by Robin Hardy
“Oh!” With a breath, Deirdre hungrily snatched up a half-eaten roll from a plate.
Bettina grabbed her arm. “Are you mad? Don’t touch anything!” she whispered, knocking the roll from her fingers before any of the other servants saw it.
“But I’m so hungry!” Deirdre pleaded.
“I am, too!” Bettina whispered back, glancing around as she gathered plates. “But no one’s allowed to eat what’s left from the Surchataine’s table!”
“What—what will be done with it all, then?” asked Deirdre. There was enough food left to feed ten kitchen servants.
“Whatever Sheva leaves is thrown out. No one eats it,” Bettina insisted. “Clean,” she ordered.
Moaning, Deirdre picked up dishes still half full of food only to throw the contents out the window, as Bettina showed her. It was the hardest exercise she had ever endured, for her stomach coiled with hunger pains. But no one dared touch the remains of the elegantly prepared dishes. Rather, Sheva’s dogs clustered outside the window to snap up what they wanted and ruin the rest.
I can’t believe this, Deirdre thought, watching the dogs paw through what was too good for her to eat. How have I been reduced to such a state? How can I endure it? She clutched the windowsill, feeling too weak to survive another moment of this heartless exile.
But then Roman crossed her mind, and it occurred to her how proud he would be if he could see her doing this—if he could see her learning to work and taking care of Arund, suffering without complaining and staying alive to return to him someday.
She let go of the window and turned back to help Bettina clear the table.
On her second or third trip with empty plates into the kitchen, Arund let out a hungry cry. The head cook waved at her: “Go back to your room and take the brawler with you. You’ll be no more use to me tonight.”
“Thank you, mistress,” Deirdre breathed. She gratefully bundled the baby up to take him to her little room.
Stepping outside, she met a blast of cold air. She clutched the baby tightly and ran for the shelter of the servants’ house across the courtyard. She had reached out to grasp the door handle when she was shot through by a piercing cry on the open air. It intensified, then cut off suddenly. The unmistakable sound of another human in pain and death made her flesh crawl. It seemed to have come from across the field that lay beyond the stables.
She stood shivering in the gusting wind, listening but hearing nothing more. Urgently, she heaved the door open and rushed inside.
Chapter 10
It was cold in Deirdre’s little cell. She shook out the one thin blanket she had for herself and Arund, bleakly wondering how they would ever survive the winter here.
When Old Josef dragged in, she almost pounced on him: “Josef! It’s so cold in here! How do you live here in the winter? How does anyone? Who else lives in this awful house?”
He wearily smiled at her string of questions. “The newest and lowest of the servants stay here—the others sleep in the palace. But as for us, we’ll be taken care of. Sevter is coming with quilts. They’re quite warming,” he said. It wasn’t until then that she saw the tray he carried held a bowl of cold soup, milk, and crust of bread.
He set the tray before her and she ate everything on it without wondering what he had to eat. “I wish the mistress would allow me to eat in the kitchen,” she grumbled. “I get so hungry—and there is so much food!”
“Don’t risk stealing, child. You’ll be provided for. God knows your needs—you just must ask Him,” he insisted.
Deirdre watched him settle down on the straw, rubbing his pathetic ankles. “Josef . . . at first I thought you were a madman. Now I know you’re not—you really seem to have special knowledge, and you’ve been very kind to me. But . . . why do you keep talking about God, in your position? I mean, how long have you been a slave? And why doesn’t God free you if He cares like you say He does?”
“First, Deirdre, I am free—freer than any ruler on earth. The chains you see don’t really bind me, because I have accepted them as a means to serve my Master.” At her bemused look, he explained, “I am a servant of the Most High God, Deirdre.”
He shifted earnestly toward her. “Much has been happening here that you can’t see, but God is about to do a mighty work, and I have been instrumental in laying the foundation for it. You’ll see that God works wonderfully on behalf of those who trust Him. There is much I must teach you in so little time, because my service here is soon to end.” As he spoke, he reached a rough, wrinkled hand underneath his bed of straw.
