Ayla forced herself upright onto wobbly legs. The body was gone, but she could still see blood on the ground, a trail of it where the corpse had been dragged out. And blood dripping off the knight’s sword, still dangling from one hand. She saw servants making their way out one of the other doors, escorted by the conquering warriors. Ayla stumbled towards them.
As she stepped past the knight, his large hand snapped out and grabbed her around the bicep. It wouldn’t have been hard enough to hurt, had she not already been bruised. Ayla flinched.
“Not you,” Lord Niel said, staring straight ahead at the servants leaving the hall instead of looking at her.
“But…”
“They are not part of this conflict,” the knight said. “You are, Lady of Blackfell. Sit back down. You will not step foot outside this castle without my leave.”
Every muscle in her body tensed. He sounded just like Ditmar.
As she took her seat, she saw Sarella pause in the doorway, and turn, and meet Ayla’s eyes. Slowly, the maid walked back into the room and stopped where the servants had been herded. A handful of others came back in with her. Nyven, the man who oversaw the kitchens. Megh, who cleaned Ayla’s room and lit her fires. Andrek, the hostler she liked most, who always had a kind word for Gemshorn and hot mash for the gelding in winter. With them came others, a dozen of the staff returning and standing stiffly in the hall, each with a nod to Ayla.
“No,” she whispered to them, her throat tight. “Go. Don’t stay for me.” Most had families in the village outside the castle, and spent their nights in their own homes, not under Ditmar’s roof. They couldn’t be trapped here, not when their loved ones were outside the walls.
Nyven put his arm around Sarella comfortingly, and met the knight’s eyes with a firmness she thought he only had for slow-moving cooks.
“Be certain of your choice,” the knight told them, his voice a warning. “This is your last chance to leave these walls.”
“No,” Ayla whispered again, the sound thin and strangled.
Not one of them moved. Ayla curled her hands into fists and tried not to cry.
Ransom Notes
The knock on her door was light, and not demanding. Ayla quickly slipped her book of poems beneath the blankets. The familiar words had not been helping much to sooth her fears.
“Yes?” she called. She was fairly certain it was a servant on the other side, not a soldier, but she couldn’t help but stare nervously as she waited to find out.
Morning light illuminated a bed chamber slightly sparser than it had been a few days ago. Megh and the other servants had cleaned up the mess Ditmar made just yesterday, but they hadn’t replaced the mirror, or the ceramic jars of cosmetics she’d kept on her desk. The stilder garland was back up on the wall, but it didn’t drape as gracefully as before.
And there had been glass in the rug, from the vase Ayla had made herself, the very last piece she’d owned from her personal collection. Ditmar knew how to hit where it hurt. She’d never be able to replace it, since she doubted she'd ever be allowed to blow glass again. They’d taken the rug out to clean it, but whatwith the traitor’s conquest, it had not yet made its way back into her room. The floor was strewn with layers of loose rushes over the stone instead.
A moment later the door creaked open and Megh slipped inside. The plump maidservant’s pale brown hair was up in two neat braids that only reached her shoulders.
“All’s well, my lady?” Megh asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, her eyes nervously flicking over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her. Ayla’s room was smaller than Ditmar’s by a good deal, though she’d always been grateful to have her own space. Megh stood just past the wooden foot board.
“Well as can be,” Ayla said back, quietly. “How is—well, everyone?”
“The same, lady. We had no more trouble last night.”
No more trouble. The image of Cataerin’s tear-stricken face punched back into Ayla’s mind. She shivered and let her eyes fall closed for a moment. But Cataerin was among those who’d left. She wouldn’t have to see any of the northern soldiers again. And hopefully the knight’s quick, brutal show of violence meant the other servants would be safe, at least from his men. She still couldn’t say whether the knight himself would follow the same rules he imposed on the soldiers.
“Good. That’s good,” she whispered.
“The knight wants you, lady. Now, he said.” Megh’s voice was nervous. She twisted her hands into her apron and gave Ayla a pitying look. Ayla's stomach dropped.
“Did he say what for?”
“No. He’s in the hall.”
Ayla nodded stiffly. Even with Ditmar gone, the routine was familiar: Megh, summoning her to a man’s whims.
“Very well,” she said softly. “The castle may have switched hands, but some things never change, do they? You may leave, Megh. I’ll be down in a moment.”
“Do you need anything, lady? Help with your dress, or…?”
“No, thank you,” Ayla said, and forced a soft smile so Megh would not worry. “I daresay you have enough to fret over just now.” Megh curtsied again and left, quietly closing the door behind her. Ayla granted herself a moment of peace, breathing deep the cold, crisp air and the woodsmoke from her fire. A quick glance out the window showed her castle walls lined with enemy soldiers standing sentry. She couldn’t see any sign of Ditmar, but she knew he was holed up in the village outside the castle walls.
