He spoke coaxingly in her ear as he freed her, lifting her up. It seemed to have some effect on her panic, and she calmed somewhat. But her violent trembling couldn’t be stopped. When he turned her chin up to look at her, her skin looked blueish-white, her eyes swollen and black.
Several men charged him as he cut her down, prepared to protest his actions. He saw them coming, and lifted his arm to wave them away. As he swiped angrily about him, every man in the yard flew back several feet as if hit with some invisible wave, slamming into the mud. His mind registered this for only a fraction of a second, but he was too preoccupied with the girl to care. Catching her carefully in his arms, he carried her back to the lodge. She moaned as he went, like a small, fearful animal who cannot trust it’s new protector.
His mind burned with hatred, hatred of his cruel uncle and puerile cousins, hatred of the men who followed them so blindly. He wondered what kind of being could take pleasure in beating a weak girl; even if ordered to. All these years, he’d borne their malice, their stupidity, the blankness of their minds and spirits; but this was too much. Something in him broke as he stormed up the main stair, cradling the wilted girl in his arms. She was the only thing he’d ever wanted, ever asked his uncle for; and this is what Rypon did. He’d never asked to be a son. He’d never hoped as much. He’d served and obeyed. He’d taken everything laid before him. And this is what he got for it.
Once upstairs, he laid her carefully on his bed.
“Bring food and drink, NOW!” He barked harshly out into the corridor.
One of the servants was bound to hear. He went to the old chest and took out a small kit. He’d some experience tending wounds in the field, and employed his skills to her as tenderly as he could, assessing her wounds for severity. He removed her mud-soaked gown and kirtle until she wore only a chemise. Rolling her onto her belly, he lifted up the chemise to assess the injuries on her back. It was bruised dark purple and yellow. It looked horrible, as if she’d been kicked by a horse.
Starting when a servant arrived at the doorway, he saw to his relief that it was the kind, level-headed Camsmyth with a tray in hand. Camsmyth looked on sympathetically, inching in with food, water and other sundry items.
“Master Geoffrey’s been at ‘er for days,” Camsmyth said in a sympathetic voice. “Took to beatin‘ ‘er in that room she was kept in. When that lost it’s fancy, he took ‘er up in the yard an’ let the boys taunt her. They chased and harried her, and finally tied her so she couldn’t escape into the wood. Geoffrey said he must have something left to ransom.”
How could he have let this happen? He must’ve been mad to have left her.
“She hasn’t eaten for days,” Camsmyth continued. “Nearly since ye left. Tried to come up with somethin’, I did. But Masters Geoffrey an’ Rouland stationed men at ‘er door to see me off. Wouldn’t let no one in.”
Ascelin turned and punched the wall. Camsmyth placed the tray on the bedside table and dunked a piece of cloth in the basin, dabbing the girl’s forehead and dripping it over her mouth.
“She needs a doctor,” said Ascelin.
“Aye,” Camsmyth agreed, “But I can’t rightly think of one as would come to this house. We’ll just have to do what we can.”
After Camsmyth nursed her for some time, and they’d cleaned and dressed her wounds, he left the room, promising to return in the morning with remedies from his wife, a known local healer. Ascelin closed the door to his chamber and locked it securely. Not out of fear, but to ensure peace for the girl. In truth, he wished to pick a fight with the first man fool enough to disturb them and dole out a merciless beating. He was still seething with hatred of his uncle’s household and everyone in it, wishing the lot of them would fall off the edge of the earth, taking this place with them into the bowels of hell.
A fire had been lit and was warming the room nicely. He sat back in his chair, wearied from travel and the day’s events. The girl stirred in her sleep as he dozed in a chair, watching her. She was covered in rumpled sheets that formed mountains and valleys by the dim light of the fire. And for no reasons other than selfish ones, he lay down next to her on the covers, watching her wander through fitful dreams.
The next morning, he went to Lord Rypon to raise hell about what had transpired in his absence, but found the old man completely indifferent to the abuses suffered by the girl. He actually sneered with mirth when Ascelin told him of what he’d seen in the yard upon his return. And it was in that moment he realized that he’d never fully accepted who his uncle truly was, not really; not until just now. Something in him had always hoped, always imagined something more; projecting it from his own heart onto the old man, envisioning something kinder and deeper within. But he realized now that the old man was nothing more than the blank, heartless monster he seemed, and that the one he’d always hoped for had never existed at all; had been merely an extension of his own self. Before him sat nothing but an animal, one with the lowest of instincts and the basest of minds. Rypon used everything and everyone around him - without remorse - his tenants, his men, even his own kin. He’d never denied his sons any play thing. Surely, he saw such cruel extravagance as a status symbol that reflected upon him as a powerful lord; and viewed the girl as little more than such a play thing, living and breathing to feed his sense of power.
As he stood before his old uncle’s twisted form, he despised the man, pitied him; purely and completely. The childish hope he’d always carried of someday pleasing his uncle and gaining his acceptance broke completely in that moment. He stopped caring. He was free. And he sensed that the noblest thing he could serve now was his own emancipation from this monster. He only wished this great old house, and all those within it, would crash over the cliff it stood upon, crumbling into a forgetful pile of rubble and the bottom, erasing all it’s ugliness.
