by Jody Hedlund
My first week working in the mine pits became a blur of exhaustion. I rapidly learned what was expected of the slaves every day—that each man and woman was required to fill a large wooden bucket with chiseled rock as payment for food rations. Failure to produce the daily quota to the overseers in charge of distribution meant hunger.
I also realized soon enough how difficult a task filling one bucket was, much less transporting it to the surface. During my first few days, like the handful of other new slaves, I struggled to chisel a sufficient amount with our dull tools, though I labored nonstop from dawn until dusk.
I was surprised that with all the digging away of the rock we didn’t find any gems. Little by little, I came to understand Warwick’s Gemstone Mountains were nearly barren of the jewels that had once made the country so wealthy. Those slaves who happened to find the rare stones were the lucky ones allowed to exchange the gems for more food or better clothing or an additional blanket.
By the beginning of my second week, I was able to dig faster, completing my quota well ahead of sundown. Rather than returning to the surface once my container was full, as some of the other seasoned workers did, I stayed and assisted Ty and the new slaves.
While we worked in the main tunnel near everyone, we remained outsiders, not yet having earned the trust and acceptance I hoped would come with time. I learned the redheaded leader was called Curly, and even though he was abrasive and quick-tempered, he seemed to have the best interests of the slaves at heart, solving disputes and keeping order.
I also learned none of the slaves condemned to the mines were hardened criminals. They were mostly ordinary citizens who’d been charged with insignificant offenses that were undeserving of hard labor as punishment. Had Queen Margery purposely tasked her officials with rounding up people on a regular basis in order to maintain the mines?
“Heard tell some of the rats be big as full-growed dogs.” Farthing leaned against the granite wall where he’d made little progress that day. The lad had recovered from the near-death experience on the bridge and had easily adjusted to life in the mine.
As I hammered the handle of my chisel and broke off another chunk of stone, my gaze touched on the closest torch, the long end wedged into a crack in the wall. Several more torches belonging to other slaves burned at intervals along the drift to keep rats at bay.
“Guess they have to be big if they’re a-tearing off arms and legs,” Farthing continued.
“The rats aren’t tearing them off,” responded Ernie, a portly, middle-aged man who’d worked as a cook in the royal palace in Kensington until he’d been accused of poisoning the food of one of the queen’s personal priests. “Apparently, they’re only biting. But the bite causes some kind of disease that can only be stopped by amputation.”
“Amputation?” Farthing tossed several rocks into the air in an attempt at juggling. He was more content to watch the work than participate, an attitude which likely contributed to his propensity to pick pockets for the farthings after which he’d been nicknamed. “What’s an amputation?”
“Cutting off the diseased limb.” Ernie mopped his perspiring brow and fanned his overheated face.
I’d expected the mine pits to be cold, and the temperature did decrease during the initial descent of a hundred or more feet. But at some point, the air grew warm again, making us too hot as we worked so that some of the slaves shed layers of clothing.
Farthing paused his juggling and seemed to contemplate the problem of lost limbs. He glanced in the direction of the nearest group of slaves. Of the six or so, two were missing body parts—one, a hand, and the second, half his leg. I admired their tenacity to prevail in the harsh conditions rather than giving up in despair.
“Maybe it’s not the rats,” Farthing continued. “What if it be the wraiths a-biting people?”
Ernie nodded and then launched into one of his stories about the wraiths deep in the mountains rousing as the tunnels drew closer to their resting spots.
At the sight of Curly climbing nimbly up a rock wall using the simple hand and foot holds that had been notched out of stone, I let my tools fall idle. He must be going once more to check on Lady Gabriella, who worked up a level with her servants, whose names I’d learned were Benedict and Alice.
I’d expected to see Lady Gabriella with the others down in the mine. But I’d learned her old maidservant couldn’t navigate the narrow shaft that led to the newest drift, so Lady Gabriella stayed with the couple. Curly had grumbled about the danger of the three working alone, but he made no effort to force them to labor with everyone else, though he’d threatened to do so.
