by AJ Adams
“We’ll see a flogging tomorrow morning,” the smith said comfortably.
The girl got to her feet, looking desperate. She feinted left, broke right and tried to make a run for it, but the pages overpowered her easily.
She cursed them royally, “May Tyr eat your bones and drink your blood!”
So she was from the northern cities, Tanweld maybe, or Rashelm. Both cities worshipped Tyr, the war god. This girl could be one of his own.
“Get off me! Fuckers!”
The curse word gave her away. She was Tanweld-born. She was beating the pages with her fists before being slapped down by the seneschal himself.
He was cursing her, too. “You ungrateful wench. May Wotan hear and punish you! Shame on you!”
“Shame on me? Shame on you!” She was loud, her voice echoing round the street. “That fat-gut duke is old enough to be my grandfather. And he’s a pervert!”
The seneschal reared back in horror. “How dare you speak of your betters that way?”
“Tyr’s prick up your arse!” the girl yelled. “Except a ball-less wonder like you would enjoy that!”
“You bitch!” From the sound of his squeal, the girl had pegged the seneschal just right. “You vicious, lying she-wolf!”
“Pander! Coward! Whoreson!” The girl’s defiance sealed her fate. “Your arse is the playground of every mercenary between Brighthelme and Rashelm!”
“Fifty lashes!” the seneschal cried. “To be administered right now. Take her away!”
It was a death sentence. I’ve seen grown men, hardened mercenaries, die from two dozen lashes. You can ride the pain and shock of ten lashes, but it lays your back open to the bone. A girl that slight wouldn’t be able to weather the pain of even a couple of cuts. She’d die under the whip.
“Shall we go watch?” The smith was at my elbow, excited at the thought of blood and slaughter. “Your horse will wait.”
Of course he would. Wolf has been mine since he was a foal. I never bothered with hobbles or hitching posts. “Wolf, stay.”
He whickered, and the smith smiled. “That’s some horse.”
“Yes, he is.”
The whipping post was in the main square, just round the corner. The square was quiet, as punishments are usually carried out in the morning, when foot traffic is high. The smith was grinning, looking forward to the entertainment. Half a dozen other citizens had gathered, pulled away from their business by the ruckus. It being sundown, the rest of Caern was indoors, looking for dinner.
Me, I’m not interested in whippings and other such spectacles. I’ve seen too many battlefields to be fascinated by blood and gore. But I was thinking there might be something in this for me.
If Raven’s Keep was as secure as the smith thought, and Ranulf could not be lured out, I would need a plan of attack. I could find a man who’d guide me to the manor by the secret path, but then I still needed to access the tower. Ranulf might hide inside, and he’d certainly store the god’s arrow there. This girl was the key to getting me inside.
“Tyr drink your blood!” The girl was screeching with rage, kicking at the pages who were trying to subdue her. “Curses on you, you fat-arsed pander! And curses on your poxy duke!”
“Strip her! I will whip her myself!”
The seneschal was so angry that he’d forgotten his place: it was his job to take care of his liege’s possessions, not to destroy them. Only the duke or his lady could order the death of a servant. Also, carrying out punishment was the province of the duke’s justiciar.
It was a puzzle what to do next. I wanted the girl, and I didn’t want her damaged in case it interfered with her climbing skills. I needed to get the seneschal to hand her over without her suffering any punishment, but managing the situation would take some doing.
The duke’s servants would think themselves above ordinary citizens, even Guild members. Seeing I’m from Llanfaes, and there’s no disguising the accent, there would be bad blood, too, even if by some miracle the seneschal didn’t know my role in the last dispute.
On the plus side, I doubted the duke would be very angry at the loss of this possession. He would own dozens of thralls, and from the simple tunic she wore and the plain iron collar, rusted in spots, this was no prized bedroom companion, trained for silken fun and games.
A page went running off to get the whip.
“Go lick Tyr’s hairy balls, fat-gut!”
