by SL Figuhr
Joseph stopped a small boy. “Where is Mary Elana?”
The kid blinked stupidly at him a moment. “Um. Inside.” He pointed to a small cottage which had a plume of smoke rising from the chimney, hurried off.
The man walked the few paces to the door. Jenfry shivered, her small eyes almost lost in the fat folds of her face as she glared about in envy. The place had been abandoned so long it was tumbling down, but its former glory still showed in spots.
Bitch, whore! How dare she just steal me daughter, fuck the king, and have everyone bowing and scraping to her.
A middle-aged slave woman with reddish-brown hair and faded blue eyes answered. “Yes?”
“I am Priester Joseph, and this is my sister in faith. I have come to see the girl, Mary Elana, and minister to her soul.”
The woman had the audacity to frown at him. “My mistress made no mention of such a visit. If you would care to come another day?”
“No doubt she has forgotten, with the work she does for His Majesty,” Joseph announced gravely.
A crease appeared between her brows as she regarded him, then Jenfry. “A moment, please.” She shut the door.
Joseph hissed in anger. How dare she close the door on him! How dare she not invite him in out of the cold as any good-hearted person should?
“Snooty bitch,” Jenfry muttered.
They waited what seemed a long time. The same woman opened the door again. “Please come inside.” She stood to one side as they entered a small room.
It had been newly whitewashed, and precious glass gleamed in the windows. A fire burned merrily in the grate, warming the space. The wooden floor had been recently scrubbed and sanded.
“May I take your cloaks while you wait? The girl will be out in a moment.” She gestured to a couch and set of chairs arranged before the hearth.
A closed wooden door was to one side of the fireplace. Jenfry handed her garment over with what she thought a grand air. She was free-born, she should be treated with respect. The woman moved to sit on the couch as the priest took a chair.
The slave paused a moment. “Would you care for food or drink while you wait?”
“Yeah,” Jenfry replied.
The woman left, carrying their cloaks with her, the door shutting behind. Jenfry wiggled back into the couch. Cushions had been placed on the seat in an effort to make it more comfortable. Light shone through the windows. A pair of candelabra stood on either end of the mantel, and an oil lantern in the shape of a teardrop sat on a low wooden table.
She was a bit surprised the slave had not told them to go around back, and had let them into the front room. Noble bitch, my ass. She probably just some jumped-up common slut trying to pretend she be of high birth. If she really was, ain’t no way we be sitting here and being served by a slave like we gentry. Still, it was a nice change of pace from what she was used to.
After a moment, the slave woman came out bearing a tray which she set down before them and removed lids from a variety of dishes. Jenfry couldn’t help her eyes popping wide. A small dish held salt, a commodity more precious than gold. A platter held a loaf of bread, fresh out of the oven from the smell rising off it. Another plate held fat sausages, still spitting fat from the grilling, a third, a small wheel of cheese. A bowl of water with herbs floating in it was set down, along with finger cloths. The last to be unloaded were two silver mugs of frothy ale and large, snowy white linen squares. The slave took up the now-empty tray and left.
Joseph glared at the offending bowl of water, and linen. He reached out a dirt-crusted hand, grabbed up a sausage, tore a hunk of fragrant bread off, cut a generous slice of cheese, mashed it all together with a large dose of salt and proceeded to eat. Jenfry wasn’t raised to have any social graces, but she had heard her slaves talk of their past lives when they thought no one listened. Even though she mocked them, and took delight when they were broken in and taught their place, she enjoyed the thought the slave had shown her more deference then her status deserved.
She took the time to dip her hands in the water; it was warm, and smelt faintly of rosemary and lemon balm. The bread was yeasty, with a light texture and flavor, very different from her own hard, coarse, sometimes flat, attempts. The salt she sprinkled over it, bringing out the flavor. The cheese had a rich, buttery, creamy taste without any of the tart overtones that suggested goat’s milk—could it be cow’s milk? The sausage stuffed with garlic, herbs and spices she couldn’t identify. The smoky flavor burst in her mouth as the thin casing gave way to tender moist meats, finely ground, inside. The ale was chilled. It slid smoothly down her throat, tasting of hops, wheat, and honey. It tasted clean, crisp.
