Page 10 of The Blight of Hollowmire

Millie meets our sullen group at the front door, fists planted on her ample hips and a sour expression on her face.

“I haven’t food enough for your men,” she bites out at Bjorn, who has the grace to look chagrinned. “If your horse’s ass of a commander wants to send troops just to flex his might, he better be sure to fill your saddlebags himself!”

“Be at ease, Millie,” I chuckle, placing a hand on her shoulder and tucking a gray curl back beneath her wimple. “I offered them oatcakes and ale. Surely there’s enough in the larder to see to that while we discuss Arden and the news from court.”

She squints, shooting a glare at the uneasy soldiers presently milling about in the front garden. After rolling her eyes and muttering curses that would curdle milk, she lets our group enter somewhat unmolested.

“Wipe your feet,” she barks. “I just cleaned these floors.”

The soldiers exchange harried glances but do as they’re bid, looking to me for guidance.

“Best to do as she says,” I say. “My housekeeper inflicts more terror than any enemy I’ve stood against. I try not to find myself on her bad side.”

While the men find seats around the long table in the center of the hall, I follow Millie to the attached kitchen and corner her in the pantry.

“I don’t have enough!” she whispers, frantic.

Looking around at the overflowing shelves stuffed with hard breads, oatcakes, massive wheels of aging cheese, countless earthenware crockeries full of fermenting vegetables and preserved fruits, I raise an incredulous brow.

“We have enough to feed an army through the winter, darling girl.”

“Not food. I mean petaldown,” she hisses, eyeing me as if I’m the one who’s gone mad.

I still. “Petaldown? You mean to drug twenty soldiers after I offered them hospitality?” While I appreciate the somewhat bloodthirsty manner of my housekeeper and friend, sometimes I do wonder at the speed with which she would resort to murder. I suspect her mysterious past—of which I know little—is to blame, but I’ve never felt the impetus to press. Still, it warms my heart to have someone, anyone, feel compelled to protect me.

“They’ll not be taking you to that bastard Arden while I breathe!” The wooden spoon she’s clutching is the length of her arm and gives a worrying crack beneath her white-knuckled grip.

“They’re not taking me anywhere. I’m going to sit with them and listen to the news from court, and see that they’re comfortable for a while. They’re going to go back to Valehar and tell Arden I was away. By the time he gets off his ill-gotten throne and makes his way out here, the wheat will be planted and we’ll have the seasonal hands for the apples and pineberries, plus whatever kitchen help you need for the winter,” I say calmly, drawing her into my arms. The top of her head only comes up to the middle of my breastbone, but her stout arms wrap tightly around my waist.

“I don’t trust them, Renard,” she says softly. “They serve a court of no honor. I say we poison the lot of them and feed them to the pigs.”

I chuckle, though I know she does not mean it in jest.

“While I appreciate your bloodthirsty loyalty as ever, worry not. I don’t trust them either. But these aren’t hardened soldiers, Millie. They’re barely out of squiring,” I say, loosening my hold on Millie only when she ceases vibrating like a kettle about to boil over. “If Arden wished me dragged in chains, he would have sent veterans. These are just boys in polished steel.”

“Polished fools,” she mutters.

“Perhaps,” I allow. “But fools still need feeding.”

The soldiers sit stiffly at the long table, clearly uncertain about what to expect. It’s awkwardly quiet, save for the occasional whisper of confused distress and creak of armor when they shift. The youngest lad, still looking disheveled from being bested in the barn, glances sheepishly at his commander and at me. I struggle to hide my smile, however, when he regards Millie with abject terror.

She whirls into the room on my heels, arms laden with platters of oatcakes and a crock of cinnamon-spiced apple butter. Twenty pairs of eyes track the food as it finds its way to the table, followed by a wedge of hard cheese, pitchers of water, and a jug of ale.

“Eat,” Millie commands, her tone firm and her gaze hawk-like.

There’s a moment of silence before the first lad moves, as though the food might be something from a dream. And then they eat—falling upon the food as though it might grow legs and run from the table. Gone is any hesitancy or suspicion. They devour everything like locusts—or like men unaccustomed to regular meals.

With their initial caution and unease giving way to their desperate hunger, Millie’s famous oatcakes and warm cinnamon spiced apple butter win over even the most reticent among them. The youngest soldier closes his eyes while chewing, as though the act itself requires reverence—an understandable response to Millie’s cooking, but less, I suspect, to do with her recipes and more to do with the sharpness of their cheekbones and the hollows beneath their eyes. When I was their age, this kind of hunger hadn’t made its way to Valehar, and again, a swell of pity rises in my well-fed gut for what these soldiers must be enduring.

Millie’s eyes cut to mine—her brow furrowing and a frown tugging down the corners of her generous lips. It doesn’t take long for her concern to overpower her ire, and my heart gives a painful thump in my chest. I cannot seem to help it. These soldiers are so young. What kind of a man sends boys out to do his dirty work?

A man I know only too well.

“How long was the journey from Valehar?” I ask mildly. 4 days from the seat at Valehar. 2 days from the nearest inn. Plenty of time to eat a couple decent meals and restock supplies.

“A few days,” Bjorn says. “Not too long.”

“And you came with enough rations?” I ask. I doubt he’ll give me an honest answer—doing so would be tantamount to treason.