She must have been a passing fancy, or maybe he was like the eastern lords who have a blanket policy of ensuring all their thralls have pups. There’s one, She’ef Omeer, who is famous for it. Stories have it he covers his girls so regularly that he makes a fortune every year from selling the offspring.
“Bastard! Pig!”
The She’ef would have passed on this one.
“She’s feisty,” the smith was glowing with glee. “This should be good.”
Except I was about to spoil it for him.
I went up to the seneschal. “Sir, a moment of your time?”
Although I’m a fletcher, I am a master craftsman, so my tunic is made of rich cloth, my shirt is generously cut, my hose are embroidered and my boots are finest leather. The pages stood back respectfully, recognising money. The seneschal was so angry, however, that he barely glanced my way. “Later. I will see you later.”
They were stripping the girl, pulling off her tunic, skirts and shift, revealing long legs and small, high breasts. The pages were beginning to enjoy themselves. There were bulges in all their breeches. They’d be regretting the swift process; women sentenced for whipping are usually badly used the night before by their jailers. It’s part of every ruler’s strategy as rape adds shame to the actual punishment.
And knowing that gave me an idea. I knew how to get to the seneschal. I dropped my voice. “My dear sir, the duke will hear of this.”
“Yes, he will.” The seneschal snapped right back. “Everyone will.”
I spoke quietly, thoughtfully. “I wonder what he’ll dislike more? Having the people know a thrall rejected his suit, preferring death to his attentions? Or at having you broadcast it?”
The seneschal turned, mouth wide open, eyes round with horror. “What?”
I bowed. “I have the honour of knowing the duke.” It was a lie. I knew his constable, Eward, the man who managed his troops, but I had only seen the duke at a distance. “The Duke of Caern’s reputation is his life.”
I was safe saying that, because it’s a universal truth. At least, that’s what all the nobles will have us believe. Actually, all they care about is a show of honour. Money and power motivates them. Give them enough of those, and honour can go hang.
“You’re from Llanfaes.” The seneschal was suspicious. However, my quiet words were sinking in and doing their work. The duke’s man was now reconsidering.
Behind him, I saw the girl stare at me. Her hands were tied high above her head, making her stand on tiptoe. A decent girl would be dying of shame, but this little thrall was completely oblivious to being naked in a public square. She also had scars on her back, legs and bottom. She’d been caned, and often. She was a hard case.
“I am a visitor here,” I said carefully, “but my concern is sincere.”
“She insulted the duke.” The seneschal was thinking it through. “I bought her this morning from a soldier. She was a jongleur’s tumbler before that. I chose her to entertain my liege, thinking he’d be amused.”
He really was upset, discussing his duke’s private affairs with a stranger. Still, if it had been the seneschal’s notion, it meant the noble had no skin in this affair. What was needed, was a way for the seneschal to back out, without losing respect, so I gave him one.
“My dear sir! It’s clear you bought her, thinking her skills useful to the household, not realising she wasn’t bred to a duke’s home.” Ten years rubbing shoulders with nobles teaches you politesse. That’s a fancy word for lies and subterfuge. “The thrall is unworthy. The duke would be better served by another.”
“Indeed.” The seneschal was examining me. “But the insult!”
“Lies,” I said quickly. “Chagrin and disappointment from a cheap thrall who, longing for a ducal home, is furious at being sold on.”
“You speak well.” His eyes were brown, knowing and calculating. This was a clever man, and he was wondering who I was and what I wanted. “Have we met?”
I bowed again. “Ware Fletcher, sir.”
“The master fletcher?”
Like I said, I have a reputation. When you design a four bladed broadhead that can kill at five hundred paces, cutting through any armour, even seneschals who are strictly involved in household matters get to hear about you.
“Yes, sir.” I bowed low, acting as if I were not a master craftsman and Guild member but some feckless merchant.
“But you’re from Llanfaes.” The seneschal was frowning, clearly on the verge of remembering my role in the dispute. Luckily, he was young. Too young to have fought seven years ago.
I spoke quickly, hoping to force his attention away from that delicate subject. “I have been abroad for some years and have seen many sights, but I have never seen such an ungrateful wench, sir.”
