Page 1 of Anice’s Bargain

1

March 1336

Brackenhill, England

It was not their first siege, but it was certainly their longest. The Grahams were determined.

Lady Anice Barrington, second daughter to the third Earl of Werrick, regarded the dismal larder with her father at her side. Their gazes were mutually fixed on the lone sack of grain.

“The last,” he muttered. His brow furrowed into a complex map of creases, carved by a life of sorrow and hardship.

“Is there nothing else?” Anice asked. The large red brown dog sitting near her feet shifted and gave a low whimper as though he could understand their dismal discussion. Piquette was not allowed to receive his own ration of food and so Anice split her meager portion with her beloved pet. It was hardly enough to fill either of them. They were left persistently desperate with hunger, though neither offered up complaint.

Nan, the cook of Werrick Castle, crossed her arms over her chest in a show of authoritative knowledge. “Nothing left save any vegetables we manage to grow in the garden, my lady. But they get eaten as soon as they’re plucked from the earth.”

“We’ll need to reduce food distribution.” The earl nodded absently to himself, content with his decision.

Nan cast Anice an anxious glance, the steel in her back melting. “We’ve already done that several times. The people are starving.” The cook had once been round and plump, the way one in her position ought to be—or so Nan had said. The lean months, however, had left her sharp chin jutting from sagging skin and her kirtle swinging around her once generous frame. They were all too thin, too hungry.

Anice stood mutely, unable to come up with a solution. They would be out of food within days. Reducing their rations further would do nothing but anger the people of Werrick and prolong the inevitable by a day or two at best. But what would happen when it was all gone?

Anice shivered at the possibilities, all of them awful.

Lord Werrick dragged a hand down his tired face. “I wish Marin were here,” he said quietly. “She would know what to do.”

Anice bit the inside of her cheek and focused on the sharp pain rather than the cut of her father’s words. He had not meant them, after all. Or at least, he had not meant for them to hurt. Anice’s eldest sister, Marin, had been gone from Werrick for almost three years, living in their mother’s favorite castle in England. Hunger made Anice’s head swim. It was all too easy to remember the peaceful life there with lovely rose gardens and sunlit gardens. And food. So much food.

Sweet, fresh apples with juice that ran down one’s chin when she bit into the crisp flesh. Crusty bread that broke under her fingers and revealed the soft, steaming doughy center. Slathered with butter. Greasy, salty—

Stop.

“Perhaps we can speak to the Grahams,” Anice suggested abruptly. Anything to take her mind off food. “I’ve heard reivers will sometimes bargain.”

Her father shook his head, his stare going distant. It tugged at Anice’s heart when he did that, lost to the horrors she wished she could blot from his memory.

“I cannot lose another messenger.” He looked down at her with his large, solemn eyes—eyes that had shone with joy when Anice had been a girl. How she missed those long-ago days, back before her mother died.

In a brave attempt to bring a message to the king requesting his help, their messenger had rushed past the Grahams, gotten caught, and paid with his life. He’d lived only twenty summers, the same age as Anice, and had volunteered hoping to save the lot of them. Anice’s father had reluctantly agreed. The young man’s body had been left in front of the gates the following morning with the missive torn, the dozens of pieces fluttering in the grass about him like macabre, blood-spattered moths.

Several more men had followed that messenger, either to escape the stomach-gnawing hunger within Werrick’s walls, or in an attempt to help. And while Anice did not know if any of them made it through, they remained without aid.

“We haven’t tried discussing it with the Grahams ourselves,” Anice protested.

“And who would go?” he asked.

Anice straightened. “Me.” She ran her fingers over her dog’s soft fur. “Me and Piquette.”

At the mention of his name, Piquette stiffened to attention, always loyal, always brave.

He blinked and his face reddened. “Absolutely not.”

“Mayhap they wouldn’t kill a woman.”

“Nay, you know what they would do to a woman.” His jaw flexed beneath his gaunt face. Anice opened her mouth to protest, but he swept a hand in front of her. “I’ll not discuss the idea of sending one of my daughters to be left at the mercy of those barbarians. “He turned on his heel and strode from the kitchen. His footsteps rang out on the flagstones until the door closed behind him, muffling his derisive departure.

A little black cat wound its warm body around Anice’s feet and cast Piquette a wary glance. Poor Bixby hadn’t been the same since Marin left. Though in truth, it was most likely her husband, Bran, who the cat missed the most. Bixby flopped in front of her and she gently nuzzled his chest with the toe of her shoe, much to Piquette’s grumbling agitation. Anice bent and rubbed her fingers at the little white star on Bixby’s chest, while scratching behind Piquette’s ear. It was easier to offer affection to the animals than to regard Nan and the pity dulling the older woman’s eyes.

Anice wasn’t Marin. That much was obvious with each passing day. She didn’t help their steward, William, with the books the same way Marin had; she didn’t have the soothing patience; she wasn’t as organized and couldn’t keep the castle together as Marin had. As with much else in Anice’s life, she was failing as others succeeded, no matter her immense effort and good intentions.