawn within to feed the hall’s central fire.
What went one way could go another. Wafting out of the doorway came the sounds of those trapped beyond it. Women laughed. Dice clacked and clattered. Those spinning lifted their voices in a song that matched the turn and pull rhythm of their distaffs. And Lady Sybilla played the same mournful tune she ever played on her zither.
The porter, Walter by name, bent a friendly smile on Ami. Broad of face, with the fair hair, pale eyes and red beard of his Saxon ancestors, Walter could afford to be amiable. He took coins from the women he guarded, turning his back as they went about their business, never questioning what that business might be and never remembering their absences.
“Well now, you look none the worse for wear, my lady,” Walter said, sending a meaningful glance at Ami’s clothing and her yet perfectly arranged headdress.
That Walter overstepped himself in how he addressed her was because Ami encouraged it. The porter was a veritable fountain of information about courtly folk. That he commented on the state of her attire was a reflection of what Ami would face when she stepped through the doorway behind him. Even though she had no hope of redeeming her repute, it didn't hurt to do what she could.
“It was to discuss business that the king called me and Sir Enguerran into his presence,” she said, wishing she could snip Sir Michel's presence out of her life as easily as she had from the picture she displayed for Walter.
Before she could continue, Walter laughed and dared a bold wink. “Glad I am to hear it for your sake, my lady but know I put my trust and coins in you. I was certain you would be the victor in any encounter with our John. There were others with less confidence in you, and they will now forfeit their riches to me.”
Ami's stomach, already knotted at the thought of the mercenary stealing what little wealth left to her, tightened again. Such was John's court that folk wagered over a good woman's ruination. As she had so aptly learned to do these past four years, she hid what hurt her behind an uncaring grin.
“Fie on you, Walter. Has your confessor not told you gambling is a sin? Since I've helped you win, I do believe you owe me a small favor.”
Magnanimous in his victory, Walter gave a nod. “If it is in my power,” he told her, no expectation in his tone that what she asked would be