The executioner had already woken up when she crawled out from her bed, knees weak from hunger, sleep in her eyes. He was sitting by the table, eating porridge, fully clothed.
“I’m sorry… I was sure that… I’ll do better tomorrow…” She whispered a hasty excuse when he turned to look at her.
“You’re up early. Good. Eat, and go take care of the horse,” the executioner grunted, turning his attention back to his breakfast. She could see from the window that sun hadn’t risen yet.
“Don’t expect your breakfast to be ready at every morning. I had to leave last night and I just got back home,” the executioner murmured, and now she noticed his disheveled appearance, and large speckles of blood coloring his clothes.
“Of course… Of course. You will be probably going to bed after you have eaten, right? Just leave your clothes down here, and I’ll wash them before the blood dries on them…”
“There’s a cauldron outside, as well as some pails, soap and a washboard. And I’ll be having stew for dinner.”
She took some porridge from a pot hanging in the fireplace and ate it fast, trying to ignore how the blood cling to the executioner’s hands and the sleeves of his shirt. After she had eaten she put her bowl and the spoon in to dish pail to soak up.
“I’ll wash these after I have fed the horse…” She was whispering. She hated how weak her voice sounded, but quite frankly she couldn’t have muster out more confident tone even if her life depended on it. The executioner didn’t seem to mind.
“Be careful with that beast. It ate my last maid,” the executioner said between spoonfuls of porridge, and she froze, her hand on the door handle, eyes fixed upon him. He turned to look at her, serious look on his face, but slight twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
“Not really. It didn’t eat her. But as well as might have. It’s as crooked as a horse can be. Be careful.”
She approached the stable timidly. Opened the door and cringed when hinges squeaked. The horse huffed somewhere in the darkness. She reached inside, hand fumbling for a lantern and found it hanging next to the door. She took it and lit it outside before stepping in to the stable.
Scent of horse and hay surrounded her. Light of the lantern revealed one pen at the back, and the black stallion standing in there, expectant look on its long face. Again it huffed, nostrils flaring when it took in her scent. She stepped closer and the stallion whinnied quietly, then turned away as if she was no importance to it.
She hang the lantern to its holder. Found a bucket from the corner filled with water and emptied it to a hinge placed on the side of the pen. The horse kept its head turned away from her.
There was a pile of hay in the corner. She retrieved several armfuls of it and dropped them in to the pen, carefully keeping her hands out of the stallion’s reach. Pen looked tidy, no manure in there. She stepped back and stood by the door. Horse turned around and buried its muzzle to hinge, drinking with big, greedy gulps before starting munching the hay she had dropped for it.
She returned to the house when she was sure there was nothing else she should do for the animal. Small hut was quiet aside from soft snoring coming from the rafters. The executioner hadn’t seen the need to build a room; instead he slept on a loft constructed above the fireplace. She took the clothes he had discarded on the floor and took them outside.
There was a well in front of the hut, and cauldron, pails and washboard had been placed near it, but downstream from it. She filled the cauldron with water and lit a fire under it, then filled some pails with even more water and put the executioner’s clothes in those to soak up. A shirt, the vest, hooded cloak he wore and his gloves. His trousers were easy to clean up. Wet cloth slid over the leather and gathered all the small speckles of blood.
While she waited for the water to boil she washed the bowls, spoons and the pot the executioner had used to cook the porridge. Took a broom and wiped the floor. Dusted numerous shelves housing books on the walls. Peeled some potatoes and carrots for the stew. Checked the stable because she thought she heard a noise, but instead of finding the horse running rampant around she found it sleeping peacefully in the pen.
And the water wasn’t boiling. It would be past dinnertime before she could start washing the clothes. And there was no way they would dry over night. They’d be still at least moist in the next morning. She had a feeling that the executioner wouldn’t be very pleased if that were to happen.
She got on her knees next to the cauldron, showed more wood under it and blowed, blowed in to the flames until coals and wood were glowing white-red and her head swam.
“Don’t burn yourself. I’m getting tired of replacing maids. It’s hard to find decent women from that riff raff in the prison.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll die for the lack of air sooner than in to those pitiful flames…” She muttered angrily before she realized to whom she was speaking to. She heard a low chuckle, and heavy footsteps from behind her, then the executioner’s hands were on her hips, moving her aside as he kneeled next to the cauldron himself.
“Trying to escape the sword? Do I have to start to keep my eyes on you all the time?” He huffed, shoving more logs under the cauldron.
“N… No?” She uttered hesitantly. The executioner cast an annoyed glance towards her, his left eyebrow lifted in a questioning manner.
“I wasn’t aware that the bastard of a husband of yours killed your sense of humor as well.”
“Huh?” She squeaked, instantly alarmed and cringing away from his darkening gaze. The executioner squinted his eyes, then grabbed her chin with his calloused fingers and tilted her head sideways.
“What the hell happened to your ear?”
She knew what he was looking at. Her left earlobe was slightly disfigured. Had been ever since Carl had decided to teach her a lesson on how hot the iron should be when she was ironing his shirts. He had grabbed the heating block from the fireplace and shoved it in to the iron, then pressed the iron against her left ear and told her that it wasn’t hot enough before he could smell her blood on it.
“It’s nothing. I can… I can cover it, I can keep my hair so that they cover it and…”
“What the hell for? You’re here to work, not to look pretty. Though I’m starting to doubt your skills in housekeeping…” The executioner muttered, letting go of her and standing up.
“It’s boiling,” he pointed in to the cauldron before he went back in to the hut.
She scrubbed the clothes clean from visible spots of blood with soap, cold water and the washboard. Her fingers were numb from the icy water when she splashed the heavy pile of clothes in to the cauldron, stirring them with long wooden pole made for the purpose.
He was doubting her skills? And what would it mean if he found her so lacking with her skills that it was impossible to picture her keeping his household in order for the coming year? Would he take her back to prison? Or simply finish her off out here, without the audience, robbing her the privilege of a trial before her execution?
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