It brought us back to the point.
“She has publicly insulted my liege.” He was putting this on the duke, but it was the seneschal who was raging at the girl’s insults. “She should be punished.”
“What is this?” The page had returned with the whip, and the duke’s constable was following. “Robert, what is going on here?”
I heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of Eward Greenwood, the Duke of Caern’s constable. We’d worked together very closely when Caern was disputing with Tanweld, and we’d gotten along well. Like I said, I work for everyone—unless they are disputing with Llanfaes. When it comes to my home, I’ll defend it with my life.
Seeing Eward meant I had an ally. I coughed and pretended to move back, knowing it would make the old warhorse look my way. He did, too. Instantly.
“Ware Fletcher.” Eward was smiling in pleased remembrance. “Well met.” He shook my hand, slapped me on the back, and pulled me over to the seneschal. “Robert, meet Ware Fletcher, the best craftsman in the nine cities.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” the seneschal was smiling politely. When it comes to nobles, the constable is senior to the seneschal, and as Eward was older, and a second cousin to the duke, too, the seneschal was acknowledging the introduction with proper interest. “From Llanfaes.”
“Master Ware served with us at Volgard.”
I was instantly accepted. The seneschal bowed with a real smile this time. “Master Ware, it is a delight to meet one who has served our liege so well.”
The seneschal had been embarrassed publicly, so if I handed him a heavy load of respect, he’d be easier to handle. “Sir,” I repeated, “it is an honour to meet you.”
We bowed at each other, me a little more than him, subtly recognising his superior status and then flattering him even more by bowing again.
“I came by to pay my respects, sir.” I laid it on thick because I wanted the girl. “I couldn’t pass Caern without presenting my humble duty.”
“And found us in a stir,” Eward observed. “What on earth is going on here? Why is the justiciar not here? This is beneath your dignity, surely, Robert?”
The girl was watching and listening closely, her eyes alive with curiosity and hope. She was pretending to be unafraid but I saw her swallow when she spotted the whip. Three feet long, it was designed to cut deep. It was far different than the canes that had left those little white scars on her body.
While I was working out what the thrall would cost, the constable was reminding the seneschal of his duty. Whatever he said worked, because the man sighed and waved the page with the whip away, “I should wait till morning, although I don’t know what our liege will say when he hears of this. I wish I’d never seen the wench.”
It was a confession and an appeal. Perfect. I knew exactly what to say. “Such a small matter is one far beneath the duke’s notice.” I smiled and slipped him a silver penny, murmuring, “A replacement and the matter is solved.”
“Absolutely,” Eward was nodding. “No use in keeping a mule when you want a horse for the job.”
He’s a practical man, Eward Greenwood of Caern. That’s why he’s such a good constable. He never loses his head. He’d been a regular fighting man during our dispute, just like me, and he’d not held a grudge. He’d hired me at Volgard, knowing my word is my bond, and we’d gotten along well. If he’d been seneschal, the girl could have insulted him all day long, and it would’ve made no difference.
Now he was on my side. “Be sensible, Robert, and sell the girl.”
“You want her, Master Fletcher?” The seneschal was taken aback. “She’s ungrateful, and she’s got a tongue like a viper.”
“Ware Fletcher will whip her into shape,” Eward laughed. “How’s Wolf?”
“Excellent, thank you,” I smiled at the seneschal. “I have need of a girl to serve me on my travels.”
Seeing his way out while maintaining respect and making a soothing profit, too, the seneschal caved. His fingers twitched, and the coin I’d handed him vanished. As a thrall who was patently impossible, she was worth half that. I had no doubt my new friend would pocket the difference.
“She’s yours,” the seneschal intoned formally.
“Sir, I thank you.” I bowed again, concealing my triumph. Thanks to some sweet words and a silver penny, my revenge was in reach. I’d find Ranulf, and she’d get me close enough for the kill. The girl would guarantee my success.
Chapter Two: Lind
Bastards! Whoresons, the lot of them! Give me a knife and I’ll cut their throats!