Deirdre watched him with a touch of pity before his last words sank in. “Oh! Is Sheva going to release you, then?”
“I don’t know exactly how it will happen, only that it will happen soon.” He withdrew a bundle of tattered pages from under the straw and handed it to her as if it was a precious gift. “This is all I have, and it is not complete. But it is what I have been able to reconstruct from memory of the Scriptures.”
She took the bundle from his trembling hand. “Read them—study them, for your life hangs on it. Don’t let anyone but Sevter see them—Caranoe in particular has a hatred of the Word, and we do not wish to provoke an early fight with him. Study and pray in secret until God wishes to make known what is hidden.”
The heavy door opened and Deirdre quickly thrust the bundle behind her back. But it was Sevter bringing two fat quilts. They were dirty, and smelled of dogs, but Deirdre accepted them anyway. Looking at Josef with his one thin blanket, she began to hand him a quilt but he insisted, “No—you must have both, you and the baby. This is all I need.”
As Sevter fastened on his leg irons, taking care for his ankles, Josef told him, “Try to arrange for Deirdre to sleep in the palace through the winter—perhaps in the kitchen. The baby might not survive the cold.” Sevter agreed, crossing over to fasten Deirdre’s chains.
“Josef, what about you?” she asked anxiously.
“As I said, I will soon be done. But you—I am burdened for your safety,” he said. The cell was now so dark, she could hardly see his face.
“Caranoe wanted me to sleep with him tonight,” recalled Deirdre.
Sevter drew up sharply. “How were you able to refuse him?”
“I told him I had been ordered to care for the baby,” Deirdre said.
“Then you are the one he calls Goldie,” Sevter muttered.
“Yes. I didn’t tell him my real name,” she said.
“Good. Good. But . . . I must go confirm your duty with Lord Troyce, so that Caranoe won’t be able to force you into his bed at night. He has no patience with the squallers,” Sevter said. As soon as he had Deirdre locked in, he left.
Josef turned to her again. “Child, I can’t tell you how important it will be to trust God with everything—every threat, every need, every pain. Tell Him about it. Wait on Him to act.”
Deirdre considered this silently. Remembering the hard hours of her trek here, she asked, “Josef, where was God when I was kidnapped? It was horrible—I was in such pain! I prayed, but nothing happened. . . .”
“Ask—continually—and you shall receive; seek—with perseverance—and you shall find; knock—repeatedly—and it shall be opened to you. . . . Deirdre, what did you do when you prayed and received no answer?” he asked, a dark shape in the shadows.
She frowned, thinking. “There was nothing I could do but go on—and ask God why He wouldn’t answer me!”
“Yes. You asked again and again. In your confusion and pain, you turned toward Him, stretched your arms out to Him, searched for His face. But when at last you will have emerged from this trial, you will find that you were given all the answer you needed: Himself. His silence will have brought you close to Him.”
Josef shifted, and she could tell he was massaging his swollen ankles. “He is like a father teaching his child to walk. The day comes when He releases your hands and you are left to stumble about on your own. You are frightened and unsteady, but He stands close by, ready
to catch you. When you do stumble exhausted into His arms, you will have begun to learn to walk. In the stretching, you grow. It must be so for your good, Deirdre.”
She turned this over in her mind and suddenly thought of Roman, feeling an urgent compulsion to pray for him. But before she could, another thought intruded. “Josef, what is a drud?”
She felt him pause, then he said, “That is an insulting name for the field slaves. They belong to a race of people who come from the mountain country beyond Goerge—Polontis. They’re a strong, hardy people, but unlearned in our ways, so Sheva has exploited them to slavery in her fields.” He stopped, swallowing painfully.
“They have been large in my prayers. Though they are cruelly worked and suffer greatly, many have become believers. I pray to the Father every night to release them from their bondage, but the time has not been right. . . .” His voice dropped to a mumble. Then he added, “Their true name is Polonti.”
“Oh. Why did they leave their country?” she asked idly.
