by SL Figuhr
She gave an almost imperceptible nod, and the soldiers with her took one step forward, locking shields.
The men had almost reached the line when their commander, Eron, bellowed. “Brace!”
The first desperate row of men made no attempt to stop. They were pushed violently forward by those behind who didn’t think the rank of soldiers would hold. The men slammed into the line of shields. Grunts rang out, both from the soldiers, and from those who collided with the metal.
“Push back!” Eron called as the women gave another grunt and shoved together as one.
“Close the gates!” Illyria yelled.
The royal guards heaved as one and managed to decrease the opening.
“Form up!” Eron yelled as he used his shield to bash a man away.
He could smell the scent of fear and desperation. It was only the fact the men were half-starved and thus weak, which gave the women an advantage. Even so, a few lost their footing on the slick cobbles and broke rank. A few of the men managed to get through before the women scrambled up. By the renewed grunts of male pain, he figured the females had rejoined the line, forcefully. A sardonic smile tugged his lips up.
Panja and Will watched in barely concealed horror, bracing themselves to slip under their tables if needed. But the men ignored them, and leapt up the stairs where they shortly found themselves sailing backward in the air. Their screams of pain as they landed, along with the sounds of bones breaking and blood splattering brought a quick end to any further attempts of rebellion.
Those who saw what happened shouted the news to those outside, and the rush slowed to a steady flow. People broke off to the sides as they came inside, many craning their necks for a glimpse of the wounded men. When it seemed order had been restored, Mathias signaled for a few of his guards to drag the men off to the dungeon. The rising buzz of voices fell to a murmur. The townspeople, realizing the advisor would not hesitate to toss everyone back outside, even if it meant doing the job herself, made sure to keep order. A few glanced nervously at the dual sword handles poking up from the back sheaths she wore.
“ATTENTION! I NEED YOUR ATTENTION!” she called again as they all continued to filter inside, trying to keep some semblance of obeying.
“In a moment we will have fires going to help keep you warm. Everyone will be given a spot inside. We will do our best to keep families together; single men and women will be housed separately. Food and drink are being prepared for you. Due to the close living quarters we shall all have to endure, it is vital for anyone wishing to partake of the king’s generosity to bathe themselves before being assigned a living space. Those who do not wish to comply can leave now. Furthermore, if anyone is in need of medical attention, you will make it known. Am I understood?”
The refugees glanced at each other, the ground, the guards or toward her. A few nodded or voiced compliance; some tried complaining but quickly squelched it as her fierce gaze landed on them. When she was satisfied they would listen, she motioned for Panja and Will to begin their assigned tasks again. People scrambled to form a long, snaking line which crisscrossed the space as she verbally remanded those whose actions or words showed them to be recalcitrant. Slaves came out, lugging the heavy brass braziers and fuel.
Soon, patches of heat and light dotted the courtyard, and people shivered, taking turns to warm themselves, mindful of both the duchess’s watchfulness, and that of the guards. After giving name, age, and occupation to either Panja or Will, the person was allowed entrance. The duchess stood to one side of the landing, with an open door to the palace behind her. Many who passed her probing gaze on the way inside suddenly found themselves unwilling or unable to meet her eyes. Thus it was that most entered quietly, eyes downcast. Very few persons attempted to thank her. Those who did received a warm nod of acknowledgement.
“Duchess,” Aranthus whispered as he came up behind her. She inclined her head enough to indicate she was listening and still monitor the situation before her. “I have done all you asked. The bath water will take some time, but until then, cold water basins have been set up. I also alerted the royal physician he would be needed, and Cook said he would have some food ready by the time the first people are settled in.”
“Thank you, Lord Chamberlain. On another subject, I do not know if the local doctor survived the raid. If you would also be so kind as to have the physician set up a sick ward, I want those who are ill to be separated from the healthy. Tell him to err on the side of caution, and if any complain, send for me. When we can get the town physician up, he can take over.”
“Do-do you mean to stay here? To personally oversee? My dear! No one expects it of you.”
“No, but it may help. If you will show me the rooms set aside for use?”
“Of course. This way, please.” He backed away with a small bow as she signaled for Eron to take her place before she turned and followed the chamberlain.
They were using one of the smaller side entrances which led onto a room with benches lining the walls. Townspeople nearly filled them as they waited to enter the next room. The two passed through the doorway into a larger area. The desk usually used by a clerk had been moved back next to the opposite door. Slaves were busy helping the refugees. Sounds of splashing and voices came from behind hanging bed sheets placed to provide small bathing cubicles. Aranthus continued the tour and they passed through into a hallway.
“Some of our lesser reception rooms, I took the liberty of ordering what straw and bedding could be spared to be placed inside. I thought since you want to keep families together, these will be perfect for them.”
“Marvelous.” She smiled at him and he puffed up before waving her on.
“The great hall, unfortunately, cannot seat everyone at once. We will have to have them eating in groups.”
“Yes, I'm afraid some are so starved they may try to sit in on all the feedings. I advise coming up with a way of making sure it doesn’t happen, so everyone gets food.”
