to the grand ducal throne selected the person who would be his or her faithful friend and confidant for life. Ladies and girls from every honorable family from all over the duchy had come and gathered in the courtyard to attend the noble child’s selection. But instead of picking her companion from the bevy of nervous females wearing their jewels and feastday best, Caitlin had pointed to Jess, who had been among the file of soldiers-at-arms standing at attention in the shadow of the gatehouse, awaiting their orders for the day from the mistress-of-arms. Jess could still feel the prickle of shame as the duke ordered her to come and present herself. She was just a country girl who had joined the citadel guard. In contrast to the ladies’ finery, she wore a plain work tunic that needed a good wash, under second- or third-hand scale mail sewn to a worn leather tabard. To her astonishment, Caitlin demanded to be picked up and held. Jess had no choice but to comply.
Jess had protested the arrangement as unsuitable to the tiny lady and herself, but the custom had the force of law. Besides, it had been hard to say no when the precious girl had nestled herself into Jess’s arms. Jess had cradled Caitlin close, wanting to protect her from that moment on, even more than she had wished to out of duty. She thought the archduke and archduchess would be upset at the choice, blaming Jess for being, oh, who knew, too apparent to the child’s eye? But they only smiled. Beside the archduchess, the wizard Uthbridge had offered only a single observation.
“It is as I foretold to you, your grace,” he said. “What she needs to learn, only this lass can teach.”
Jess had been teased mightily since that day by all her friends and comrades in the guard. She had to shed her comfortable suit of mail for corsetry, skirts, and headgear that was impractical on a good day and downright ridiculous on a windy one. Truth was, she had never felt worthy of the honor, and always felt out of place beside the neatly turned out handmaids and pages who came and went for the lady, and occasionally for her humble self.
Despite her new duties, she kept up her exercises and her expertise at swordplay and hand-to-hand combat. Maintaining her strength and agility made Jess valuable beyond her keep for being able to carry two full pails of scalding water at a time up six flights of steps from the kitchens to Caitlin’s bath, even though she had now passed the ancient age of thirty. The youngsters who had occupied the Heir’s Tower in the past had become used to cold ablutions. Caitlin always praised and thanked her for her consideration, which made up for some of the loss of camaraderie with her fellow soldiers. Still, Duchess Caitlin admired Jess and clamored to be like her.
Well, why not? Jess had obtained, behind the duke’s back and with the mistress-of-arms’s attention deliberately turned away, a child’s suit of armor and a wooden sword and shield. Cait didn’t fit into the clanking breastplate so well any longer, what with her getting taller and growing a figure and all, but she could squeeze into it. Jess also had seen no reason that the girl shouldn’t learn a little of swordplay to keep her healthy and fit. The ladies-in-waiting with their many tasks were in better condition, field-wise, than the nobles they served. Many lords and ladies rode out to hunt or to go to war, but those who retired became soft. They could scarcely climb the stairs to their rooms, let alone wield a weapon. Jess helped Caitlin to learn exercises that did not overstrain her maturing limbs. When she outgrew the wooden sword, Cait graduated to the antique weapons that hung on brackets on display all along the spiral staircase leading up to her solar, leaving none outside the tower the wiser. The exercise wasn’t as rigorous as learning to be a soldier, but her efforts made Jess proud. If they could have worked openly in the field, the girl could have learned to command any regiment.
“So why put on your armor now?” she asked, holding the helm on her shoulder while she unwound the duchess’s hair. Caitlin looked wistful.
“It may be my last chance. My intended, Lord Matew, says in his letters that he is a man of peace. I may rule in court, but he would prefer not