by A. F. Dery
“Oh, you didn’t know, milady?” Nora sighed and shook her head ruefully, but her eyes were gleaming with something Margaret could not readily identify. “Seems they did not live up to Milord’s requirements. Such a pity. But if you need anything done a certain way, you just let me know.”
Margaret’s mouth dropped open. It took a moment for her to sufficiently recover from this, torn between shock, glee, relief, and curiosity, before the shock won out over all of them and she managed to get out, “I...I can’t believe it! I thought...well, they were here before I was!”
Nora tsk’ed, trying to look what might pass for sad, if one were severely myopic and standing on the other side of the room. “Yes, such a shame, milady. I used to see one of the women from time to time, at market. Didn’t know how good she had it, a place at the castle. Steady work, good wages. No, some folk don’t know how blessed they are.” Then she added again for good measure, “Milady.”
“Uh, I suppose not,” Margaret said. She looked down at the tray and gingerly picked up a slice of toasted bread between thumb and forefinger, as if it would bite her.
“Oh, you poor dear. My sister had the sickness right awful when she was breeding, too. That’s ginger tea in the pot, try that with the bread and you’ll be feeling better before you know it. Mother here ought to have given you ginger tea ages ago. Milady.”
The midwife narrowed her eyes at Nora. Margaret glanced between them curiously. She didn’t think they were actually related- it was a token term of respect among the common caste she herself had come from to address older women as “Mother” even when they were no such thing- but the midwife was probably the same age as Nora was, and Nora’s criticism was plain. She wondered if she ought to say or do something, issue some correction or come to the midwife’s defense, but took refuge in a bite of the bread instead.
“Ginger would hardly have helped Lady Margaret, you know nothing of her case,” the midwife said sharply.
“Nor do you, apparently,” Nora muttered under her breath. Margaret’s eyes widened as the midwife tensed and rose to her feet, and she wondered with unseemly interest if she was about to witness a brawl, and just what, exactly, her obligations might be in this matter if she was.
“I would watch myself, maid,” the midwife said through clenched teeth. “Though the title is hardly fitting at this time in your life. You are far newer in your employ than am I, and if you were fit to tend new mothers I’m certain you would not spend your days tending floors and latrines instead.”
“I’d not be so critical, you may well find yourself working alongside me sooner rather than later, if you can’t even manage a simple ginger tea for our lady,” Nora sniffed.
Margaret was startled to hear something resembling a growl erupt from the midwife’s throat just before her bedchamber door opened.
“Good morning, my love,” said her husband as he entered. The midwife sat back down suddenly, as if all the air had gone out of her, and Nora stepped politely to the side, curtsying at her lord’s approach, while Margaret looked on in saucer-eyed bemusement. Malachi seemed to take note of this and grinned. “I see you’ve met one of our new additions. I apologize for hiring servants out of hand without consulting you first, but you were hardly in any condition to speak of it yesterday and the need was pressing.”
“Oh..ah..no apology needed, my husband,” Margaret said faintly.
“How is she working out?” Malachi asked, then glanced where Nora was still standing. He sighed impatiently. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
Nora murmured something suitably deferential and curtsied again quickly before departing the room. Margaret caught a small smirk on the midwife’s face, just before Malachi added irritably, “And off with you, too, woman. What does a man have to do to get a private moment with his own lady in his own damned castle?”
The smirk fled at once and so did its wearer. Margaret caught her husband giving a baleful glance past her partially drawn bed curtains in Elsbeth’s direction, where she was no doubt seated as usual at her chaise, but this time he merely sighed and drew the chair the midwife had been using a little closer to her side before seating himself.
“No offense, my lady, but I shall be well pleased when your travails have finally passed. I had no idea being a father would be so damned exhausting before the child was even out of the gate,” Malachi said, rubbing his eyes.
