Arlette had known a life of ease, cherished by loving parents and a devoted brother.
She thought her days would remain carefree, yet fate dealt a cruel hand.
Six months ago, disaster struck.
Her family was falsely accused and saddled with a grievous debt. To repay it, her father was forced to dismiss the servants and sell both their title and lands.
In an instant, Arlette went from a noble lady of grace to an ordinary commoner, stripped of rank and comfort.
She had believed that love of family could make her happy. She was mistaken.
As an aristocrat, she had known nothing of the toil and peril of the lowborn.
In her second week among them, brigands struck her home.
Her parents were slain after yielding their last possessions. Her brother drew the brigands to shield her—and she witnessed his brutal death with her own eyes.
She pressed herself into the thicket of hay, too afraid to weep, knowing she must survive for the price he had paid.
Whether by luck or design, the brigands fled after ransacking the home, perhaps to plunder another, or to find their own pleasure. She knew not—but she knew she had survived at the price of her family.
Since that day, Arlette lived in exile.
She had no skill, no strength—only the meager art of begging, which she practiced with other wandering refugees.
One by one, the refugees around her were lost—some to hunger, some to unknown fates. She had been spared, barely surviving on morsels cast by nobles.
Yet fortune is fickle. Slave traders marked her at last.
She offered no resistance; they took her as easily as a bird in a net.
Her freedom was lost; she would serve the nobles—or worse, if they learned she had once been noble.
At Brindlemark, no one bought her. Most men sold quickly; nearly all the women were left. Her price—fifty copper coins, equal to a loaf of black bread—was pitiful, yet none desired her.
Only then did she understand what it truly meant to be wasted.
By chance, Arlette overheard the slave traders' talk.
Brindlemark had no food left; the town would fall soon. The traders planned to flee, yet to carry so many slaves would cost too much. They were ready to abandon them to die—or to fend for themselves.
Hearing this, Arlette felt a bitter solace. She might die, but not behold her kin's deaths wasted.
The slaves had heard the news, for the merchants concealed naught. Guarded by men-at-arms, the weak and hollow could do nothing.
Still, the slavers held them, hoping for one last coin should a noble pass.
At last a buyer came—not some wandering noble, but Brindlemark's new lord, Darien.
The slavers asked no questions. They took their copper and silver and vanished.
Arlette, bewildered, marked him a fool. Why spend silver on slaves fit only for the grave?
Once, as a noble's daughter, she might have blushed and offered him roses. But those days were dust. Now she was but a filthy wretch, praying only that he might show mercy, purchase her, and grant a crust of black bread.
As though her plea had been heard, Darien lifted his hand. He bought her—and every one of the other slaves as well!"
Arlette was struck with wonder, yet most of all with joy. Whatever his purpose, her fate was no longer hunger's death. He had paid in full for them; surely such coin would not be cast to waste.
But marvel soon turned to dread at the strangeness that followed.
Sir Dale, knight in the baron's service, brought forth great vessels of iron and laid them before the company.
The slaves trembled at the sight. Could Brindlemark's larders be so bare that they themselves were to be cast into the pot as meat?
Darien laughed lightly and spoke: "Nay, these pots be not for flesh, but for water. Ye reek of hardship, and shall have a bath."
The slaves sighed with relief. To be called foul was naught beside the gift of life and warmth.
Thus none withheld obedience.
Arlette marked with quiet gratitude how the men and women were parted in modesty.
Surely the new baron was a man of upright heart.
Yet what followed left her greatly astonied.
The water brought forth was heated, steaming like mist upon the morning fields. When it was poured over her wearied body, Arlette scarce withheld tears. In her days as lady of a noble house, firewood was held dear, and none squandered such fuel for common bathing.
Then came forth the handmaids of the castle, bearing a strange treasure: soap, wrought and prepared by Darien's own design.
She did as bidden, and verily—the filth of years was undone at a touch, and the long itching of her skin vanished as though it had never been. Her flesh felt new, her spirit lightened.
After this blessing, garments were given unto them. Though woven coarse, they were clean and sound—far more than the foul rags that aforetime clung to their bones.
And when she thought her lot could ascend no further, a marvel yet greater was set before them.
Bread—white, hearty, and without end—was placed in their hands!
Dale, stern of visage, gave warning: "Waste it not. What ye cannot finish shall be pressed into you, or else cast to the hounds."
Arlette, heart aflame with gratitude, hearkened to his counsel. Though her belly cried for haste, she ate with care, washing it down with warm draughts of water. Hope, long a stranger, crept back into her breast.
Though still a slave in name, she perceived that this new lord treasured their lives.
When they were clothed and fed, she beheld Darien once more. Whether true or a trick of yearning, he seemed fairer still to her eyes.
And then he spake words that smote her soul with wonder:
"Your life is worth more than you realize! I have no need for slaves or chattel—I seek people who can create value with their own hands. And such worth exceeds fifty copper coins by a hundredfold, a thousandfold, even ten thousand times more. And I have no doubt you can bring it forth!"
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🔍 Did you know?
- Food scarcity was common in medieval towns; one meal a day was often all that the poorest citizens could afford during harsh winters.
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