A woman stepped forward. Kes guessed she was in her late thirties, early forties. Her hair was gray with streaks of black (but not many). Another terrible thing about this century. No hair dye. Her hair was long and braided into an intricate set of knots in the back of her capped head. Her eyes were a changing mix of gold and green, and kindness.
“Elianora,” Sir Nicholas said, “this is Miss Kestrel Locksley of Bridlington. She was hurt and has lost everything, including parts of her memory. See that she has some hot food and a bed for the night. Come to my solar later and we will discuss what to do with her tomorrow.”
Kes’ hands balled into fists. Sure, she knew better than a lot of people that this was how men thought back here in the middle ages. But was she going to have to become a subservient woman because she was here? No. She wasn’t from here. She turned to him. “Am I not invited to discuss my future?”
Whatever power her eyes had had on other men in the past, was stopped cold when his gaze met hers. He was unaffected by her.
“You do not wish to rest then?” he asked coolly.
“I’ll rest after.”
“Very well. Elia, see that she is fed and then bring her to me.”
“Aye, my lord,” Elia responded and turned to walk away.
Kes didn’t want to leave him. She hated herself for it. She didn’t know him. He was just as medieval as everyone else, but he had saved her. He knew her better than anyone else here knew her.
He looked as if he wanted to say something. He didn’t and walked away instead.
All right then. She looked after him for a second or two and then turned to Elia and followed her to a small side-house off the western castle wall.
“Where are we going?” Kes asked, fighting a feeling that she knew the answer.
“To the servants’ quarters,” Elia told her.
“I’m sorry but I think there’s been a mistake. I’m not a servant. I’m a historian.”
Elia laughed. “A woman historian?”
Kes closed her mouth. There were no cell phones here, but word traveled quickly through gossip. If she behaved out of place, they would notice.
“Are all the women in Bridlington so cheeky?”
“Yes, yes,” Kes said with a forced short laugh. “It’s just good-natured fun.”
“Of course,” Elia nodded then dipped her gaze over Kes’ clothes. “What are these garments that you wear? Your shoes are especially odd.”
Odd?
“Oh,” she said quickly, with another laugh, “my father is an inventor. He often asks me to wear his pieces.”
“Hmm,” Elia looked her over some more, and then smiled. “That could be interesting.”
“It is,” Kes agreed. Had she done enough to veer attention away from her being odd?
“And your hair? Why do you wear it without braid or adornment? Why, there is not even a pin in it.”
Kes lifted her hand to it. “I’ve been outside for a day. My pins have fallen out.”
“Poor dear,” Elia cooed and ushered her into the house and into the kitchen. “You sit right down and let me prepare something for you to eat. Cook made rabbit stew earlier. It should still be…ah, aye, ’tis still in the bowl and still warm.”
“Thank you,” Kes told her. It couldn’t hurt to be polite. “What is your position here?”
“I’m the head maid,” Elia told her, filling her bowl, “and I would like to think, a friend of Sir Nicholas’.”
What did one call the head maid these days? “What would you prefer I call you?”
“Elia. And you?”
“Kes.”
They smiled at each other.
“Have you known Sir Nicholas long?” Kes asked her when Elia handed her the bowl.
Elia nodded and took a seat beside her. “His whole life.”
Kes liked the head maid. She was easy to talk to.
“When he was seven summers, his family was killed by men who fought for the House of Lancaster.”
Kes felt her blood leaving her face, her brain. Oh, no. This man hated the Lancasters with good reason.
“King Edward took him in and raised him. I had been his mother, Lady Johanna de Marre’s maid. I became Sir Nicholas’ maid after that.”
“King Edward,” Kes repeated. Which King Edward? There were so many. Oh, she couldn’t think anymore. Her brain was exhausted. Who was king during this time? “I…my lord mentioned that I can’t remember some things. One of them is the king.” She smiled sheepishly. “Who is he?”
“Richard,” Elia scowled. “Richard III.”
The maid wasn’t scowling because of her, but because of the king. She didn’t like him. Did the earl feel the same way about his king? And if Richard III was king, that meant Edward the IV, his brother, had died. He told her it was fourteen-eighty-five. July.
“You haven’t touched your stew,” Elia declared. “Are you ill?”
“No. I’m…” She tried to think of something to tell her. “I’m just feeling a little confused.” She spooned up some stew and cautiously tasted it. It was surprisingly good.
“My dear, has anyone ever told you that your eyes are quite beautiful?”
Kes smiled without giving her an answer. She didn’t want to come across as being vain.
“How did you and Nicky meet?”
Kes stopped. She nearly choked. Elia leaped up and patted her back until Kes held up her hands. “I’m ok.”
“Ok?” Elia asked, looking somewhat lost. “Does everyone in Bridlington speak like you?”
“Speak like me?” Kes’ heart nearly burst out of her chest. “My father is from Wales.”
“Ah,” Elia said, as if being Welsh made all the difference. “I have never been to Wales.”
Kes waved her concern away. “It’s…’tis quite all right.”
“I only asked about how you met because he does not usually bring women home. You must be very special.”
“Special?” What would Elia say if Kes told her the truth. Would she laugh, or call her a witch…or believe her? She couldn’t risk it to find out.
She yawned and slumped her shoulders. She had no one to confide in. She missed her family, her friends, her phone.
“Come,” Elia patted her arm, “let me show you to your room. We
