Shade of Destiny (The Foreseeing) (7 page)

    
Wynn fetched a rag from her apron pocket, flicking it to remove the leftover dust a little harder than was needed, knowing her actions were heightened by her dark mood, but not caring, and made her way to the library. It was larger than the kitchen and her room combined with rows and rows of bookshelves stalking their way along the room, lit by the sunlight which flooded in through the windows overhead. Wynn soon fell into a rhythm of cleaning each shelf on each bookcase, and moving on; the monotony of the task lulling her and she found herself humming a song cook had sung to her as a child.

    
It was a while before she realised and forced herself to stop abruptly. Singing and humming, even whistling, was forbidden in Woodstone, for they increased moral and Lord Oprend wanted his inhabitants as disconsolate as possible. Every year they had celebrated the New Year with a celebration, Wynn knew this from speaking to the other maids and from the dream she had each night, for that time at least the inhabitants could relax and enjoy themselves. It was another thing the Master had taken away from the town, another thing Wynn had never experienced. Checking she really was alone once more, Wynn begun humming again, enjoying the fleeting feeling of freedom it gave her by disobeying the Master. And yet she still had time to think, humming and cleaning required no more effort than breathing to Wynn and so her mind wandered.

    
Ever since she could remember she had wished her mother would come for her. Not the mother she saw in her dreams each night, but a rich, influential mother that would sweep into the Manor and whisk her away, away from the pain of life as a maid. That kind of mother would be the only answer to her prayers. The mother she saw each night was someone she could not relate to, she had never known her, or loved her, she was a figment of her imagination, who for some reason she could not explain, visited her each and every night. Whom could she turn to for guidance? Cook was the only motherly figure she had ever known, but no matter how affectionate Cook was, even she would not be able to comfort Wynn if she came to her, complaining of a strange reoccurring dream.

    
Sighing Wynn moved on from the dead end which was her dream, she would never find an answer and was only tormenting herself. Instead she found herself once again wishing to run from everything. Away from the Manor, away from Woodstone and the vile men that inhabited it; but her wishes always came tumbling down before they had ever truly formed in her mind. She had never left Woodstone, and had never deemed it possible, for why bother when only death and deportation waited? Wynn could feel in her bones something was meant for her, something more than dusting and cleaning. She was meant to be happy, and under the Master’s rule she would never experience that.

    
The thought of leaving caused a range of emotions, but most urgently fear. The lands were vast and unknown. Tales of mysterious creatures in fog ridden swamps and magical lands never seen before with the human eye often carried between the maids in the town. Things supernatural and unexplainable were rife in adventurer’s tales and Wynn believed them wholeheartedly. And who was she against such creatures? Woodstone was the centre of her world and she knew the tales of unknown lands were meant to discourage those who dreamt of freedom, but however much they inspired fear, Wynn could not help being curious.

    
A book toppled suddenly from the shelf she had been dusting and Wynn jumped backwards, hitting into another shelf in her surprise. The book that had fallen landed cover up, the pages bent with its weight. Wynn bent and picked the book up, dusting it and straightening the pages. She touched the cover, the leather smooth against her fingertips. The title, written in gold leaf, was undecipherable to her untaught eye. Wynn put it back and continued to dust, but a nagging feeling pulled at her stomach and she eventually went back to where she had put the book. She had the overwhelming sense that the book was special and she was drawn to it more than she had been drawn to anything in her life. She could take it, hide it away. It had been covered with dust, so surely they would not miss it? But why did she need it? Wynn considered the question for a long moment before finding no conceivable answer, and shoving it into her apron anyway. It was an unanswerable question but as soon as the book was safe in her apron her heart thumped with excitement. She felt instantly better that the book was in her possession; stealing from the Master would earn her lashes, but he would never find out, how could he? And every time he hurt her she would stare back into his eyes and know the book lay in her room.

    
Wynn finished dusting the remaining shelves, and walked silently out of the room. She cast a quick glance at the sun as she made her way through the hall and noticed it was nearing the horizon. The ninth hour loomed. She heaved a sigh and ran down to her room, stowing the book under a pile of clothes. With a quick wash at the bucket she made her way slowly to the Master’s room, her heart heavy. The Master called for her to enter when she knocked on the door. Night was approaching and the room was bathed in twilight.

   
 
“Wynn,” the Master said, sitting on his bed, “I have decided you are to sing at tonight’s festivities.”

    
Wynn’s eyes widened at the Master’s order, was this a trick? If she agreed would he whip her for disobeying his rule that no man or woman may sing, whistle or hum? Her voice quavered as she replied, “I cannot sing Master.”

    
The Master violently rose from the bed and walked briskly to Wynn, his voice was dangerous, “I have heard your voice, when you think no one is listening. Be thankful I shall not whip you for it. You are to sing tonight to my men for they require entertainment. It is not a request.”

    
Wynn’s head hung in submission.

