“Within the hour,” the cook replied. “I’m moving as fast as I can.”
“I had hoped for sooner,” Ayla admitted, breathing the smell of the food in deep.
“Oh, lady. I’m sorry. You know I can’t feed you,” Sarella said, her face wrinkling in discomfort.
“I know,” Ayla muttered. “Is Nyven still ill?”
“Quite. A bad grippe. It seems to be making rounds among the men.”
“Does Isalde have it too?”
“No, she’s…” Sarella stopped stirring abruptly and looked around the kitchen, as if just noticing the girl was nowhere to be seen. “Mercy, she’s dawdling below again.Isalde!”
Both women fell silent, waiting for a response to come from the cellar. None came. With a muttered growl, Sarella set down her wood utensil and moved the sauce off the flame.
“I’ll find Isalde,” Ayla immediately said, anxious the meal might be delayed.
“No, lady,” Sarella said quickly. “There’s no need for you to be taking on chores. I’m going to tan that girl.”
“The world will not end simply because I walk into the cellar,” Ayla reassured her. “I wasn’t born in a castle. And you have plenty to occupy you.” Sarella gave her a tight smile, but returned to her sauce.
Ayla grabbed a lantern and lit it from the fire with a thin wooden spill. Lifting her skirts in one hand she descended the stairs. The lower pantry was just at the base of the kitchen stair, but the hall continued on, to storage and wine and dungeons. The temperature rose slightly as she descended below the frost line, insulated by the terra but still achingly cold.
The door to the pantry was closed. She heard noises on the other side, something being moved, like Isalde was shifting the contents of all the shelves trying to find something. And the lowest murmur of a voice, like she was talking to herself.
Ayla opened the door and ducked under the low mantle beam. The pantry was a large room, lined with heavy, ceiling-high wooden shelves full of the castle’s food stores. Without windows, it was dark inside except the light she carried, and the bright light she could see shining a few rows away, faintly glazing the edges of a row of ceramic pickle-jars.
She heard a scrape, like something being dragged. Perhaps one of the big sacks of grain.
“Isalde?” Ayla called. “Are you having trouble?”
“No, lady,” Isalde’s high voice called back to her.
She held the lantern higher and stepped towards the distant light. Ayla passed one shelf, then the next, Isalde’s lantern growing brighter.
“Sarella was worrying. If you’re having trouble…”
A man lunged out from behind the shelf and tackled her.
Attack
Ayla screamed as loudly as she could. The lantern slipped from her fingers as she stumbled. Glass shattered on the stone, extinguishing the small candle inside. She could barely see her attacker. But she could feel his chainmail shirt pressing hard against her skin and his hot breath on her ear as he yanked her tight against him. She managed another scream, praying someone would hear. Then his hand clamped tight over her mouth.
“Be quiet,” the man hissed. He dragged her back towards where Isalde’s voice had come from.
Ayla thrashed. Her elbow connected with mail in a sting of pain. She jerked again, twisting. For a moment the arm around her loosened, but she’d barely made it an inch from the man when he hauled her tight again.
Does Niel know his men are down here? Her mind bleated. Surely there were more important things to worry about, as a soldier hauled her deeper into the cellar, than whether theknight knew what his men were getting up to. Was the soldier hurting Isalde? Was he going to hurt Ayla, too?
Who cared what punishment awaited the man, if she didn’t live to see it?
“Lady?” She heard Sarella yell from upstairs. “Are you hurt?”
She tried to scream back. The hand over her mouth tightened. She could taste his skin, bitterness and salt.
“Stop fighting. We’re here to save you,” the man hissed in her ear.
He pulled her around the corner of the shelf, to where Isalde held a bright lantern, the young maid’s lips pressed tight.
