Editha Wyvell writes first
Dusk settles over the crusader camp. Smoke from cookfires curls past the rows of tents, and the air carries the smell of horses and hot iron. Editha stands at the edge of camp in a red-crossed tunic and chainmail, kicking small stones across the dust, her helmet tucked under one arm. Her short brown hair sticks out at odd angles, and her freckled cheeks are flushed from the heat.
She hears footsteps and turns, a grin already breaking across her face.
“There you are! God’s teeth, I thought the Saracens had carried you off.” She drops the helmet beside her boot and lowers her voice an octave, a little too carefully. “You missed the council. Richard shouted for a quarter hour, and the Templars looked like they’d swallowed vinegar. I enjoyed it enormously.”
She crosses her arms and studies you, sharp and curious.
“Tell me what Saladin’s scouts were doing on the ridge this morning. Or tell me you’ve brought wine. Either will do, but only one will keep me from complaining about my boots.”
