My bath water was cold.
"Doreen," I called sweetly, my voice ringing through the bedchamber. My handmaiden entered from the adjacent room, her hands clutching a worn bonnet to her chest, smiling tremulously.
"Is something the matter, Mistress Thistle?" Doreen was not an ugly girl, but certainly not a pretty one either. Her face was plain, her hair coarse, and her dress drab. But worst of all, she had three teeth missing from the left side of her mouth, a mark of where her father had backhanded her in a rage when she was little, making her smile unexpectedly grotesque.
I sighed. I had advised her to cover her mouth when talking to men, but she was forgetful, yet another trait ill-desired in a woman. Her mother had been a whore and her father had abandoned them when she was still a child, though not before giving his daughter her disfigurement. Likely, handmaiden to a sorceress was the highest station she'd achieve in life.
"Doreen, come here." She inched forward nervously. "Closer, dear. There. Put your hand in the water for me."
She did. "Is something the matter?" she asked again, this time with a bit of a tremor to her voice.
"The water is cold," I snapped.
"Lukewarm, mistress," she protested. "It's been sitting for a while, since you were late to rise. Not that there's any problem with that. The mistress is free to begin her day whenever she feels, of course."
"I know she is," I replied curtly. And this was Doreen's worst feature. Not the missing teeth, nor the insipidity, but the constant backtalk, the inability to understand social cues. She had been furnished upon me by the seneschal of the castle, a perfumed eunuch named Horace who considered me in competition for lady of the castle's favor. He was above all a petty man, and Doreen was surely evidence of this, a mild but persistent inconvenience that plagued me day to day. He chose his weapons wisely.
I sighed again. "Doreen. In the future, have the water heated after I rise. I shall wait for it if necessary."
"Yes, mistress." She bobbed her head. "Will the mistress wish to break her fast?"
"No need. Have you laid out my clothes?"
"Yes, mistress. The white chemise with the yellow kirtle."
"Good. I am finished here. Help me dry."
"Yes, mistress." She wrapped a linen cloth around my shoulders, toweling off the moisture.
"Has there been any news, Doreen?"
"News?... I'm not sure... Jor said his bitch whelped five puppies, all hale and wriggling. I mean to visit when I have time... "
"Forget it." Doreen was rarely a source of good information, as she couldn't tell the worthwhile from the everyday drivel.
"Oh!" Her eyes suddenly widened in remembrance. "I was supposed to tell you! There's a man waiting for you in the great hall. He had an errand for you. He's a knight, or a petty lord."
"Which is it?" I scowled. "Doreen, this information bears urgency. I've kept the man waiting, now." I clutched the pendant at my neck. It was the symbol of my profession, an owl engraved in mother-of-pearl, attached to a leather thong hanging from my throat. I never took it off, even when bathing. Whoever this man was, it was ill-fitting for a sorceress to be tardy for a meeting with a potential employer.
"Yes, mistress. Though if you didn't rise so late, it may not have been so." This time, she seemed to realize she had gone too far and clapped a hand over her mouth.
The corner of my mouth quirked. "A fair point, I suppose." Though in truth, last night had been rather intense, and the light of day had come too early for me. There had been a great feast celebrating the victory of the king against some northern rebels. Many knights and lesser lords had been in attendance, including a certain Lord Endres who Horace had been bribing discreetly to spread rumors on his behalf. So, naturally, I seduced him, more to annoy Horace than anything, though he wasn't an unhandsome man by any means, lean and tall with long, flowing golden hair, even if his face was marred with an unfortunate stringy mustache. It hadn't been difficult, as he was very drunk, and I had been sure to make myself alluring, wearing a gown of silk brocade with silver threading, form-fitting with a low neckline, exuding both wealth and sex appeal. Soon enough I was sucking his cock on the battlements, tasting his cum in my throat as the wind ruffled our hair. After, I'd gotten wasted on the cheap beer they were selling outside the inner bailey and eventually passed out in my own bed.
"Well. I don't wish to keep him waiting any longer." Without bothering with undergarments, I pulled the silk chemise Doreen had laid out over my head and donned the yellow kirtle, linen but of fine make. The gown I chose was also linen, dusk-blue and colorfully embroidered with flower motifs on the neckline and sleeves. I slipped my feet into a pair of open-heeled cotton slippers, while Doreen twisted my hair into a tight, long braid and buckled my waist with a silver girdle. After some consideration, I chose a necklace of silver filigree to complement. It wouldn't do to give the impression that I was some mere peasant slut, after all.
Satisfied with my appearance, I made my way to the great hall. The castle bustled with midday activity, and servants bowed or inclined their heads respectfully as I swept by. My chambers were located at the very top of the castle's donjon and there was a ways to climb to get anywhere useful. Another contrivance of Horace's, I suspected; he had been living here before me and may have maneuvered before my arrival to ensure my rooms were located in the least convenient space possible. He was like most men, who bore an instinctive dislike for my kind and needed no reason to harbor a grudge against a sorceress. I had been sure to give him reasons, though, plenty of them, and a new one last night.
The great hall clattered with activity, off-duty soldiers lounging at benches, dicing and drinking, while serving maids bustled about, still cleaning the evidence of last night's festivities from the tables and floor. Doreen pointed out my quarry: a large man nursing a mug of ale, alone at one of the benches furthest from the hearth. I went to him.
He didn't notice me, perhaps dismissing me as one of the serving wenches. "Ahem," I coughed. He turned around. I gaped. My mouth may have drooped open like a fish.
He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. His hair tumbled in lazy midnight ringlets to his shoulders, framing a handsome face with a full, sensuous mouth, dark eyes, and a fine jaw, clean-shaven and smooth. He smiled, easy and confident, shifting on the bench to face me. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and a tall frame, and he wore a wool tunic marked with an insignia I did not recognize. It was of a red-eyed raven, its beak open in a scream and claws clutching at a dead hand.
"Can I help you, my lady?" His eyes wandered my form, taking in my expensive necklace.
"Thistle of Alderbay. At your service."
He registered a look of surprise. Most men, when coming to see the sorceress of a great castle, perhaps expect a wise old crone clutching a gnarled oak staff in her bony hands. Instead, they found me, a woman in the flower of her youth with long brown hair.
He regained his composure. "Surely not. If Calenbrooke Motte's sorceress were as beautiful as you, I'd have heard tales of it far and wide." He grinned. Absurdly, I felt myself flush.
"Get to it, man. Who are you, and why have you come here?" I tried to sound stern.
