Questions kept hounding her long past dinner time when she sat next to the fireplace, repairing torn shirts and watching that the clothes she had hung near the flames would only dry, not burn to a crisp. The executioner was outside, probably grooming his horse. That was pretty much the only task he wasn’t going to turn over for her. The stallion was too stubborn and mean for a woman to handle, he had told her. Though his insinuation that the women were somehow lesser than men aggravated her she didn’t let it show. She really didn’t even want anything to do with his horse. She was afraid of it.
She finished stitching the last shirt, checked the clothes near the fireplace once more and stood up, stretching her back, wincing from the soreness of it. But it was a good pain, born from work rather than beating, and she smiled pleased. Folded the shirts she had repaired and stacked them neatly to the bottom of the stairs leading up to the loft. The executioner hadn’t told her if she was allowed to go up there.
Nothing more to do than to wait for the clothes she had washed earlier to dry she started to get familiar with the hut and things placed in the cupboards and shelves. If she was going to live in here and keep the place tidy she should learn soon what belonged to where.
Her fingers lingered over long rows of books. It had been so long since she had last held one in her hands. It had been entirely too long. Carl didn’t know how to read or write, and had said that those traits had to come from Satan himself, and to practice either one of them was heresy. He had burned every book she owned on their wedding night.
She glanced over her shoulder. The executioner was still outside. She pulled carefully one dusty volume from the shelf and first just held it, enjoying the feel of the soft leather against her palms. Plain brown cover of the book gave no indication of its contents. She opened the book carefully. There was a dedication written on the front page of it with block letters. Hand that had held the pen had been heavy, tip of the pen had nearly scraped through the paper. ‘For Jeannette from Logan.’ She turned more pages, and gasped from delight when she noticed that the book was filled with poems. Long ones, short ones, ones that seemed to be filled with joy, others more serious, even grievous, but all of them were poems, and the book was hand written, with same kind of heavy scribbling as the dedication on the front page. Jeannette? Logan?
She heard footsteps from the front porch, and pushed the book back on the shelf hastily. She hadn’t asked if she could look in to those, and from what she had understood about the executioner’s initial comment of her skills in reading and writing, those weren’t traits he valued in women.
When the front door opened she still stood next to the bookcase, her hand on top of the books. She snatched it back and shifted to where the clothes were, testing them with dry fingers.
“You said that you can read and write. As long as you do your chores, you’re welcome to read anything you find from those shelves.”
“Thank you.”
“But… Should the reading get in to way of your work, I’ll have you flogged. Is that clear?” The executioner asked. She swallowed and nodded.
“Good. Found anything interesting?”
“I saw just one book. It looked nice. May I read it? I repaired your shirts and it would be nice to have something to do while I wait for the clothes to dry,” she explained, wiping her suddenly sweaty palms to her apron nervously.
“Go ahead,” the executioner said, dragging a chair next to the fireplace and sitting on it, retrieving a small silver flask from the mantel and taking a small sip from it. From the scent wafting in the air she could tell it was rum.
She had been sitting and reading for a while, in awe of the world the poems painted in front of her, but something kept nagging at the back of her mind, diluting the pleasure she got from reading. Finally she raised her head from the pages on her lap and cleared her throat.
“Can… can I ask you something?” She whispered. The executioner nodded, taking yet another sip from the flask.
“Who are these people? Jeannette and Logan?”
“My name is Logan. Jeannette was my wife,” the executioner spoke with a raspy tone, his eyes never leaving the flickering flames in the fireplace.
“Where is she now?” She asked. The executioner took a sip from the flask, grimacing slightly before answering.
“Dead. Died in childbirth little over year ago.”
“I’m sorry…”
“What for? Did you know her?” The executioner asked, turning his hazel eyes towards her.
“No. But…”
“Then you have nothing to be sorry for. Go to bed. I can wait for my clothes just fine by myself.”
She lay awake long after she had gotten in to bed, listening the silent crackling of the fire, and the executioner’s footsteps as he walked around in the kitchen, opening cupboards and muttering to himself silently. When a carriage stopped in front of the hut and the front door opened and closed she fell asleep.
Sound of hooves hitting on the ground woke her up much later. Sun was rising. It was time to get up. She got dressed and crawled from her tiny space above the fireplace in to the kitchen, dropping silently on the floor. She was reaching for the pot on the shelf beside the fireplace when the door opened and the executioner walked in. This time there was no blood on him. But the expression on his face was filled with disgust and loathing, towards whom she did not know. He shrugged off his cloak and hung his sword on the wall, then sat on the chair next to the cold fireplace and waited for her to light the fire and get the breakfast started.
Porridge was bubbling in the pot, she had sliced some bread and meat to a tray and placed it on the table and was going to go and take care of his horse next.
“Wait.” His command stopped her. She stood by the door, frozen to the spot. He looked angry and displeased. An expression she knew full well having witnessed it on Carl’s face on several occasions. The executioner leaned forward and patted a chair next to his with his palm.
“Sit.”
She swallowed the lump that had risen in to her throat and forced her legs to cooperate. Walked to where he sat and took the chair he had offered. What had she done now?
“I got called to work last night.”
“Yes?” She squeaked, fiddling with her apron, noticing how smudgy it had gotten. She should wash her clothes today. If there was time to do that.
“Decided to have a beer afterwards. I run in to some friends of your late husband at the tavern.” Her vision swam and she shook her head to clear it. She wasn’t going to faint. She was going to sit here and listen what he had to say even if it killed her.
“Yes?”
“What the hell were you doing in that cell? What the hell are you doing in here?”
Question took her by surprise. She could only stare at the executioner, who in turn stared straight back at her, his piercing eyes burning through hers like hot pokers.
“They told me what was going on in that house. You took a life, and it’s far greater sin in the eyes of the jury than those your husband committed against you, but… Christ. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” She forced the question from her parched throat.
“No man has a right to treat his wife the way your husband treated you. It wasn’t the way God intended it to be. He beat you with no reason at all! And all this time I have been thinking that you were just not a good wife…” That made her hackles rise.
“Not a good wife?” She hissed, not believing her ears.
“I was a good little wife, slaving under his roof as a maid during the day, as a whore during every night, and when it looked like something as menial as a child was going to interfere with his life, Carl got rid of it and continued as if nothing had happened! And even then I obeyed him, obeyed his every whim and word!”
“I know that now. Why didn’t you say anything to anybody? Your friends? The priest? To anybody?” The executioner asked.
“And who would have believed me? Even you thought that I was just a lazy slut worth of every hit and kick I received!”
“Just remember one thing. Every word, every hit and every kick you receive under my roof you have to earn.”
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