Elsabeth sat at her vanity, idly brushing her long, chestnut curls, wishing she was anywhere else but in this room, in this castle, on this day. She glanced over her shoulder at the stiff folds of shining fabric covering her narrow bed.
Why is mother insisting that I be excited about this banquet? It was sure to be overpopulated with arrogant sons of fat, lesser nobles able to talk only about themselves; perfumed dandies seeking to curry favor with the court; loud, sweaty knights spouting endlessly of battles; and simpering girls eager to latch on to anyone they think might marry them.
As daughter of the baron's senechal, she was not quite a noble, but not quite a servant, therefore fitting in nowhere. The servant girls instantly ceased their gossiping when she approached, dipping perfunctory curtsies before scurrying off. The girls of noble birth snubbed her as beneath their station, as if she wanted to spend her time in their stiflingly dull company in any fashion.
Father was too busy looking after the castle, managing all the servants, and making sure that duties were fulfilled and the daily castle needs tended to. Everyone always had his ear for something. Everyone but her. As one of the baroness' ladies-in-waiting, Mother was too busy plotting who she could marry her off to in order to improve the family's station.
She sighed. At least she had the day off from embroidering and teaching the castle pages music and dance. She loved teaching the lessons, but each day was a near mirror of the one before.
Today at least would be somewhat different. A party had arrived the day prior from a manor several days journey away, bringing some important news or other, and the Duke had ordered a banquet for today in their honor. Maybe there at least would be some fresh news from somewhere else or perhaps even some new books.
She looked in the mirror critically, turning her head to the left and right. Her hair shone from brushing and her cheeks were lightly flushed with pink from a walk in the sun that morning. A light dusting of freckles spanned her nose and cheeks, much to her mother's horror. She refused to wear the sun hats, they were constantly shoved at her when she went out for a walk or to ride horses, much as she refused to ride side-saddle, as was proper. Another loathsome word.
Her skin was smooth and soft, not quite so sickly pale as her mother preferred, but certainly not "burned brown like a washerwoman," as her mother lamented. Her arms were slender, but strong, and her hands were slightly broad, more like her father's than her mother's, with long fingers. She liked being able to do things she wasn't supposed to, as long as she was out of her mother's sight, and her father liked knowing she was doing them despite her mother's protests.
At 18, her body was more that of a woman than a girl, and she ran her hands down and around the soft, generous swell of her breasts, lifting them up to the ridiculous heights they would reach when squeezed into her corset, squinting and poking her tongue out between her naturally plump, rosy lips.
Her hands continued over her broad ribs, tucking in at the waist before running down and over her "generous" bottom, which her father teasingly called her "gift from Grandmother." Her legs were shapely, but not overly long ending in feet that would never be called dainty, but were lovely and well-proportioned.
She'd had her share of "suitors" if you could call fumbling squires hoping for a squeeze and a kiss in the corners of dark hallways during a banquet "suitors." She'd rebuffed them all firmly, but kindly, making noises about chastity and honor and prevailing on their chivalry. It wasn't that she was a prude, but she surely wasn't going to become one of "those" girls whom the squires practiced on before moving on to "proper" unions with the daughters of nobles. Bollocks to proper. She laughed aloud. She could just hear Mother, "You've been hanging around stablehands too much, miss!" The stablehands were more fun than the sewing circle.
She turned away from the mirror and toward the small tower window, guessing the sun was hovering at about midday. She stood up and pulled on her everyday surcoat over her underdress, and slid her feet into her slippers. She opened the door to her small chamber, glancing left toward her parent's chamber next door before quietly slipping out and softly closing her door. She quickly tiptoed around to curving wall of the tower to the stairs, moving swiftly but carefully down to the wide vestibule with passages that led away to the kitchen, out to the courtyard, up to the main stairs leading to the Duke and Duchess' chambers, and into the great hall.
She padded softly to the kitchen, dodging harried kitchen wenches laden with bowls and baskets preparing for the banquet and poked her head around the corner. Serah, the fat cook, was fussing here and there over bubbling pots, pinching and tasting and pronouncing whether all was fit to serve. She glanced over and saw Elsabeth sneaking out from the doorway and reaching for an apple from a brimming bowl.
She put on her stern face, but her eyes twinkled. Elsabeth tried to look contrite, but laughed out loud as Serah came bustling over swinging a wooden ladle. "Out, you naughty thing," she cackled behind her as Elsabeth ran out. "I don't need your mischief today."
Her contraband apple safely tucked in her dress pocket, she stealthily approached the stairs to the nobles' chambers. She casually looked around to make sure no one was about before dashing halfway up the stairs and taking the little traveled hallway to the castle's small library. She'd read most of the books in there already, but she thought she would pass her time before getting ready by flipping through one of her favorites. She pushed open the door and ducked into the chamber, little bigger than her own bedchamber, and closed the door behind her. She peered about in the semi-gloom. Who had closed the curtain? she thought crossly. She walked the dozen steps to the window and drew the drape aside.
"Well, hello there," a voice rumbled from behind her. A stifled yelp escaped her as she spun around to see to whom the voice belonged. There, draped across a reading couch, was a dark-haired young man, about her age, finger marking his place in an open book. A soft smirk decorated his full mouth and his almond-shaped eyes glinted in the sun from the now-uncovered window. He was dressed in a loose tunic and close-fitting trousers tucked into calf-high boots.
"Who are you? What are you doing in here?" Elsabeth demanded of the stranger, collecting herself and standing as tall as she could, her shoulders drawn back and her chin high. "You should not be in here."
"Pardon me, my lady, I was not aware this was your private library," the young man said, a slight mocking tone in his voice, one eyebrow lifting high. "I beg your forgiveness."
