Chapter 16 The Pantry
The Pantry
Could the knight really kill Ditmar? Ayla sat in the solar, an embroidery hoop with a cluster of silver stars in her hands, and stared out at the rows of army tents.
In the distance she could see soldiers emerging from the treeline with arms full of branches.
It wouldn’t take them long to burn through it, and good cut wood took months to cure.
The Queen's army was in for a long, cold wait. Ditmar had probably established himself in the town; in the headman’s house, if she had to guess.
Likely General Corin and his officers had done the same. It was the common men who’d freeze.
What were her options, if Lord Niel succeeded and Ditmar died?
The castle would fall to foreign forces, and she’d have no claim.
But even if Enar reclaimed Blackfell, Ayla would never inherit the castle.
Unlike most of the country, fief Blackfell followed the old law, where women could not inherit.
She hadn’t given Ditmar an heir, so there was no child-lord to make her a dowager.
Custom dictated that if Ditmar’s cousin inherited, he would allow her to stay and would pay for a modest upkeep.
But unless the cousin demanded Ayla’s hand—unlikely, when she’d produced no heirs—she’d be free to leave.
Nobody could even blame Ditmar's death on her, when she’d been a hostage the whole time.
She couldn’t possibly go with the knight. He was a traitor, and bent on destruction, aiming for his own death.
No, if Ditmar died, she’d finally go home.
To Carinth. A nobleman’s widow. She’d help with her father’s accounts and beg the glassmakers to take her back, to let her return to the craft she’d once loved above all else.
The merchant-manor would feel snug after the castle.
And safe. She'd make a name for herself as an artisan and create pieces so delicate they looked impossible.
The fire beside her was nearly dead. Ayla scooted her chair closer with a terrible scraping noise. Embroidery settled on her lap, on top of a pile of blankets, she reached forward and spread her fingers before the flames.
Her stomach growled. With luck, the knight would want his luncheon soon. She’d broken fast with him before dawn again, the hour so early that it might as well have been the night before.
There was no sense in rebuilding the fire, not now.
Ayla waited a moment later, then stood from her chair and blankets into the achingly cold air.
She tugged her cloak closer and wandered down the stairs.
The great hall was empty as she passed between its black wood pillars, the soldiers wisely keeping their chores and entertainments to smaller rooms that could be more easily heated.
The rich smell of roasting meat grabbed Ayla by the nose and drew her into the warm doorway of the kitchens. Sarella stood alone at the stove, stirring a sauce in a large vat.
“Is lunch soon?”
Sarella glanced back at her in surprise, then smiled. The woman’s anger seemed over.
“Within the hour,” the cook replied. “I’m moving as fast as I can.”
“I had hoped for sooner,” Ayla admitted, breathing the smell of the food in deep.
“Oh, lady. I’m sorry. You know I can’t feed you,” Sarella said, her face wrinkling in discomfort.
“I know,” Ayla muttered. “Is Nyven still ill?”
“Quite. A bad grippe. It seems to be making rounds among the men.”
“Does Isalde have it too?”
“No, she’s…” Sarella stopped stirring abruptly and looked around the kitchen, as if just noticing the girl was nowhere to be seen. “Mercy, she’s dawdling below again. Isalde!”
Both women fell silent, waiting for a response to come from the cellar. None came. With a muttered growl, Sarella set down her wood utensil and moved the sauce off the flame.
“I’ll find Isalde,” Ayla immediately said, anxious the meal might be delayed.
“No, lady,” Sarella said quickly. “There’s no need for you to be taking on chores. I’m going to tan that girl.”
“The world will not end simply because I walk into the cellar,” Ayla reassured her. “I wasn’t born in a castle. And you have plenty to occupy you.” Sarella gave her a tight smile, but returned to her sauce.
Ayla grabbed a lantern and lit it from the fire with a thin wooden spill.
Lifting her skirts in one hand she descended the stairs.
The lower pantry was just at the base of the kitchen stair, but the hall continued on, to storage and wine and dungeons.
The temperature rose slightly as she descended below the frost line, insulated by the terra but still achingly cold.
The door to the pantry was closed. She heard noises on the other side, something being moved, like Isalde was shifting the contents of all the shelves trying to find something. And the lowest murmur of a voice, like she was talking to herself.
Ayla opened the door and ducked under the low mantle beam.
The pantry was a large room, lined with heavy, ceiling-high wooden shelves full of the castle’s food stores.
Without windows, it was dark inside except the light she carried, and the bright light she could see shining a few rows away, faintly glazing the edges of a row of ceramic pickle-jars.
She heard a scrape, like something being dragged. Perhaps one of the big sacks of grain.
“Isalde?” Ayla called. “Are you having trouble?”
“No, lady,” Isalde’s high voice called back to her.
She held the lantern higher and stepped towards the distant light. Ayla passed one shelf, then the next, Isalde’s lantern growing brighter.
“Sarella was worrying. If you’re having trouble…”
A man lunged out from behind the shelf and tackled her.