“Oh dear, that never occurred to me. Do you suppose we should post guards?”
“Leave it up to the townspeople to do the work, unless they are found to be too ineffectual.”
“Very well. This way, please.” He led them out the hall and down a short corridor to the grand reception hall. “Single women in here, and men in the ballroom, which is far enough away but not too much so.”
They peeked inside, more slaves busy clearing out what furniture and rugs there was; others brought in straw.
“Is there an inside courtyard with a well?”
“Oh yes, indeed. Why?”
“I want their clothes to be cleaned too. It doesn’t help to bathe and then live in the same dirty outfits.”
“The laundresses can see to setting the area up and making sure the women are provided with what they need. Is there anything else I may have forgotten?”
“I don’t think so. You have done an exceptional job. Shall we go back?”
Man and woman turned and walked toward the side entrance, chatting.
“Aranthus, has His Majesty said anything to you on the subject of the dungeons and the increased bandit attacks?”
“Oh, no. I believe he is hoping it will all sort itself out. Lord Nicky used to handle such things for His Majesty in his role of advisor.”
“May I ask a personal question of you?”
“Ask away,” he replied with a jolly smile.
“How is the king doing? I hope he has recovered from his fit.”
The chamberlain hesitated, a plump finger held against his lips as he thought how to answer in a manner which wouldn’t cast their sovereign in a bad light, should word trickle back. “He is doing as well as can be expected.”
“Please, Lord Chamberlain, I must know the truth if I am to be effective in holding the kingdom together for his eventual return to the throne.” The duchess’s tone, while self-effacing, lurked with dark undercurrents.
Aranthus couldn’t help the brief shiver at her words. He was beginning to
believe Her Grace was content with their sovereign’s state. “If he is not kept semi-drugged, or drunk, he reverts to lunacy. If the royal physician cannot cure His Majesty’s affliction, and it gets out, there will be fighting over the throne and chaos.”
“Pity he does not have any legitimate heirs,” she mused.
“It would not stop those of the harem who have birthed sons, if they could gain enough support,” Aranthus replied.
“Ah, say no more.”
They arrived back at the entrance and stood to one side while a shivering group of people stepped through the door, clutching their meager bundles, heading for the bathing chambers.
“There is one other task in which your input would be helpful: asking the chef and each head of supply to make lists of how long their stores will last with the increase of mouths to feed, and what will be needed immediately,” Her Grace requested.
“I shall attend to it personally.”
“Aranthus! Aranthus!” a strident male voice yelled out.
The chamberlain groaned as an older man with a trimmed Van Dyke, carefully styled hair, tailored clothing and a big pot belly charged up to them. “I am the royal physician! I cannot treat anyone lesser! Who is making such ridiculous demands?”
“Why not?” Illyria replied.
The doctor glanced over, took a small involuntary step back before glaring at her. “You! You of all should know better than to ask why,” he haughtily replied, hands gripping the lapels of his open jacket. “Aranthus—”
“You are refusing His Majesty’s advisor?” The tone was silky-smooth, the dangerous undercurrent back. “I care not what Lord Nicky did or didn’t do in regards to your position. The king does not require your services every moment he is awake—those very services which are paid for from the royal treasury, which in turn is supplied through taxes levied on those whom you refer to as lesser.”
“Aranthus! I am not standing here to be threatened by-by some . . . trumped up foreign . . . duchess!” the man spluttered out as his face turned red. “Especially not one who overextends her authority while the king is indisposed!”
“Might I remind you exactly what my position entails? Advice. Such as who would qualify best to continue in their present roles for the glory and might of His Majesty’s kingdom.”
The physician ground his teeth. “You viper.” He drew himself up, thrusting his chest out. “Might I remind you, I am the only qualified person who has been trained by the last royal doctor; therefore, it is easier for a troublemaking advisor to be replaced than a valuable personage as myself.”
An amused smile played about her lips, and she lowered her voice. “No one person is so special they cannot be replaced. Consider your role temporary until we can find the local doctor, or herbalist. Besides, it doesn’t seem your care is helping His Majesty regain his sanity.”
He scowled. “These delusions take time to cure, and given the unrest the kingdom is suffering under your guidance, the king may be right to worry about his safety. Besides, I will not allow a witch to work her black magic while I live.”
The duchess leaned closer, lowered her voice, and whispered something to him. Aranthus watched in fascination as the man’s face blanched in horror. He strained his ears trying to hear what passed between them, to no avail. After a bit, the physician swallowed heavily and dotted at the sudden drops of sweat which had broken out on his brow.
“Your pardon, advisor. I-I will go now and see to setting up the sick ward.” He turned and hurried away with unseemly haste.
Her grace ignored the pleading look of curiosity on the chamberlain’s face. “I hope you will let me know if he gives you any trouble.” She paused, standing aside to let more townspeople enter.
They looked out. It did not seem if the line had gone down at all.
“I will also send a few more clerks out. Thank you, Duchess. Shall I see you tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she replied and the chamberlain walked off self-importantly, humming to himself with glee at thought of the battle he and the royal steward would have, and planning on how to worm out of the physician just what she had threatened him with to get his cooperation.
