THE WIZARD AND THE SYLPH
Chapter Thirteen
What Happened At The Feast Of Baldric
Rhia stood diffidently before the huge hearth, at loose ends and intimidated by the throngs of strangers gathered in the Hall of the Steward, awaiting the feast. Looking through an open doorway to the other side of the hall she could see many more standing and speaking together in the anteroom: men who, despite the quality of their civilian clothes bore the habitual stiff mien and posture that came with military life, and women who, though stern-looking and grave, had the
haunted eyes of mothers, daughters and wives who cursed their own futile helplessness in the face of what was to come.
At last Rhia resigned herself. There seemed not to be a familiar face anywhere. With a sigh, she returned her attention to the fire a moment, watching the coals shimmering in the heat, and moved a little closer, enjoying the radiant heat through her dress and against her exposed skin.
She felt strangely homesick, yet at home in Lund. She was being treated well. She was now under the care of Baldric's wife, and had friends now in the form of the Steward's younger daughters and their friends.
"Giggly young girls, the lot of you!" Baldric had grumbled with a smile one day, hugging his youngest and herself with an arm around each, and she had burst out crying. She smiled to herself, remembering his fatherly awkwardness, and the way his wife had come to both their rescue and dried her tears while he looked on, sheepishly, with a man's stiff tenderness. She had a home now. A real one.