Gisela sighed at the luxury of sitting in an actual tub full of warm water. She had to draw her knees up almost to her chin to fit in it, but it was wonderful. The tub was metal with leather strips to reinforce the seams and make it more leakproof. And the soap smelled even more wonderful than the foreign soaps her stepmother and stepsisters used — like roses and lilacs. Roslind, the kind and generous maiden who had helped her fill the tub, told her the soap was made by Bartel, the former monk who was also a healer and one of the seven men who lived at the cottage.
Valten and his guards had gone to the creek to wash up, so Gisela took her time. Roslind had offered to help her wash her hair, but Gisela was accustomed to doing such things for herself.
Gisela dried herself, then she put on the dress that Roslind had brought for her to borrow while her other one — the beautiful, blue silk gown she had worn ever since the ball at Hagenheim—was being washed. The gown’s sleeves were torn and the skirt had a few rips in it, but it still looked better than any of the dresses her stepmother had allowed her to wear.
Roslind had lent her a simple brown work dress, but it was clean and fit Gisela well. Her ankle still hurt when she put her weight on it, but it was already feeling better than it had a few hours ago when she first injured it. She picked up a bucket and filled it with her bathwater and limped as she carried it outside. As she dumped it on the ground, Gisela met the pretty brunette, who seemed to be the only female living at the house of seven men.
“Lord Valten tells us you are his fiancée.”
Gisela was smiling even more on the inside at the thought of Valten telling people they were to be married. He wasn’t the most talkative man, after all.
“I am married.” Roslind wore a pleased look in her pale blue eyes as she helped Gisela empty the bathtub. “His name is Siegfried, but everyone calls him Siggy. I fell in love with him as soon as I saw him.” The girl sighed dreamily.
“How long have you been married?”
“Two years.”
Two years and she was still sighing. Gisela hoped for the same. Truly, she could hardly think beyond the moment, and certainly not beyond the next four weeks, for Valten had declared they would be married then. He’d already sent a messenger back to Hagenheim to tell his parents.
She was afraid to believe it, afraid it was too good to be true. After all, only a few days ago Valten knew her only as the girl who had a way with horses, with whom he had spent a couple of hours walking around Hagenheim. But after what they had been through together the last few days, she felt they knew each other well.
After they finished dumping out the bathwater, she and Roslind worked together to make dinner. As they prepared the meat pies, she wondered if Valten had finished his cold bath in the creek and was finally letting Bartel tend to his hand.
They set the food and drink on the table, and Roslind told her the names of each of the men as they all trouped in. The men looked like a band of traveling miracle players, or jongleurs and circus performers, instead of the woodsmen that they were. Dominyk, their leader, who barely stood as tall as the other men’s waists, sported a thick black moustache and black hair. He was as dignified as any duke as he seated himself at the head of the table.
Siggy, who was tall and thin and blond, hurried in, grinned in his eagerness as he came over and kissed his wife on the forehead. Dolf smiled shyly and nodded at Gisela as he sat at Dominyk’s left side. He had a pleasant but craggy face, with brown hair and gentle brown eyes. He talked with his hands in gestures and signs that the other men seemed to understand perfectly.
Vincz, with droopy eyelids that belied his quick movements, broad shoulders, and work-hardened hands, sat beside Dolf. Heinric followed close behind. He was the tallest and broadest of the men, with wide eyes that followed Gisela’s every move, and a bit of saliva that threatened to drip from each corner of his mouth. But at least he was smiling.
On the other side of the table sat Gotfrid. He scowled at Gisela, then scowled at the food, then crossed his arms and scowled some more. The large scar that covered one side of his head also seemed to scowl at Gisela, where it puckered the skin and prevented any hair from growing.
Bartel, the healer, came in next wearing a monk’s coarse robe and a placid look on his handsome face. He walked as if on stilts, making her realize there was something wrong with his feet. He nodded to her solemnly, then sat down on the bench next to Gotfrid.