The young woman walked up the wide road that ran between the gates of the castle, merging with the throng of people who were going to and from the castle. There were nothing about her that drew attention. She was dressed simply. A coarse wool shirt was belted at her waist over a pair of breeches. The grit and grim of the road that signified a long journey covered her clothes so much that it was almost impossible to tell the original colors. The horse whom she led behind her however, showed only a light coating of dust and his tack was worn but clean, signifying that he had been well taken care of.
She was not beautiful, but she might have been labeled pretty, if one took enough time to look. She had high cheekbones a small nose and sparkling blue eyes that took in all around her. Her long black hair was lying down her back in a simple braid that reached all the way to her waist. She was rather short, no taller than 5'3"and her figure, though slightly obscured by her bulky clothes, was one any woman, noble or peasant, would envy.
It was none of her physical characteristics, however, that caused people to look at her with curious gazes and keep a respectful distance, but rather the way she carried herself, with a quiet dignity and grace that eliminated the possibility that she was a peasant, and also the familiar way with which she carried the worn and obviously often used sword swinging in its sheath on her belt.
She glanced up at the castle's impressive fortifications as she prepared to enter. The red, gold, and black flag of Adela flew at regular intervals on the ramparts and soldiers stood alertly at their posts. It was near dusk and the traffic going through the gates was dwindling. There was no one behind her as she followed a farmer with a cartload of hay through the gate. However, when she entered the outer courtyard of the castle a man, an off duty soldier by his garb, swaggered drunkenly up to her and grabbed her by the arm.
"Wot's a lil ting like you doin' wi' a dansherous sticker like that?" he slurred drunkenly as he leered at her, referring to her sword.
"Let go of my arm, you oaf" she said, dropping the lead of her horse.
"Wot're ya goina do to me? Hit me wi' yur stick?" His breath stank of cheap wine and he was reaching to grab a hold of her waist and pull her closer when she twisted her arm sharply, causing him to lose his grip, and then swept her leg around to knock his legs out from under him, ensuing in his sudden and painful re-acquaintance with gravity.
"Your not worthy of holding a blade, much less having one drawn on you,� she said, contempt lacing her voice as she dispassionately looked down at the man who was still sprawled on the ground with a shocked look on his face, his mind to clouded with wine to fully process what was going on. The woman sent a scathing look around to those who had gathered to see what was going on and pitched her voice so all could hear:
“Is this the way a stranger is greeted in your land?�
