T.J. Laverne

Copyright © 2016 T.J. Laverne

 

Chapter 1

A Lesson

 

Leena wondered if anyone would be killed today. She had a feeling in the pit of her stomach, and her feelings didn’t like to be ignored.

 

Work in the fields ended only when there was no longer enough daylight by which to see, and sometimes not even then. Unfortunately, it was entirely up to Morton when they stopped harvesting and went to bed. Morton dictated their every move, and if Morton wanted them to work all night, they would. Most of the barley and wheat was not for them, anyway. Most would be loaded onto wagons and shipped off to King Cerdic and his hundreds of slaves on Badon Hill, never to be seen again.

 

This knowledge did not make the labor any easier, especially at 3 a.m. It was monotonous work, and more boring than Leena could endure. Swinging and cutting, taking a step forward, and swinging and cutting, over and over, nothing more to it. The mind found rather wild ways of occupying itself in those long hours.

 

“Leena!” a voice filtered through Leena’s thoughts.

 

Leena looked up and saw Rowena beckoning to her from the adjacent field. Exhaustion rimmed Rowena’s eyes and she was severely hunched, her arms hanging low. She was small and frail, even for a 12-year-old, and struggled more than the others to push her body through those long hours.

 

Leena ran to her as inconspicuously as possible, her scythe hovering just above the ground beside her. Rowena sank to her knees and Leena dropped low to the ground in front of her, praying that no one could see them behind the tall barley stocks.

 

“Do you have water? Or food?” Rowena croaked, her lips dry and cracked. “Mine is all gone.”

 

“Here,” Leena pulled out an apple and a waterskin from inside her tunic and pushed them into Rowena’s hands. “Take all of it. I can last the night without it.”

 

Rowena grabbed the waterskin and guzzled down its contents eagerly, then took two large bites from the apple, chewing as though her life depended upon it. Leena looked up to Rowena’s section of field and saw that she had cut less than half of what Leena had cut that night. Her heart sped up nervously. Morton didn’t tolerate weakness. In fact, he rather liked to make an example of the weak ones in the worst ways. She had witnessed it too many times in her 12 short years of life.

 

“I’ll cut a little of your area and keep watch while you eat,” Leena made up her mind quickly. She sprang to her feet, her body still full of energy despite the last 15 hours. “You rest.”

 

With the strength of an ox, Leena quickly finished off Rowena’s row and moved on to the next, finishing up the section until she had caught up with her own progress. When she returned, Rowena had dozed off between the rows of barley. Leena smiled, deciding not to wake her up just yet, but a whistle broke through the quiet night. Her head snapped up and she saw Morton making his way toward their field, his violet eyes penetrating the blackness.

 

“Rowena, wake up! Morton is coming! Get up!” Leena shook Rowena until her eyes popped open. “Morton is coming! Stand up!”

 

“I’m so sorry, Leena, I only meant to close my eyes for a second,” she said as Leena pulled her to her feet. “Did he see me sleeping?”

 

“Not yet! Pick up your scythe!”

 

Leena ran back to her own field and resumed cutting as if nothing had happened. Morton rode slowly toward Rowena atop his black mare, scrutinizing her work with narrowed eyes. Leena held her breath, but after a minute Morton continued to the next field, apparently satisfied. Breathing out a sigh of relief, she smiled at Rowena, who smiled back. Perhaps no one would be killed tonight, after all.

 

It was said that Morton and his Saxon brethren were blessed by the gods. At least that’s what Leena’s father and mother told her every day, at least five times. When the Saxons had invaded Leena’s homeland 25 years ago, they claimed a strange god called Woden had given them the divine right to rule over the Britons, and, when the Britons had been overwhelmed by force, they were left with no other choice but to believe them. The smallest disobedience was quashed through lashings, beatings, threats, and, occasionally, the murder of a family member.

 

Needless to say, Leena did not believe these invaders were blessed by the gods. Sometimes she feared she was the only one.

 

“The gods are displeased by your lack of faith,” her mother would tell her. “When the gods are displeased with mortals, they punish them. You must learn to obey or they will punish us next.”

