A band of slaves was driven forth, chains clattering, their garments stiff with foulness.
The guards pressed on, shields raised, that no thralls might stumble near Lord Darien.
"Milord, seven merchants stand before you, with one hundred and twenty slaves for the market. Judge them as thou wilt."
A reek clung to them, foul as rot and dung, seeping into every corner.
Their eyes were cast unto the earth, for none had the boldness to lift their gaze. They had been traded as beasts, and now stood mute before an unknown dread.
Their thoughts were but meager things: bread to fill their bellies, shelter 'gainst the winter, and for such they would bow to any yoke.
Though the air was rank with foulness, Darien neither faltered nor turned away. He set aside his men with a steady hand and drew nigh unto the slaves.
Their bodies were filthy, ages hidden beneath grime, yet most were plainly young. The old seldom survived the chains.
There were men among them, though far fewer than women.
In this harsh land, a man's strength is his coin. Women, slighter of frame, stand beneath, and bond-women fare no better.
Though the men be lean, their bodies yet serve the plough or the sword, so long as they are not left to starve.
Originally, the traders' coffles had contained more men than women, but the stronger males had been sold long before reaching Brindlemark.
Now, only thin men remain, and mostly women.
As for any improper thoughts toward these female slaves—yes, some might arise, though few. Wealth allows many comforts, and a lord need not lack women. Strong men are better suited for labor than idle fancy.
Seeing the slaves thus—filthy and wretched—any man who harbored such thoughts would earn Darien's silent disdain.
"Good, none be missing an arm or leg."
His scrutiny was simple—limbs whole, all else irrelevant.
For Brindlemark, surviving hardships was simple; his true goal reached far beyond. As a second-order dealer in both worlds, he sought greatness—the rise of a prosperous town.
To Darien, men were the very foundation of productivity; without them, no structure could rise.
"Sir Thorold, lead them to the castle yard. Separate the men from the women, and see that extra cauldrons and broad wooden barrels be readied along the way."
Darien tossed a handful of keys. Thorold caught them with due respect, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed his eyes—he could not fathom his lord's intent.
"Yes, milord," he replied.
Though over a hundred slaves had been bought, Darien's pace did not falter.
With Thorold and Celeste at his side, he walked through Brindlemark, taking measure of the town. Yet one sight gave him pause: an empty church standing along the main road.
"Why is it deserted?" he murmured.
"Milord… Brindlemark is poor. The missionaries abandoned it years ago," Celeste replied in a quiet voice.
"Is that so?" Darien murmured. The answer was fair enough, yet it laid bare the town's poverty; elsewhere, clergy could choose better paths and thrive.
At midday, Darien returned to his castle. The slaves were split into two groups and kept in the yard under the watch of attendants.
A few massive iron cauldrons loomed nearby, sending shivers through the slaves. Such a sight bred fear in any heart.
"Add firewood and bring the water to a boil!" Darien commanded, and the servants moved swiftly.
Celeste, startled, spoke up quickly.
"Milord… though food is scarce, must we do this?"
"Hm? Fret not. 'Tis but to boil water for their cleansing, that it may serve for disinfection as well," Darien murmured, sighing inwardly. She had misunderstood his purpose, for in times of famine, such thoughts were not uncommon.
Though Celeste grasped not the meaning of "disinfection," the notion of bathing eased her fears. Yet her earlier misunderstanding left her cheeks tinged with shame.
...
Darien's gaze fell upon her, and a thought came unbidden.
In this world, with medicine still crude, many grievous ailments were incurable, particularly hidden plagues that swept through the populace. To fall ill was often to court death.
Most believed the source of such sickness lay in water: that it opened the skin's pores, letting foul humors and pestilent matter enter, weakening the body and bringing disease.
Thus, men avoided bathing, sometimes for years. Better to remain foul than risk disease—and death.
Darien, having spent the morning near Celeste, detected no unpleasant odor, only a faint, sweet fragrance. In a low voice, he asked,
"How often do you bathe?"
Celeste started, color rushing to her cheeks. Never had she thought to hear such words. 'Do I smell? I bathed only yesterday… Will he despise me? If I wash too often, I might fall ill…'
"I… I bathed yesterday, milord. Do I smell amiss?" she whispered, eyes downcast.
"Nay," said Darien with ease, "be at peace. 'Twas but a question."
A servant called then, "My lord, the water is made ready!"
Darien tested it with his hand—the warmth was well enough.
"Men to the left chamber, women to the right," he commanded, voice steady. "Buckets stand prepared. Each shall wash, and clean raiment shall be given. If any yet reek of foulness, I'll see them scoured again."
At his words, the slaves breathed relief, knowing they would not be cast aside as meat. Bathing was naught to them—so long as they lived, they dared not complain.
They hastened into the rooms, bearing buckets.
"Take this also," Darien said, revealing two pale bricks, faint of scent. He set them before Thorold and Celeste.
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🔍 Did you know?
- Bathing was rare in much of Europe during the Middle Ages; many believed that frequent washing could open the body to plagues and disease.
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