Page 82 of Crown of Iron
A bag lands at my feet, and I curl my lip at its grotesque condition. I lift my gaze, ready to give a piece of my mind to the person who so carelessly tossed laundry at me. A man sits at the reins of a cattle cart, wearing a filthy tunic, brown trousers and coat. A cap covers his head, and a red bushy beard graces his familiar face.
Ulric’s blue eyes dart to the sack of clothes, and he says, “I'm just waiting for my wife. You know how women get with choosing their vegetables and such.”
“You smell terrible,” I say, raising my brows.
“My apologies. It is but the unlucky result of being a lowly pig farmer.”
I pick up the bag and look inside at the pile of dirty fabric. It smells so bad my eyes water, and I clamp it shut. “What the hell is this?”
“My wife's clothes,” he says, tilting his chin up and widening his eyes.
“I brought riding clothes.”
“And I bet they're made for a princess.”
I groan. He's right, my clothes stand out from most of the people around me. If I were to ride out of here next to Ulric, it would be noticed.
I find a place to change, and after some slick maneuvering in a tiny alcove, I set a bonnet on my head and climb onto the seat next to him.
“Pig farmers. Could you not have picked an occupation that doesn't reek?” I ask.
He eyes my soiled dress and apron and pulls the bonnet down lower on my head. “I break my back for this woman and all she does is moan and nag. Statera, why have you cursed me with an ungrateful wench?” he yells to the sky, catching the attention of several pedestrians.
“You're so embarrassing,” I mummer, slouching forward and covering my face.
He laughs, snapping the reins. The horses pull away from the curb and into the street. The people strolling along the side of the road lift their hands to cover their noses as we pass, and small children voice their distaste for the smell by making gagging noises. I can't imagine doing a job like this day in and day out. It makes me grateful for those people who bear the filth and smell for our community.
“What the hell are you hauling in this thing? It smells like pig shit,” I say, pressing my dress' sleeve to my nose, but the coarse fabric doesn't smell much better.
“Close. It's barrels of manure, nature's deterrent.”
We stop behind another wagon, waiting in line with the rest of the farmers and merchants heading out of the capital and back to their towns. I fidget while watching the guards climb into the wagons to check theircontents and examine the travelers' papers, making sure no one is stealing goods. They take their time reading over the documents and matching them with the descriptions of their owners before letting them leave the city.
We move closer to the front of the line, and I whisper, “They're going to recognize me.”
Ulric reaches behind him and claps his hands together before running his palms down my cheeks. My eyes bulge and I fight not to gag, shoving his arms.
He directs the horses forward, stopping at the checkpoint. “Don't ya worry, lass. There’s no reason to push me away. Even covered in shit, I love ya.”
“Identification papers,” the guard says, curling his lip and turning his face to his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Ulric says, fumbling around the inside of his coat. “The missus is having one of those days where she doesn't feel her best. I was just reassuring her that I only have eyes for her.”
“I just need your papers, sir.”
Ulric hands him the documents covered in the shit he wiped on my face. The guard clamps his mouth shut and holds the papers with the tips of his fingers, attempting to read them while turning away for gulps of fresh air.
“Ya need to look in the barrels too? They're packed with fresh dung.” Ulric asks.
The guard shakes his head and hands back the documents. “No. There’s no need. Off with you.”
I wait until we round the corner and jump from my seat, wiping my face with my apron. “That was absolutely foul!”
“It worked, didn't it?” he says, between bouts of laughter.
It worked, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud. I yank off the bonnet, toss it in the wagon's bed, and do the same with the apron. Unlacing the top of the plain, dingy dress, I fall back into the seat next to him and cross my arms over my chest.
“Come on, nanny goat. What's an adventure if we don't get a little dirty? Besides, I know a certain general who has spent the last month moping around. He'll be happy to see you no matter the condition of your hygienic state.”
