Sanctuary

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

P etra woke looking up at a woman who stared back at her with concern. Turning her head, she saw a little girl next to the woman, her small face clouded in confusion.

“You fainted!” the woman said. “I saw it from across the square. You stepped out of the tower and fainted. Your, your husband came out of nowhere! He picked you up and demanded a private room for you.”

“Wha..what?”

The woman repeated herself. Petra’s head throbbed. Gingerly, she sat forward, noting the focus of pain at the back of her head and the bump it had rendered.

“Thank you...?”

“Bodil.” She curtsied. “Your husband bid me to stay with you ‘til you woke. I did not know the men of Shivalry could marry.”

Expectation and curiosity brightened her face.

Petra had had no time to think about how she would be perceived here. A militia of men and one woman. The wife of an elite league known to remain celibate. She was an oddity here. Truthfully, she was an oddity in the royal city but sanctioned by the emperor and, therefore, exempt from questioning.

Not so here.

“We received a dispensation from the emperor.”

Wonder twinkled in the woman’s eyes and her daughter wiggled.

“Only in the Cloistered City, I suppose. Your husband—”

“Captain Tsenturian.”

“Forgive me, yes. Captain Tsenturian bid me wait ‘til you woke. Is there anything you need, Lady Tsenturian? You are in one of the few single bedrooms in the tower. People here do not typically eat in their rooms but in the main hall. I am happy to bring you—”

Petra shook her head, immediately regretting the motion. “No need. Thank you, though. I shall rest here a while longer, I think.”

Bodil nodded and moved away, tapping her daughter, who had not ceased staring, on the shoulder.

“Will you wait for the captain man to lift you from the bed?”

“Lindy!” She smacked a small hand. “Forgive me, Lady Tsenturian. She is not used to seeing—”

“Him run towards you like he had wings,” Lindy chirped, undimmed by her mother’s reprimand. “Just like the Immortals at Magpie Bridge when the goddess threw her hairpin into the sky and made a river of stars so they could cross except for one night a year! He flew to you like—”

“Hush, Lindy!”

“It’s alright. I’m flattered to be thought of as such a wonderful fairytale.”

The little girl beamed and promised she would save a sweet cake for Petra. Then, with a forceful arm around her daughter, Bodil wished Petra rest and exited the small room.

Under a scratchy blanket, Petra crossed her legs. She had no memory of fainting. After Rand left Yates, she lingered, wanting to let her husband get all the way down the stairs before she descended. He needed space. True, she did not feel well but her body did not warn her that it was going to disable her.

I guess I am lucky I did not fall down the tower stairs. Bodil thinks I am fortunate that my husband should come to my aid, seemingly, out of nowhere. I’m sure he did not think of it in terms of luck.

“Forgive me this curse,” he told his countryman.

I’m sure he would like to be free of the sight of me for a while. Even though my not being in his sight causes him pain. I think, right now, he would rather suffer. Truthfully, I would suffer willingly to purge his remorse.

Thinking moving about would do her body good, Petra got off the bed and looked out the long, narrow window. She stared over the fort walls and out into the rocky terrain where gray clouds and gusts of snow obscured the outlying villages. These were not part of Vale’s rule, per say, but lived under the law of Mynydd, thereby gaining them protection and resources.

She sighed.

Her breath pooled on the glass, quickly dissipating. How easy it disappeared. How smooth. How unlike anything so far.

How much she would like to imitate it.

At least, she could remove herself from the back of his thoughts. She could find clean clothes. Walk without fainting. She could be her own burden.

Resolved, she undid the mess her hair had become and raked it through. Although it was not free of snags, left long over her back, its weight gave the appearance of smoothness and covered the bump.

A modest trunk in the corner of the room was filled with blankets, pelts, and wash cloths. Was this a luxury of the scant private lodgings?

Plucking two of the cloths, she tucked them under her gown and left to learn where women cleaned themselves at the fort and if there was a chance to launder what she currently wore.

Down eight flights of the curving staircases, she came upon a trio of women. Their excited, hushed conversation vanished at her appearance. Instantly cordial, they greeted Petra, taking care to keep their scrutiny of her subtle. It seemed each took turns talking so the others could gawk.

Had she arrived in the carriage, dressed like a woman of standing, would they have stared? Not that it mattered. She owed them nothing.

Chin lifted, Petra asked where women bathed and where clean garments could be found while her current dress was washed and repaired. The shortest woman described an area where water troughs and pitchers always stood ready. Unfortunately, due to the situation between the Cloistered City and Bessarabiah, there were no rice hulls to scrub with.

“The water will be cold,” the tallest woman offered with saccharine concern.

“I will be grateful for it, nonetheless,” Petra answered.

I’ve taken an axe to break the frozen layer of water apart and, until I was a courier, I had never experienced warm bathing water.

The short woman, with the frame of an adolescent girl and the countenance of one who lived facing the wind, furthered that there was a large merchant stall on the far end of the court. Textiles and goods could be bartered for.

