Page 16 of The Knight's Pledge
Effie’s gaze found Gorman’s as the snooty man dismissed her by turning and heading further down the corridor. His steady gaze saidpatience, as usual. Effie bit her tongue and shoved at the door with her shoulder. It stuttered roughly across the packed dirt floor and opened topitch darkness.
The meager ambient light filtering in from the doorway was enough for Effie to locate the candle. She had to carry it out to the kitchen to catch a flame and then make yet another trip to fill a pitcher for washing and hunt down a cake of soap and rag. Once back inside the room, she closed the door and surveyed her cell.
Her arms nearly spanned the breadth of it. The bed was little more than a wide rail against the wall, and the single small table was hardly large enough to hold the pitcher and bowl next to the candle. The only other appointments to the room were a row of hooks. It smelled stale and damp, and the chill seemed to seep up through Effie’s boots, not unlike the dampness of the caves in the Warren, but the stench of the city pervaded everything, and Effie couldn’t seem to blow it from her nostrils.
She prepared to wash, loosening her plait and then the ties of her vest. She had nothing else to put on, and she couldn’t bring herself to strip down entirely in the depressing cell which had no bolt on the door. She washed inside her billowing shirt, her face and neck, and then soaked and soaped her hair, scrubbing at her scalp until it tingled. She squeezed the water from her hair and replaited it, then brushed at her vest and trousers with the spent rag. She was chilled to her bones by the time she was completelydressed again.
She looked at the narrow cot against the wall. Exhaustion suddenly seized her, and she thought she might burrow down under the thin blanket and—
Her door scraped open, causing her to spin around and reach for the blade on her belt. A short ogre of a woman with a massively bloated underchin more than filled the narrow rectangle, framing a gigantic floor length white apron and a matching kerchief topping a seemingly tiny head.
“On yer feet, slut,” the woman growled. “The meat shan’t make itself.” A ham-sized forearm squeezed past the swollen abdomen to toss a long whitecloth through.
Effie let the apron land on the ground and her exhaustion disappeared as her ire was sparked. She tried to keep hold of her temper—the cook was only doing her job. “There’s been a mistake—I’m nokitchen maid.”
“Oh,” the woman gasped dramatically. “I beg your pardon, my fine lady!” Then her thick brows lowered. “In case you’ve not noticed, this isn’t a country house, nor is it a charity. You don’t work, you don’t eat, and I’ve no cock for you to suck.” She glanced down at the white swath on the damp, black floor. “And you’ll be washing that as well, now. Be quick about it.”
Any empathy for the crude woman’s responsibilities vanished; what must it be like to work beneath this woman’s oversight day after day? Effie was in such shock at being spoken to in such a manner that she could only stand and stare while the cart of a woman squeezed off down the corridor to the kitchens. She hadn’t been spoken to socrudely since…
Since the night Castle Dare burned and she’d been mistakenfor a servant.
The tears and fury in his young, blue eyes, the feel of the leather on her cheek.
I don’t ever want to see your face again!
Effie purposefully trod across the apron as she quit the chamber, but instead of turning left toward the kitchen, she entered the corridor to the right, her hand on the hilt of her blade lest anyone thought to stop her.
She’d already had quite enough of the hospitality of London’s nobility.
* * * *
The manservant left the toilette accessories on Lady Margaret’s vanity table and Stephen himself brought Lucan a suit of clothes.
“From your last stay with us,lord,” he said.
Lucan stared for a moment at the red velvet tunic laid out carefully on the bed. He’d forgotten the costume he’d been wearing the day Thomas Annesley had been sentencedto the gallows.
“Will there be anything else?”Stephen asked.
Lucan started. “Actually, Stephen, my boots need to be replaced. Isit possible…?”
“I am certain I can find you something suitable. Anything else, sir?”
“No, Stephen, thank you.”
“Very good, sir. I shall call you for dinner.”
Lucan began jerking his ties free as the chamber door shut. He couldn’t wait to be quit of the filthy clothes, which felt melted to him after a fortnight of rough travel. They’d only taken shelter at roadside inns a handful of times, and Lucan feared his black gambeson was hopelessly stained with road dust. He sat on the bed to remove his ruined boots, then his trousers and hose. He looked down at his left foot which bore a terrible purple and red scar, and flexed it appreciatively. He wasall but healed.
All but healed, andback in London.
He had just finished washing when he heard the door open and close quietly behind him—that Stephen. He was naught if efficient.
“Just set them inside,” he groaned mid-stretch—his lower back was in knots. “I’ll fetch them afterI’ve dressed.”
The lack of response caused him to turnpartly around.
Effie Annesley leaned against the closed door, staring at him as he stood naked before her.
