The Warrior's Game by Denise Domning Page B

interior screamed of it.
    Three arched windows cut into the east wall. Their openings were filled with expensive glass that kept out the chill yet admitted light enough even at midday to make the rushes strewn upon the hall’s dark wooden floor gleam like the gold stored in the shop below them. Stenciled in red upon walls the color of butter was a crosshatch pattern. At the center of each diamond sat a bright blue flower. Unlike the raised hearthstone at the center of the king’s halls, this man’s hearth was built into the back wall as was the newest fashion. It was a clever contraption, drawing a fire's choking smoke out of the house through one stone channel while feeding the flames the air it needed through another. Adjacent to the hearth stood a tall cupboard painted bright green with red trim, the household’s best dishware displayed upon its shelves. A silver tray and two golden drinking cups stood among the soup bowls and spoons.
    As in every hall Ami had ever visited, the tables used for eating stood in pieces against one wall, waiting for the midday meal when they would be reassembled. Holding the tabletops against the wall were the benches used by the diners. That left two chairs in the room for the time being. Set before the wall hearth, their tall curved backs were meant to catch the heat from the fire.
    “So they are,” Ami said, then sighed. “I love that chair.” Even on the coldest winter nights it kept its occupant warm. Or occupants. On more than one night Ami had shared that chair with Richard, seated on his lap.
    “Here is my wife, Mistress Hughette,” the smith called out as he reappeared through the doorway.
    The plump woman wore heavy gowns of golden yellow almost the same color as her thin blond braids. The fabric was patterned, the design outlined with golden threads that had no doubt been spun in her husband's shop. The housewife's veil was as thin as Ami’s, the silk tissue clinging to her round cheeks. Her bulging eyes were a bright blue.
    That her hands glistened from a recent rinsing recommended her to Ami at once, for it meant she was truly a housewife. London had merchant-wives as haughty as Roheise, who lifted no finger in the daily management of their homes.
    “I’ll leave you to her and be on to your repair, then,” the smith said and departed, leaving the door to the hall open behind him as he went.
    The smith’s wife smiled widely at her guest. The change was stunning, the dumpling of a woman giving way to a consummate hawkster. Ami caught back a laugh. No wonder the smith had so swiftly offered to bring her up here. It was his wife who sold what he made.
    “Welcome to my hall, my lady,” Mistress Hughette said, then nodded to Maud. “Would your servant care for a slice of cheese and bit of barley water while you wait? The barley water’s fresh, just this morn.”
    Maud shot Ami a hopeful look. Ami nodded. If Sir Michel did appear Ami would have witness and chaperone both in Mistress Hughette.
    “Then make yourself at home, lass,” the smith’s wife said, pointing to the door she’d just used. “The kitchen is just through there and my servants will see to you.”
    Offering Ami a quick bob, Maud hurried for the door, eager to claim what was promised to her. At the same moment the floorboards over Ami’s head began to creak. The sounds suggested two people, moving toward the stairs. As these two made their way down the stairs Mistress Hughette lifted her hand to indicate the chairs that Ami and Maud had just admired.
    “Will you sit and perhaps take a cup of wine?” she offered as the sound of footsteps stopped on the landing as if whoever it was paused before entering the hall.
    “But, before you do, might I know your name, my lady?”
    There was a scornful snort from the landing behind Ami. She didn’t question why a mere breath was all it took for her to identify who it was. Every muscle in her body tensed against his presence.
    “Her name is Lady de la