Eat the Poor

XII

The week passed slowly.

I'd been in the castle nearly two months now, two months without seeing my mother, without sleeping in my own bed. Two months of on-and-off nausea and tremors in my hands whenever I thought about the things I'd seen. The things I'd done.

I made better money working for Amadi than Missus Mack, though I wasn't sure how well it compensated for my time. I was on my feet all day, saddling the horses, leading them to the pasture and back, washing the white ones. I preferred cleaning out the stalls to interacting with anyone.

Occasionally, the King did come to the stables, never by himself, always surrounded by the laughter of men who knew how lucky they were to be his selected companions of the day.

I hid in the tack room each time. Pretended to be busy. Ran my fingers over a saddle like I was going to do something with it.

What could I have possibly said?

I'm sorry.

Please still be my friend.

Please.

Countless times, I'd run over the scene in my head. What would have happened if I'd stayed? The Duke's daughter would have been confused, I would have been embarrassed, and Philip...

He's my friend, he had said. I had been his friend.

Heavy boots thudded in the stable, just on the other side of the wall. I pressed my back to the wood and slid down until my knees were to my chest and I sat, a small crumpled thing, on the ground.

Amadi appeared in the doorway. "Oi," he snapped. "What you sat about for? Get up and prepare the horses."

Another stable groom shrugged past him into the tack room and grabbed a leather bridle from the rack.

I stayed silent, shoulders quivering, and shook my head.

Amadi took a deep breath, as if to resist strangling me. "One more strike and you're fired," he gritted, then disappeared through the door.

I ran a hand down my face. I couldn't afford to get fired. Literally. I'd been keeping the wages I did make carefully guarded inside my vest. One of these days, when I was a good enough rider, I'd take Brownie-Paulo out to the farm and give my coins to my mother.

She was one of the few things that kept me going.

Just the thought of seeing her again, hugging her, telling her I was alright.

Two stable grooms bustled into the room. "The finest horses," one said. "The French are here."

French? My head perked up. Would Philip take the Duke's daughter riding? No - that was likely improper. Perhaps it was the Duke himself.

I stood, my limbs weary, and followed the others outside. The girl, Henriette, was there, her blonde hair a cluster of curls atop her head. She wore a matching jacket and skirt, both an offending canary yellow, and tall boots that securely covered any glimpse of skin that hoped to be shown.

One of the stable grooms, a stocky boy with hardened square shoulders, barreled toward me. "I've it, ma'am," he shouted to her, and thrust me aside so forcefully I slammed into the first stall door to my right.

The wood crushed into my middle, and before I knew it, I had doubled over and flipped headfirst into the hay.

As I lay dazed, I heard the stable groom approach her. "Afternoon, my lady," he said, his voice high with nervous excitement. "Do you wish to take this beautiful mare out?"