This made the third woman cough back a giggle. If she was honest with herself, Petra might have laughed in her previous life. How absurd it was for a lady of the royal city, her surroundings made of finery, to have to offer her treasures in exchange for mundane necessities. How disappointed these women would be to know she was not put off by bartering, only that she had nothing to trade.

Nothing that I know of, yet.

She thanked the women and continued down the stairs, out into the square, across to the bathing area. A few men with wet hair emerging from an overhang let her walk to it without wandering around. Petra knew the instant she had moved out of earshot of those women ten more had heard about the encounter. Likely, seven more watched her walk under the mottled dome of grey sky.

Petra thought it strange how the bathing area, though boasting of a partition to keep men and women from seeing one another in an undignified state, was not entirely walled off to the wind. Nearing, however, she saw that in each water trough was a paddle device. Five or six, larger than a man’s hand, fastened together by twine. Attached to a long pole, the unusual water screw was partially submerged and rotated each time a bellow of wind raked through.

“To keep the water from freezing,” Petra mumbled. “How ingenious.”

Her teeth chattered as she scooped water over her limbs and scrubbed her face. Her arms and legs quivered as she rubbed them free of dirt and blood. She tried her best to tend to the massive bruise on her back, but it was painful to reach. And although she had to put on her battered clothes afterwards, she felt restored.

A full stomach would complete her transformation from bedraggled imp to a woman of worth. She might let those of Mynydd think less of her and eat without decorum.

Unless food, too, was scarce here.

In the wake of Cyprian’s matrimonial announcement, amid the attacks, surely supply shipments had been stifled. And perhaps Ahn and Zeg were less inclined to trade, fearing to side with either Vale or the Bessarabites. Add to it that surrounding ground was rocky and warm seasons under the mountains were short-lived. Cultivation was likely difficult.

Petra mused further, noting the marketplace shop across the way. Residents came in and out, carrying bundles. In her childhood years, a batch of eggs could fetch anything from lengths of fabric to repair work. The villagers who collected honey could trade for a week’s worth of goods, in return for a few ounces. Petra remembered the children who bragged they were gifted honey cakes for their birth anniversaries.

Back then, she tried to act as if she wasn’t jealous, but she would cry about it to her mother.

I could make a whole new reputation for myself here if I cried in front of the merchant.

From her thoughts, a lively voice pulled her focus. Petra saw Lindy hurrying towards her, waving and calling her name.

“Lady Tsen-tsen...Lady Petra! Lady Petra!”

The little girl caught her hand.

“Hello, Lindy. I hope your mother knows you have come to visit with me.”

She beamed and shook her head. “No. She’s twisting yarn.”

“Won’t she notice you’re gone?”

“No! My hands aren’t strong enough to help,” she answered, swinging Petra’s arm to and fro.

“I see. Would you like to walk with me to the marketplace?”

“Yes!”

“Perhaps you can show me what everyone trades for the most.”

The little, flat chest puffed out. “I can!”

Half tugging, half leading, Lindy set the pace, babbling freely.

People in the fort had gotten angry at Clive (who Petra assumed was the shopkeeper) for not lowering trading prices. Her mother and lots of other people said he’d been trading so long he didn’t think of people as people anymore. Clive thought of them as commodities. There was even an attempt to drag Clive into the square and beat him, but the soldiers stopped the angry men and beat them instead, until Captain Leopold ran out and put a stop to everything. She missed Leopold.

“My mother used to blush whenever she saw him. She cried when Forwin came, and Leopold left.”

Likely Bodil would be mortified to know how freely her daughter talked. However, Petra was charmed by the child’s gaiety. And grateful to hear more about the state of things.

“My husband respected Leopold very much. He was surprised to find him gone. I should have liked to meet him.”

“He smiled a lot before he got sick.”

“Sick?”

The little face squelched. “Not normal sick. My mother told me his mind was sick. His thoughts. One night, one of the soldiers found him at the top of the tower.” She shook her head. “He left soon after that night.”

“How sad. Well, I am glad Lieutenant Forwin was able to come.”

“I guess. He has a big nose.”

Petra sucked her lips over her teeth to keep from laughing and directed the conversation back to the types of goods found at Clive’s shop. Lindy was delighted with this subject and continued to talk about it as they entered, leading Petra to her favorite section, tassels.

With a hesitant touch, she explained that when girls and boys reached fourteen years, they were gifted a tassel. Red for the girls and black for the boys. They would wear it until they married and then it would be exchanged after the wedding candle was lit.

“In seven more years,” Lindy said, with a wistful glisten in her eyes, “I’ll have mine.”

“I’m sure your mother will be proud to give it to you. Do you think she might be wondering where you are by now?”

Lindy shook her head. “No. But I am supposed to go to Granny Duluth and ask her for a stitching needle.”

Petra squeezed the little hand. “I suspect your mother winds yarn and then uses the needle.”

