Clara's heart began to race as the lord straightened to his full height and said, “Aye, I would. It is my desire for this slave to learn how to read and write so that she may better serve her realm.”
There came a tense moment, as she waited for him to add more to that, but nothing came. Anger, disappointment, and something akin to despair flared in Clara's heart and her eyes lifted, meeting his as he smiled upon her. She suddenly wished she hadn't listened to her dream. She pictured him rolling on the ground with froth falling from those rich, full lips and felt a surge of delight. A part of her warned her that it was bad to think so, but she shoved that thought away, sending it to live with all her bad dreams and memories.
Lord Dwervin began to frown and she realized she had stared at him for too long. Her eyes drifted back to the floor.
Her ladyship curtsied. “Your lordship is most generous. My lady's maid, Lily, will be her tutor. With his lordship's permission, I would like to retire.”
He bowed. There was more curtsying all around and they swept out as they had swept in. Clara's heart, though, sat broken and bitter in her chest.
Chapter Six
Earlton strode away from the castle, the late fall wind snatching at his hair. The cold reminded him to jam his cap tight to his head. He walked without seeing, past the beggars and whores, past the vendors with food and trinkets, and past the shops, taking a sharp turn down into the poor district. The farmer stopped at a doorstep and pounded three sharp taps on the rough-hewn door.
The door opened a crack. Wary eyes regarded him. He made a face and snapped, “It's me, ye stupid git!”
The door swung open and a woman's pinched face scowled at him for ruining the fun of being a fellow conspirator. She stepped back and he hurried in out of the chill, though it wasn't much warmer inside. No one was allowed to cut wood from the lord's lands (though one could buy it at the market for an obscene price) and coal was far too costly for the likes of those that were crowded in the one room hovel.
Four children crouched in the center of the floor, playing a game of marbles with the smoothest pebbles they could find. The most inventive of the four, a bright-eyed girl named Leah, had painted her pieces. To the far left, the sharp-faced woman, Moira, had gone back to making the black bread she sold at market. Scattered throughout the rest of the room stood or sat men and women who looked desperate and hopeful–mostly desperate.
“Well,” grunted a man in a corner, “what happened?”
The farmer heaved a sigh. “The lord didn't even listen. Said the steward was doing all he could. Said there were still supplies from good harvests”
“Hah!” spat a woman. “The steward must have dreamed of those harvests.” Everyone nodded in agreement.
A young woman, who sat close to her husband, said, “Then–we'll go?”
Earlton reluctantly nodded. “At this rate, we'll have no food for winter. We'll leave at first light tomorrow.”
Leah squealed, scooping up the pebbles she won, her face flushed with triumph, oblivious to the weight in the air around her.
When they returned to her ladyship's quarters, Clara watched dispassionately as the lady sent Emerald on an errand, who left wearing a small, triumphant smile. The two maids and her ladyship returned to their embroidery. Soon, they were chatting as if nothing had happened in the audience chamber. Clara sat in a plain, straight-back chair to the side. She always wondered what highborn people did all day but now she couldn't have cared less.
Perhaps she could run away? A nasty little voice in the back of her mind demanded to know just what a runaway slave, who could not read, write, or talk, could do once “free”. Not to mention what would happen to her if she were caught. Clara shuddered at the thought. As far as she could tell, running away would impede her step as much as iron manacles. And what of the collar?
The door of the sitting room opened and Cook entered. Clara twitched involuntarily, wanting so badly to just throw herself into the woman's arms to be taken away and protected. Cook gave her the barest of glances before focusing on her ladyship, who set her work aside and listened as Cook laid out the menu for the night's meal.
“How are we on provisions?” asked Lady Dwervin.
“Fine, fine, though the tribute will be most welcomed.”
“No need to worry with winter coming on?”
“Nay–not for us.”
That last bit reminded Clara of the farmer. Would he be able to feed his family this winter? Clara barely noticed Cook leaving, so deep in her thoughts. She was not shaken out of them until Emerald returned with a short, bald man.
