The girl labored endlessy over the tub. How long had she been standing there? Days or Months? She was vaguely aware of someone else’s presence in the room. The dropping of the filled basket was muffled by the cloth strewn floor.
“Be sure to get these clean, Soapy.” The woman lifted her lips into a sneer. Soapy nodded. Hanging up the tunic she was cleaning, her eyes fell on the basket. Does he pour red wine on these shirts? Soapy thought, scrutinized the king’s dirty shirt.
Silently she scrubbed. When she had lathered it with lye soap for the fifteenth time, Soapy stopped. “Do your own laundry,” she whispered and stole into the night.

Delilah sat at the campfire, dipping her bread in the olive paste. Judas watched the trees. A messenger from the castle came galloping toward them. “Did ye ‘ear?”
“Hear what?” Delilah’s brow furrowed.
“The king’s dead! They say it was murder!” Murder? Who would murder the king?
“What does that mean to us?” Judas turned around him. The Merry Coroners were at his back.