   
 
“I also require you to wear this,” the Master said mockingly. Wynn raised her eyes to see the garment the Master was holding out to her. It was a shocking red, made of thin cotton, shapeless in his fist. Wynn took it despondently and curtseyed coldly before leaving the room. As she descended down the stairs her stomach turned to ice.

The Great Hall was alive with activity when Wynn reached the doors. Over two hundred men sat around the table, flask of ale in one hand, the body part of a cooked animal in the other. Around two hundred and fifty of the men wore the uniform of Woodstone’s army, brown trousers, white shirt and brown leather armour, the rest were Lords from other towns and other well respected contributors to the Master. Every month they flocked to the Manor to revel in the Master’s wealth and power. Wynn had never visited the men whilst they were eating, her part had come after, when the food was finished and the wine was flowing and the Master had wished to present her as his lover. Today was different. As she walked in she looked around, anywhere but the eyes of the men which watched her.

    
The ceiling was tall and shadowed. The Great Hall was infinitely different than the Manor; it was made of grey stone, instead of the black marble the Master revelled in. The pillars which made up the various arches were lined with large torches, their golden glow dancing in the soft breeze. Tapestries and statues dotted around the hall. The table sat square in the middle, the centrepiece of the room. The horror of what might happen now was fresh in Wynn’s mind, but her conscious was not content with just the present, as she glanced around the room a memory bubbled.

    
Lord Oprend was motionless; his eyes glazed over; around him large black shapes dotted the floor. The army all snored gently, seemingly fallen where they had stood. Lady Oprend lay sprawled in the corner of the room, almost invisible in the shadows. She was clutching a baby in her arms, her face frozen in a scream...

    
The sound of wolf whistles snatched Wynn back from her dream. She took in a shaking breath to clear her head and
stopped beside the Master’s chair at the head of the table. The dress that the Master had given her was nothing more than a nightdress which stopped short at her thighs. She wore nothing on her feet. The Master smirked at his men before standing up to address them.

    
“Men! I have arranged for this beauty to sing for you, so listen and enjoy!”

    
Wynn stepped back, towards the wall, as far away as she could get from the men, and coughed nervously. Over one hundred eyes stared at her, drank her in, and eyed her thin shaking frame. The Master began to tap his fingers on the oak table irritably. Wynn could see ire line his face, so in fear she opened her mouth and closed her eyes, imagining her audience did not exist, that she was far from here, and sang:

“The breeze billowed the stranger’s cloak,

The horizon hazed with the fire’s smoke.
The moon lit road led the way,

From the death and fear, far away.

She stared up at the midnight sky,

Her future unknown, so tears she cried.

Her past painful, her present gone,

So she cried her tears until the dawn.”

The men sat perfectly still as Wynn’s words washed over them. Each face held a haunted expression; the beauty of Wynn’s voice had completely entranced them. Wynn watched them fearfully; she had never sung to an audience before, to anyone. The air seemed to crackle, as though in preparation for a storm, Wynn even fancied she could feel tiny pinpricks of rain on her skin. The Master stood up slowly and shook his head and with a wave of his arm sent Wynn away. Wynn gladly obliged half walking half running out of the hall, leaving the army to sit bewildered at the angelic voice that had left them spellbound.

2

Wynn was not called to the Master’s chamber for seven days. The Master was not seen in the Manor and the servants enjoyed their work without the pressure of the Master’s presence. Wynn thought about what had happened every spare moment she had. Why had the men acted so strangely? She had never considered herself a good singer, having heard no one else to compare herself to, but even if she had been the most perfect of singers the atmosphere in the room was more than appreciation of her voice. It had been something more and it disturbed her greatly. She could not explain the Master’s absence but knew it was connected to her voice and that scared her.

    
So when Cook gave her the heavy plate laden with the Master’s breakfast on the eight day of the Master’s absence, Wynn’s stomach clenched with dread. Cook sadly shrugged and watched Wynn shoulder her way out of the door and up the stairs. The Master was not in his room, as Wynn had assumed he would be, so Wynn left the tray outside the door and went about her daily chores. Somehow, in the course of the day, she worked her way outside and found her legs walking the same beaten path to the stables. She half expected to see Byron, the new Hunts Marshal, to be tending the horses, but when she peered around door he was nowhere to be seen. Wynn smiled and relaxed, walking forward to Ebony’s stall to stroke her neck, resting her face into the horse’s warm flesh, smelling the fresh hay.

    
“You again,” a voice said from behind her. Wynn spun round, fearful, but felt herself relax slightly when she saw it was only Byron, grinning at her, oblivious to her fear. He set down the bucket of oats he had been holding.

    
“Your face seems better,” he commented as he opened the stable door and tipped the bucket of oats into Ebony’s feeder. Wynn raised her hand to her lip unconsciously. She had not had time to look in the mirror and had completely forgotten her cut lip and marked face.

