Beneath me in the great hall, brawny serving boys place a large wooden tub before the hearth. Two more men carrying buckets of steaming water empty them into the tub and place one bucket beside to the fire, withdrawing. Another serving man sprinkles flakes of sweet woodruff into the tub and the pleasant vanilla-like aroma waifs to my nostrils high above. My betrothed divests his clothing. Firelight provides scant illumination, but ‘tis enough for me to witness him step over the edge of the tub and sink into the water. He takes up soap and linen rag and washes himself. “Mayhap your wife’s hand will help you on the morrow,” the serving man says with a wicked chuckle. “Be gone, knave!” He waves his soapy hand, dismissing the man, but seems not to begrudge the remark. As he washes himself, he broods, his black eyebrows furrowing over even blacker eyes. His hair is long, not as custom, flowing down his back as a maiden’s. Minutes later he stands, water sloshing down his long limbs.