I almost don’t care if the bitch don’t come. The trip alone is worth the meal. A’course, bitch better greet her ma. Maybe I can get some coin offa her.
The door opened, and she looked up to see her daughter hovering fearfully. “Well it’s about time!” Jenfry snapped around a mouthful of food. “Git over here and greet yer ma proper like.”
Mary Elana sidled into the room, passing in front of the fire to the only unoccupied chair where she stood, transfixed. Her fingers knotted around each other.
Jenfry sneered at her child, bile rising in her throat at sight of her. “Sit down!” she barked.
The child’s face whitened in terror, but she did as bid. Her mother continued to eat as she inspected the girl, wide-eyed as any rabbit when the hawk swoops over. The woman paused to belch as her daughter sat there in silence.
Her owner had clothed the young teenager in a pale green dress, with a brown laced stomacher. She had brown deerskin slippers which peeped out from underneath her skirt and a white eyelet flounce which probably belonged to a shift. Her brown hair was clean, combed in a long braid down her back and tied with a green ribbon. Most of the bruises she had received from her father’s discipline showed a sickly greenish-yellow. She still had purplish rings around her puffy eyes, and her lips had scabs on them from where they had been split. Around her neck sat a slim, ornately twisted collar etched with a raven sigil. The ends and knobs of her bones could still be seen, but not as obviously as when she lived at home.
“Looks like the bitch give you food and clothes. Your pa and I starve and scrape to make ends meet after the whore stole you. But you don’t care, do you? You don’t even wanna see us, think you’re better than us now you serve a duchess. You whore, you don’t think to ask how we are, if we need anythin’?”
Mary Elana’s face grew whiter at each word, her eyes more terror-stricken. She leaned back without realizing it as her mother loomed forward, spraying food and spit with each vituperative sentence.
“You just wait, you slut, you ‘ho. You’ll mess up like you always do, then she won’t want you anymore, will she? Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll agree to buy you back, or maybe I won’t. It might just serve you right, fat cow, if she sells you to someone who knows how to treat slaves, with proper discipline.”
The priest belched, finishing off the last of his ale. “Mary Elana!” he barked.
The girl flinched at his tone, shrinking further back into the chair. Her hands twisted and wrung more frantically, tears leaked silently from beneath her lids.
“You are wicked to forget about your parents and your origins. You have taken the first steps on the road to the wasteland of the Death Land. You live in a house of sin and debauchery. You must pray toward mercy and reward in the un-dying lands.”
The girl shook her head, crying harder. Her sobs broke forth in great heaving bursts, sniffing snot back. Her mother shot an irritated glance at the priest.
“Listen here, girly, when that woman whores you to her male callers, you get coin offa them, you hear me? And you make sure the first man who lays with you pays a lotta gold for the privilege of bedding a virgin.”
“Foul, evil minded women! How dare you corrupt innocent souls! You listen to me, girl, you lay with a man not your lawful husband, and you’ll pay for it. You will be cast out to live amo
ng the whores, you will give birth to deformed monstrosities! You will be un-savable!”
“You leave my kid alone with your crazy shit! You got your food and drink, now git out and leave us alone!” Jenfry rounded on the sanctimonious man.
Her daughter curled over into herself, weeping harshly, keening and rocking as the adults screamed at each other. No one heard the inner door open, nor saw the appalled face of Susafan. She hustled the girl from the room. The door slamming shut behind her stopped the feud. They stood, staring a moment where the girl had been.
Jenfry rounded back on the priest. “Now look what ya done! I better be able to see my daughter after the trouble you caused.”
“You dare threaten a holy man? Spiritual advisor to Lord Nicky?”
“Hah! We do more for him then your mumbo jumbo and hand-waving.”
The door opened, a male slave stepping forth. “Your pardon, but my mistress wishes you off the property.”
