Silas
Five rounds with my best fighter wore me out to the point where I could finally think straight again. With the dull exhaustion of limber muscles and expended exertion filling my senses, the memories of Ivy and her tragic demise lost some of their poignancy. I left my opponents to tend to their bruises and set about doing the same for mine.
When I emerged into the inner bailey, the bitter wind cut through my sweaty linen shirt and thin woolen tunic. I welcomed the chill, but my lack of full dress drew looks from the matron delivering the milk and butter from the village. I honored her with a bow before ducking through the door into the undercroft between the servants unloading her cart.
I circumvented the edges of the kitchen. By the scents I guessed chicken, stew, and honeyed yams were on the menu. My stomach growled.
“Not that way!” A great crashing of metal preceded sobs. “Don’t cry, child. Scrub. You will never finish at this rate.”
Bronwick emerged from her office, looking angrier than I had seen in ages.
“The new hires not working out?” I asked.
She snorted. “One is useless at least. It is going to take weeks to teach her to scrub pots at this rate. It takes so little intelligence for such a task that I dare not try her at another.”
“Now hold the brush like this,” the disembodied voice instructed. Another clatter marked the dropping of the brush. Both Bronwick and I flinched.
“Give them time,” I admonished. Only a few hours had passed since their hiring.
Bronwick snorted in a most dignified manner before stalking off to deal with the situation.
I took myself out of her range of emoting. As Rambler would say, “No good deed goes unpunished.” I took the stairs to the first floor. I would have to devise a way to gain my housekeeper’s good graces again, or the whole household would suffer.
At the top of the undercroft stair, I emerged into my great hall. The raftered ceiling extended two floors up, and the gleaming glazed windows above the dais were the envy of the seven duchies. Two great fireplaces, long as seven men and deep as two, spanned the west and east walls, heating the whole. I paused before the west fireplace, taking a moment to let my damp shirt dry a bit in the heat of the blaze before I retreated to my chambers to change.
Around me, the muted bustle and cheer of the pages and servants setting out the midday meal made me smile. I could not claim any credit for the glazed windows, high ceiling, or great fireplaces. They had all been contributions of my ancestors. However, I could claim a hand in keeping the place staffed, maintained, and reasonably peaceful. My father had accomplished none of those things.
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