In spite of the tenor of his words, Margaret couldn’t help herself from smiling. He so rarely referred to their child, perhaps because of the difficulties that she’d been having, that it delighted her to hear such a casual reference. Perhaps there really is hope that this little one will survive, Margaret thought. As if hearing her thoughts, the child within kicked a quick staccato against her lower left side and her smile widened.
“Now that is what I like to see,” Malachi said softly, his own lips curving faintly. “You’re feeling better?”
“Much,” Margaret said. “I’ve even held down a whole bite of toast for several minutes now.”
“I’m relieved,” Malachi said, but the suggestion of a smile had faded, and his eyes were troubled.
Margaret frowned. “What is the matter, husband? What is troubling you? I am improving, this should not be a cause for concern, should it?”
“We will discuss it another time, my love, I promise,” Malachi said, but the smile that accompanied his words this time appeared forced to Margaret’s eyes, showing no teeth. “For now, let us just work on getting you back to rights, shall we? Believe me, I am most pleased at your progress, and I suspect things will be getting much better from here on out. At least so far as your sickness is concerned.”
“That would be wonderful,” Margaret said slowly, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Though I hope you’ll forgive me telling you that you’re not much of a prophet.”
Malachi gave a short, surprised laugh. “No prophetic skills needed this time, I’m afraid.” When he offered nothing else, Margaret opened her mouth to further prod him on the subject, but before she could get any words out, he quickly added, “So what do you think of the new maidservant?”
Margaret eyed him suspiciously. “She seems nice enough. To me, anyway. I don’t think the midwife cares much for her.”
“What a shame,” Malachi said dryly.
“Where did you find her?”
“Same place I found you,” Malachi said, grinning more sincerely. “At the market. I figured if I was fortunate enough to find a wife there, a few servants should certainly pose no trouble.”
Margaret hesitated. “I thought you did not care for servants, husband, yet you’ve added new ones, and dismissed the old. Or so I’m told.”
“Oh, yes, well, that’s fairly close to it,” Malachi said, almost to himself, it seemed.
Margaret sighed. “You didn’t really dismiss them, did you?” she stated more than asked. She tried to keep her voice unconcerned, but inside, she felt the bitter pang of disappointment. I should have known it was too good to be true, she thought mournfully.
“Well, no,” Malachi admitted. He spoke slowly, appearing to choose his next words very carefully. “I mean, they are, technically, still in our service. Just...no longer in the quite the same capacity as before.”
Margaret’s disappointment quickly gave way to foreboding. “And what, exactly, is their ‘capacity’ now, husband?”
Malachi’s eyes widened and his hands went up in a show of effrontery. “Whatever are you implying, dear wife?”
“Edmund,” Margaret said warningly.
He sighed. “I just thought they’d be more useful...in my workshop.”
“In your workshop,” Margaret echoed doubtfully. “I thought that you couldn’t stand having living servants around, at all, but now you’ve got three serving in your inner sanctum, do you?”
“The emphasis here is on ‘living,’ my love,” Malachi said sheepishly. He looked away as though embarrassed, suddenly very busy examining the edge of her bed
curtains.
Margaret stared at him coldly until his eyes flickered back to her. “What?” he said, eyes wide with feigned innocence.
“Are they dead, Edmund?” she asked quietly.
“No, of course not, dear,” Malachi said. “Not yet, anyway. I haven’t really had the time...one can’t just leave the bodies to rot til I’m ready to break them down...”
“Oh gods, Edmund! You can’t be serious!” Margaret cried.
“I did tell you about that one time-”
“Yes, but I didn’t think...I mean, three of them!”
“If you knew what I did, you would be more understanding,” Malachi said, a note of petulance creeping into his voice.
“Then tell me what you know,” Margaret suggested coolly. “I didn’t care for them, I won’t lie, but really! What could they have possibly done to deserve what you’re going to do to them?”
“They are idiots,” Malachi said flatly. “And they were offensive to you. Only one is required, as far as I’m concerned, and here we have two!”