“I ain’t done visiting with my daughter!” Jenfry hissed at the man.
“The girl’s soul needs to be saved,” Joseph added.
The man stepped further into the room, followed by another. Each held one of the visitors’ cloaks. Both wore a thicker version of the collar Mary Elana had around her neck. Black leather boots laced up to their knees, with heavy cotton pants tucked into them, also black. Their collarless white shirts could not hide the bulge of muscles.
“I didn’t make myself clear. You can leave of your own free will, or we can throw you out.”
The two visitors bristled angrily.
“I’m her mother!”
“I’m a priest!”
The second man snorted, shrugged his shoulders, and moved forward. A small mountain in motion. Jenfry stood her ground a moment before snatching her cloak back, and wrenching the door open, calling over her shoulder as she left,
“I’ll complain to the sheriff about your treatment of a free-born!”
The priest continued to protest, and had to be frog-marched out the gates. He was heaved onto the icy cobbles, crusty robes flying up to reveal skinny, dirty, hairy legs. He stomped off down the hill to the jeers of the guards.
* * *
Mary Elana sat at the kitchen table, head down on her crossed arms as she wept bitterly. She was just starting to get used to being a slave when her mother had come.
“Shhhh, shhhh now.” Susafan tried calming the girl, rubbing her back. “I’m sorry I ever let them in. Her Grace never said anything about them not being allowed to visit you.” Her tone genuinely distressed.
The fat cook lumbered about the small kitchen, banging pots and pans as was his wont, cursing the inadequate space. “You’ll have to tell Her Grace what you done,” he barked out, cleaver slamming through a duck’s neck.
Guts plopped onto the table with a wet slap. “Who you think gave her those bruises?” He waved viscera and cleaver, drops of blood splattering as he gesticulated.
“I thought it was just her father.” Susafan’s tone horrified.
The cook snorted as he seasoned the duck, clapped the clay lid on the pot, and shoved it into the glowing ashes. He swept the remains into a pail destined for the slaves’ soup pot, plunged the cleaver into a bucket of water before putting it up and moving onto the next dish. Susafan bit her lip as the girl continued sobbing.
“Take the girl outta here! I got a supper to get ready and her weeping’s gonna turn the food sour!” he raged, brandishing a kitchen implement.
Susafan hauled the girl up, still crying and walked her to the small room set aside for the slaves to relax at day’s end. Mary Elana curled up on the couch, sobs wrenching out. The older slave left her there, and went in search of her mistress. She decided to try her office, then her bedroom. No luck. She went about her chores until it was time for the household meal. The maid’s nostrils flared in distaste as they did at every sight of the outside slaves sitting to table.
Mary Elana sat woebegone in her usual place. She had stopped crying, her eyes swollen, face red, and mechanically ate and drank what was set before her. She cleared up silently, and stood waiting for Cook to give her orders.
“You git on out of here now,” the man growled.
The young woman trudged down the hall, voices came to her ears, muffled behind a closed door. She heard her name mentioned and stopped.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t understand you wanted them kept from her even here.”
“I will speak with the staff on the matter. How is she?”
“Back to crying and not talking.” Susafan’s voice held a note of exasperation.
“Very well. Tell her I wish to speak with her.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The door opened abruptly, startling the girl out of her haze with a yip of surprise, eyes wide in terror. Susafan nudged the young woman toward the room. “Go on, don’t make her wait.”
Mary Elana didn’t think she could, but her mistress called softly and she found her feet taking her inside the small office. She cringed, shoulders hunched inward, staring at the table top before her, quaking in fear.
A small brass goblet was held in her sight line. “Drink, child. You are not in trouble.” Drink, ease your fear, calm your worries.
The girl hesitantly took the vessel and sipped. Sweet, spiced wine rolled over her tongue and down her throat. It felt like a little ball of fire in her stomach. She obediently drank until there was only a sip or two swilling around the bottom of the goblet.