 

It was an uncomfortable way to live, but Leena still needed convincing.

 

Unfortunately, after 18 hours in the field that day, Morton was not quite finished with Leena’s family. His hasty entrance into their hut that night disturbed both the dogs and the chickens, who circled around the circumference of the roundhouse barking and clucking: the only members of the household allowed a certain lack of discipline, though not entirely free from punishment.

 

Morton pushed the animal skin door aside without invitation and pranced into the hut as though he owned it, and one of the chickens received a kick in the breast and flew across the fire.

 

Morton was sitting alone on the floor at the table for nearly 10 seconds before Leena’s father fully awoke and realized what was happening. Jumping up from his bed, he flew to Morton’s side and knelt before him, followed by Leena’s mother, two brothers and sister, and Leena.

 

“I’m disappointed,” Morton looked apathetically at his fingernails. “How long must I be required to wait? Do you not wish to see me?”

 

“Of course we do, my lord,” Leena’s father answered breathlessly, his face to the dirt floor. “We eagerly look forward to your visits. We only wish they would come more frequently.”

 

Morton rolled his eyes. “I tire of groveling. Don’t you have any self-respect?” Leena’s father hemmed and hawed nervously, visibly shaking. Morton let out an unexpected laugh. “Come, come, I tease you. Stand up, I hate speaking to the backs of heads all day long.”

 

Leena and her family rose uncertainly to their feet, though their heads remained bowed and they did not deign to look Morton in the face.

 

“I require refreshment,” Morton said plainly.

 

Leena’s mother practically ran to his aid, frantically pouring beer into a wooden cup and placing it on the table before him.

 

“Sit, Carlow,” Morton gestured to Leena’s father, whose rear nearly instantly made contact with the floor as though Morton’s voice had ordered it. Morton leaned in with an eager smile. “Please tell me you have gossip for me. My visit with Torrin was so dreadfully dull I was nearly bored to tears.”

 

“My lord?” Carlow’s eyes shifted uncomfortably as a line of sweat broke out across his forehead.

 

“Come on!” Morton slammed his palm on the table, causing everyone to jump. “Stop being so damned nervous! I can’t take any more ‘please, sir, yes, my lord, whatever you wish, my lord.’ If you truly want to do as I wish, then relax and give me some common-folk gossip to take back to Cerdic. He will laugh at me if I come back empty-handed.”

 

“As you wish, my lord,” Carlow’s eyes met his wife’s. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. “But I’m not entirely sure I understand. What do you mean by ‘gossip?’ ”

 

“Really, what have they taught you poor wretches?” Morton’s eyes looked up to the thatched ceiling. “Gossip. Trivial news about your neighbors and their trivial lives that may or may not be true. Whose marriages are in turmoil, who insulted whose wife, that sort of thing. Come, come. Spill it!”

 

“Don’t, Father, I think it’s a tr—” Leena started, ready to burst from the nervous tension in the room. Her brother, Oran, leapt in front of her and placed a hand over her mouth before she could finish. Thankfully her voice was too small for Morton to hear.

 

Leena’s father looked at his wife for help again, but she merely stared at him wide-eyed, fear etched in the lines around her eyes and mouth. “I-I don’t really know about any of all that, my lord. I-I can’t think of anything.”

 

“Oh, please!” Morton slammed his palm on the table again, eliciting more jumps. “There must be something. What about Artan? I hear he doesn’t really like his wife all that much. Although, who could blame him, really?” he smirked. “Bit of a cow, isn’t she?”

 

“ ‘Cow,’ sir?” Carlow looked confused and Morton laughed. Carlow swallowed heavily and chanced a half-hearted smile. “Come to think of it, I don’t think Artan really does like his wife all that much.”

 

Morton laughed even louder, slamming his palm on the table a third time. “Oh, you’re a riot! I suppose that’s the best I’ll get out of you, isn’t it?” He rose from the floor, still laughing, and made his way for the animal skin doorway. He hadn’t so much as taken a sip of his beer. “All right, I’ll leave you to your sleep, then. You behave, right?”

 

“My lord,” Carlow bowed with visible relief, though Morton stopped just before the door.

