Chapter 10 A Change of Plans
A Change of Plans
She wasn’t accustomed to waking before dawn. But Sarella stood over her, tapping Ayla’s shoulder.
Ayla sat upright in a blaze of sudden, wakeful panic, certain the castle was burning to the ground or that Ditmar had won his way back inside already.
“Sorry, lady,” Sarella whispered, perching familiarly on the edge of the bed as Ayla gulped air to calm herself. “I wasn’t trying to startle you.”
“No. It’s fine,” Ayla croaked. She lay back down and tugged the warm blankets up to her chin, heart still pounding.
The room was lit from a fire burning merrily in the hearth, but the window still looked black.
Or, nearly black. Just graying. “What are you doing here? Is Megh hurt? Has something happened?”
“The knight sent me,” Sarella said. Her tone sobered. “He came to the kitchens and asked me to get you.”
“What could that man possibly want at this hour?” Ayla groaned.
“The next hour, actually,” Sarella said apologetically. “He says you’re to leave at dawn, lady. And that you can take any of your things with you, so long as they fit in the bag.” Sarella lay the cloth sack on top of the blankets covering Ayla. Ayla blinked blearily up at the ceiling and sighed.
So much for last night, when the knight had told her that Ditmar had yet to write back. She somehow doubted they were exchanging letters at the midnight hour. But was it any surprise a man like him had been lying?
“Alright,” Ayla whispered. She’d known it was only a matter of time before she was back with Ditmar. It had been a nice few days.
Perhaps it was for the best. If she left now, she didn’t have to poison the knight.
He undoubtedly deserved it. But she wasn’t sure she had it in her to do that to someone, especially when he hadn’t hurt anybody but his own man.
She’d just have to throw herself at Ditmar’s feet and pretend she was relieved to be with him, and hope that was enough to keep her safe.
“Ask him for sanctuary,” Sarella blurted, leaning forward.
“Who? The knight?” Ayla blinked, pulled away from thoughts of Lord Niel choking to death and back to the present, where Sarella’s earnest eyes locked with hers.
“You saw what he did to the man who hurt Cataerin.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ayla said quietly. “I’m not going to ask a man like that to keep me safe.” He’d broken his oaths for his own selfish dreams of power. And she’d learned long ago, with Ditmar, that just because a man seemed decent enough when you first met him didn’t mean he actually was.
“I see more than you think I do, you know. I bet he’d be sympathetic, if he knew how Lord Blackfell…”
“Enough,” Ayla said. She struggled back upright, clutching the blanket to her chest as cold air instantly stung her spine through her thick winter sleeping gown. “I’d better get ready. You’re coming too, aren’t you?”
“He said only you.” Sarella’s expression was tight. “If you see Demiela, just tell her that I’m alright, and that I love her. Yes?”
“I will see her,” Ayla promised. How unaccountably cruel that the servants, who’d stayed for Ayla’s sake, were to remain separated from their loved ones while she was returned to the man she hated. “I’ll find her. I promise.”
“Good.” Sarella’s voice was clipped tight. “Best pack then, lady.”
“See you downstairs, then,” Ayla said. The kitchen maid nodded. She rested a hand comfortingly for a moment on Ayla’s thigh through the heavy blankets, then stood and left the room.
She wanted to burrow into her blankets and hide from the cold.
But she was being handed off to Ditmar again, just like the wretched business that had landed her in his hands in the first place.
Dreading it wasn’t going to change anything.
With a groan—her body still ached all over from Ditmar’s last round of punishment—she forced herself out of bed into the pre-dawn freeze.
Ayla shivered as she changed, so close to the fire she nearly scorched one side of herself while the other turned to ice, her naked body a map of bruises for a moment before she covered it again.
She combed her hair out, braided it neatly back, and looked out the window.
The sky bled orange at the bottom, the snow-covered landscape deep blue.
She didn’t have long. Ayla grabbed the bag and shoved a change of clothes into it.
Her hair comb went in after. She took a moment to hold her hands back up to the fire.
If only there were time for a burning hot bath.
Her blood was running as cold as the ice-choked Maurchet river.
But even without her final hour burning down, there weren’t enough servants for her to ask for a luxury like that; the last few days she hadn’t dared do anything but wash with a rag and bucket in front of the fire.
What else to pack? She couldn’t exactly take the books with her.
Ditmar would be furious to see them, and if Lord Niel searched her bags, he’d have questions, since she wasn’t supposed to be able to read.
She couldn’t take the castle keys, either, for the same reason: if the traitor found them, he’d no doubt make her pay for hiding them.
The bag was only half full, though. She didn’t dare pack herself a second set of clothes without taking something for Ditmar.
For a moment, she wondered if she ought to dump her things out entirely and only pack his, but if he didn’t kill her just for being taken captive, surely he wouldn’t begrudge her a change of clothing.
He liked her to look her best when other people could see her.
It was cold enough that she wished she could wear furs, but the fur cloak at the back of her wardrobe had been a gift from Ditmar, a wordless apology after a particularly brutal beating. Just looking at it made her right arm ache from the memory of breaking.
