Looking once more behind her Wynn walked into the stables, noting the scent of hay which lingered in her nostrils. The eight horses inside their stalls trampled the ground curiously at Wynn, smelling her aroma and pricking their ears up at the sound of her breathing. Taking time to stroke each one Wynn made her way around all of the horses, enjoying the simple, mutual love which radiated around her. The sound of whining interrupted her and once Wynn had finished stroking the last horse Wynn walked to the end of the stables. There a Beagle bitch lay on the cold, hard ground, six puppies latched onto her, drinking furiously. Wynn knelt down and stroked the bitch’s head. She growled at Wynn but eventually relented as she realised Wynn meant her and her puppies no harm. One of the puppies stopped drinking and turned and looked at Wynn, its tail wagging furiously with curiosity. Wynn smiled at the little puppy, feeling a spike of jealously that the puppy knew its mother and was loved and cared for – before quickly brushing the feeling away.
The woman carried a baby, a few weeks old; it slept against her breast, a shock of black hair covering its head, to match hers. Around the baby’s neck a thin golden chain lay against the folds of her dress, a tiny star pendant dangling from it, glinting in the meagre light.
Wynn closed her eyes to block out her dream, for some reason today it was smothering, an inescapable part of her. She took a deep breath and forced herself to think of nothing but the horses that surrounded her. Satisfied her dream would not plague her she
stood up and walked back through the stables to the entrance. A black mare beside Wynn, who Wynn had spent slightly longer stroking, poked her head over the stall and nudged her shoulder to gain her attention.
“Ebony,” Wynn smiled, turning round to stroke the horse’s long smooth nose once more.
“Beautiful isn’t she?” A voice said admiringly from behind Wynn. Wynn jumped away from Ebony in shock, her hands clenched in fear, searching around for the voice. She spotted a figure standing in the entrance of the stables, silhouetted by the sunlight. His outline was distinctly male and Wynn felt a shiver of fear, knowing she could be whipped for visiting the stables.
“Yes,” she agreed weakly, forcing herself to answer, as was only proper for a maid, lowering her head so the man could not see her face. The man walked closer to her, his footsteps mirroring her beating heart and through her lashes she could see he was young, with long, brown hair which he had tied back with a leather throng, a gentle face and strong chin. He wore long, thigh high, black leather boots over riding breeches and an off-white shirt.
He reached Wynn and Ebony, patted Ebony on the neck, who whinnied softly at his touch and turned to Wynn, “Who are you?”
Wynn blushed in shame and fear, her head still lowered, “I am no one, just a maid, I sometimes come here to see the horses,” she whispered. Her shoulders clenched as she waited for the strike, how would it materialise? A slap, a punch, the crack of a whip? Either way she knew it was inevitable.
The young man smiled wryly, “Well don’t you worry, our visit shall remain a secret, horses need love and attention and it seems you are one of the only people here that give it to them. Certainly you are the only person I have seen in here since I arrived. What is your name?”
Wynn gulped painfully, her mouth dry in fear, “Wynn,” she said hoarsely.
The young man smiled and held out his hand in welcome. Wynn stepped back despite herself, fearing the pain that would come at the hand of this young man. She was used to men coming and going from the Manor, and more often than not they showed a less than innocent interest in her, they came in all guises and this young man was no different in her eyes. The man frowned at her reaction to him, taking his hand away and looking carefully at Wynn’s face for the first time. He noted her bleeding lip, red marks scratched down on her cheek. Wynn felt his eyes searching her face and turned away.
He put his hand on her shoulder and forced her to turn around and face him, his grip was strong and insistent and Wynn could not have fought it even if she tried, “What happened to you? Who did this?” He demanded.
Wynn shook her head and moved to leave but the man pulled her back and waited. Wynn’s heart beat against her chest, wondering what would happen now. She was in an impossible situation, she was in the stables without permission and this stranger was now pressing her for information against the Master. Whatever happened she would be beaten, the only variable she could not count on was how severely. She raised her eyes and met with the man’s, they were a beautiful, clear blue and for a moment she was speechless, all thoughts of pain driven from her mind, but the pressure of his hand on her shoulder brought her back and she whispered, so quietly that the young man had to strain to hear her, “The Master.”