“The smith, my lady,” she said, smiling.
“Mouse,” said Lady Dwervin, standing and beckoning for her. Clara obeyed, wondering what this was about. With gentle fingers, the lady turned her to face the smith but his eyes focused on the collar. He touched it gently.
“Still in good condition,” he said.
“Then it does not need replacement?”
“Nay. The slavers, they make these for a lifetime.” He tugged a little on the collar, sticking a finger between the leather and her throat. “Can't tell when it was last extended. But given her age, she won't need it.” Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a long metal chain. “This will do for the day.” He handed it to her ladyship. “I'll have another made for the night.”
“But, my lady,” said Lily, “won't the leash choke her in her sleep?”
The smith shook his head. “It can be shortened and the hook will be set close to the bed.”
“Then what keeps her from tying herself loose?” asked Emerald.
Clara felt her eyes growing wider as she listened to the conversation, her gaze fastened on the long chain in Lady Dwervin's hands.
“The leash fastens to the collar with a small lock, as it does to the hook. Everything should be ready by bedtime tonight.” The smith smiled with pride at his invention.
Lady Dwervin snapped the chain onto the small hoop on the front of Clara's collar. On the other end was a hoop, which she slipped over her wrist. “Smith, I thank you for your help. Be sure to see the Steward for payment.”
The smith bowed and left. Tears streamed down Clara's face even as anger began to stoke itself in her gut. Lady Dwervin slapped her. “I have plans for you, slave. Don't waste it with your tears. Now, sit.”
Clara turned to return to her chair, but a tug stopped her.
“On the floor, Mouse.” she instructed.
Clara hesitated. The lady yanked on the chain, and Clara obeyed.
A small bell chimed. Lady Dwervin set aside her embroidery and stood. The other girls, save for Clara, followed suit.
“We're off to the evening meal, Mouse,” she said, tugging at the chain to bid her to stand. “Before we go, understand that you won't be taking your meal at the table. You will sit on the floor. Girls.” She slipped the hoop over her wrist as the maids lined up to follow her out of the room.
They left with Clara following behind and to the side of the lady. Several servants tried not to stare as she was led on her leash. Though slaves did wear collars that served a purpose prior to purchase, they became symbols after the owner's purchase. Clara felt herself growing warm with shame.
Lord Dwervin waited for them at the door leading into the great hall. He took Lady Dwervin's arm with a smile and they entered together.
The dining hall was already full of people as they entered. Everyone stood and the maids and the lady took their places at the table. Clara sat on the cold stones at her ladyship's feet.
Lady Dwervin signaled to a server. “Fetch a wooden bowl of broth from the kitchen and a cup of water for this slave.”
The server bowed. “Aye, my lady.”
“I must admit,” said Lord Dwervin in a low voice, “that when you made such a plea for me to get the girl out of the kitchens–”
“You kept her a slave,” she replied. “And that is how I am going to treat her so she never forgets. And neither do you.”
&nb
sp; Later that night, Clara lay sleepless in her bed, half-afraid to sleep. Every time her eyes drifted close, she saw an image of her strangled to death by the metal chain going from collar to hook.
The door creaked as it opened. She sat up, the links of the leash clinking. Emerald, holding a small lamp, entered the room. As she turned to close the door, Clara scooted across the bed as far as the leash allowed.
“You know to be afraid of me,” Emerald said, setting the lamp on the bedside table. “Smart girl.”
She grabbed the chain and pulled with all her strength. Clara resisted bracing herself against the bed and using muscles toughened over years of work. Suddenly, Emerald let go of the chain, sending Clara reeling back while her attacker crawled onto the bed.
She grabbed her and pulled her down onto the mattress, pinning her.
“Listen, Mouse,” whispered Emerald, “you will do what I say, as I say it. I am the real mistress of Castle Dwervin. Not that stupid cow across the hall. And if you ever see Martin come in late at night, you won't alert the cow in any way. Do you understand?” Emerald pinched and twisted Clara's ear. “Do you understand?”