She ignored the fur, and layered a second wool cloak over the one she already wore, not caring if it looked silly.
Ayla slipped out into the dark hall. If the knight had been down in the kitchen, he was awake, and probably not in Ditmar’s room.
She paused outside the dark door, steeling herself against the familiar flood of discomfort that always rose in her like a tide in this particular doorway.
Slowly Ayla raised her hand and forced herself to knock, praying nobody answered and that she could just slip quietly inside.
Just when she was reaching for the door knob, it swung abruptly inward. Ayla took a quick step back with a gasp.
The knight stood in front of her, so close she couldn’t breathe for a moment.
Handsome, she thought, stupidly. She blinked away her morning exhaustion that made her think such things about a warrior without any honor.
He was dressed and armored, his hair tied neatly back, watching her with scrutiny that threatened to strip her away entirely.
“I, um… I…” Ayla cleared her throat, line of thought entirely lost with the large knight towering over her. At least he already thought she was an idiot. No damage done.
“Were you looking for me, Lady Blackfell?”
She shook her head, but couldn’t manage to find words. Maybe she’d acted like enough of a fool in front of him that it wasn’t an act anymore. But standing so close to him was terrifying, and overwhelming. Her mind stuttered.
“Then how may I be of assistance?” he asked, patiently.
He’s polite, Ayla’s brain sputtered. Well, for a traitor to the crown, anyways. Who probably deserves to be horribly poisoned. Or worse.
“Packing,” she said, and lifted the bag in her hand. “I’m—packing. I came for my lord’s things…”
“Ah. You planned to bring him something.” His low voice turned flat. “Very well. Be quick about it.” He moved to the side but remained in the entryway. She had to turn sideways to skirt past him, holding her breath the whole time.
The thought of being alone with him in Ditmar’s rooms for a second time in twenty-four hours made her stomach knot nervously.
But as she stepped into the room she found it occupied.
The blonde man who’d led Ditmar away from the castle sat on the settee, staring at papers laid out on the table.
Another soldier, a brown-haired one she didn’t recognize, was beside him.
Neither stood to bow to her, but then, she supposed she wasn’t a lady to them.
She was just a woman in the country they were going to burn to the ground.
“Beg pardon.” She bobbed a curtsy to them nonetheless, as the blonde warrior stared openly at her.
She stole a quick glance at the papers on the table and saw a map and a page of writing broken up into columns.
The movement of enemy troops, perhaps? If only they would leave, she could get a closer look at whatever they were working on, and maybe have something valuable to tell Ditmar.
She’d thought she’d have more time. More time away from him, and time to do something about the threat in the castle, and time to prepare for her husband’s wrath.
“Well, Lady Blackfell?” the knight said behind her.
She scanned the room, wondering what Ditmar would most want.
Clothes? No; he would want her to take something of value.
There, on a shelf, between a gap in the rows of books she’d never been allowed to look at: his great-grandfather’s dagger stood on display, passed down between the men in his family.
Ditmar had bragged once there was phoenix ash mixed into the metal, giving the blade the ability to burn as the phoenix tried and failed to reconstitute.
She felt the knight at her back as she approached it, making the hair on the back of Ayla's neck prickle. As she reached up and touched the knife, a large hand shot forward from behind her and circled her wrist.
“Not that, Lady Blackfell,” the knight said softly into her ear, the cold of his armor radiating against her back. “I fear I cannot let you bring your husband a weapon, even one so… small as that.”
A shiver ran down her back. She lifted her fingers slowly off the weapon’s sheath. Just as slowly, Lord Niel let go of her wrist. The scrape of his hand shifted the fabric, and her sleeve fell back down her arm, revealing a slip of purple bruises. Ayla quickly dropped her arm.
The knight’s hand rammed forward again and grabbed her hand tight in his.
With a gasp Ayla jerked away, turning, and thumped against the bookcase.
Her half-packed bag fell from her free hand.
She shivered and winced away as the knight grabbed her sleeve and peeled it swiftly back away from her wrist all the way to her elbow to show the newer purple alongside old fading greens and yellows.
Her skin pebbled instantly against the cold air.
She turned her head away from the sunrise-colorful sight of her arm and tried to tug out of his grip. A pitiful whimper escaped her lips.
“She’s covered in bruises.” Lord Niel’s voice was cold as iron, cold as his armor, cold as a blade.
“It’s nothing,” Ayla whispered. “Please.” She tugged to free herself from his grip. Rather than letting go, he gently forced her arm to rotate, inspecting the other side. Then his eyes left her arm and roamed over the rest of her, as if wondering what else her clothing hid.
“Who’d dare risk that, after what you did to Baldram?” the blonde man asked. He was standing now, frowning in her direction. Shivering, Ayla squeezed her eyes shut.
“No, these aren’t fresh,” Lord Niel said to him, his hand still tight around Ayla’s. “It was not our men.”
He dropped her arm abruptly. She yanked the sleeve down, feeling shamed and small and utterly cold.
“Prepare a letter,” the knight said, venom in his voice. “Tell that coward Blackfell that I’ve changed my mind. I’m keeping his wife.”