Wynn waited as the words left her mouth, ill word against the Master earned lashes from the General and she had not only spoke against him but was trespassing in his stables. The horses had stopped shuffling in their boxes and the puppies had stopped whining, as though listening to the conversation. A tense silence stretched through the stables, Wynn stood awkwardly in front of the man, unsure what to do. She had never met a male who did not try to hurt her or man-handle her. She could feel her muscles were tensed, in preparation to defend herself, but the man did not move; he merely stared into her eyes. He had never met someone with such green eyes, the colour of emeralds. It made him sad to see that her eyes were so cheerless, yet they sparkled with such determination that he instantly felt stronger just from gazing at her.
The man suddenly realised his hand was still rested on Wynn’s shoulder and he quickly lifted it off, clearing his throat. Wynn stepped back, leaving a sizable gap between them, he had not hurt her or belittled her and had seemed genuinely concerned over her split lip and scratches in a way that a man never was and never had been to her before. Was it a trick? She swallowed and turned to leave before the man changed his mind, but stopped and looked at him once more.
“You never told me your name,” she said softly.
The young man smiled, “Byron.”
Wynn nodded and curtsied messily before quickly sprinting off the kitchen, knowing Cook would have countless chores for her. As she ran into the kitchen, which was damp with condensation and warm compared to the brisk morning air outside she took a deep breath and pushed the meeting with Byron out of her mind. Over the fire the whole carcass of a deer was attached to the spit. A sullen looking boy stood turning the handle, to ensure the meat was cooked thoroughly and evenly. Cook looked up from the potatoes she had been peeling when Wynn entered and beckoned her over.
“We have run out of a few supplies and the errand boy is far too ill to go, I checked on him myself, it is the bloody flux. If the Master found out he would surely whip the boy, can you go in his place? You know I would not ask...”
Wynn hid a grin at Cook’s attempt at subtlety – Cook was loud and was never one to be silenced, the only person able to do that was the Master and Cook obeyed him very grudgingly – and listened intently to the long list of supplies that was needed, accepting a small wicker basket and copper coins as though they were solid gold. With a nod she ran to her room, picked her thick black cloak up from the floor and wrapped it around her neck before rushing out of the back door, more money than she had ever owned clinking in her cloak pocket.
***
Wynn had scarcely visited the town in all her years serving the Master. It was a world completely alien to her, for her life revolved resolutely around the Master and the Manor, and yet every visit it seemed was the same. The army positioned themselves on horseback at every shop entrance and lazily leant against walls, randomly stopping people and searching their shopping, taking anything they fancied. The villagers as a whole kept their heads low, trying desperately to blend in, to be boring, walking quickly with their heavy loads to their homes.
Wynn knew exactly why Cook was anxious to protect her, and why she had been loathed to ask her to take the errand boy’s place. Wynn had not been branded as the Master’s property. It was a custom that the Master had introduced a decade ago, every servant had a circle on their throat, to show they had no independence of their own, no voice other than that of the Master and their life of servitude was everlasting. The circle could be imprinted on the skin in only one way and the Master found much amusement in his tool, the dagger he kept sheathed on his belt. The scar took away a person’s identity, everything about them that made them who they were. They became property. The servants had all taken to wearing a scarf when the Master was not around, in an attempt to hide the scar and take back some control. And even though the scar marked them, it offered protection, in an ironic way, from those of the town and of the army. If any man other than the Master touched a servant bearing the scar, without permission, it meant a lashing and so Wynn was even more vulnerable than usual, for being unmarked it showed those of the town she belonged to no one and was there for the taking.
Wynn shuddered at the thought of the knife and the double edge it offered, protection from men – once she was marked no other man could touch her – and yet it was a permanent binding to the one man she wished more than anything she could be protected from. She had never questioned her unmarked skin, for she had hoped foolishly that the Master had merely forgotten about her, or that he loved her beauty enough not to cut her. Wynn knew it was yet another reason the maids disliked her; not be branded was unheard of. She thought of some of the girls, and how the Master had slipped when cutting the circle, and severed their vocal cords. They had been mute for years, and they were the people that gave Wynn the coldest looks.
