Chapter 6 The Lady of the Castle #2
“Aye; they were still in the woods by the time I reached the door,” the blonde man said. “Stepped off the path to piss and never came back.”
“How long until…?” the knight started to ask.
He was interrupted by a woman’s bloodcurdling shriek.
That wasn’t the soldiers. That was one of her people. Ayla rose quickly from her chair, her face pale.
“The servants will not be…” Ayla heard herself squeak, so terrified she couldn’t even feel her body anymore. None of the men seemed to hear her.
“Ivar. Bode,” the knight barked. “Go.” Two men, ones who looked less weary than the other soldiers, hurriedly left out the hall’s door through which the scream had come.
More servants were still entering the hall, and being pushed towards the group where the others waited.
She saw them, her people, looking at her and whispering among themselves.
Sarella walked in and met Ayla’s gaze immediately, the frizzy-haired kitchen maid's lips pressed tight, her apron still on and dusted with flour.
“Sir?” Ayla tried again. She was still standing, her fists in her skirts.
“Lord,” the knight corrected flatly, without bothering to look over his shoulder. The giant had a voice so deep it rumbled through her.
“Lord,” she agreed quietly, though she didn’t see how he could still claim Enarian titles when he was a traitor. “Do you mean to hurt them? It is wrong to.”
He glanced over at her then, without fully turning. “Who, the servants?”
Ayla nodded.
“No,” he said, facing forward once more. “I do not intend to hurt anyone who…”
His words cut off abruptly as the soldiers who’d left on his command walked back through one of the hall’s doors.
They dragged another of the traitor's soldiers between them, red-bearded, struggling as they pulled him by the arms. Beside them walked Cataerin, one of the newer laundry maids, a thin, pretty woman who’d only worked there a year.
Her blonde hair was braided as neatly down her back as ever, but the clasps on her outer dress were done up wrong, gaping and bunched.
Tears ran silently down her small-featured face.
Ayla stared in horror. She sank back into her chair as her legs failed her, unable to break her eyes away from Cataerin. Quiet fury filled Ayla.
“Found him undressing a wench—” one of the soldiers was saying.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” the knight, Lord Niel, asked. His voice sounded dangerously soft. The naked sword still rested in one big hand.
“...spoils of war…” she heard the offending soldier whine. The conversation came in and out of her hearing. There was a buzzing noise in Ayla’s head, like her mind was full of bees. She couldn’t think straight.
“Noose or blade?” the knight was asking.
“My lord—”
“Noose or blade. Answer, man. How will you meet your fate?”
“My lord, please, a mistake—”
“My orders were clear,” the knight said, advancing, the bare sword still in his grip. “You were not to harm innocents. Now answer my question. It is the only dignity you’ll get.”
Cataerin's attacker turned to run. He was quickly caught by the other soldiers. Before he could even be turned to face the knight, Lord Niel rammed his sword through the man’s heart. He made it look easy, like cutting through soft butter.
He ripped the blade free. Blood sprayed. Too much of it. So much of it.
She’d never seen a man killed before. Ayla quickly dropped her head to avoid the sight. There was a heavy thump, like a bag of flour hitting the floor. She buried her face into her palms as her stomach flipped. She wondered, distantly, if she was going to faint. Or perhaps throw up.
“Take the body out, Bode,” she heard the knight’s low voice say.
“Heed this.” Ayla managed to make herself peek.
The knight was talking to her people, the servants.
She let her head fall forward again. “If you do not resist, I mean you no harm at my hands or the hands of my men. If you wish to leave, speak now. The offer ends when your former lord returns from the woods.”
Ditmar would never forgive her if she didn’t leave when she had the chance.
Besides, surely even marriage to a man like him was better than being the captive of an enemy war band.
True, the knight had executed his man for attacking Cataerin, but for all Ayla knew it was only a show, or punishment solely for ignoring his orders, not for harming a woman.
The only thing it truly proved was that the knight did not hesitate to use violence any more than her husband did.
Ayla forced herself upright onto wobbly legs.
The body was gone, but she could still see blood on the ground, a trail of it where the corpse had been dragged out.
And blood dripping off the knight’s sword, still dangling from one hand.
She saw servants making their way out one of the other doors, escorted by the conquering warriors. Ayla stumbled towards them.
As she stepped past the knight, his large hand snapped out and grabbed her around the bicep. It wouldn’t have been hard enough to hurt, had she not already been bruised. Ayla flinched.
“Not you,” Lord Niel said, staring straight ahead at the servants leaving the hall instead of looking at her.
“But…”
“They are not part of this conflict,” the knight said. “You are, Lady of Blackfell. Sit back down. You will not step foot outside this castle without my leave.”
Every muscle in her body tensed. He sounded just like Ditmar.
As she took her seat, she saw Sarella pause in the doorway, and turn, and meet Ayla’s eyes.
Slowly, the maid walked back into the room and stopped where the servants had been herded.
A handful of others came back in with her.
Nyven, the man who oversaw the kitchens.
Megh, who cleaned Ayla’s room and lit her fires.
Andrek, the hostler she liked most, who always had a kind word for Gemshorn and hot mash for the gelding in winter.
With them came others, a dozen of the staff returning and standing stiffly in the hall, each with a nod to Ayla.
“No,” she whispered to them, her throat tight. “Go. Don’t stay for me.” Most had families in the village outside the castle, and spent their nights in their own homes, not under Ditmar’s roof. They couldn’t be trapped here, not when their loved ones were outside the walls.
Nyven put his arm around Sarella comfortingly, and met the knight’s eyes with a firmness she thought he only had for slow-moving cooks.
“Be certain of your choice,” the knight told them, his voice a warning. “This is your last chance to leave these walls.”
“No,” Ayla whispered again, the sound thin and strangled.
Not one of them moved. Ayla curled her hands into fists and tried not to cry.