I’d done as Curly instructed and kept my distance from Lady Gabriella. In fact, the morning after the accident, when she’d sought me at our hut, Ty had accepted her thanks, while I’d remained out of sight until she went on her way.
In spite of my resolve to stay far away from her, my curiosity grew, and I found I couldn’t ignore her—not when everyone adored her, including the overseers and guards. It was easy to see why, when she spent most of her evenings in the infirmary with the sick and maimed. When her sweet songs filtered through the town. When she offered words of encouragement everywhere she went.
Of course, it didn’t help that Farthing practically worshipped her for rescuing him and rambled on about her at least a dozen times a day. The lad claimed she was a saint. After watching her walk out onto the bridge to save Farthing without a moment of hesitation, I was easily persuaded to agree with the assessment.
Ernie finished his story and uncorked his leather drinking pouch. “Some even say the wraiths have the power to make the gems grow in the rocks every year.”
Farthing’s eyes widened. “So, if we find a wraith, we might find real gems?”
In the process of tilting the pouch to his lips, Ernie paused and glanced around before he lowered his voice. “Only after the priests come down into the mines and sprinkle the holy water. Then the wraiths start making the gems again.”
With a shake of my head, I returned my attention to the granite and tapped my hammer to the chisel. “Best get to working, Farthing,” I said with as much sternness as I could muster. “Or at dusk we may have to leave you to the rats and wraiths with your empty bucket.”
I could feel Ty watching me with his keen gaze, and as usual I sensed his judgment. Each night by the glow of the coals, he recorded the day’s events, including my every word and action no matter how insignificant. The rules of the Testing prohibited me from reading his journal or attempting to influence what he wrote there. Thus, I guarded my words and behavior carefully, wanting him to see and record only the very best so that when the king and the Lagting read his report, they’d be impressed by how I handled myself.
A faint scream echoed from the direction of the shaft where Curly had disappeared.
I paused and listened but then forced myself to keep tapping. Although Farthing claimed Curly had a woman, I still couldn’t shake the intuition that the redheaded leader was interested in more from Lady Gabriella than mere friendship.
At another scream, this one more distinct, the clanking of hammers and chisels died away to silence. All eyes turned toward the shaft, and faces grew taut with fear.
Though my rational side told me I needed to remain safe and away from any conflict, I couldn’t keep from thinking about Lady Gabriella’s courage the day she’d saved Farthing. If any plight had befallen her whatsoever, she deserved to have someone come to her aid.
As the pressure inside built, I tucked my hammer and chisel into my rope belt. What harm could come from checking on the lady? Surely a furtive peek wouldn’t cause any conflict with Curly.
Without another moment of hesitation, I headed to the shaft and began the climb.
“Take a torch.” Ty held out the flaming stick.
With a nod, I took it from him and continued my ascent. He would follow erelong since he took his role as my bodyguard as seriously as he did his scribe duties.
As I craw
led up into the next level, I lifted the torch and listened carefully. At the distant sounds of scratching and squeaking from a tunnel to the west, my muscles stiffened. Though I’d yet to see one of the deadly rats, I wasn’t about to underestimate them. I unsheathed my seax from the sheath-like compartment in the sole of my boot and took off at a run.
The low, jagged ceiling and winding path slowed my pace. But as the noises grew louder, I pushed myself faster.
“They’re gaining on us!” Curly shouted.
Upon rounding a bend, I halted at the sight of the horde of rats scurrying just inches behind Curly, Lady Gabriella, and her two old servants. Curly was doing his best to fend them off whenever one latched on to him or Lady Gabriella, but the older couple wasn’t able to go fast enough to outrace the rodents.
I raised my torch higher, hoping to shine it upon the rats to slow them down since apparently the light hurt their eyes. But the flames seemed to have the opposite effect, making them scuttle faster to outrun the light.