The army were laughing noisily in their respective positions throughout the town when Wynn entered the square and was interrupted from her thoughts. The tavern, situated to her left was alive with sound; shouts of anger and passionate glee echoed around the town. Wynn looked at the sun to check the time, finding that it was not even midday. She shook her head in disgust at the drunken soldiers; abuse of alcohol had never been high on Wynn’s list of desires, anything that could enhance the forcefulness, desires and violent natures of men was something she avoided at all costs.
Walking with purpose she headed into the bustle of the town, allowing it to swallow her in its routine, ignoring the memory that threatened to bubble, she had seen this square before but it was only in her dreams when it transformed into something fearful.
The night air was thick with fear, something was happening in the town. The windows in the cottages were black, like closed eyes, and the night offered no more than a silver haze of light. The lanterns had blown out yet the silver light illuminated the massacre well enough. Bodies were piled high, a mess of limbs and gore. There was no pattern to the way the corpses lay; it was as though they had all dropped to the ground atop of each other in the same instant. The air stank of blood, men, woman and children, all ages and genders stared out into the night with cold, dead eyes. Yet, somehow, the pile of bodies was not the most sickening sight, the things that guarded them, arms crossed malevolently, were easily the most disgusting and atrocious crime against mankind. Something that had once been human, their faces were decaying, skin hung from their cheeks exposing yellow, broken teeth. Clumps of hair grew on their decomposing scalp and the remains of clothes clung to their skeletal frame. Soulless, rotting bodies that should, by all rational reasoning, be dead yet instead they watched over the bodies, arms crossed, waiting.
Wynn felt the bile rise in her throat and instead focused on the wives, daughters and mothers frequented the square, spending their hard earned money on food that was too expensive and supplies of poor quality, for there was no other way to clothe and feed themselves under the Master’s rule. Crops were grown and divided unfairly, the Master and soldiers receiving a share that was not earned and that would be better off feeding the ill, elderly and young. Wynn tried not to feel guilty when she entered the small shops, run by families, which offered a business, home and livelihood, and paid for the supplies with the money given to her by Cook; but the glances from overworked women were hard to ignore.
Her basket was soon overflowing with supplies and Wynn allowed herself a sigh of relief that the whole trip had passed without mishap. But she had not moved around the town unnoticed. The army had been watching her, they knew almost every woman in the town and they could not recall this young girl with hair as black as night and eyes as beautiful as emeralds. One soldier could not quell his curiosity any longer and as Wynn finished checking her basket and looked up she locked eyes with the man. He was no older than she and yet she knew his type. She had met many like him over the years, the arrogance of youth and the need to impress those around them. This was a dangerous situation. She ripped her eyes from his and hung her head and tried to curl up in an uninteresting ball, but the soldier had his eyes locked on her and was not about to waiver now.
Wynn glanced around, to see if anyone had noticed the lone soldier walking her way, and it was clear from the cruel smiles of the army that whatever was about to happen, the other soldiers completely supported their comrade. The young soldier reached her and she could see the boyish stubble on his chin, and the roundness that still inhabited his face, he was immature not only in attitude it seemed.
“Raise your head,” he growled. Wynn complied reluctantly; taking the opportunity to once again scan the face of the man. He in turned studied her, making no attempt to mask his assessment. Wynn felt her skin crawl at his attentions, and when he snatched the basket roughly from her and went through it, she found herself preparing to run. He found nothing of interest, as Wynn knew he would, he had to keep some pretence of duty; he could not do outright what Wynn knew he was thinking. The people would not stand for it, and the inhabitants well outnumbered the army. He shoved the basket back at her, winding her and Wynn hurriedly curtseyed and went to walk away. The soldier grabbed her arm, and Wynn was pulled away from the commotion of the town and down an alley.
She had been expecting it, but it did not stop her heart from thumping in her chest and mouth becoming uncomfortably dry. She had always managed to avoid men, being saved either by circumstance, the need to refill a glass, or tend to the Master, but now she was not in the Manor and no one would save her.
“Who do you work for?” The young man asked curiously, he would not have missed her maid’s outfit; some of the army were rich enough for servants and a brown dress and white apron was the uniform of any woman who served.
“Lord Oprend,” Wynn croaked, her tongue felt heavy and it was as though she had swallowed a mouthful of grit. It was all she could do not to burst into tears.
The soldier frowned, “Why have you not been marked?”