    
“Yes, it feels better,” she agreed quietly, watching Byron brush down Ebony’s flank. Byron nodded and went on with his work, leaving Wynn to wonder if it would be rude to leave. She was planning the best way to excuse herself when Byron smiled at her unexpectedly.

    
“I heard you singing last week,” he said softly, raising his head to see Wynn’s expression, clearly unaware of the connotations his words would have.

    
Wynn face paled, she could feel it drain of blood, but forced herself to remain expressionless, “Oh,” she replied, “you are with the army?” She said as loftily as she could. She could not recall seeing Byron at the table, but she had hardly looked at the men as she had walked in, not to mention the distraction of her dream and the eerie atmosphere after she had sung.

    
“No, no,” Byron said sharply, as if the idea offended him, “I was outside walking the horses and heard you through the window... You have a beautiful voice.”

    
Wynn inclined her head in thanks and the silence resumed. Inside her conflicting emotions writhed. She felt like she was drowning under so much sadness and confusion. Byron was a man, and she had never in her years been treated with kindness by men. Men were all the same she had decided many years ago, and one kind act was not enough to change her mind, and yet there was something about him. She had the overwhelming urge to talk to him, to spill out her life. She felt both comfortable and awkward with him. She stared at him working, watched the nimbleness of his fingers as he shod Ebony’s shoes and brushed down her coat.

    
The past few days had felt like years. From the need to steal the book from the Master, her dream which refused to be silenced, and the strange reaction the men had had to her voice, she felt like life was twisting in a confusing and frightening direction. In her bones she knew something was going to happen, something which would change everything. It was something else that she could tell no one, something else which burdened her and threatened to drag her into the darkness of depression. Byron stretched his back after a long moment of silence, forcing Wynn back into the present, and opened his mouth to speak when a large commotion sounded from the front of the Manor. Byron dropped the brush he had been holding and set off at a run to see what was happening. Wynn followed behind him, curiosity peaked.

    
The noise echoed from the front of the Manor. A young man was on his knees in the dust and dirt, a soldier holding his arms behind his back. Wynn stopped behind the corner of the stables and peered across the courtyard, not wanting to attract attention. The man was struggling under the vice-like grip of the soldier. Around them more soldiers stood, arms folded, sneering at the prisoner. The forest hugged them and made the moment seem private, at least to Wynn. Byron twitched beside her and for a moment Wynn thought he was going to rush over and attempt to free the man, but instead he stepped closer her and peered around the corner.

    
“Well, well, well,” a voice said from the courtyard. Wynn’s blood ran cold as she recognised the voice, a voice she would recognise in her sleep, which haunted every waking moment of her life. The Master. He was descending down the steps, a whip in his hand. The young man on his knees tried to stay calm, but his face betrayed him. Wynn could see his eyes widen, and his body stiffen in fear and her heart tugged in empathy.

    
“What do you hold before me?” The Master said coldly, his eyes inspecting the man. His voice carried right around the grounds and Wynn shivered as though he was speaking to her.

    
“Son of the baker, he was found talking about you Master, in a most distasteful way,” the soldier replied, shaking the kneeling man angrily as he spoke, as though the man had offended him personally. The Master nodded slowly and walked menacingly slowly around the man, his footsteps squelching in the mud, before stopping eventually in front of him. Then the Master spat on the man, making sure it landed squarely on his face. Wynn covered her mouth in disgust. The kneeling man could not wipe it away for his arms were held.

    
“That is what you are doing to me when you speak ill of my name,” the Master said cuttingly, slowly unfurling a whip which none had noticed, it dropped from his clenched fist onto the ground, straight into the mud. He turned to the soldier and instructed him to take off the prisoner’s shirt. The soldier obliged, holding the prisoner tight with one arm and ripping his thin shirt off with the other. The prisoner did not speak, but his eyes darted around him for the chance of escape. Wynn shook with hate at the sight, she wanted to run to the man and comfort him, but she knew better, she clenched her fists together and watched in horror filled silence.

    
The man was on his knees, held tightly by the soldier, his back now towards the Master. The Master raised the whip high and struck the man with such force that the whole forest resounded with the sound. The skin of the man’s back split with ease, blood dribbling from the open wound. The Master repeated it ten times, each time the skin on his back was ripped open from the force and mud from the ground was driven into each wound. Wynn’s stomach clenched and she knew then she had seen the Master’s true nature. One where the suffering of others brought him perverse joy. I will never be free, Wynn suddenly thought, he will hunt me down until I am his. The thought wrapped itself around her mind like ivy until all she could think of was how bleak her future would be.

    
With a heavy heart she watched the soldier throw the bleeding man to the ground and order him away.

    
“That should not have happened,” Byron said after the army had dispersed and calm had once again settled over the Manor. Wynn jumped at the sound of his voice, forgetting that he too had witnessed the brutal attack. She nodded absentmindedly, too lost in her own sorrows to reply.