Page 8 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

Ead smiled a little. “Lovesickness, then?”

Oliva pursed her lips. “She is a maid of honor. And I will have no gossip in the Coffer Chamber.”

“Your pardon, my lady. It was a jest.”

“You are Queen Sabran’s lady-in-waiting, not her fool.”

With a sniff, Oliva took the gown from the press and handed it over. Ead curtsied and retreated.

Her very soul abhorred that woman. The four years she had spent as a maid of honor had been the most miserable of her life. Even after her public conversion to the Six Virtues, still her loyalty to the House of Berethnet had been questioned.

She remembered lying on her hard bed in the Coffer Chamber, footsore, listening to the other girls titter about her Southern accent and speculate on the sort of heresy she must have practiced in the Ersyr. Oliva had never said a word to stop them. In her heart, Ead had known that it would pass, but it had hurt her pride to be ridiculed. When a vacancy had opened in the Privy Chamber, the Mother of the Maids had been only too happy to be rid of her. Ead had gone from dancing for the queen to emptying her washbasins and tidying the royal apartments. She had her own room and a better wage now.

In the Coffer Chamber, Truyde was in a fresh shift. Ead helped her into a corset and a summer petticoat, then a black silk gown with puffed sleeves and a lace partlet. A brooch showing the shield of her patron, the Knight of Courage, gleamed over her heart. All children of Virtudom chose their patron knight when they reached the age of twelve.

Ead wore one, too. A sheaf of wheat for generosity. She had received hers at her conversion.

“Mistress,” Truyde said, “the other maids of honor say you are a heretic.”

“I say my orisons at sanctuary,” Ead said, “unlike some of those maids of honor.”

Truyde watched her face. “Is Ead Duryan really your name?” she asked suddenly. “It does not sound Ersyri to my ear.”

Ead picked up a coil of gold ribbon. “Do you speak Ersyri, then, my lady?”

“No, but I have read histories of the country.”

“Reading,” Ead said lightly. “A dangerous pastime.”

Truyde looked up at her, sharp-eyed. “You mock me.”

“By no means. There is great power in stories.”

“All stories grow from a seed of truth,” Truyde said. “They are knowledge after figuration.”

“Then I trust you will use your knowledge for good.” Ead skimmed her fingers through the red curls. “Since you ask—no, it is not my real name.”

“I thought not. Whatisyour real name?”

Ead eased back two locks of hair and braided them with the ribbon. “Nobody here has ever heard it.”

Truyde raised her eyebrows. “Not even Her Majesty?”

“No.” Ead turned the girl to face her. “The Mother of the Maids is concerned for your health. Are you quite sure you are well?” Truyde hesitated. Ead placed a sisterly hand on her arm. “You know a secret of mine. We are bound by a vow of silence. Are you with child, is that it?”

Truyde stiffened. “I am not.”

“Then what is it?”

“It is none of your concern. I have had a delicate stomach, that’s all, since—”

“Since Master Sulyard left.”

Truyde looked as if she had struck her.

“He left in the spring,” Ead said. “Lady Oliva says that you have had little appetite since then.”

“You presume too much, Mistress Duryan. Far too much.” Truyde pulled away from her, nostrils flared. “I am Truyde utt Zeedeur, blood of the Vatten, Marchioness of Zeedeur. The mere idea that I would stoop to rutting with some low-born squire—” She turned her back. “Get out of my sight, or I will tell Lady Oliva that you are spreading lies about a maid of honor.”

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