Wynn could feel herself shaking, going over every single option she had, if she screamed it could attract attention, but what man or woman would stand up for her, to a soldier? What would happen if she fought back? He would become enraged certainly, but what would be the repercussions? She knew he had spoken to her, and asked a question but her mind was clouded with the horrific events that were unfolding. The soldier laughed cruelly and stepped closer to her. His breath was warm on her face and the hand that clutched her arm, keeping her in place, was gripping painfully.
“What is going on here?” A voice yelled. It seemed as though it came from far off in the distance, her mind was so clouded with fear. The soldier jumped away from her and glanced down the alley at the man who had shouted. Wynn could somewhat see and hear the two men argue.
“What are you doing? This one is mine,” the young soldier growled, receiving a slap around the head from the second man.
“Do not speak to me in that tone. This is the Master’s girl, only he has her, see the mark on her face and split lip, she had angered him, I doubt he would want her back after you damaged her further. I just saved you a whipping boy, you best treat me with respect,” the other man hissed, then turned to Wynn and motioned for her to leave. In the back of her mind a voice screamed at her to comply and she almost ran from the alley until she was back on the travel beaten path that led to the Manor.
Wynn walked to the edge of the path and leant against a tree whilst she calmed herself down. Her legs still shook and her breathing was shallow. After a long time of inhaling deeply Wynn felt strong enough to walk, but what the older soldier had said revolved around her mind. The Master’s girl. Wynn’s face contorted in disgust and bile rose in her throat. Men were not to be trusted she thought, spitting on the ground in a flurry of rage. She clenched her teeth and forced herself to allow the sounds of the forest to envelope her. The sound of twigs snapping underfoot, of animals scurrying close by and the gentle rustle of the wind through the leaves.
She began to hum loudly, blocking everything out, every wave of nausea that consumed her when she thought of the Master, the indescribable loneliness which gaped inside her, a roaring wound that had never healed, and the events of the day. She would have time to think things over but for now she would be free, free to walk and sing and dance in the beauty of the forest. She swung the wicker the basket around in time to the song, watching despondently as a loaf of bread suddenly fell from it onto the dirt of the forest. She bent over and picked it up, throwing it angrily back into the wicker basket.
The bread itself symbolised nothing, but with the other ingredients, it spoke of supplies for the men of the army. Today was the sixteenth day of the month, and that meant the Master was holding a lavish party for the army and other important guests. It was an extravagant affair to celebrate their unchallenged rule over Inlo and their every growing control over Terra. Wynn despised the parties, the Master always made sure she was around so he could hang her off of his arm and pretend they were lovers. She saw the way the men idolised him, and the way they looked jealously at her. It made her stomach churn.
As Wynn neared the Manor she crept around the back and walked past the stables, spying the new man, Byron he had been called, brushing down the horses. They locked eyes briefly and Wynn lowered her head quickly before any words could be exchanged – she was too pent up to be anything but coarse with the only man she had ever met who had been kind to her – and ran to the kitchen. Cook motioned for her to bring the basket to her.
“You have no idea how helpful that was to me, I hope the trip was uneventful?” Cook smiled, Wynn nodded her head stiffly, she could not face explaining what had happened, Cook continued, “The Master’s gathering is in four hours, he has given me strict instructions for his wife to be cared for, she is feeling under the weather,” Wynn’s heart sunk as she waited for her instructions and Cook’s face was awash with sadness, “He has informed me that you are expected at his chamber at the ninth hour.”
Wynn nodded sadly and patted Cook’s arm before leaving the heat of the kitchen. After following her strict chores, she headed for the library; the Master rarely ventured inside. She ran over and over why the Master should want her in his chamber before the gathering. If he wanted to display her he could simply call for her once the festivities had begun. Something was different tonight and Wynn's heart launched itself into her throat every time she thought of it. She was not naïve, seventeen summers working and living in Oprend Manor had forced her to grow up exponentially in some aspects of life. She was wary of any man; the stories of rape were common in the Manor. Nearly every maid had some experience of the brutality of men. But in other aspects she was still a child, she had no confidence in herself, a lifetime of orders and belittlement had seen to that and she still viewed the world – late at night – with optimism. Life could
not
be as painful and aching as it seemed to her at Oprend Manor.