The next day, the first thing she did was descend the staircase to the first floor in hopes of finding any hints as to where Asher could be, and if he was in the army encampment that sprawled on the fields beside the castle.
The day was colder than the previous one, so Jorlin changed into one of the dresses in the wardrobe. It was made out of thick, green fabric and kept the worst of the chill out of her bones. The sun had risen by the time she exited her room and briskly descended the stairs.
The first floor was busy, as usual. The main hearth was crowded with nobles and knights trying to keep warm, but Jorlin was used to the cold. She decided to start by talking to the people gathered around the fire.
"Excuse me," she tried to say to a well-dressed man, "but-"
The man acted like he never heard her and walked off, leaving Jorlin agitated. Being polite was hard enough, and being ignored only added to her indignation.
"You're wasting your time, lass," said a soldier to her right, who was sitting on a low stool picking at a bowl of gruel. He wore chainmail with a tattered purple cloth belted over it, muddy boots, gloves, and bracers. "They'll never listen to you. Too full of themselves."
Jorlin took a step closer to him and saw that instead of a right eye there was an empty socket. His face was worn and wrinkled, and he had gray streaks in his long black hair.
"Then I hope you'll listen to me," she replied, crossing her arms.
He looked up at her and raised his eyebrows.
"Have you heard of anyone named Asher?" she asked. It was probably a hopeless question.
"Can't say I have," the knight replied, stirring the gruel around with his spoon. He studied her for a moment, his solitary eye grazing over her face. "You're Clovis's niece, ain't ya?"
She sighed. "Aye."
A slight smile cracked his weathered face. "You don't want to be here, eh?"
"How could you tell?" she asked sarcastically.
"None of the serfs do," he replied.
"You know I'm a serf?"
"Lass, things get around here much faster than they ever could in your little town," the knight answered, finally taking a bite of the gruel.
"My 'little town' is barely still alive, thanks to the way things are going up here in this backwards castle," she snapped.
"I got nothin' against your town," he said, a sharp tone in his voice, "but if you're ever going to live here, in this 'backwards castle,' then I suggest you start showing more respect. Else
someone with a worse temper than me is going to do something about it."
Jorlin's mouth pressed into a hard line, anger flaring up in her chest. He was right.
He leaned back, visibly relaxing, then asked, "So, Asher? He's your friend?"
"Yes."
"Is he here?" he asked.
"I don't know," she answered. "He was drafted. I thought he might be here."
"If you're going to have any hope of finding him, then you'd best talk to Slater. He tends to know about new recruits. I'd watch out, though. He's got a hot temper."
"You have no idea," she muttered lowly. "Thanks for the help, by the way."
The knight nodded. "Name's Willan. You can call me Will."
YOU ARE READING
Sides of War
Historical FictionNineteen-year-old Jorlin lives in 14th century Britain, in a country that's in the throes of a civil war. Her childhood friend gets drafted into the war, which drives her into a search for him. However, along the way, she is forced into coming to te...