He turned on his heel and left the room bitterly, in this new knowledge. But the old man picked up on these feelings. Clearly provoked, Lord Rypon barked after him a final decree, his voice menacing in a way that only the old and infirm can be, when the mind is weak enough that intentions can no longer be hidden behind pretense. It was both a play for power and an attempt to provoke Ascelin back into fear, delusion and servitude. But his true meaning hung like a threat, vibrant in the air between them.
“Defy me,” the old man growled. “And you shall see what follows. Do not deny my sons any amusement of theirs. They are the lords of this house now.”
~
Keeping the girl safe from harassment over the next few days required all his time and attention. For, though he knew no one would openly challenge him, his absence would allow opportunity for someone to come and trouble her. She was fragile enough as it was, and he wouldn’t have her harried any more, in mind or body. Summons to come and serve his uncle, in one way or another, were ignored. He was ill at ease to ignore the orders of his master, citing past remonstrations of the condition of his servitude; but calls and bangs upon his door all went unanswered.
The girl improved with time. She moved more than before, and recovered from her fever. Good treatment and food seemed to be bringing her back to life, as well as the careful treatment of Camsmyth and his wife’s renowned concoctions.
~
Maryone woke in a strange room, in a strange bed. The sheets were soft beneath her bare arms and a fire lit the room dimly. The furniture and draperies certainly weren’t fine, but were in better repair than the ones in her last room. As her faculties returned, flashes of the men who’d beaten her flooded her mind - coarse hands reaching over her, their fists falling in deafening blows, their laughter as they chased her through the woods, slobbering dogs biting at her back. She flinched with each image, each memory a physical assault that cut through her peace like a sheet ripping in two. She shook with the sensations, warm tears rolling down her cheeks as they came, one after the other. She endured them until they began to fade, and her emotions felt stable again. But then, like the cool cloak of a ghost falling over her s
houlders, the image of the rumpled, pale, lifeless face of her father fell before her eyes, and it all became too much.
She gasped and whimpered, grasping her shaking head. All she wanted was for the memories to leave, for the fear and ache to stop. She closed her eyes hard against the memory of her father, waiting with clasped, dripping eyes as her emotions swelled like heavy tides. Soon she would be calm again, soon the images would go. But she still flinched with the memory of the cruel men outside, the ones who’d taken everything from her, and seen fit to humble her in her vulnerability. Hadn’t they done enough? Hadn’t they taken enough? But they’d seen fit to take more, her father, her liberty, her dignity and now, even her bodily health. Their cruel, filthy faces loomed over her mind and she hated them more than life. The hate felt palpable, like a burning liquid inside her body, crying out for action. Her heart quickened as she glared intently into the fire, her chest heaving in conjunction with her anger. She seethed inwardly, watching the orange flames as hot, angry tears poured from her eyes, blurring the image. Eventually the feeling calmed and she sniffled, wiping her eyes and nose on the bed sheet.
A pox on this house and every abominable linen in it, she thought.
At the touch of her hand, pain shot through her cheek. She felt around her face lightly with the padded end of her fingertips, testing for sensitivity and pain. Finding it shoot from nearly every touch, she guessed there were substantial bruises covering much of her face. But nothing was too swollen for her to use, thankfully. Her eyes and jaw seemed to be working well enough. But she feared to think what she must look like.
Suddenly, she noticed the dark-haired man slumped in an armchair, covered almost completely in shadow. She couldn’t make out much of him, but saw small tendrils of pipe smoke floating lazily up from his mouth. She focused her eyes on him for a moment, still disoriented; and saw that his eyelids were lowered, but open. He was awake and watching her.
She flinched, swallowing back a panicked reaction; recalling that this was the man who’d brought her food and clothing before. And that although his manner was brash, forward and even alarming at times, he’d never done her any harm. In fact, as she thought about it, it was likely to his credit that she lay here in a warm bed, rather than in a ditch. During all the time she’d been harried by those men, she didn’t recall seeing his face, or hearing his voice among them; not once. Perhaps his absence has caused all of this.
“Where am I?” She asked hoarsely, hoping her assumptions would prove true.
“In my chamber,” he said plainly, his voice gruff.
She realized, as she heard his voice, that the sound of it sent a strange stress through her. She became suddenly aware of her appearance, nervous that she must look a fright. And that - oh lord - she was only wearing a chemise. A faint impression in the back of her foggy mind reminded her that such a situation would have seemed most scandalous to her in the past; alone, immodestly dressed in the chamber of a single man. Yet now, she barely registered the indecency of it. She knew she’d be lucky to survive this predicament at all, let alone maintain her sense of propriety.
