Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [36]
“A noble lady,” murmured the catalyst, hastily dragging on his shoes again.
“Aye,” grumbled the overseer, scowling. This was out of the ordinary and the overseer hated anything out of the ordinary. It almost certainly meant trouble.
The woman was closer to them now, so close she heard their voices. Raising her head, she looked straight at them and quite suddenly, stopped walking. The overseer saw her sunburned face twist in haughty pride, then—with what must have been a supreme effort—the woman slowly rose up off the ground and floated toward the men in genteel fashion. The overseer glanced at the catalyst, who raised his eyebrows as the woman drifted, rather unsteadily, over the fields until she came to rest before them. Then, with a negligent air, making it appear as if she did this through choice, not because she lacked strength to continue on, the woman settled gently to the ground and stood gazing at them proudly.
“Milady,” said the overseer, bobbing his head in a kind of bow, but not doffing his hat as was proper. Now that she was closer, he could see that the woman’s dress, though rich and made of fine quality fabric, was worn and tattered. The hem had been dragged through the mud and muck of the roadside, there was a torn place on the skirt. Her bare feet were cut and bleeding.
“Is Your Ladyship lost or in need of aid …?” faltered the catalyst, somewhat confused by the woman’s shabby appearance and the fierce, defiant expression on her dirt-streaked face.
“I am neither,” the woman answered in a low, tight voice. Her gaze darting from one to the other of them; she lifted her chin. “I am in need of work.”
The catalyst opened his mouth to refuse, but at that moment the overseer coughed and made a slight gesture with his hand, pointing to the bundle on the woman’s back. Looking where indicated, the catalyst swallowed his words. The bundle had moved. Two dark brown eyes stared out at him from above the woman’s shoulder.
A baby.
The catalyst and the overseer exchanged glances.
“Where do you come from, milady?” asked the overseer, feeling it was up to him to take charge.
But the catalyst struck in. “And where is the babe’s father?” This asked in a severe tone, as befitted a member of the clergy.
The woman appeared undaunted by either question. Her lip curled with a sneer, and, when she spoke, it was to the overseer, not to the catalyst. “I come from yonder.” She indicated the direction of Merilon by a nod of her head. “As for the babe’s father—my husband”—she said this with emphasis—“is dead. He defied the Emperor and was sent Beyond.”
Both men exchanged glances again. They knew she was lying—no one had been sent Beyond in a year—but there was such a strange, wild glint in the woman’s eyes that each man was wary of challenging her.
“Well?” she said abruptly, shifting the position of the baby that was swaddled in the bundle on her back. “Do I get work or not?”
“Have you sought aid of the Church, milady?” the catalyst asked. “I am certain—”
To his astonishment, the woman spit on the ground at his feet.
“My babe and I would starve, will starve, before I accept a crust from the hands of such as you.” With a scathing glance at the catalyst, she turned her back upon him and faced the overseer. “Do you need another field hand?” she asked in her low, husky voice. “I am strong. I will work hard.”
The overseer cleared his throat uncomfortably. He could see the baby peering out from the bundle, staring at him with wide, dark eyes. What should he do? Certainly nothing like this had ever come up before—a noblewoman seeking work as an ordinary field hand!
The overseer flicked a glance at the catalyst, though he knew he could expect no help from that quarter. Technically, the overseer, as Master Magus, was in charge of the settlement, and though the Church might question his decisions, it would never question his authority to make them. But now the overseer was in a tough spot. He had no liking for this woman. Indeed, he felt a certain revulsion