Now the vast kitchen was dark, die polished stones of the floor finally scrubbed clean, the firecoals burning down to flickering ash. Upstairs in the meeting rooms on the other side of the main wing lights still burned, and voices were occasionally raised in barely audible laughter or argument. Berthe leaned against the hearth wall and sighed.
As if in blatant mockery, the door knocker sounded. “Be off wi’ ya,” the scullery woman scowled through the latch. Silence reigned for a moment; then the knocker sounded again, louder this time.
“Go away!” Berthe roared back before her better sense took hold; she glanced around furtively, fearing the return of the chamberlain. When she had ascertained that no one important, or likely to report her to someone important, had overheard her, she lifted the bolt, cleared her throat, and opened the door a crack.
Before her was nothing but the gloom of the dreary night. Seeing no one at the threshold, Berthe started to close the door, a growl of annoyance emanating from the wrinkled folds at her throat.
A flash of lightning blazed, and in its momentary light a figure could be seen lowering the hood of a cloak, the outline of which she could barely make out, and had caught no sight of the moment before. A crackle of electricity hummed over her skin as she peered out into the murkiness of the night Berthe had to look closely through the sheeting rain to see even this shade of a person; had she not squinted into the darkness at the same moment as the flash, it was unlikely she would have noticed anything at all. She interposed herself in front of the figure that was preparing to step into her clean and buttoned-down kitchen.
“There’s an inn down the road a piece,” she growled into the rain. “Every one’s to bed. The buttery’s closed down tight. I don’t mean to keep the staff up all night.”
“Please let me in; it’s very cold out here in the rain.” The voice was that of a young woman, soft and a little desperate, heavy with the weary tone of a tired traveler.
Berthe’s annoyance was apparent in her answer, though she struggled to maintain the civility she had heard the lady was insistent upon, even to peasants. “What do you want? It’s the middle of the night. Be off wi’ you, now.”
“I want to see the Lord Cymrian.” The reply came as if from the darkness itself.
“Days of Pleas are next month,” Berthe answered, beginning to close the door. “Come back then; the lord and lady hear requests beginning at sunrise on the first day of the new moon.”
“Wait,” called the voice as the opening narrowed. “Please; if you’ll just tell the lord I’m here, I think he will want to see me.”
Berthe spat in a puddle of dirty water forming near the scullery step. She had dealt with such women before. Her former employer, Lord Dronsdale, had a veritable flock of them, assigned to different nights of the week; they gathered outside the stable, waiting for the Lady Dronsdale to retire, then began preening beneath the back window, each hoping to be selected by the lord, who signaled his interest from the balcony. It had been her job to shoo away the girls not chosen on a given night, and an onerous task it was. She had hoped not to have to repeat it here at Haguefort.
“Well, now, aren’t we the cheeky wench?” she snapped, her recent training forgotten. “It’s past midnight, my girl, and you’re here unannounced, on a day not in keeping with the law. Who are you that the lord would want to see you at this hour?”
The voice was steady. “His wife.”
Later Berthe realized that the clicking she heard following the words was the sound of her jaw dropping open; it remained thus for much too long. She closed her mouth abruptly and pulled the heavy door open wide, causing the metal hinges to scream in protest.
“M’lady, forgive me-I had no idea ’twas you.” Who would expect the Lady Cymrian, dressed in peasant garb, unguarded, at the buttery door in the middle of the night? she wondered, clutching her icy stomach.
The darkness shifted, and the cloaked figure hurried inside. Once she was silhouetted against the firelight, Berthe could see that the Lady Cymrian was no taller than she, and slight of frame. Her jaw trembled as the young woman untied the hood of her cloak amid a cloud of mist that rose from the folds of it, then pulled the garment from her shoulders.
First to emerge from the shadows of the plain blue-gray fabric was as fair a face as Berthe had ever seen, crowned with golden hair the color of sunlight pulled back in a simple black ribbon. The expression on that face was clearly one of displeasure, but the lady said nothing until she had carefully hung her cloak, still surrounded with an aura of mist, on a peg over the fire grate, followed by a quiver of arrows and a white longbow. Then she turned to Berthe.
When the lady’s eyes, deep and green as emeralds in the shadows of the firelight, took in the scullery maid’s face, however, the look of annoyance faded into a serious aspect devoid of anger. She brushed the rainwater from her brown linen trousers and turned back to the fire on the hearth, which leapt as if in welcome, warming her hands.
“My name is Rhapsody,” she said simply, looking at the scullery maid from the corner of her eye. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Berthe opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She swallowed and tried again.
“Berthe, m’lady; I’m new here in the kitchen. And I apologize most humbly—I had no idea ’twas you at the door.”
The Lady Cymrian turned again, and folded her arms. “You didn’t need to know it was me, Berthe; any traveler who has come to this door is to be let in and welcomed.” She saw terror come over the old woman’s wrinkled face, and her hand went unconsciously to the tangled gold locket around her neck. She smoothed the chain and cleared her throat.
“I am sorry that this was not explained to you upon your hire,” she said hurriedly, casting a glance in the direction of the buttery’s inner door. “And also for disturbing you so late in the evening. Welcome to Haguefort. I hope you will like working here.”
“Yes, mum,” Berthe muttered nervously. “I’ll go tell the chamberlain to alert the lord you’re here.”
The Lady Cymrian smiled, the firelight dancing off her locket. “No need of that,” she said pleasantly. “He already knows.”
The buttery door banged open with a force that made Berthe jump. She leapt even farther away as the maelstrom that was the Lord Cymrian rushed past her in a flurry of billowing garments and speed born of long musculature, his odd red-gold hair catching the light of the roaring fire and glinting ominously. Her hand went nervously to her throat, watching the man who was said to have the blood of dragons in his veins sweep down upon the small lady, gathering her into his arms. Berthe would hardly have been surprised to see him tear her limb from limb, or consume her, on the spot.
A moment later the buttery door opened rapidly again. Berthe leaned against the wall for support as the chamberlain, Gerald Owen, and a number of the lord’s royal visitors crowded in the opening, some of them with weapons drawn.
Owen’s wrinkled face relaxed upon seeing the lady in the arms of the lord. “Ah, m’lady, welcome home,” he said, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping his brow in the heat of exertion and the blazing hearth fire. “We weren’t expecting you for another fortnight.”
The Lady Cymrian tried to extricate herself from the lord’s embrace, managing to merely to raise her head above his shoulder.