the keep, she glanced around as people began to draw near. Most of them were men, as she'd noted, but now the keep doors were open, female faces peered out with excitement. Women began to hurry down the stairs, followed by two small boys and two men, one tall and slim, and one short and round.
"Who are these?" she asked Balan as she waited for the group to reach the foot of the stairs.
"The cook and steward," her husband answered. Murie nodded. Both men were wearing brown tunics made of very rough and heavy cloth, as were most of the people at Gaynor, but it didn't take a genius to guess which was cook and which steward. Obviously, the round little man with the welcoming smile worked in the kitchens, and the tall, skinny, scowling man was the steward.
She blinked in surprise when Balan began introductions, and it turned out she was wrong:
"Wife, this is Clement, our cook," he announced, gesturing to the tall, skinny man.
Murie's eyes widened in alarm. In her experience all cooks were short and round or tall and round or round and round. They were always round. They got that way from sampling their food, or so she'd always assumed; but this gentleman was tall and thin. So, either his food was terrible, or ... She blinked as his name sank in. Clement? Didn't that mean kind, or something? There was nothing the least bit kind-looking about him.
Well, this wasn't very promising, she thought as she nodded politely, almost afraid to speak and give the man an excuse to be rude. He truly didn't appear a very friendly sort.
"And this is Thibault. He is the steward here." Murie was almost as happy to turn her attention to the little man as he apparently was to receive it.
"Oh, my lady! You cannot know how happy we are to receive and welcome you into our small family. You bring hope to all of us. I pray you will be very happy here, indeed," he cried effusively, clasping her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.
"And this is Gatty," Balan continued, gesturing to the oldest of the women present. "She has been my sister's nursemaid since she was born."
"My lady," the woman murmured.
"And these are her daughters Estrelda and Livith. They are maids in the keep."
"My lady," the two dark-haired girls chorused, giving pretty little curtsies.
"And this is Gatty's son, Frederick." A boy nodded and smiled shyly, eyes large in an elfin face.
"And this. . ." Balan stepped forward to catch the last little boy by the collar who'd tried to shrink behind Gatty. He pulled him out front, finishing, "Is my little sister Juliana." Murie stared wide-eyed at the child. Her hair had been hacked off quite viciously, and it hung in short, uneven clumps around her head. Her face was filthy, as was the rest of her, including her clothes, which were the same rough cloth everyone else here seemed to be wearing. There was nothing that could have told Murie she was a girl, though Murie still felt horrible for making the assumption.
Taking a breath, she managed a smile and held out her hand.
"How do you do, Juliana?"
The girl reacted like a trapped animal. With her brother and the others behind her, hemming her in, and Murie in front of her, her eyes darted left then right before settling on Murie with a sort of panic. She blurted, "Yer stupid and ugly, and I do not care if you like me. I hate you!" The girl then stomped on Murie's foot and turned to run across the bailey as fast as her little legs would carry her.
"Juliana!" Balan roared furiously, even as he stepped forward to sweep Murie into his arms. Casting a scowl after the retreating child, he hurried up the stairs with Murie, his gaze concerned as he glanced at her. "Are you all right? Did she break anything?"
"Nay, of course not," Murie assured him, holding on for dear life as she was jostled in his arms by his jog up the stairs. "You need not carry me, husband. She merely stomped my toe."
"Aye," he muttered. "And I shall tan her bottom for it when she finds the courage to return."
"Nay," Murie said sharply, and kicked her feet now that he was carrying her into the keep. "Put me down, please."
"Not until we reach the table. I wish to examine your foot." Murie drew a breath for patience. Her foot was