* * *
Panja sighed and shifted miserably, pausing after her last townsperson to hold her hands over the oil lamp’s flame. She had been up since dawn, processing displaced townspeople. She blew on her icy hands, tugged her cloak tighter about her, before signaling she was ready. An older male stepped forward, a long line of chained slaves snaking behind. He tossed some parchment before her, sneering. Gingerly the young woman unrolled it and glanced down before back up.
“We are not buying slaves,” she stiffly informed him.
“Not what I was told.” He spat on the ground. “Total’s on the bottom.”
Her temper rose, but she kept her voice calm and authoritative. “You have been misinformed.” A hasty thought struck her. “If your master wishes to relinquish all rights and responsibilities for them in exchange for a tax credit no more than forty percent of the total worth of all slaves present, then we will accept them. Otherwise . . .” She trailed off suggestively. Hah! You can sort the mess out, high and mighty, Your Grace, Duchess Maison du Corbeau.
“Stupid wench!” the man bellowed, causing a temporary stop in work around them. “We were told the palace was paying for excess slaves who could not be sold.”
“We are not paying for slaves your master doesn’t want to be bothered with feeding and sheltering,” she hissed back.
“I didn’t come the whole way up here, waiting out like the peasants, to treaty with a guttersnipe. I want a man what knows what’s going on,” his loud voice continued.
Some of her fellow clerks smirked at her; one spoke up. “I can help you, just let me send for the royal requisitioner.”
Panja glared at his smug face, wishing she could slap him.
“No need,” Her Grace called out as she reappeared in the open doorway. “What master do you work for, so I may have a word with him on the morrow about his tactics?”
“Er, um . . . Gri,” he sullenly replied.
“Fine. Choice one: leave the slaves here and take the form of abandonment back, letting your master know I will come for it later in the day with his signature attached. Choice two: go back with the slaves. Or choice three: continue to be a problem and I will have you tossed in the dungeon for creating a public disturbance and the slaves will be your master’s gift to the crown for your stupidity.”
The man just stared at her flabbergasted, then he began laughing. “Ha, ha, ha, haaaaa! Whose gonna arrest me if I don't pick? You haven’t got enough guards for it if you want to keep control.”
She merely cocked her head to the side. “Is that your final answer?”
He continued to laugh. “You’re all stupid wenches.”
Those nearby sucked in breaths of anticipation, spats between slavers and nobles always a good source of entertainment. Heads craned as word quickly traveled, people trying to get a good view. The man looked around, flexing his muscles, preening as the duchess flowed down the stairs. He turned his gaze toward her, smirking broadly. She never broke her stride, just lashed out quicker than he could react before turning and resuming her stance before the door. His face turned red, then ashy gray as he slammed face-first into the ground. Blood spurted from his nose with a snapping sound. Immediate hissing noises, squirming, and clutching of delicate bits commenced from those males nearby in sympathy.
“Mathias, have some guards take this trash to the dungeon. Panja, continue.”
The young woman blinked, working hard to keep the vicious smile off her face as she picked the scroll up and asked the first slave in line the pertinent details and matching it up with what had been noted, making corrections as needed. There were more than a few women who grinned outright, or tried to smother their glee. Two guards, one with the visage of a grizzled veteran, the other new, gingerly jogged over. They avoided the duchess’s eyes, flipped the man on his back, and began
to drag him past the whispering, goggling people.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The palace had not hosted so many people, nor seen such activity, since the days of the current king’s grandfather. More slave sellers had requested audiences with the advisor, and newly freed slaves joined the throngs inside the palace. Displaced people were still being processed through the outer courtyard, though over the past few days it had slowed to a trickle. Those who showed up were survivors from the outer villages and small towns. They brought with them horrific tales of bandits raiding and slaughtering before burning all they could. The people dragged in, exhausted, cold, and starving, many needing medical attention for a range of ailments, from frostbite to festering wounds received while defending their homes. They were met by a small group of men and women who had been appointed as official greeters. They helped the newcomers get settled in. Palace slaves came and replenished wood supplies, keeping the fireplaces burning.
A gong rang out, and another slave announced the first seating for breakfast. Tamzin slipped into line. Despite her bath earlier, her flesh still itched and prickled, as if the dirt and bugs from being a captive were still polluting her. She had wrapped a linen rag around her throat, draping it to look more like a short scarf. The iron collar which had identified her as a slave had been removed last night. The flesh of her neck still bore scabs and discoloration. After her breakfast, Tamzin sought out the rooms being used as a medical ward.
There was a line of hard benches, all filled with people with various ailments. She sighed and took her place in line. It was near lunch time when her turn came.
The doctor was a rotund man with a supercilious air. “Now what’s the problem? You seem to be healthy.”
“I need something for these scabs,” she replied while removing the scarf.
His eyes narrowed, knowing the signs of a recently removed slave collar. No doubt the young woman before him had been in the group the duchess had “liberated” from some slaver.