Chapter 3: Rude Welcome

Bridgette found herself knocking her staff almost without a thought. It was indeed a bright day there. She was on a road that led down from mountains behind her, towards a low range of hills ahead. The same blasted tree was here that she’d seen at home. She turned up her nose at the idea of walking — she knew what a cow pie was and there was one every few feet.

There was a convenient rock, and she walked over to it and sat down. It had been a long day, and evidently it wasn’t over yet. The sun was about halfway to the horizon.

There was a lot of wagon traffic, but all of it was going the wrong way. Eventually, one arrived headed correctly, and she stood and called to the driver. “A ride to Count Damask’s castle, please. He’s expecting me.”

“Of course, my Lady!” the driver said. He waved at the back. “You will be more comfortable riding with your feet over the back, my Lady.”

She went and sat down, and the man clicked his tongue, and his two horses started forward.

It was, Bridgette thought, an object lesson. What was her name? Lady B. probably wouldn’t be wise here, and it was a really bad idea if anyone arrived looking for her. She rode silently, half drowsing, half thinking. Okay, she would be Lady Zenobia. What was she supposed to use for money? Eleni had removed most of the contents of her purse. Anything with writing on it headed the list, including credit and debit cards, bills, and coins.

The wagon jerked to a stop, rousing her. “The castle,” the driver said, waving to a pile of stone about two miles from the road, sitting on the top of a steep hill.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she told him. He grinned and clicked again, and the wagon rattled off. It was full of sacks of some kind of grain, and some of the bumps she’d felt along the way had jarred her entire body. She thought to herself, “I should have offered him something.” Of course, he didn’t look upset, and what had it cost him? A couple of stops. What if it wasn’t done here? So much to learn...

She shouldered her pack and headed up the hill, just as the sun in the west touched the mountains. The guards at the gate were brusque. “You understand, my Lady, that if you aren’t a friend of the count’s, it won’t go well for you?” the senior told her.

“I understand. This risk is mine, sir, not yours. Tell Count Damask that Lady Zenobia wishes to talk to him.”

She was led to a small stone chamber, with an ewer of water and a basin and some towels. She washed the dust of the road off her face and hands, and in doing so she realized that the water was a test. What had Eleni said about a cult of cleanliness having developed? She brushed her hair using the mirror in her compact.

She then leaned on her staff to wait. Evidently someone had been watching, because a man appeared and bowed. “Lady Zenobia, the count will see you now. I asked, my Lady, and he says he knows no Lady Zenobia.”

“And I said I was a friend, not that I knew him. My mother’s sister is a friend of his — and known to him.”

“As you wish, my Lady.”

“Do I bow, curtsey, or genuflect when I greet the count?” Bridgette asked.

“You only bow if you are oath-bound to him — which you are not. Servants curtsey, and slaves sit on their haunches until bidden to stand. A nod of the head will suffice. If he bobs his head to you, that is leave to speak. The count is a fair and just man — he’ll nod.”

He gave a short laugh and looked Bridgette over. That was clear enough. She was young and cute; that was all that really sufficed.

The count was a tall, black-haired man in his early twenties. Bridgette was introduced, and she nodded to him. Instead of a nod, he spoke first. “A friend sent me a message saying that she was sending me her niece, who was in danger. She would be blonde and fair and carrying a walking stick. Do you know who I mean, Lady Zenobia?”

“My mother’s sister.”

He laughed mildly. “I would have thought she was your sister, not nearly as old as your mother could possibly be.”

“My aunt has aged well, Count Damisk, and she’s my mother’s youngest sister.”

“Evidently,” he said dryly. “You do favor her, and the blonde hair and fair skin make it certain. The message said that the worst thing I could do would be to try to remove the walking stick from your possession.”

“Count, I respond to please and thank you as well as anyone. My walking stick has seen me through thick and thin. I’d hate to lose it, so I’m reluctant to part company with it.”

“I’d call it a stout quarterstaff — you call it a walking stick. Do you understand the difference?” he asked.

“A quarterstaff is a weapon. A walking stick supports you while walking. Indeed, it is just like the weapon, although a weapon usually is in the hands of someone trained and skilled in its use. I’ve never had a moment’s instruction on how to fight with my walking stick. Not that I haven’t thumped a head or two along the way.”

“If you should meet any such heads that need thumping in the Valley, after you thrash him, march that man to the nearest official or noble. He will spend the rest of his life as a slave, regretting his choice. And if he’s an escaped slave — he will be shortly freed of all of his troubles.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“My friend says that I should send you off to the nunnery of the Order of St. Agnes — they are affiliated with the larger Order of St. Catherine. My sister will be going there shortly.”

“I never pictured myself as a nun,” Bridgette replied. “But that’s what I was advised as well.” She stood a little straighter. “Sir, I’m from far to the north and know very little about your kingdom. What I’ve seen so far is very fine, very fine indeed. I don’t wish to be an imposition, but I would like very much to talk at some length to someone knowledgeable about the Kingdom’s history, culture, and customs.”

“Lady Zenobia, I would be grateful if you’d let me volunteer myself. Right now we are in high summer — the farmers are cultivating their fields, my soldiers are exercising in the cool of the mountains, and here I sit. If I’m not here, I’d be out there somewhere bothering farmers who have better things to do than talk to me, or soldiers who are liable to do something stupid to prove themselves before their count.

“Better for all of us if I stay at home.”

Bridgette grimaced. He was cute; moreover, he had dimples, making him cuter still. There was a definite attraction she felt, quite at odds with how she’d felt about Prince Kirilin. More like Sir Weald, but cubed. How to politely tell him that she wasn’t interested?

He seemed to pick something of that up. “Lady Zenobia, my head of my household, Lady Nicola, will show you to a room. She will see to anything you need. Among other things, she will fetch a number of maids, and you can choose among them. Ladies here always have maids. Dinner is in about two hours; I imagine you are famished.”

She hadn’t eaten for a day and a half. She was beyond famished. “Thank you, Count Damisk.” She met his eyes. “I have no way to repay your hospitality in the least way at the moment.”

“My friend and your relative sent a little something to tide you over, Lady Zenobia. Don’t worry about that sort of thing. Even if she hadn’t, you don’t have to worry about such things here.”