Chapter Two

Once she had her wits about her, she moved quickly into the kitchen and began filling mugs of mead and stacking plates of salted pork, dried beef, and cheese onto her tray. She had a few more mugs to go when the gossips of two serving girls caught her attention.

“No, it’s true. I heard it from one of the fighting men of Westerlay. He heard it straight from one of the King’s men. Sir Fenley Harres was slain not a day’s ride from the wall. It is said he was unhorsed by a ghost, his throat slit before he touched the ground.”

“What do I care of some knight from some distant land, child?” the older of the two said with an indifferent frown.

“They say that Sir Fenley was the fiercest knight in the realm. He never lost a tourney or a battle. I heard he practiced every day against five skilled fighters just to keep keen and ready for war.” The younger girl was stable born. Her hair was dirty blonde and her skin pocketed by freckles and birthmarks. She was a few years older than Selene, but you would not know by looking at her. Her name was Tira, though Selene could not remember her father’s name.

“Yet he lies rotting all the same.” The other’s name was Marge, her fat face wobbled as she shook her head. “These oafs and their games of war.”

The girl named Tira ignored the old crone’s ill faith. “Whoever slain old Sir Fenley must have been something indeed. I would give my life’s wages to meet a man such as that.”

“Your life’s wages could not buy you a new gown, much less a strapping warrior who fancies himself an assassin.” The crone had filled her tray up and was balancing it lazily on one hand. “It will be a cold day in the pits of hell when we are free of this place, child. So fill your cups and hike up your skirt. Perhaps you can warm some witting boy near your age, lest you end up next to a cold old oaf and his saggy member.”

Tira made a scowl at that. “I would much rather lay with no one if the gods speak true, ghastly creatures these crow knights. Just once send a man gallant and exotic from the Isles, or at least the coast, I pray.”

Selene frowned and grabbed her last mug of mead and spun around. For as long as she could remember there had been nobles a plenty, knights and maidens, lords and kings, and each one of them worse than the next. Perhaps it was because she was lowborn, birthed in dirt and rags and shit, whilst they were wrapped in silk and perfume, their biggest worry when the next party or tourney was.

The noise of the dining hall felt like a slap in the face compared to the quiet clanging of pots and pans, and sizzling meat of the kitchen. She moved spryly through the scattered tables of drunkards and heathens alike, arriving at table after table, dodging gropes and prods as she attempted to do her work. She usually caught at least one hand on her ass per table, and she could but act as though it did not bother her, for disrespecting a knight or high born was something a slummard dare not do if she desired to keep her skin.

A soft song had taken over the small inn, emanating from the old lute. Boos and curses followed by a storm of food and mugs full of the dark amber liquid flew at the bard. Laughter erupted as the lute player was chased from the stage by the short stocky man in chainmail armor that had pulled Selene into his lap and whispered so kindly in her ear. She had heard talk of this man, the great Sir Veran Meyser, the Butcher he was called. It was said that he would butcher those he killed in combat, those of his fiercest enemies, and eat their flesh as to gain their strength. He was nothing short of a barbarian, but the lords of the north let him roam, for they were in constant need of his ruthlessness.

The knight kicked the poor lute player, knocking him off of the small platform, and then took a generous bow. His applause was woops of laughter. A large sneer covered his face and Selene felt a pang of anxiety as his eyes met hers. She looked away quickly and moved to the next table, bussing up empty dishes as fast as she could. Once she was back in the kitchen she unloaded the soiled dishes into a large cleaning pot and grabbed a flagon of wine, downing a large pull in hopes of calming her nerves.

“He has eyes for you,” said a voice behind her.

Startled, Selene turned to see Tira leaning against the bread cart, her body filling the same style of wool drab as herself, though with slightly more curves. Her face revealed a wicked smile.

“Excuse me?” Selene replied. She did not like the girl. Tira was as bad as everyone else, perhaps even worse, for there was a time when she had thought of Tira as a friend. Things had changed since those days, though.

“The short one, what do they call him, the Butcher?”

Selene looked away quickly. “Why would you say that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tira pushed off of the cart and started loading her tray up. “Besides, I heard him saying to his men that he would have you tonight. I have to admit, I am not jealous of you taking that one from the rest of us.”