I was never this way. I’ve been a thrall most of my life, and I’ve not fought it. Much. I started life free, the oldest girl in a family of six. When I was little, about eight summers, my father took me to the Guild House and handed me over to the master baker. “You’ll be maid to the young ladies,” he told me. “You’ll never go hungry.”
It was a lie. My father was in debt, and I was payment. I was collared and set to work as a scullery maid. It was a hard life. I was often hungry, and after the young master hit me and I belted him back, I got a whipping and was sold to a jongleur.
He had a cane, so I learned to walk on my hands, do back-flips, juggle, walk a tightrope and dance. When I performed, I got praise and sweetmeats. If I didn’t, I got a beating.
It was okay when we were on the road, but I hated the engagements at the castles because my master would make an extra copper by selling me for the night.
The public like child tumblers best, so when I grew too tall, the jongleur replaced me. My fortunes went down rapidly at that point. The jongleur sold me to a tanner, who sold me to a weaver less than a month later. He didn’t like me, so I was passed on to a smith. That was in Brighthelme.
The smith decided quickly I was no good, and sold me at rock-bottom price to a travelling merchant. From there I was passed on from one owner to another, each worse than the last, before ending up with a foot soldier. That’s when I snapped.
Jarvis boasted of being cousin to the Guild steward of Caern, but he was an utter bastard. By day I carried his gear, did his laundry and cooked his dinner, and at night I was his whore. He’d sell me for a drink, as a gambling pledge, or just because someone asked. He even sold my hair, trading it to a wig-maker for a jug of beer.
Life with the jongleur had been hard, but at least I had pride in my work. The moment he sold me, I lost more than my trade; I lost myself. I had no hope, so I fought back the only way I could.
I am the world’s worst thrall. I never do what I’m told, I don’t call anyone sir, and you need to beat the hell out of me just to get my attention. Every master I’ve ever had has given up on me. Jarvis started off caning me, but even he gave up trying to get me to toe the line. He abused and sold my body, but he couldn’t stop me raging at him.
Of course, he had all the power and I had none. With the city-based masters I was okay because I could eat and rest between fighting and being punished, but Jarvis bought me in Haven, and then he got a job as guard on a convoy to Tanweld and then another on to Caern, so we were on the road.
It’s a hard life, following a convoy. You walk all day, and at night you want to sit down and die. Being a thrall, I had to cook and do laundry whenever we stopped. And being Jarvis’ thrall, I had to work a guard or two after that, as well. After five months of that, I was burned out and exhausted. I just couldn’t do it anymore.
By the time we arrived in Caern, I was desperate. Jarvis was broke, and as he didn’t have a home of his own, I knew I’d be on my back in return for a discount at a cheap lodging.
Jarvis had a worse plan. “I’m going to visit my cousin, the Guild steward. He’ll find me a job.”
“Like he’d want a pig like you,” I muttered. Of course I got slapped for that, but it was worth it.
“I’m leasing you to a brothel,” Jarvis snarled. “They’ll pay me a copper a week for your services.”
You know, I almost died then. Brothel girls service twenty men a day. Even if they’re fed, they don’t last long. They age and die in months. It’s a slow, lingering death.
That’s when I spotted the seneschal dressed in red velvet, escorting two little girls dressed in silk and lace, and I saw opportunity. In short, I did a back-flip, walked on my hands and then juggled six apples from a nearby fruit stand.
The kids laughed, and that’s when the duke’s seneschal came over and bought me. “A most unusual show,” the fat-gut said. “Excellent. Very charming.”
“She’s well-trained.” Jarvis was instantly talking me up. “She tumbled for the Duke of Haven.”
I saw my way out and dipped into a curtsy, something I hadn’t done since I’d been with the blacksmith. “It would be an honour to entertain you, noble sir.”
The seneschal smiled, and then he and Jarvis haggled over my price. I’ve no idea what was paid because I was too relieved to even think. I thought I’d been bought to entertain the kids, and I was so thankful to be away from that horror Jarvis that I wept.