Lindy’s face blossomed with a large grin, delighted to be caught in her escapade. She plopped a lopsided curtsy, reminded Petra how stingy Clive was, and scampered out of the store.

Petra had felt Clive’s focus the instant she crossed the threshold. As soon as Lindy disappeared, she walked towards the front counter. Though she met him with a placid expression, he looked at her like a farmer looks at locusts on his crops.

I’m surprised. I’d think he’d be glad to have a new trader. Someone who doesn’t know about him like the rest of the fort. Maybe someone who can be duped. After all, he knows I am the wife of a captain.

She greeted him and asked what was typically traded for pre-fashioned gowns.

“The women rarely buy them.”

“And yet, I see one hangs on display and there seem to be several folded underneath.”

“We keep them for the women who can no longer stitch due to sickness or age.”

“Those of Mynydd clearly take care of their own.”

A nerve twitched under his eye. “We do.”

“I shall not take from those in need. What is the trade cost for fabric? As you can see,” she gestured to her clothes, “I must have something to wear while this is mended.”

“Fabric is becoming difficult to obtain.”

“I imagine so. I hope my husband and his men will be able to help.”

The thin skin under his eye quavered again but he did not reply.

Petra filled the lack of his answer by touting the merchandise around her. Here were the necessities of living and beyond his store was an entire community who looked to him. Such a thing must be gratifying and worrying. Surely, his sleep was the sleep of the noble, tainted by the troubles of those who live to help.

Clive’s eyes narrowed. His mouth parted slightly, and Petra went on.

She understood the struggle. Her beginnings were humble. Her mother’s village was small and if the chickens did not lay enough eggs, there might not be flour. She understood. Her brother left his sparse family to provide a life for them and now the responsibility and blessing had come to her. It is a noble burden but heavy.

“My mother deserves the best I can give her. Much like you give to the women here, too feeble to make their own clothes. They deserve their dignity. I wonder,” she continued, having babbled her way to an idea, “if I could offer my help, too, in exchange for fabric.”

“The women here are able to read and write.”

“I did not assume the contrary. I meant,” she said, pulling her hair over her shoulder, “my offering to be more tangible.”

Now the skin under both his eyes quivered. “You mean...?”

“It is not uncommon for sickness and age to cause hair loss. I should be proud to offer a woman the chance to regain some of her dignity when her hair thins.”

He coughed. “You would barter your hair?”

She shrugged. “I am young enough. It will regain its length.”

“Your husband will not approve,” he replied, flabbergasted.

Petra ignored how he flapped his hands like fish dropped on the lake’s shore and smiled. “That is my concern, is it not? Do we have a deal?”

His eyes were wide and so was his mouth, but he nodded and asked her to wait while he sharpened his cleaving knife.

The women and men of Mynydd would stare at her in a whole new way, now. Rand would be shocked. She’d look like she had been through a disease and needed shorn hair. Word of what she’d done would spread like wildfire, perhaps helping her husband dispel the disdain his presence had accrued.

I meant my words. I haven’t had a chance to act upon them. I will be his helpmate.

When Clive returned, he cleared assorted cutlery from a table. Petra bent over and turned her head to the side, lifting her hair and spreading it out. Clive smoothed it out further. His movements were hesitant, and Petra took a quiet sort of pride in knowing she had made the storekeeper of Mynydd, who held such power, uncomfortable.

“It will take three cuts, I think,” he said, clearing his throat. “Your hair is thick.”

“My permission is given. Please cut it.”

His response was more mumble than words and the cleaver came down. The table rattled. He lifted it again and struck, clearing his throat a second time. Begging her patience, he smoothed her lengths once more and made the final slice.

Standing straight, she saw her hair like a river of black in front of her. Her mind told her she was bald; the weight was gone. Instinctively, she reached to feel what now grazed her shoulders. A sudden memory of her mother picking grass fronds out of her locks as a child, reminding her that a woman’s hair is the pride of her future husband, flashed in her thoughts.

A mote of regret gleamed.

It's alright. It’s only hair. It will grow. I am more the pride of my husband for this than my hair.

“Excellent,” she said, lifting her chin. “Now the fabric, please.”

Raking what would become a wig and securing it with a ribbon, Clive nodded. Yet, instead of going towards the rolls of cloth, he moved behind the counter. The merchant crouched down. Petra heard rustling and caught the distinct scent of burlap, high with oil and dried grass.

When he stood, the man held a bundle of black fabric, sparingly stitched with red thread.

“Here. Take it.”

“This isn’t—”

“It was a wedding dress for one of the women. Her man died of pneumonia. She traded it for cloth to bury him in.”

He set it down and pushed it towards her.

The stitching was sparse, but it had been done with care, so finely worked into the fabric that it seemed as if the cloth had been originally woven such. The red color was vibrant, like the heart of a bride.

“I shall wear it with pride. May I ask the name of the woman so I can thank her?”

Clive shook his head. “She ended her life shortly after her intended was buried.”

“Her memory will be honored, then.”

With care, Petra picked up the gown and held it close.