Even Prisoners Get To Eat
The serving girl approached Garyn tentatively, her shoulders hunched beneath her rumpled grey cloak, hood pulled up against the encroaching chill. "Beggin' yer pardon, lad," she said in a husky voice. "Cook sent this here stew ter feed the pris'ner. Be a good lad an' pass it on fer me, would ya? Cook said not t'proach 'im meself, bein' a good girl an' all." The bowl of hearty venison stew she handed him was still warm.
Garyn blinked as if surprised. This in itself was not unusual - he was the sort of amiable youth who always managed to look somewhat surprised when spoken to. "Oh. Um. Right. Uh, sure." He tucked the blanket he was carrying under one arm, and carefully took the bowl from her, sloshing a little on the floor. "Well, um, thanks for that."
"Aye. Think not of it. Gots to keep 'is strength up, he does," the girl said as she handed him the bowl, then pulled her long fingers back into her sleeves as if chilled. "Evenin' to you."
She turned away and bustled off toward the back entrance of the kitchen, pulling the cloak tighter around her slim shoulders.
Garyn gave a tight little smile and made his way towards the tourney field distractedly.
The guards, used to him now, let him pass to the prisoner without question.
From the kitchen, one of the undercooks hailed the serving girl.
"You - take these slops to the pigs. "They've been turned out into the woodland beyond the tournament field - past the Knives camp. And don't hang around if you know what's good for you!"
The girl didn't hesitate. "Yes'm," she muttered, shaking the hood lower over her eyes as she reached for the buckets. She grasped the handles and turned away, trying to keep her cloak closed so as not to spill slops on the russet-colored woolen dress she wore.
She strode off toward the tournament field, taking care to keep to the edge near the woods. Beneath her hood, she kept glancing back toward the Knives camp warily.