The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Twenty

Lady Fae could not sleep. Somewhere out in the darkness, a fox was relieving a rabbit of its life, and she could hear the poor creature's screams echoing up to her chamber window. Against all her principles, she had been forced to close it and could now feel the dirt in the room closing in on her. She'd gone to bed fully dressed, not wanting to touch the musty sheets. She was sure the bed had fleas.

With her arms crossed tight against her chest, she tried to have as little contact with the room as possible.

After a disappointing meal overshadowed by the increasingly drunk Sir Hilton, the steward had led her to her room. It was a cramped affair, little better than a cupboard. The servants had still been there, putting clothes onto the bed. The air was thick with dust as they worked away. The chamber had clearly not been touched since the year the River Soak flooded. The steward hadn't even the shame to look embarrassed by the display. It was all Lady Fae could do not to looked disgusted. There was nothing she hated more then a lack of discipline.

At least Sir Hilton had been generous enough to give over his own chambers for the Princess, and at Lady Fae's insistence, the Countess would be her bedfellow for the night.

After finding their host to be a bit of a disappointment, the Countess had been a little too pleased by the sight of his squire. His pale brow and lithe limbs gave him the look of a troubadour and the silly girl had fixed her attentions on him immediately, though only the gods could know why. He clearly did not have a penny to his name.

The memory of their first shared glances made Lady Fae click her tongue with displeasure all over again.

A decanter of something or other was sitting by her bedside. Lady Fae removed the stopper and gave it a curious sniff, scrunching up her nose as the smell hit her. Pure vinegar. After a moment's thought, she poured herself a small glass and downed it in one, screwing up her face in horror at the taste.

It was no good, she couldn't stay in that room a moment longer. The sooner they were out of Sir Hilton's very humble abode, the better. First light could not come soon enough.

How any gentleman of means could live in such a manner, she could not comprehend.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, letting out a small whimper as her stockinged feet encountered the sticky floor, and she pulled on her shoes.

She would go to the stables and have them prepare the carriage ready for dawn.

Sir Hilton had spent the long dinner-hour extolling his own virtues with tales of the battlefield. Lady Fae had been pleased with the polite expression the Princess had managed to mould her features into so not to offend their host, and even more pleased when the young royal stood abruptly and declared herself fatigued when Sir Hilton launched into a physical retelling of his adventures, using his lamb-bone as an makeshift sword. While Lady Fae had often cautioned in the need to appear magnanimous to one's own people, sometimes it was best not to encourage the lower classes in their familiarities.

And so the ladies were led to their respective rooms and the men decamped with a selection of wines to a side-chamber.

Her cloak lay ready, folded neatly and sitting on top of her trunk. She shook it out and pulled it close around her shoulders, despite the warm air of the evening.

The chamber door creaked alarmingly as she eased it open, but the corridor was still. All the servants had turned in hours ago.

Lady Fae followed the route she'd taken that evening, along the cramped corridor and down the narrow stairs, her skirts cloak brushing against the walls as she went.

The strewing herbs squelched under her feet. They clearly hadn't been changed for weeks. Lady Fae sniffed in disapproval, but soon regretted it as the scent of spilt ale and stale urine burnt the insides of her nostrils.