She pushed herself up into a sitting position, wincing at the pain that accompanied the movement. The dark-haired man watched silently as she fumbled her way to a comfortable position. She finally settled on leaning back against the bed frame, where she stared tiredly into the fire, not looking at him. In truth, she’d felt it her familial duty to hate him; because of her father. And yet, she found her feelings softening to him, and her initial judgements of his character loosening. She glanced back in his direction, watching his near-still form. He smoked nonchalantly, yet she sensed anxiety from him; grief. Perhaps he could be trusted. She breathed deeply and spoke in a soft, civil voice.
“Thank you,” she said, “For allowing me to sleep here - in your chamber.”
His silhouette started when she spoke, but didn’t reply. So, she sighed and turned her face back to the fire. The warmth of it’s orange light dazed her, and she allowed it’s crackling to soothe her aching mind. Though she didn’t like to admit it, she felt safe here - safe and strangely content. Though she was pained in most of her body and felt very weak, gratitude welled up for the comfort of the bed and the bodyguard at her side. They sat together in silence until she dozed again, suspended between pain, comfort and restful oblivion; everything blurring in a haze of temporary safety.
~
It’d been weeks since Ascelin had come down. He’d developed a very final sense of disdain for his uncle’s house and all who dwelled in it that’d led him to disregard any demands it’d previously laid on him. He cared no longer for his uncle’s approval or favor, so made no efforts to gain it. But after a fortnight of ignored orders, he was summoned - nearly by force - into his uncle’s presence. The food he’d called for hadn’t been brought, for more than five hours. He was being well and truly boycotted. In fact, a servant, who’d been directed to bring vittles several times, had come to inform him that his request had been expressly forbidden by order of Lord Rypon. So Ascelin chose to acquiesce, if only for fear of how his actions may affect the girl. He’d no idea what would happen to her if he provoked his uncle any longer. For they knew she was the perfect way to get to him, to punish him for disobedience.
He trudged down the stairs toward his uncle’s sitting room, his steps limp and dispassionate. He was in no rush. He anticipated threats, orders and intimidation upon arriving; and for his uncle to attempt to force dominance over him once more. He knew that he’d already proven himself to his uncle time and time again. But old Lord Rypon would never change. And for the first time, he simply didn’t care.
When he arrived in the sitting room it was hotter than a forge. A fire blazed high behind old Rypon’s chair, who was flanked by both of his sons. All three stood smug and tall, seeming to pretend an attitude of wounded superiority, of gracious magnanimity - as if they were prepared to do something they didn’t wish to do, but in their benevolent knowledge, must do for the greater good. They were trying to make him feel guilty and inferior, to make him feel the disobedient, irreverent, irresponsible ward. But Ascelin smelled it on them right away, their malice. The mistake they always made was in presuming him to be as simple as they. Their motives wavered beneath him, paths splayed out on a landscape beneath his own, with endings perceived before their wretched campaigns had even begun. Their games were so transparent.
Ignoring his duties had given them a “reason” for the cruelty they were about to inflict; likely some sadistically hatched scheme they wished to act out anyways; but could now blame on him. Old Lord Rypon watched him soberly as he entered the room, his gaze sharp; but softened slightly with the knowledge that his power of manipulation over Ascelin was floundering. The old man knew he must now proceed with greater finesse. But Ascelin could sense the snake circling in the old man’s thoughts, looking for an opening; a way to bring him back under his control and weaken him, a way to compromise his newly-found sovereignty.
Ascelin stood his ground, chin high. It was difficult, for it was a lifelong habit to succumb to the old man’s intimidation; even from a look. And they were all three together, a wall of ingrained coercion.
“Ascelin,” Lord Rypon said, his tone falsely diplomatic. “I’ve come to a decision that shall benefit this house greatly.”
He could tell the old man was setting him up for a blow by softening him first.
“Since I have heard nothing from the girl’s relations, I mean to bargain with Lord Wyndill. He’s been informed of her existence, by clandestine means, of course. Her worth has been exaggerated to the old fool, and I mean to sell her to him.”
Ascelin’s heart caught in his throat.
“She shall fetch this house a bonnie price,” he continued. “That shall benefit all. Though she be not worth it, useless chit as she is. She’s barely worth the rags I’ve kept her in. Her family offers nothing. However, so that Wyndill may never find how he has been cheated, you shall deliver her to him, and before a
rrival, give her this-”
He lifted a small vial from the table next to him.
“- Just before arriving at Wyndill’s castle. After taking it, she shall be dead within a day. It is the only way to avoid further war. Wyndill shall think she took ill, and never learn how I have got the better of him. This deal shall bring peace between our houses. It is for the betterment of this house, and for all,” after a pause he added, “And I shall be most grateful to you for your service.”
Ascelin’s hands shook violently as he listened. His outrage was so complete, his disdain for the man before him so powerful, that he couldn’t speak. Had he not always done what he was told? Had he not always been an obedient and obliging nephew? And now that his uncle felt his servitude slipping away, he dangled his gratitude before him; as if it would be enough to induce him to do such a despicable thing, something that went against his own desires. Such a foolish scheme would never work. Lord Wyndill was no fool. Rypon was playing with him. This was a game, one designed for him to lose. Rypon and his hateful sons were doing this for nothing other than sport, they were toying with him. Ascelin shook as he spoke through gritted teeth.
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