Chapter 8: Widows at the Gate

The first widow came across the river at dawn on the fourth day.

I heard about it before I saw her, because Torvi burst into the guest house with her hair on end.

"There's a woman at the gate. She's got a six-year-old on her back and she walked all night."

"From where?"

"Mirefold." Torvi grinned. "She asked for the book girl."

I was down the stairs before I had my boots laced.

She stood just inside the gate with the Hawkscar guards hovering around her, a thin grey woman with a shawl over her head.

The boy on her back was asleep with his mouth open.

Her skirts were wet to the thigh.

When she saw me, her whole face crumpled.

"Miss Rhona," she said. "I knew you'd take us in."

"Come in," I said. "Come in, come in."

I took the boy from her myself, because her arms were shaking, and he weighed less than a sack of flour.

I knew her.

She had been one of mine for six years, a widow with a stipend of nine marks a quarter.

I had counted it into her hand in the treasury hall every season, with a cup of tea.

She had not been paid the last two.

"Osric's men wouldn't let me out," she said. "I went down to the river at night and followed the old drover's path."

"It's shallow by the willows."

"You're safe now."

"Is it true?" She gripped my sleeve. "That you took the book? That you've got it all written down?"

"Every line."

"Then I want it in writing that I was owed." She started to cry. "I want somebody to say it out loud."

"I'll say it right now," I said. "You were owed. Ten quarters. I have the figure."

She laughed and sobbed at once.

Torvi took her by the shoulders and steered her toward the mess hall, saying, "Stew first. Crying second. That's the rule here."

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