Tira turned with a laugh and moved back out into the hall. Selene shrunk against the wall near the large cleaning pot. A million thoughts coursed through her head as she envisioned the pain that would entail a night spent with the Butcher. The consequences of that night would haunt her for the rest of her days—that is, if she even survived. She knew how little the value of lowborn life was to those sat high on pillows made light with feathers.

Selene looked around the kitchen, hopelessness filling her mind. Fear enveloped all desire of doing her duty, and was replaced by a definite need of self-preservation. She knew that disobedience would end with Grest’s less than merciful forms of punishment, though. Suddenly the proposition of scrubbing the floor with her fingernails until dawn’s first seemed almost fetching in comparison. She heard a clatter of pots and pans crashing to the ground, and looked over her shoulder near the back of the kitchen where she saw the cook, Perak, fumbling with several different vats of metal, attempting to fix the mess. He looked up mid-struggle and managed half a smile.

“Slippery bunch I tell ya…” He shrugged his shoulders innocently. “These valiant knights aplenty, I promise you, they will eat us out of our own inn, this army of crows.”

Of all the people Selene knew, she liked fat-bellied Perak the best. He was normal everywhere except his belly, which was large and full, but he was without a doubt the most interesting person in the town. He was balancing pots with every limb and looked ridiculous, and Selene could not help but smile.

“Do you need some help?” she offered.

“I reckon you will have a handful more trouble from old Grest if he catches you helping the likes of me. No, my dear, I am fine. Tell His Grace that the broth is almost done, and the hot wine is ready as well.” Perak placed the obvious sarcasm upon the unwarranted title of their less than accommodating boss.

Selene nodded to the cook and went to find Grest. She figured she would leave out the part about calling him His Grace, though. She found him braying sirs to a couple of knights near the back of the inn and waited for him to turn before she spoke.

“What is it, mouse?” he asked with a scowl.

“Perak says the broth is near and the mulled wine is ready.”

His beady eyes dismissed her almost before she was done speaking. “Go then, and feed these honorable men.”

The rest of the night went much the same. The knights drank, and the music returned despite the bard’s treatment. Tempers flared over pointless squabbles, and one fight even broke out that ended with two people dead, slain before her very eyes. The bodies were taken away by some townsfolk, and the floor mopped as if not but a vat of wine had spilled. The doer was none other than the Butcher himself. She had stood there, eyes wide, watching the men take their last breaths. When she looked up, Sir Veran’s black eyes were focused directly at her. Lust and malice played on his face as he leered at her. She ran out to the back of the inn then and hid until she heard footsteps coming. Fearing it Grest himself, she finally mustered herself up and back to work.

It was well near first light before most of the men had stumbled off to sleep. Only three remained as she mopped the old oak floor. Two men she did not know sat with the Butcher at the far end of the room. They were talking intently, about what she was not sure, but she caught a bit of the conversation here and there. Something about gathering troops and war, and a reward bigger than anyone had ever heard of. So big, in fact, that they did not believe it to be true.

She hurried through the mopping, and once she was done Grest allowed her off to bed. She could not have been more thankful. However, once she was in her room she found that sleep evaded her. Her nerves were taut and she fretted every time she heard footsteps. Surely these are not the Butcher’s, she would pray. Surely he has had his fill and is fast asleep. And then, after she had lain in bed for what felt like the entire night, she heard more footsteps. They approached her door this time, but after pausing outside for a few moments, they finally moved past and to the small room next to hers. Though, calling them rooms was a lie, for they were nothing more than dividers set up with soiled cots lain in the middle.

The sounds that came from that room were terrifying. She tried to think of who stayed there, and it quickly dawned on her that it was Tira’s room. There was begging and screaming, and no doubt shrieks of agony, shrieks of despair. She knew not when she had fallen asleep, though it felt as if she had not slept at all. Grest woke her with a kick to the ribs. It did not bother her much, for she was often greeted by the air being whisked from her lungs, leaving here wriggling for breath. She threw on her brown wool gown and moved to the kitchen to help prepare the morning meal. Selene felt like a ghost as she went about her duties. It was not until mid-morning that she noticed the frightened eyes of the other girls, and then she noticed the absence of Tira.