“I don’t really know. One day a few appeared in the cities, then more and more came. Many of their women set up brothels when they discovered men here consider them exotic and attractive. They were not slaves, however, until—I don’t understand this—a group of them appeared one day at the palace. Sheva put them immediately into fetters. Then slave traders began bringing them by cartloads . . . more and more. . . .”
He lapsed into silence and Deirdre realized he was quite weary. So she stopped asking questions and soon heard his raspy snore.
She touched Arund’s soft cheek, overwhelmed by a rush of longing for home. She pictured her father Galapos—winking, laughing, subtle and cunning; her husband Roman—brown and serious, revealing only to her the fire in his heart; and the baby she had only glimpsed. Her last conscious thought that night was a wistful prayer for all their good.
The following morning, Arund awakened her very early, as he usually did, and she had finished nursing him by the time Sevter came around with hot meal and fresh milk.
“I have something extra for you,” he grinned, and produced a fat golden apple from his cloak. He handed another one to groggy Josef in his corner.
“Sevter, how kind!” Deirdre exclaimed. “How did you get them?” She relished eating it down to the seeds.
“They had an abundant harvest from the orchards this year. Troyce is allowing the staff to take what they want from the bushels.”
Josef smiled sleepily as he ate his meal. “You know, Deirdre, that you must not tell anyone about this. As becomes him, Sevter is risking himself to benefit us. It is not permissible for him to give us extra food.”
Deirdre stared in admiration and dismay at Sevter, who unlocked their shackles with a bit more authority than usual. “It is a small risk,” he argued. “Now to your duties, both of you.”
On leaving, Deirdre paused. “Josef, I keep forgetting to ask you . . . what are your duties?”
He carefully hid his uneaten apple in a fold of his ragged shirt. “I tend the field slaves, Deirdre. I bring their food and salve their wounds and bury their dead.” For the first time, she heard a note of bitterness in his voice. But he patted her hand and assured her, “God is working.” They parted in the courtyard—he to the fields, she to the palace.
Deirdre placed Arund in his corner bed and shyly stood by it, watching the early morning bustle of the kitchen until the mistress should deem to instruct her. After sending a tray with the Surchataine’s breakfast up to her chambers, the head cook came toward Deirdre carrying a large pan. “I don’t suppose you know how to clean fish, do you?” she snapped.
Deirdre stared at rows of googly eyes and shiny bodies and uttered in disgust, “No!”
“No, what?”
“No, mistress,” she quickly recovered.
“Well, come to the courtyard.” On the steps outside, the mistress demonstrated scraping and cutting while Deirdre watched in dismay, then left her alone to finish it.
Deirdre worked slowly, keeping her head down because she hated the sight of the gallows. This is horrible, she thought. What good is it supposed to be for me to do this? It occurred to her that she was learning to walk, as Josef had said. She left that thought there and scraped blankly for a while, then stopped to watch the courtyard activity.
She observed that servants who worked together talked in constant, covert whispers. Those who passed each other whispered a few words or gave a discreet sign, all without pausing. If an official or soldier approached, they ceased their conversation as if it had never been.
She also noticed a few servants whispering and looking her way. At that point, she began scraping again. Soon, an intimidating manservant brought over firewood, which he began stacking against the wall near her. Without looking up, he whispered, “Who are you?”
She startled. “Are you speaking to me?”
He stacked for a moment, then fetched more wood and began stacking that. “Keep your head down. Who are you?”
“My name is Goldie.” She felt ridiculous talking to the fish.
“Where did you come from?” he grunted as he lifted an armload.
Feeling a twinge of alarm, she answered vaguely, “Lystra. Why?”
He almost stopped working. “You seem different. We want to know where you came from.”
“I was kidnapped from my home in Lystra,” she said evenly, looking him in the eye. “My husband is a soldier.”
He gave her a long, hard look, then finished stacking his load and walked away.
Watching him go, Deirdre began to flounder in feelings of vulnerability and helplessness. Here I am, a slave, prey to any man’s whims. . . . Before her thoughts could carry her into hysteria, she spotted Josef coming toward her, and she calmed.