“You can’t just kill people for being stupid,” Margaret said sharply. “And if I don’t want them to die for...for being ‘offensive,’ then doesn’t that matter at all?”
“Why can’t I kill whoever I’d like? Am I not Lord of this country anymore?” Malachi crossed his arms, a stubborn glint in his eye.
“Am I not your Lady any longer, that my feelings on the subject matter not at all?” Margaret countered, crossing her own in return. She barely stopped herself from sticking out her tongue.
“Of course you are,” he answered gruffly. She watched him take in her own posture, mirroring his, and could have predicted to the second the moment when he finally cracked, his lips curving into a grin and a chuckle escaping in spite of himself. “Oh, fine, have it your way. Exile it is. You know I am powerless to refuse my lady anything she wants.”
Margaret let herself smile back, dropping her arms. “I’m glad they’ll be going,” she confessed quietly.
“Why did you never tell me that they were distressing you?” Malachi leaned towards her, grasping her hand, his eyes earnest. “There was never any need for you to feel that way, Margaret. If you did not want to dismiss them yourself, you know I would have been pleased to do it for you.”
“But, Edmund, dealing with them is my job,” she said, looking at their joined hands. “I don’t want to be so...incompetent, at being your wife. I thought I’d figure out how to handle them, eventually. And besides, they were here for longer than I have been.”
“And?” Edmund squeezed her hand gently and she looked back up at him. “That doesn’t matter. I married you, not one of them. And you are far from incompetent, my lady. If I felt I needed a housekeeper, I could have hired one, and if it makes things easier for you, I still shall. Your ‘job,’ as you put it, is to be yourself, and to be yourself at my side, until I’m dead. Then to sell my family’s heirlooms and retire to somewhere more pleasant until you are old and toothless yourself, and die happily in some male concubine’s bed.”
Margaret laughed before she could stop herself. “I really don’t think that’s what I would want.”
“Don’t my feelings matter at all?” he mimicked, but his eyes were twinkling as they had not since before they’d discovered her pregnancy. Margaret’s smile turned sad.
“I will be glad when all of this is over, and we can be as we were, only plus one more,” Margaret whispered.
Malachi hesitated, then murmured, “Me too, my love. More than I can say.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Nightfall could not come swiftly enough for Thane. The Ytaren servant- Kesara, was it?- had not spent long alone with Graunt after he’d gone, no doubt to the young woman’s relief. She’d scampered out of the cave every bit as quickly as the rabbit Graunt had compared her to, and if she had fallen to the earth and kissed it upon emerging, he wouldn’t have been even remotely surprised. He knew, as strange as it seemed to him after knowing Graunt all his life, that she did tend to...unsettle...most people. Not that he had ever actually seen her around many other people; Graunt preferred her solitude. She had lived in that cave longer than he’d been alive, and his own parents had avoided her scrupulously, tolerating her presence but doing nothing to encourage it, or him to seek it. It had pleased her to no end when he’d traded a hard-earned favor with Malachi years ago to have the entrance hidden. It was one of the very few gifts she had ever accepted from him, and the memory still warmed him.
Thane had waited for Kesara in the hall next to the entrance, bearing in mind what she had said about needing proximity to continue helping him, even as he felt vaguely guilty for allowing that help. He had been unable to distinguish the distant low murmur of their voices from where he stood, could not even see them around the curve of the hallway, and would never have tried to do otherwise when Graunt had banished him from the room. It would have been disrespectful, and the High Lord himself could not have compelled him to disrespect his Graunt.
But after she had reappeared and tumbled past him into the sunlight outside, he had been forced to see to his other duties. He had met with some of his troops in the outer courtyard and they had done some calisthenics and mild sparring. A few of the more recent additions in their ranks had impressed him with their potential and he had personally observed their sparring matches and arranged to challenge them himself. The mock combat, though easy, warmed his muscles and made him momentarily forget the quandary of his new shadow. He gave himself over to the task with the first real pleasure he’d felt in days, deflecting and dodging more than he pressed his attack as he judged the raw material before him. Afterward, he took aside one of his lieutenants and gave further instructions for the new troops’ training and arranged to meet with them later in the week to learn the results of his requested modifications.