Clara nodded, too afraid and too angry to do more.
“Good.” Emerald let her go and stood. “Tomorrow morning, when Lily comes to get you, you will come and help me dress. You do know how to do that?”
Clara nodded again.
“Good.”
She walked around the bed, fetched her lamp, and left, leaving Clara curled in a ball of misery.
Five days after the failure in the audience chamber, the ragged group, with Earlton as their leader, walked along the small road leaving Dwervinton. Earlton, sighting an ash tree with three slashes high on the bark, signaled for them to come to a halt. He looked up and down the road. Seeing no one, he led the group off the road into the brush.
After walking for three candle marks, a man in green and brown forest garb stepped from behind a black gum tree, what leaves it still had ablaze with color. The man held a short bow with an arrow notched.
“State your name and business,” he said,
“My name's Earlton Undersson. These are my friends. We are runnin' from Dwervinton. Your leader offered us shelter.”
The archer studied them for a long moment, then approached. From the brush appeared more archers, who kept a wary eye on the travelers and surrounding forest. The first one gave them a closer look.
Satisfied, he said, “Well, come along, then.” Turning, he led them into the woods, the other archers melting back into the scenery.
They walked another candle mark and a half. One of the little ones complained of hunger and his mother shushed him. They stepped around a heavy screen of pine and dogwood and into a very small, busy camp. Only one or two campfires were going, as fire was dangerous so close to the castle. Earlton thought, this is no army.
The archer led into center of the camp to a large tent. Two spearmen stood on either side of the entrance.
“Is the general busy?” asked the archer.
“Hang on,” said on the spearmen, who stepped into the tent. After a few moments, he came back through and held the flap open for them.
The group crowded into the large tent and stared wide-eyed at a man in his third decade standing behind a collapsible table on which laid a map. He looked up and gave a small, crooked smile.
“Earlton,” he said kindly, “I see you've taken me up on my offer.”
“'Tis just us, General Emmerich,” Earlton said apologetically. “My wife, she'd have none of it. Left for Pender's Ford, where her family is.”
General Emmerich nodded. “I'm sorry to hear that. These are the friends you told me about?”
“Aye.” He introduced them in turn, naming each of their trades. He named the children as well.
When the farmer finished, the general bowed slightly and said, “This is a scout's camp. We can give you what supplies we can spare but you'll need to add to it with what you can find. We'll be leaving soon to head back to our base camp, where you won't have to worry about food.”
The group smiled and sighed with relief. Earlton bowed. “We are full of thanks, milord.”
The man shook his head. “I am no lord.”
“Ye will be if ye take Dwervinton,” said Moira softly.
General Emmerich smiled modestly, then turned to the archer. “Merl, you'll get our friends settled?”
Merl bowed and led the people out. Once they were gone, the general turned back to the map, studying it.
“It's only the start,” said a voice coming from a corner. A thin, fair-haired man stood from his seat and came to stand by the general. “If we stay much longer, we'll be flooded with refugees.”
For a brief moment, Emmerich thought of men and women crowding a castle yard, crying for help with strange, purple-blue clouds bearing down behind them. He pushed the thought away.
“That's why we're leaving tomorrow,” he replied, “before more seek us out. There will be a few, though, to stay behind and point the way to base camp.”
“And you'll return in the spring?”
“Aye, if the information you glean for us shows a good weak point. Castle Dwervin is one of the better built ones.” He regarded his friend with concern. “And you'll be all right, Gavin?”
“Oh, I'll be fine. No worries there, friend.” Reaching under the table, he lifted a pack. “I should be going if I want to arrive before dark.”
Emmerich clapped Gavin on the shoulder and regarded him with solemn grey eyes as he left.