 

“Ah, yes,” he half-turned, looking bored again. “I am here for a reason, unfortunately. Your production today was a little below the quota. I’m afraid we’ll require compensation to make up for it. Woden requires it.”

 

Leena felt her stomach clench unpleasantly. She had spent at least an hour on Rowena’s field, neglecting her own. She knew she must’ve been the reason their numbers were behind. But if she hadn’t helped Rowena, the girl would have been punished severely. Perhaps even killed. And now her family would be made to suffer for it.

 

“M-my lord?” Carlow’s skin abruptly turned a shade of purple. “We gave everything we could today—”

 

“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” Morton interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Unfortunately Woden requires all your bronze, gold and silver in exchange for lost production. I think that’s a fair trade.”

 

Carlow opened his mouth but no words came out. He looked at his wife, all the color drained from his face, and Leena could see the life leave them both. She knew their bronze trinkets were their livelihood. Without them they couldn’t buy grain for themselves for perhaps years. It would all be shipped away to King Cerdic, and nothing would be left for them. They would starve.

 

And yet neither of her parents would speak up. If they said one word against Morton, it would mean their lives. Her father would hand over every last bronze ring he had earned in the last 10 years to this greedy, evil man who needed none of it, dooming an entire family to starve.

 

But Leena couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear the look of defeat on her father’s face, nor the blind panic on her mother’s, nor the fear on her brothers’ and sister’s faces. There was no justice in any of it. It was her fault, not theirs.

 

The anger welled deep inside Leena’s gut and rose up her chest, making its way up to her throat. She wouldn’t be able to hold it in much longer. It was much too powerful and she had no desire to stop it. The anger surged through every particle of her body until it exploded out into the room.

 

“No!” she shrieked. “You can’t do that! It’s not fair and you know it! We’ll starve! It’s my fault, not theirs! Punish me instead!”

 

Oran was around her in a second, holding her in a vice grip from behind as he cupped a hand over her mouth. Leena struggled against him for a while as her anger and panic continued to rage through her veins, but her words were nothing more than a jumble.

 

Morton turned to look at her, his violet eyes alight with morbid interest as he smiled with evident delight.

 

“Ah, now this is the entertainment I was looking for. I like a little struggle.” He made his way slowly toward her. “Not something I see all the time, you know, especially in a young little thing. Now, how should I handle this?” He put a thoughtful hand on his chin, his eyes never leaving Leena’s face as she slowly quieted and settled down in Oran’s arms. “Boy, stop that. I want to hear what she’s saying.”

 

Oran slowly released Leena from his grip, but fear overwhelmed her and she grew still, breathing heavily.

 

“Oh, you spoiled the whole show,” Morton pretended to be disappointed, looking at Oran. “Pity. What’s your name, boy?”

 

Oran stood straight, his face a mask. He was only 10 years old. “Oran, my lord.”

 

“And you, what’s your name?”

 

“Leena,” she glared at him, her hands balled into fists as her fear slowly left her.

 

“Leena,” he cocked an eyebrow and looked down the full length of her body with a nauseating expression. “You do have your merits, don’t you?” he smirked and winked an eye. “You say it was your fault, do you?”

 

“I abandoned my field to help . . . a friend. I was afraid you would kill her. It’s unjust the way you treat us!”

 

“Ah, we have a feisty one,” his eyes lit up with excitement. “Seems almost too easy.” His eyes fell upon Oran and he smiled. “What better way to teach her a lesson than to eliminate the thing holding her back?”

 

With that, Oran was suddenly pinned to the table with a knife. He let out a painful howl and the others emitted strangled shrieks, Leena’s mother falling to her knees. Oran’s fear had emerged from behind his mask and his eyes bulged from their sockets. Morton walked calmly up to Oran and stared down at him indifferently. He pulled out another long knife from a rope around his waist.

 

“How shall I proceed?” he asked himself thoughtfully, toying with the point of his knife. “Ah, yes.”

 

“Look away, girls!” Leena’s father was suddenly upon Leena and her sister, turning their heads and their eyes away from the scene. But it couldn’t block out the screams. Nothing ever would.