With alcohol rank on his breath, the English sellsword whispered, “Now don’t you make a sound, understand?” She didn’t respond, the blade close to her neck, terror and paralyzing fear taking hold of her whole being. She knew what he wanted but couldn’t believe that he would act on it there and then, but it was happening, and there was nothing she could do.
He gave a low chuckle as he removed the hand from her mouth just long enough to fumble with his belt, and then he gave her a shove, sending her down to the floor on her back, crushing her own hands, and she cried out in a burst of pain.
“Wench!” he hissed, trying to climb down on top of her. “I told you not to—”
But then he gave a grunt, falling down to one knee, and Laila looked up in a panic to see the knight that had been slumbering just a moment ago standing over them, that long dagger in his hand, slick with the drunkard’s blood. The man folded over and fell to the ground, groaning out in pain as his life left him, and the room began to stir as people woke.
Laila was shaking. She had been terrified a moment ago, and now she was saved, unharmed, but also confronted with violence in a way she never had been. All of it was terrible, and she tried to scoot back against the wall, her lips trembling. People began to look around, and the knight guarding her got on top of the bench he was sleeping on a moment before and held the bloody dagger aloft.
“Lord Hamilton’s property is off limits!” he bellowed, and people began to put together what had happened. “Now, get this wretch out of here.”
A few bleary-eyed knights stumbled over and unceremoniously dragged the dead man outside while the knight who did the killing calmly cleaned his blade on his tabard.
He looked down at her and said, “You alright?”
“Yes,” she gasped, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Fine, I’m fine.” He gave a stern nod and slid the blade back into its sheath. “Thank you.”
“Didn’t do it for you,” he said, giving her a strange glance. “Did it for the gold. Go back to sleep.”
Laila had her eyes open the rest of the night and twitched uncomfortably at any little sound, even if they were just sleeping men rolling over in their slumber. When the sun began to rise and creep into the windows on the second floor, Laila let out a massive breath of relief.
The assembly of sellswords and Scotsmen rose gradually, and Laila watched them making ready for the day. In the gradual light, she could see the blood of the man from the night before, eerily close to her feet. She felt sick.
“Bit of a scuffle last night?” Sir Simon said, walking up to her and the knight standing guard.
“Just a lowlife,” the man grunted. “I dealt with him.”
“Well done,” Sir Simon nodded, scratching his chin and glancing down at Laila. Then he reached into his coin purse and handed the knight a silver piece, and Laila knew he had been telling the truth. He didn’t care one way what happened to her. He was in this for himself and making sure she was unhurt was a way to get paid.
“Is this what war is like?” she asked, much to the surprise of Sir Simon and the knight standing guard. “This disregard for life?”
“Not by a stretch,” Sir Simon laughed. “War is much worse.” This got a chuckle out of the knight, and Laila understood the little clerk’s hesitancy to help her. Even bringing her water had been bold, and she felt a massive appreciation for Walter, even if she could not understand why he was there in the first place.
“Saddle up, lads!” Sir Simon bellowed out. “Let’s get us some silver!”
A cheer went up from the men in the inn, and Laila watched them prepare for battle. They helped each other straps on their mail, and fastened their sword belts tighter, and slapped each other on the back of the head as they took one last drink before riding out.
“You,” Sir Simon said, pointing to the knight who had saved Laila from horror, “stay with her. “You two as well, protect the Lord,” picking out two others. Laila saw relief on their faces, further conflicting her interpretation of these men. They truly were just broken veterans of a life of war who did not want to die but knew no other way to live or make money. Strangely, she felt pity for them. They were captives to their own history, their own lives, and while they had done deplorable things and rode out that day to do more terrible acts, they knew nothing else. The world, Laila had been learning ever since she left the walls of Willby, was a terribly complicated place.
Lord Hamilton emerged from a room on the inn's ground floor, limping toward the center doors to watch the troops assemble. He took a stray cup of ale from the table, no doubt flat and warm from sitting out the entirety of the night, and downed it without blinking.
“Off then, are you Simon?”
“Aye, Milord,” Sir Simon replied, looking around as the men assembled out front of the inn. Laila saw the knights mounting up through the large double doors and the Scots bearing their swords and axes, and she felt her heart breaking.
“Don’t!” she yelled out, causing Lord Hamilton to look her way. “Don’t do it! Spare him!”
“Ha!” Lord Hamilton cackled. “Spare him. Listen to her. My bride has much to learn,” he said to Sir Simon. Then he turned to address her and said, “there is no mercy in this world for me, my dear, and so I shall not show mercy to anyone.” Then he turned back to Simon and said, “I want him alive.”
“It will be done, Milord,” Sir Simon said, and with that, he went out into the yard. “Let’s ride!” he yelled, and the procession of soldiers began to filter out of Laila’s view. She looked around and saw the squeamish Walter standing near Lord Hamilton. She gave him a hard look, pleading with him silently, and he cast his nervous eyes downwards.
“Come, Walter,” Lord Hamilton said in a jovial tone. “Find me some breakfast.”
“Right away, Milord,” he said, shuffling off, and Laila knew there was nothing she could do to stop the violence that was about to break out.
