The Linguist
On the following Tuesday, one of the count’s female servants interrupted me while I sat weaving a dress out of dyed red wool, my first attempt at creating a medieval winter dress. “There’s a young lord downstairs in the front parlor who wishes to speak with you, Lady Swanhilde,” the servant informed me, curtseying.
Perplexity crossed my face, and I wondered who it could possibly be. No one referred to Joel as a “young lord” at this point, and I had taken care not to show interest in any of the noblemen. But I rose from my cushion in the sewing room anyway and told the servant that I would be down shortly. “I’ll be back later,” I told the group of girls working on basic trousers for several of the vassals. They were the same three who had giggled at Joel on our first morning
