The kitchen door opened promptly at her rap.

“Name of a saint! Who is this sad boy dripping on my doorstep?” Truda, her old mistress, pulled her inside. The kitchen, dim now in the rainy dusk, gave forth a welcoming aroma of roast venison, sage and tarragon, cinnamon and cloves. It smelled like home. Rotaida inhaled in a long, shaky sigh. Home at last!

“Stand by the fire, lad,” said Truda. “Give me your soggy cloak.”

Truda draped the Hessian cloak on a rack before the fireplace. “You’ve come at a good time, lad. I need kitchen help.”

She dipped oat groats from a bin into a basin and ladled hot water from the cauldron over them. “Konrad, the dining steward, hates having women in the kitchen so he’ll be content with you. Have you done any cooking, young man?”

Truda gave the groats a stir with a wooden spoon.

Rotaida looked up into the cook’ face. “Truda, do you not know me?”