Page 12 of Stardust Child

Almost every day brought new folk over the river, and Sir Tounot and Sir Bram were run off their feet, keeping up. It was strange to see so many faces she didn’t know about town, and adding to the chaos was a mass move of soldiers to the barracks. Those who wished to keep soldiering rather than learning another trade trained every day under the critical eyes of Remin and his men, and the weapons were moved from the storehouse to a new, thick-walled armory.

The arrival of specialists meant the original settlers of the valley were moving from the roles they had adopted by necessity to their chosen professions. It was a milestone Ophele noted in her mental history of Tresingale, and far more significant than the valley’s first parasol.

The only thing that troubled Ophele was that there didn’t seem to be a place for her.

“Could I go with you? Just to watch,” she asked Remin one afternoon as she helped him don his armor. It was very interesting, how it fit together.

“No, wife, I’m sorry.” He tilted her chin up and kissed her. “I wouldn’t mind if it was just the other knights, but fighting men can’t be worried about the presence of a lady. A man needs to be able to swear when he gets hit in the face.”

“Is there something else I can do?” she asked, trying to hide her disappointment. It wasn’t that she wanted to be in his pocket every moment of the day, but lately, with so many workers arriving, there didn’t seem to be any occupation for her unskilled hands. Soon, even her little school would close.

“Soon,” Remin said encouragingly. “There will be some matters of scholarship that could use your attention.”

As if she were any kind of scholar. Ophele felt another pang of conscience, that he thought so highly of her when she was nothing special at all. She never would have predicted that Remin’s high opinion would make her nearly as anxious as those dreadful days when he thought her nothing but a nuisance.

“All right?” he asked softly, his big hands stroking her cheeks, and Ophele smiled unwillingly, swaying into him. His touch made her forget all about matters of scholarship. His head bent and he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her again, until the sunlight paused in its path across the floor of the cottage and everything in the world faded but the feeling of his firm lips stroking over hers. It was some time before Remin finally pulled away and rested his forehead against hers, his fingers caressing the back of her neck.

“You…be careful,” she said vaguely, her eyes unfocused. Her lips were tingling.

“I’ll be home soon,” he promised, reluctantly straightening. Ophele stood in the doorway to watch him swing up onto his horse, straight shoulders and handsome head, everything a knight should be. He always turned to look back at her at the bend of the road, his black hair flying as his horse turned neatly on its hooves, and Ophele lifted her hand to wave at him, feeling giddy and foolish for missing him already. He was only going to be gone for the afternoon. Even from a distance, she could see how he twitched his shoulders before he kicked his horse into a gallop, as if he were embarrassed by the display of affection.

There was always some mending to be done or buttons to be reattached, and Sir Edemir gave her most of their accounts to reconcile now, especially since she could save them precious paper by adding up even a very long column of figures in her head. The mending and the accounts were far too difficult and far too easy, respectively. Sewing was an activity that Ophele was coming to loathe with all her soul.

Based on what she had seen of Lady Hurrell, this was what she was supposed to be doing with her time. Not mending, of course. Ophele’s clothing at Aldeburke had been patched and much-mended, so she knew very well that such work was the province of maids. A lady embroidered.They stitched beautiful and intricate works of art into their slippers, sashes, and handkerchiefs. Lady Hurrell had used shimmering silk thread to make flowers and birds, stitching the high-flying kite emblem of House Hurrell into everything, as if sheer repetition would make it reality.

The tourney was only a week away, and Ophele had many pleasant daydreams about presenting Remin with a sash she had embroidered herself, perhaps with a little owl and bear tucked away in a corner, a love-note for him to discover. But so far, her only successes had been with buttons. Either she was spectacularly bad at mending torn clothes, or Remin was spectacularly good at tearing them.

Gloomily, she set the day’s mending aside and went early to the cookhouse to meet Jacot. She would have to unpick all those stitches again. No matter what she did, they just didn’t look even, and she was afraid Remin might guess how much she didn’t know if she gave him something so incompetently done. In her mind, it was like the tip of an iceberg: as soon as she let one failure bob above the waves, he was bound to discover the mass of them she had hidden under the water.

Absorbed in her troubles, she didn’t hear the man approaching from the side of the cookhouse and almost bumped into him as she came around the corner.

“Oh, pardon me,” she said politely, trying to sidestep him, but he stepped quickly to block her.

“Look at you,” he said, catching her elbow. “You’re a pretty one, ain’t you? What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“What—why?” she said, stepping back and trying to tug away, looking up at him in puzzlement. He was tallish and lanky, with brown hair and eyes, and was wearing a strange expression that made her heart bump. She didn’t know him. “Please let go. Are you a builder?”

“Thought you girls weren’t allowed on this side of town.” If anything, his grip tightened. “No need to play coy, girl. Happens I have a silver sov. Come on, I know a spot.”

“What do you mean? Where are we going?” she asked, dragging her feet as he pulled her toward the back of the cookhouse. She was becoming more nervous by the minute. “I don’t want any silver, let go!”

“My lady!” Jacot called, racing toward them, the freckles standing out on his pale face. “You daft ass, let go of her, that’s the duchess!”

The man let go of her as if she’d burned him.

“The—what?” He stared at her in utter horror, and Ophele retreated a pace, her eyes huge. She didn’t quite understand what was wrong, but his fear suddenly made her feel very afraid. Jacot of Caillmar was livid.

“Apologize,” he snarled, shoving his face into the man’s as if he weren’t twenty years younger.

“B-beg p-pardon, m’lady.” The man bowed deeply. His face was ashen. “Excuse me. Please forgive me. Didn’t mean any—”

“You can apologize to His Grace, too,” Jacot interrupted hotly, but the man suddenly shot away like a jackrabbit, over the street and into the trees at the end of the line of cottages. Ophele rubbed her elbow, staring after him.

“What girls?” she asked, looking at Jacot. “On this side of town? Are there girls on the other side of town?”

“He meant the whores,” Jacot said, glaring at the distant shrubbery.

“What’s a whore?”

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