Chapter 4: The Cottage

The gatekeeper's cottage had one room, one stove and one bed.

Hattie claimed the couch before I could say a word.

"I snore," she said. "You'll hate it. Take the bed."

"You don't snore."

"Then you'll hate me for lying."

She lit the stove and found a tin of tea behind a jar of dried lavender.

One of Lucan's grey-coated guards took up a post outside the door, with his back to the wood.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off my boots.

My arm throbbed under his bandage.

I kept looking at the knot, and I kept deciding not to take it off.

A knock came before the kettle was hot.

"It's open," Hattie called.

Lucan ducked under the lintel with a covered pot in one hand and a loaf of bread under his arm.

He looked too big for the room.

"Dinner," he said.

"You cook?" I asked.

"My guards cook. I carry."

He set the pot on the stove, and the smell of stew and wine filled the cottage.

Hattie's stomach spoke up loudly.

"I'm going to take my plate to the porch," she announced, and took her plate to the porch.

The door closed behind her.

Lucan stood with his hands behind his back, and I could see that he did not know where to put himself.

"Sit," I said. "You're making the roof nervous."

He sat in the one chair, and the chair complained.

I ate three spoonfuls before I trusted myself to talk.

"Six years," I said.

"Yes."

"You have been in my husband's hall every autumn for six years."

"Your former husband's hall."

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