Sorcha’s grip on Ember’s arm tightened. “We’ll place a salve on the wound. It should give us a bit more time.”
“But—” Ember’s feet skidded on the ground as Sorcha began to drag her away from the group.
“Please don’t argue,” Sorcha hissed. “He can’t see you like this.”
“Who?” Ember said as Sorcha tugged her along, leaving the others behind. “The abbot?”
“Of course the abbot,” Sorcha said. “We’re lucky he insists on a large meal in the manor when he arrives. If he were in the courtyard to meet us, I don’t know how we’d explain ourselves.”
They entered the barracks and Sorcha began shouting orders to servants, who scurried to obey. Ember struggled to keep up as Sorcha took the stairs two at time. Waiting outside Ember’s cell, Sorcha flung open the door and cursed under her breath as Ember stumbled inside. Even with the awkward, slow pace she’d taken to reach the barracks, her back and shoulders burned with renewed pain. She was trying to catch her breath when she noticed her room wasn’t as she’d left it. Colors were strewn over her usually drab pallet—silk gowns in jewel tones had been laid out along with slippers and gem-encrusted hair combs.
“Hurry!”
Ember asked, “What am I supposed to do?”
Sorcha shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ember, I know this must be confusing. Time is against us. Once the abbot’s belly is filled, he’ll seek you out. You must be ready. Get out of those clothes!”
When Ember stood for a moment, staring at the other woman, Sorcha threw up her hands and then began roughly tugging Ember’s tabard over her head. Forced to lift her arms, Ember swayed as a wave of nausea layered atop the searing ache of her wounds. Though questions battered her mind, Ember pushed them aside and let Sorcha strip her clothes away. Ember stood shivering in her kirtle when two women appeared bearing a copper tub.
“We didn’t have time to heat it, milady,” one of them said.
“It can’t be helped,” Sorcha said. “Scrub her down. Mind the wounds.”
Resigned to whatever fate awaited her, Ember didn’t fuss when the servants helped her out of her kirtle. They swiftly unwound the cloths that flattened her breasts tight against her chest.
Sorcha turned away to inspect the gowns. “Do you have a color preference?”
Ember glanced at the dresses: gold, pale blue, and rose were her options. She was about to answer when a wet, icy cloth against her back made her screech.
“Hush!” Sorcha chastened. “I’m sorry for the cold, but you must keep quiet.”
Ember clenched her fists as the two women scrubbed her skin clean with the frigid water from the tub. She was grateful when they took care to gently rinse the torn flesh of her shoulders. While one of the servants continued washing her limbs, the other opened a glass jar and smoothed a pungent concoction over her wounds. She flinched even at the woman’s light touch, but as the mixture went to work, her pain was replaced by a cool tingling, then numbness.
The other servant had done a thorough job of ridding Ember of grime. Her body was shiny and pink from their efforts after a few minutes. No evidence of her wrestling in the mud of the German forest floor remained. She could no longer complain of pain in her shoulders, but she was so cold she was shaking.
“Here.” Sorcha gestured for Ember to raise her arms. A clean, finely stitched kirtle descended over her head, followed by the gold gown. Sorcha straightened the gown on Ember’s shoulders and then one of the servants tightened its laces. Ember’s breasts, which had been hidden all day, now swelled against the press of the fabric. She blushed at the transformation, much preferring the androgyny of the Guard’s tabard to this gown, which accentuated her womanly attributes.
Sorcha pulled the chair away from the small table and guided Ember to it.
“I have to ready myself,” she said. “But Mary and Joanna will see to your hair.”
The two servants got to work before Sorcha was out of the room. Ember held her breath so she wouldn’t cry out as the women wrenched her hair free of its tight braid and began to comb out its length. She knew they weren’t trying to be cruel, but their focus on speed made their hands rough. It took focus and will for Ember to stay quietly in the chair as her hair was divided into sections, half of it twisted atop her head and held in place by carefully positioned combs. The rest was left free, tumbling down her back like a crimson cloak.
“Oh, good.” Sorcha reappeared in the doorway. Ember couldn’t believe how quickly she’d transformed herself. No longer in her warrior’s gear, Sorcha had donned a deep gray gown with an embroidered bodice. Her braid had been replaced by dark waves that tumbled over one shoulder. Taking in Ember’s startled expression, the other woman laughed.
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” She smiled. “And I cheated. The skin you can see may be free of grime, but if you looked beneath my kirtle, you’d think I took a bath in pig slop.”
Ember laughed, grateful for a moment of levity after the rush of anxious preparation.
Sorcha stretched out her hands. “Come, Lady Morrow. It’s time we present you to Abbot Crichton so he’s assured all is well within Tearmunn.”
When Ember rose, the two servants curtsied. She murmured her thanks and followed Sorcha into the hall. She wanted to squirm in her gown, which was odd given that she’d worn such clothing all her life and hadn’t been bothered by it before today. The dress compared unfavorably to the freedom and protection offered by the warrior’s garb she’d become accustomed to wearing. But something else scratched at her consciousness that was much more irksome than the gown. Walking behind Sorcha, she felt transfigured by this change in wardrobe, as if she’d been snatched back by the life she’d left behind.
Sorcha glanced over her shoulder. “I apologize for the costume, but we’re forced to disguise ourselves any time the abbot visits.”
“Why?” Ember asked as they descended the stairs. “I thought Father Michael fulfilled the office of the Church here.”
The other woman tensed. “Father Michael lives with us and ministers to our souls as well as serving the village chapel. He is sympathetic to the demands of our mission and a true shepherd to his flock. But he’s simply a priest—a good and humble man. Not the sort who rises to power. And as we are beholden to him, he is beholden to others.”