“Goldie, ask the mistress if there are any scraps left over from yesterday,” he said.
“Certainly, Josef.” She left the fish gladly and found the head cook over the kettle. “Mistress, Josef is outside asking for scraps for the druds.”
“Find what you can, and don’t pester me!” she snapped. Deirdre searched all around, going from table to table, but collected only handfuls in her basket.
As she dismally turned to go out, the mistress glanced in the basket, then said, “Wait.” Deirdre stopped, and the cook dumped a generous load of turnips and greens into her basket. “Take those. The Surchataine doesn’t care for ’em. No sense in wasting ’em.”
“Oh mistress! Thank you!” Deirdre exclaimed. The head cook gave her a queer look, as if wondering at her joy, so Deirdre quickly sobered and took her booty to Josef.
“Good!” he said upon receiving the basket. “You can help me, if you will keep your eyes open in the kitchen. Don’t let them throw out to the pigs what could be fed to the slaves. It may save a man’s life.”
“Yes, Josef.” What a burden he carries, she reflected, watching him take up the extra weight on unreliable ankles. Here I was feeling sorry for myself, never thinking how much they must be suffering. It must have been one of them I heard last night.
Downcast, she sat to clean the fish again. Then she stiffened to see Caranoe come strolling through the courtyard, looking idly about for someone on which to vent his general displeasure. Josef let the bushel drop as if he were having difficulty carrying it. She stood to help him, but he shook his head at her slightly. He began dragging the bushel while keeping an eye on Caranoe.
The slave master found what he was looking for. A lanky young man with a simple, smiling face was attempting to harness two horses to a large flatbed cart, such as the one Deirdre arrived in, when one of the horses balked and shied away. It bumped Caranoe, stepping on his foot.
“Damnation!” Caranoe shouted, hitting the horse, which preferred standing on his foot rather than backing up to the cart. “Get this—blasted animal—” He was pushing and wheezing in pain as the horse calmly stood its ground. The servants in the courtyard worked at their chores earnestly, careful not to raise their smiling faces toward Caranoe.
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However, the boy was not so careful. He coaxed the horse off Caranoe’s foot, smiling stupidly all the while. “Master Caranoe, I be sorry about that horse, he be such a mule—”
“You—idiot!” screamed Caranoe. “How dare you make sport of me! Will you laugh at this? You—” he jerked toward a nearby servant. “Bring rope!”
All smiles disappeared and the activity stilled. Josef moved a step closer to Deirdre. The boy stood as if awaiting instructions, and her heart constricted for what was coming upon him.
The rope was brought. Caranoe said calmly, “Tie one of his arms to one horse, and the other to the other.” Grimly, the servant obeyed. Deirdre heard muttered, “Such a shame. He was a good boy.”
Comprehending that evil was upon him, the boy screwed up his face and began pleading, “I be sorry! I be sorry!” Deirdre began to cry.
The horses were placed rear to rear, the boy between them, and two servants with whips at their haunches. “Now, boy, we’ll see how hard you laugh,” growled Caranoe.
He stepped back. Josef made a simple request in a low voice: “Lord Jesus, save the life of this boy.” Only Deirdre heard it.
“Now!” shouted Caranoe. The servants flailed the horses, which immediately bolted in opposite directions, trailing the ropes tied to the boy’s arms.
But the instant the ropes were stretched taut, they snapped with loud cracks. One winging end slapped Caranoe in the face and wrapped itself around his wrist. He was jerked to the ground and dragged thirty feet in the dirt before he could disentangle himself. All this while, the boy stood in the same spot, dazed but unharmed, broken rope dangling from his hands.
While Caranoe slowly raised himself up, Lord Troyce came into the courtyard and surveyed the cluster of motionless, gaping servants. “Have we no one who does his work any more?” he wondered aloud.
The servants leapt to their chores. In the general rush, the boy was whisked from view and thereafter kept hidden whenever Caranoe appeared on the grounds.