Chapter Seven
Gavin paused about a half mile from the village, ignoring the ache in his knees from walking for days prior to this excursion. No houses sat nearby and he heard no one on the road. He looked up at Portent perched on his shoulder, a small merlin he used for messages, and coaxed the bird onto his forearm. Taking away the hood, he unclipped the little leash, and with a smooth motion, tossed the bird into the air. Portent spread his wings and sailed away toward the temple, whose spire rose in the distance over the tree line.
Smiling, Gavin shucked off the gauntlet and shoulder pad and stowed away the equipage in his pack before casually walking on into the village. Several people gave him the probing look given when strangers are a rare occurrence. Most looked too hungry or tired to care about him. The buildings sat tired and crooked along the muddy main road.
He passed the temple, on beyond the buildings, and then on to the castle itself. He crossed the drawbridge with a jaunty stride into the gateway. Up ahead, the guards were going through a merchant's wares. The merchant, an elderly man with not a tooth in his mouth, watched with detached interest while a young girl (granddaughter? niece?) glared at the two men who both looked equally bored. At least they weren't being rough about the job; just another day's work to them. Gavin patiently waited.
After the merchant drove under the portcullis, one of the guards waved him forward. The other took his bag and searched through it. Nothing but spare clothes and some bread wrapped in oilpaper. He did blink a little at the falconing equipment.
“Had a falcon once,” Gavin said. “Had to kill the poor thing.”
The guard nodded and stuffed the items back into the pack. Gavin's other item was a case for his lute. The second guard opened the case and delicately examined the instrument.
“Bard, eh?” he asked.
Gavin grinned. “On my good days.”
“And what days are those?”
“The ones when I'm not hungry and don't have a roarin' hangover!” He shared a conspiratorial laugh with the guards, who handed back his things unharmed. “Do ya think the lord will want a bit of entertaining tonight?”
The guard who had admired his lute scratched his bearded chin. “Maybe. Go on into the inner courtyard and go to the doors leading into the main hall. Tell the guard you're a bard and that Lance sent you. Tell him to fetch Bayard.”
“Thank you kindly.”
He walked on into the throng of people and merchants selling
in the inner courtyard. Minor lords and ladies with a sprinkling of baronets, all relatives of Lord Dwervin, were shopping among the vendors. From some corner wafted music. Gavin suppressed the urge to seek the fellow bard out and walked on to the looming doors that led into the castle's great hall.
Four guards stood watch here. They regarded the crowds with bored eyes but their tense shoulders told another tale. Was his lordship expecting trouble? Choosing the closest one, he relayed the message in his best “I'm not from around here but you can't place me” accent.
The guard signaled to a messenger and told him to get Bayard. Gavin decided that this must be a master of ceremonies or “His Holiness the Steward”. Stewards answered only to the lord, duke, baron, what-have-you, who were often too busy to be worried over the minutiae of their estates, and tended to be a bit arrogant and stuffy. Though, he had met the occasional good steward. A lot of gullible ones too, surprisingly.
A few minutes later, a man came puffing up to a stop in front of him. Master of Ceremonies, he thought. No way would a steward have come to meet him like this. The man gave him a long look, then said, “I am Bayard. We are in need of a good bard. The last one, ah, had an accident.”
My, that doesn't sound ominous, thought Gavin. Out loud, he said, “Then rejoice! I'm your man.”
“Oh, now? Well, let's hear it.”
Gavin dropped his pack and pulled his lute from its case. After a moment of tuning, he launched into a beautiful, courtly rendition of “Roses Falling Down,” a popular love ballad. Bayard tapped his foot along as the guards looked past him to the crowd below.
When he finished, he switched to the bawdier version, which left the guards in fits as they tried to keep in their laughter. At the bottom of the steps, a crowd slowly formed. The men of lower class joined in on the raunchier parts while the men of the upper class tried to look as if they didn't enjoy the entertainment. When he finished, the people thundered applause.
Bayard nodded. “I think you'll do but you'll need to get past Steward Warren. Your name?”
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