If the brightness was hurting them, there was only one thing left to do.
“Curly! Catch!” Whether he was ready or not, I tossed the torch. It soared through the air and clattered to the ground behind him, knocking into several rats. The flames touched their brittle hair and ignited them.
At the growing flames and heat, the remaining creatures stopped and screeched. The brilliance temporarily blinded them. To escape the glow, they turned, squeaking in both terror and anger, and they scampered toward me.
I crouched and prepared for battle.
Chapter
4
Gabriella
I was frozen in place. I needed to continue onward, helping Benedict and Alice reach the safety of the surface, but I couldn’t move. I could only stare down the passageway at the new slave who’d somehow appeared from nowhere and was now preparing to single-handedly combat a pack of rats.
At the very least, I ought to rush to his aid. Or encourage Curly to help him. But my friend was standing and staring with as much shock as I was as the new slave swung his hammer at one rat and slashed at another with what appeared to be a knife.
I’d heard some of the others referring to him as Vilmar, and all week I’d been curious about the man who’d risked his life for me. But when I’d gone to his hut to thank him, his olive-skinned companion came to the door and informed me Vilmar was indisposed.
Taken aback by the rude refusal to see me, I’d done my best to put Vilmar out of my mind. The task was made more difficult because the other slaves oft talked of him, admiring his strength and good looks as well as his humility. Even Curly had a measure of regard for Vilmar he normally didn’t hold for new slaves.
Now as the scorched flesh of the burning rats rose into the air along with the shrieking of the others, Vilmar expertly wielded his knife, slitting throats and slicing open one rat after another, until within seconds they lay dead at his feet.
When finished, he toed the heap, his weapons poised to finish off any rodent that moved. The curved blade was coated in blood and should have repelled me, but I couldn’t stop staring at it.
Such weapons were forbidden, and the overseers would flog Vilmar if they caught him with it. And though the overseers allowed our mining tools, we had to subject them to periodic checks to make sure they remained dull. Some, like Curly, sharpened stones to use as weapons. But being caught with a sharp rock was cause for flogging as well.
Ever since I’d started formulating my plan for revenge, I knew I needed a weapon to kill Grendel. Once I had a weapon, I needed someone to train me to use it. Although I’d been sharpening a stone to use, my efforts were feeble. And I was running out of time.
With the attention on his knife, Vilmar lowered it. I caught the movement of his olive-skinned companion behind him, close enough to help yet a safe distance away.
Curly bent and retrieved the torch without taking his gaze from Vilmar.
“I heard screaming,” Vilmar said, as though explaining his presence to Curly. “I hope no one is hurt.” He peered beyond us to where Benedict and Alice stood, their shoulders hunched and faces shadowed.
“Our light went out again.” I squeezed first Benedict’s, then Alice’s hands, reassuring myself they were unharmed. “And it only takes a few minutes of darkness for the rats to come out.”
“Then none of you were bitten?”
I started to shake my head, but Curly spoke first. “It be too close this time, Gabi. Too close. What if I’d waited to check on ye for another five minutes?”
“We would have outrun them.” I infused my voice with confidence, but I wasn’t so sure that we could have. I had only to think of last week when we’d started up the steepest passageway and how slow Alice had been. If not for Curly’s rescue, we surely would have been bitten.
Curly held the torch over the remains of the charred rats. Vilmar had acted decisively by throwing the flaming stick. Not only had he killed some with the fire, but he’d diverted the rest away from us straight into the blade of his knife.
“Ye need to be staying with the group from now on,” Curly said, as he had after the last rat escapade.
“You know I cannot.”
“I’ll not be giving ye a choice this time.” Curly jutted his chin, the torchlight highlighting the jagged scars along his jaw, his cheeks, and even on his forehead.
I set my shoulders and would have pulled myself up to my full height of five feet, four inches, but I’d learned during the early days of slavery not to bump the sharp rocks that formed the ceiling. “I refuse to leave Alice and Benedict to fend for themselves.”
