Hal - The Duellist #1

Chapter Eight - Maids and Mistresses

The market was always busiest at this hour, filled with the shouts and laughter of stall tenders, the air rich with the heady scents of roasting meat, ale and sweat as people jostled together fighting over bargains, sweltering beneath the relentless glare of the midday sun. Meracad had thrown on the pale, sleeveless blue dress she always wore during the summer when she was in no need of fine clothes or jewellery: those visible signs of wealth which, her father claimed, it was her duty to display.

"You're not to disgrace me in public wearing such rags," he'd fumed more than once, catching her returning from the market in an old frock more suited to a servant than the child of a wealthy merchant. She took pleasure in disobeying him. She knew it was a hollow victory, but somehow such small acts of self-will made her everyday life more bearable.

Agata was busy examining some materials she thought might serve to upholster the furnishings of Meracad's rooms. Meracad had always considered herself blessed with a maid who had an eye for design and colour. Rich young women, she understood, were expected to take an interest in the running and furnishing of their family home in preparation for their future roles as wives and mothers. But when Agata swooned over velvet drapes and satin bed sheets or the latest fashions for veils and fans, Meracad yawned with boredom.

"You're out of sorts today, Miss?" Agata sounded worried.

"I'm fine, Agata," Meracad lied. Her heart felt as if it were on the very brink of exploding. Nothing had interested her any more since the duel. The restrictions of her daily life now weighed upon her more than ever, while those few pleasures which she had once enjoyed ─ the books she bought from the market, her dancing lessons, the hours spent with her private tutor ─ all these now seemed so banal, pointless, leading her towards a future which she did not want.

For a few brief moments, she had held in her hands the prospect of a different future ─ a life shared with another human being whose very presence ignited her deepest emotions. And suddenly all that had gone, and she had been left with the dry remnants of an existence drained of passion or adventure.

Agata suddenly grabbed her arm. "Here, Miss, isn't that the duellist?"

Meracad froze. In spite of the day's heat, a chill shiver crawled up her spine. "Where?" She sounded hoarse, she realised: the word barely a whisper.

"Over there, looking at those swords. Georgie took me to watch her duel. Never been to the arena before. Was on the edge of my seat the whole time."

Meracad edged out of sight behind some heavy velvet drapes on a nearby stall. Peeping around them, she observed Hal who was holding a blade to the light, discussing its merits with the stall holder. Dressed in a deer hide jacket thrown over a plain dark vest and leather trousers, she might have been mistaken for a servant or trader. Clearly, like Meracad, she aimed to keep herself well-hidden in a crowd.

"Georgie?" Meracad whispered to Agata.

"That groom from Lord Ceadda's service," Agata replied, evidently surprised that her mistress had chosen such a moment to busy herself with soft furnishings. Meracad decided against any further comments on the subject of Georgie. Agata had a tendency to court vain young men who always left her weeping and lonely. But she resented being reminded of that fact.

"Let's speak to her!" Agata urged, strangely enthused at the idea of starting a conversation with Hal. Meracad backed away in horror.

"Certainly not! My father would hear of it.!"

Agata looked at her slyly. "Strange, Miss M., because a few days ago, you were so full of talk about her, all I could hear was Hal this and Hal that. And I could've sworn you'd have given your right arm to speak to her."