#dutiful

You resume your duties in the kitchen. You scrub the floors on your knees. The hard stone does little to help the aches that are felt more each day. The steam of the water you use to clean makes you throb.

How careless of you. You can only blame yourself for the calamity. After you mopped up the mess and brought a new basin, you left the lord to his peace.

As you get up to your feet with the brush and bucket, you stagger and splash the dirty water around with you. Mallory barrels past you as she covers her mouth and groans. Her eyes bulge in panic and she gags. She folds and vomits through her splayed fingers.

You set down your handful and go to rub her back. You’ll have to redo the floor. She shudders and moans as she clutches her stomach with one hand, her other dripping in sick.

“Mallory, have you an ague?” You ask as you sooth her with your palm on her shoulder.

“I must,” she groans. “I’ve felt terribly these last days. I told Griselda but she only accused me of being idle.”

“Poor girl. You go, clean yourself up and have some warm milk,” you coddle her. “I will clear the mess and… have you anything needs done?”

“Urgh. The Lord, he’s due his– his—” She gulps and clamps her lips shut. “Plate. Only the thought of food has me so…” She shakes her head and gurgles.

“Go. I will have it done.” You assure her.

She stumbles away, droning in agony. You huff and get back to your knees. You wipe up the chunks of her morning porridge with the cloth in your belt and do you best to sop up the stink of her stomach.

After you empty the bucket, you go to the kitchens. Griselda is there, sweating by the stove.

“Mallory is sick. She cannot bring Lord Everett’s meal.” You inform her.

“Then you shall.” She demands.

You blanch. “Griselda, I must tend to the front hall–”

“You must bring his food, then you may do all that.” She interjects. “I am not of the mind to climb those stairs today.”

“Yes, Griselda.” You relent.

“That Mallory. Her youth keeps her lackadaisical.” She huffs and loads up a plate with a thick hunk of bread, cheese, and strips of pork. She sets it on a tray with a small jug of ale alongside a stein. “Off you are. I foresee a visit to the village for better help.”

You take the tray and leave her. She is in one of her moods. The absence of her husband suggests he was into the casks himself. You set off on your task, hoping it will be quick.

You ascend the stairs carefully. You follow the corridor to the lord’s chamber and pause to knock. You wait. He does not answer. You try again. Still, it is silent.

He must be busy. You balance the meal carefully and let yourself in. You bring it to the round table and set it down firmly. You will find the groom and send him to fetch his master.

You turn, eager to be off to the front hall, only to find a figure waiting. Lord Everett stands in the doorway. You flinch and back away. Your hand goes to your neck.

“My lord,” you lower your chin. “I’ve only brought your food.”

He grumbles and steps inside. “Very well.”

“I wouldn’t seek to be in your way,” you keep your head down.

He doesn’t say anything. You move toward the door. He doesn’t move. You cannot get around him.

“My lord,” you murmur.

He inhales and lets it out slowly. “Look up.”

“My lord.” You gulp and obey.

“At the ceiling,” he commands.

You tilt your head back. The air tickles the heat beneath your burnt flesh. He sighs.

“You’ve blisters.” He says.

You put your head straight and touch above your collar. “My lord, it is not very bad.”

“I did not ask.” He insists.

“Apologies, my lord. I presume,” you avert your eyes sheepishly.

“You need salve. A poultice perhaps.”

You don’t know what to say. He reaches for you and you wince. He curls his fingers.

“Stay.” He points to a chair. “Sit.”

“My lord.”

You shuffle over to the chair and sit. You teeter on the edge, unnerved by his terse demands. He goes to the tall chest of drawers. He retrieves something from the top and approaches.

He sets a jar on the table near to you. He approaches and stands before you. You slump as he leans over you and reaches down your back. He loosens your laces. You bring your hands up to clutch the slack wool.

“My lord.” You quaver.

He doesn’t say a word. He pulls at the loose neck of your gown. You let your arms fall and it does too. He unties the front of your shift and pushes it wide, exposing the top of your bosom and the welts and blisters all across your skin.

“You would make it worse wearing so much.” He grabs the jar and peels off the canvas cover.

“My lord. I would tend it–”

“You would defy my benevolence,” he insists as he dips his fingers into the jar. “You will sit and trust in your lord.”

He spreads the salve over your skin with two fingers. You shiver as it soothes the swelter in your flesh. He uses his thumb to further apply it, gently coating your burns in the pungent concoction. His touch strays from neck to chest, and lingers just at the swell of your bosom.

He tugs out the fabric of your shift and peers down it. You lean away modestly. He lets go. His hand hovers for a moment as he rubs his fingertips together.

“You must let your skin take the air.” He advises as he wraps the jar in the canvas. “Remain as you are.”

He puts the jar away and wipes his fingers on a rag. He nears the table and sits, facing you. He pours from the jug into the stein. He calmly sips as he watches you.