“You must go.” Benedict spoke forcefully, as he always did whenever I got into this argument with Curly. “All we want is for you to be safe.”
“And all I want is for you to be safe.”
“Your two servants can come with,” Vilmar cut in.
“’Tis not possible.” I attempted to keep the exasperation from my tone. After all, Vilmar wouldn’t know the details of the situation, how Alice had nearly slipped and fallen to her death the last time we’d gone with the others. “The climb up and down the shaft is too treacherous.”
“If we combine our rope belts, we can fashion a sling to lower and raise them through the shaft.”
A sling? Why hadn’t we considered that before?
“We could also use such a lift to hoist the full buckets at the end of the workday.” Vilmar watched Curly expectantly. “That is, if Curly is agreeable.”
Curly was silent, his expression guarded. “It might work.”
“We can try, can we not?” This time Vilmar looked directly at me. His eyes were a light crystal-blue that seemed to see right through me to the deepest secrets of my heart. I realized in that moment the rumors regarding his good looks were entirely true. Not only were his eyes a beautiful color, but everything about him was beautiful—his chiseled face, muscular frame, and even his broad hands. His jaw and chin had a layer of scruff, and his brown hair was overlong and pulled back into a leather strip. Nevertheless, he held himself with the bearing of nobility and not a common man.
Who was he? And how had he ended up as a slave in the mine pits? Of course rumors were already circulating that he’d displeased his father and, as punishment, was sent here. But I sensed this man’s story ran deeper than he’d revealed.
We retrieved our buckets and made our way to the shaft that led to the newest drift. Curly made quick work of descending and gathering up as many ropes as we needed to assemble the sling. Vilmar tied the knots and then lowered Alice down without so much as a scratch. By the time we were all back at work, I doubled my efforts at chipping away the rock. Because of the lost time, we would be hard-pressed to meet our daily quota. Thus, I was surprised when I dumped a handful of crumbling stone into Alice’s bucket, that it was nearly full.
“Vilmar insisted I take his.” Alice darted a look at the handsome slave pounding his chisel into stone. He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscles bulging wit
h each forceful blow.
I couldn’t tear my sights away from his rippling arms. “That was generous of him.”
“He gave some of his rocks to Benedict too.”
“When?”
“When you were distracted in talking with Farthing.”
As though sensing my attention, Vilmar looked up and caught my gaze. In that instant, as earlier, I could feel his keen assessment, that he was trying to analyze me every bit as much as I was him.
He slid a glance in Curly’s direction at the forefront of the drift before focusing once again on his chisel. Curly had obviously warned Vilmar against interacting with me, which explained the rebuff earlier in the week when I’d attempted to thank him.
At times Curly’s concern was overbearing. However, I couldn’t complain, not when my friend had made sure I was safe from the wiles of any men who might find me attractive.
While I didn’t want to put Vilmar into danger from Curly, I needed to speak with him privately. Soon.
Even in late spring, the predawn air on the top of Ruby Mountain always dipped below freezing. As I waited in the shadows of the infirmary, I tried to quell my shivering, clutching my threadbare cloak around me tighter and forcing away thoughts of the thick white coat trimmed in rabbit fur I’d worn in winters past along with the leather boots lined with warm flannel. I’d had more muffs and hats than I’d known what to do with.
What I wouldn’t give to have just one of each now.
I released a soft sigh that puffed out as a frozen white cloud in the frigid air. As the daughter of the richest nobleman in Warwick, I’d taken so much of my privileged life for granted, and I regretted now that I hadn’t been more appreciative of all I once owned. It wasn’t that I’d been ungrateful. I’d simply been oblivious to how comfortable and easy my life was . . . until it had been ripped away from me.
At a slight movement near one of the men’s huts, I held myself motionless, forcing my shivering to abate. Was it Vilmar? Would he meet with me as I’d requested?
