Lys: Daughter of Grace

Aithne laughed. She couldn't help it. The question was so absurd!
"And how would I know of that? I am not the daughter of a warlord!"

She looks up and out at the trees and the hills. "It is a life of grace- my mother, German that she was, was a lady among the court. I was accorded honor. I was to be married to one of my clan's warriors- the son of a chief- what you would, I suppose, call a warlord. But there was a raid, and the treacherous clan who stole me sold me over-sea to the Romans, dishonoring themselves. I hope my husband-that-would-have-been has avenged that wrong. I think that he would."

Something tickled her face, and she rubbed her cheek. Her hand came away dirty. Ugh. she grimaced. I'm filthy. No wonder she keeps looking at me that way. She wiped her hand on her tunic. Bah. They had taken and burned her leine and brat at her last home. Convinced her illness was catching, it's a wonder they didn't burn her. But it had been the last bits of home she had left. Now here she was, trudging up a hill in a sack of a tunic, dirty and disheveled.

"I suppose it's hard to believe."