There are few women here. Those that live amongst us are either cooks or whores. Many are both. And even those who come disparaging the thought of lying on their back for a coin or for the offer of a strong protector, are usually put to whoring by the men in the end.
She is a fool not to have thought of this. The men see drab drudges or faded jades. That is womanhood, here. What life is there for any other woman? What woman would chose this if she had any other choice? The women bewail that not one of them has brought a babe into the world. Not a single child has been born and survived a month. The women whisper that the land is cursed, or that the father was diseased.
I say nothing. Let them whisper their own reasons. I want no babes here; useless mouths to draw on food, a tug of loyalties for a man, a bone of contention between claims of fatherhood and bastardy causing dissent. So ... the babes die in the womb or soon after. The land is cursed - of course.
I gave her the choice - to enter on my arm as a lady. An honored guest. Not a cook, not a whore. Other, set apart. Different.
But she chose to lay aside that difference, threw away that glamour of protection, in some foolheaded prideful notion that it was honourable to struggle. She will see how long her honour protects her now. She has struggled, and been overcome. In the eyes of many men she has declared she is no different to any other woman. Her choice then - to be a cook - or to be a whore.