A hand took the goblet, and she heard the chink and gurgle of liquid pouring. The goblet once more offered to her. Her pounding heart and gasping breath calmed as the wine slowly warmed her.
“I am sorry your mother and Joseph upset you today. They will not bother you here again.” Her tone dark and angry.
Mary Elana shook her head, not wanting to sit before her mistress, not believing what happened wasn’t her fault. She would be sold, she knew it. What owner wanted a slave who caused so many problems? She didn’t realize she had finished the second goblet of wine and held the empty in a shaking hand.
A rustle sounded, the goblet taken from her. Fingers silky cold, perfumed, touched under her chin and lifted her face up. The girl kept her eyes cast down, a sliver of yellow gown all she could see.
“Look at me, please.” The command gentle but insistent.
Watery brown eyes looked into green, brown gold ones. “I want you to feel safe here. I have no plans on selling, chastising, or treating you in the manner to which you were accustomed at the tavern. I have decided you shall learn to be a house slave, not a girl of odd jobs, unless there is some other work here you prefer?”
Mary Elana shook her head; she had no skills beyond being a barmaid.
“Very well. Tomorrow you will start. Go, enjoy your evening off.”
The young woman sat dazed a moment, questions swarming in her brain which she had no courage to ask. She forced herself to stand, shaky from nerves and wine. It was evening, dark and cold. She didn’t want to return to the cramped room she shared with Susafan, nor to the communal space set aside for the slaves. A cutting wind blew through her as she stepped outside, forcing her to fight for air at the sudden shock of it.
Her feet automatically took her to the stables, wooden clogs clacking on icy, snowy stones and dirt. A row of horses who dozed or munched contentedly. The smells of manure, hay, and warm flesh tickled her nose. A mare poked her head curiously over the stall door and nickered, hoping for treats. The nose was velvety soft, the whiskers tickled her hands. The mare nudged her shoulder, then stood quietly as the girl laid her face against the glossy brown neck, petting and crying.
Chapter Thirteen
Eron stood in worn jeans and a faded long-sleeved purple shirt. Behind him was a line of dark stone and brick buildings. Their plate glass windows gleamed in the street lights. He leaned against the side of a battered SUV, hands shoved in his pockets. Next to him was a younger man with red hair and brown eyes. He had on jeans and a t-
shirt under a red leather racing jacket and heavy boots. He carried a full face helmet in his leather-gloved hands and he was looking at Illyria in awe.
“Man that is some bike.” The kid’s tone admiring.
Trouble, in an armor-clad leather racing suit, stood next to a shiny black Ducati which put the kid’s bike to shame. Her hair stirred in the slight breeze blowing around them.
“Don’t,” Eron said to her.
A teasing smile curled her lips up as she looked at the kid. “So you like to ride, do you?” Her tone seductive.
“Hell, I like to race; what I couldn’t do with a bike like that.”
“Don’t,” Eron straightened up from the vehicle. “Mica won’t like it. Stay away from the boy.”
“Awwww, come on. A pretty lady like her?”
“Think you can keep up?” she flirted back.
“Against a bike like that? You get me a bike like that, I can outrace anyone. This one, not so much.”
“Pity,” she purred, slung a leg over the bike, revved it up then let it purr, though more throatily and an octave or two lower. “I was hoping for some competition.”
Donny’s mouth dropped open. “What’ll I get if I can keep up?”
“Illyria.” The warning tone low.
She slowly let her gaze roam up the kid and back down. “Perhaps a chance at a dream.” She revved the engine again to drown out Eron.
The kid’s eyebrows flew up. He jammed the helmet on his head, revved his bike, and flipped the face-shield down as the woman took off. The wind blew her hair back in a tangle.
* * *
Eron was in the middle of training practice when the memory surfaced, causing him to stumble enough that the woman opposite got several good hits in with her wooden sword before he could get his shield up. They finished the round, and he gave some pointers before letting them take a water break.
As the immortal turned around, a slave stood with his missing friend, who appeared exhausted. Eron walked over, “Yes, Rolf?”