Constantine (Daughter of War #1)

Chapter 3: The Council of War

The morning barely begins to come to life as I sink into the warm comfort of the bath. The water laps at my skin, and I exhale in relief. I'm allowed to wash on every alternate day; everyone else near my rank only did so every week.

Two days' worth of grime and dirt form a greasy layer floating on the water surface. I scrub hard at my body, leaving no trace of stains behind. The tub is placed in an antechamber in my room, so that I wouldn't have to go all the way to the bathhouse, where the other squires go for their weekly cleansing ritual. Father had requested this specially for me.

I finish washing and rise, sneezing as I do so. While patting myself down with a sack, I squeeze my eyes shut. I never open them to look at my nakedness, in hopes that I can trick myself into believing that I'm a different person, even for the briefest of moments.

I start to bind a long strip of rough linen around my breasts, taking in a sharp breath as it constricts my ribs and flattens my curves. A pair of braies and a chemise goes on next; I shiver at the little comfort they offer against the bitingly cold air. Then I pull on two layers of thick, woollen tunics, as well as my best trousers.

After returning to my room, I stare at the last piece of garment that was laid out earlier on the bed—the squires' uniform tabard. It has the emblem of the Squires' Order embroidered in silver on red woollen cloth. The design is comparatively simple next to the knights' or lords' tabards, but they would pass in recognition of some sort of military organisation to common townsfolk.

Predicting the weather to be fine today, I don't put on a fur-lined cloak. I do wear my gloves though, and belt my tabard at the waist before slipping into my best leather boots. The king would expect no tardiness in dressing from me.

What does he want? The thought suddenly flashes across my mind. I fish about my head for any misbehaviour or misconduct that would send me to be sentenced before the king. Despite the occasional scrape or two, nothing comes to mind.

I finally step out from my room into the shy, soft sunlight. We're now caught between the transition from winter to spring, when the view is at its ugliest. Melting ice gives way to mossy grass, which springs out like horrendous scabs between smooth lines of skin; the snow gathering beneath trees is soggy and dirt-ridden, giving the impression of a wounded creature; the wind seems spirited yet mistral, as if it can't quite let go of the previous season to welcome a new one.

Crunching the sealed roll of paper in my hand, I walk towards the inner ring of the castle, where my audience with the king would be held. The guard at the entrance stops me, only allowing me to pass after he sees my permission slip.

The cathedral bell sounds eight times; I'm due to see the king in fifteen minutes. It suddenly occurs to me that Sir Isaac hadn't mentioned a specific location to wait in.

I pace about the main courtyard absently. Servants rush by without taking the slightest notice, the general hectic of the activities going on in the inner ring swirling past me. I contemplate looking for the king in his throne room, but decide against it. Surely he would appoint one of his many heralds to escort me? Then I spot a familiar figure striding towards me. My jaw drops open.

It's Gilbert. I'd discerned the cocky grin and dark hair from afar.

"What are you doing here?" I gasp.

"Nice to see you too," he says sarcastically. "And I don't know. I'm just about as clueless as you are."

My cheeks grow hot. I'm just about to reply that I'm not completely clueless when a frantic figure hurries towards us. A herald. His clothes drape over his portly figure like a curtain draping off a chair; his face is as red and round as a tomato; his breath comes in as short, gasping puffs.