The Gilded Crown by Catherine A. Wilson

certainly lift her spirits.
    It was not long before several girls scampered into the room carrying between them a large wooden bathing tub, buckets of steaming water and a basket of freshly baked bread.
    â€˜Lady Odistoun sends her compliments.’ One young woman curtsied, setting the tray on a small chest against the wall.
    â€˜Please return my thanks and gratitude.’
    Catherine sat back upon the bed and nibbled at the flat, round pastry, watching as a progression of servants filled the tub. When the last maid departed Catherine removed her clothes and gingerly stepped into the bath, relishing the indulgence. She closed her eyes and cast her mind back to the moment when she had taken Cécile into her arms and held her sister for the first time. Catherine rarely allowed herself to experience the memory for though it brought great joy, it was accompanied with the searing pain of separation. She had missed so much – Cécile’s wedding and the birth of her nephew, events of which she had longed to be a part. Catherine’s dream of living with her sister seemed to be growing ever more unlikely.
    â€˜What will M’Lady be wearing today?’
    The maid’s voice shocked Catherine back to the present and she sat up abruptly, covering the top of her exposed breasts with both hands. ‘I … I … can manage,’ she spluttered.
    â€˜Tish, tosh!’ An older woman clutching a small, three-legged stool, waggled her finger at Catherine. ‘You can’t be washing your own hair, now can ya?’ she declared as she lowered herself beside the tub.
    â€˜I can manage!’ Catherine argued.
    â€˜Aye lass, and I can scratch the top of me head wit’ me toes.’ The woman plunged a large jug into the water. ‘But I ain’t gonna prove it to ya now,’ she continued as she tipped the contents over Catherine’s face.
    Catherine spluttered and wiped her eyes, ready to argue further, but she was stunned into silence by the number of maids filing into the room. She sank beneath the water and watched as they began to unpack the travelling chest, make the bed and clean both her shoes and Simon’s spare boots, rekindled the fire and restocked the wood box.
    â€˜Ya could be growing cabbages in here, ya could,’ the older woman chortled as she lathered the back of Catherine’s neck. ‘Been on the road for some time now, haven’t ya?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Catherine murmured.
    â€˜I’m English Mary. They call me that ’cause I’m English, ya see. Married a Scot, I did. Poor buggar! Didn’t know what hit ’im,’ she rambled. ‘As you can see I like me pottage and he, well, he was just a wee twig of a thing. Nearly crushed ’im, I did! But he enjoyed his bath.’
    Catherine squeezed her lids closed as Mary scratched at her scalp, strong fingertips dislodging the weeks of grime accumulated on her travel from France and England.
    â€˜You’ve got beautiful hair, but it’s all dry and knotted. I’ll fix it for ya,’ Mary prattled on. ‘I’ll rub some rosehip oil into the ends and comb it through.’
    Jug after jug of water ran down over Catherine’s shoulders and she began to relax, allowing the heaviness in her heart to be washed away.
    â€˜Sit forward and I’ll wrap up your hair,’ Mary instructed.
    Catherine opened her eyes. They were alone, the maids having departed. The fire burned brightly, warming the room. Her cream chemise and green surcotte had been laid out across the bed and a traditional arisaidh – a long, tartan shawl – had been draped over the chair by the door.
    Mary knotted a thick cloth around Catherine’s head and then opened a large, woven blanket which she held aloft. ‘Go sit by the fire whilst I tidy this mess.’
    Catherine discreetly stepped out of the tub and, with the rug wrapped snugly about her, shuffled over to the stool Mary