Thane knew people who would have thought it a dreadful waste of a reigning Lord’s time, going man by man through his military as he did and training them himself. But it was the way he was, and he felt there was good reason that there were no military forces comparable to Eladria’s, nor any retention rate higher than theirs. It filled him with a wholly justified pride. They offered their lives, his time was a modest expense by comparison. He had people to handle his paperwork and advisers to keep him informed on the other various aspects of his rule, but this was one thing he had no desire or inclination to delegate. When he fought, whether in one of their training exercises or on an actual battlefield, he was simply himself, and that was all he cared to be. His disfigurement mattered not a whit except what it could do for him, and in those circumstances, it could even be an asset for the intimidation factor alone.
As he walked back into the Keep, he noticed Kesara again for the first time since he’d started with his troops. He slowed enough for her to almost catch up, raking a hand through his sweat damp hair. “What did you think of Eladria’s finest in action?” he asked her, barely able to keep the pride from his voice.
Kesara looked away from him, suddenly finding the outer wall of the Keep incredibly interesting. “Is it...um...normal...for training to be so...bloody? Or was that something else?” she asked uncertainly.
Thane barked out a laugh. “What good is training if there is no element of realism? If they are coddled here, what use would they be on a battlefield?”
“I’ve watched men train before, in Ytar, and it was more like...playing.” Kesara gave him an apologetic look. “It was just surprising. They did seem very skilled.”
“Of course,” Thane agreed. “They are very skilled. I’d not have it any other way.”
“But isn’t their service compulsory?”
“Those unsuitable are exempted. And most who are suitable do usually stay past their obligatory time of service. We are not like other countries which pay their soldiers pittance. It is more profitable here to be a good soldier than to break one’s back in the mines, however it does tend to be lethal.”
Kesara’s bright blue eyes wid
ened at that and he laughed again, turning his face away to avoid startling her, then continued, “Soldiers die. It’s what we do. Not deliberately if we can help it, but it’s an occupational hazard to be sure, and preferable to withering away of impotent old age in our beds. I am not the only one to feel so.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with growing old,” Kesara replied somberly. “I would be more than happy to die in a bed, anyway.”
Thane raised an eyebrow, quickly trying to banish the surely erroneous interpretation of that which was coming all too quickly to his mind. The Ytaren woman didn’t seem to notice, continuing, “As it is, I’ll be lucky if you all don’t just toss me off the side of the mountain when I go.”
“Nay,” he said, barely suppressing a grin. “Only a proper ditch will do for those good servants who please their Lord.”
Kesara gave him a sidelong look that suggested she was unsure of just how serious he was being, and he thought his cheeks might split from the effort of holding his mouth still.
They made their way up to his tower in silence. He would have been fine with continuing the conversation, but Kesara appeared to need all her breath for panting with as she scurried up the steps behind him. He was well used to them but knew she usually had no reason to brave them. She’d perhaps be the fittest Ytaren in the world if he kept on with these headaches, he mused, then shook his head a little. He couldn’t be thinking like that, not until he knew what Graunt had to say. That was the whole point of bringing the Ytaren to her.
Once they had entered his rooms, he told her to sit and catch her breath while he changed. “Then I usually work in my laboratory until mid-afternoon, when they bring up my luncheon,” he explained.
“Laboratory?” Kesara looked surprised. This time the grin won and he pretended to rub his nose to cover it.
“Ah yes, the other servants did not mention my little hobby to you? Well, no matter. You shall see and judge for yourself.”
He couldn’t help but notice that Kesara looked a little worried as he left the room. He felt like assuring her that there was no need to fret, he did not run any of his tests on rabbits, then decided that lying might not be the best policy to take with someone who- he was assuming for now anyway- was only trying to help him.
