Vichelle had known little in life aside from washing the laundry of her noble master’s family. She kept her head down, her ears plugged, and tried to act like a shadow in the night. But when she finds blood on the linens one time too many, a vision at the river tells her that she must do more… -- Deathshead419
Servants should never be seen or heard. They're meant to serve without thanks, without notice. Without merit. Silent as the walls, as unobserved as the furniture. Only noticed by their absence, and then when the work is not done.
Vichelle had grown up with a washboard and soap in her hands. Doing the work of keeping the lord and lady's clothing pristine and in good repair. She did such good work that none of those in charge noticed that she'd done it at all. She was proud of that. She never received a compliment, never gained praise, and never had a concern.
Until the issue with the blood.
Blood on the lady's sheets for the better part of a week was normal. Blood for the entire month was concerning to say the least of it. Further, it was not in the typical place a lady's moon blood would pool, but it was on her side of the bedclothes. There was only one conclusion - the lord of the manner was making the lady bleed.
Vichelle didn't know what to do about it. She was just a laundry maid. She had no power. Few skills. One job.
Watching the soap and blood swirl in the water, Vichelle could see the Lord beating his wife. She could see herself creeping up on the two with a kitchen knife in one hand.
A flash of metal... and the world around her returned in soap and swirls of blood in the water. And her hands scrubbing away all the traces of the violence from the sheets.
She couldn't! Not against her lord! It was treason. She'd be lucky to be hung, drawn, and quartered. If she failed... it would be much, much worse than that. She was better off being invisible.
But maybe that was her advantage.
Vichelle had to be certain that the visions were true. For all she knew, the blood was a result of something the lady wanted to happen. There were always whispers concerning the perversions of the rich and powerful. Whether any of them had any truth to them was a question Vichelle had never wanted answered.
Which was why she volunteered to change the towels for the lord's bathing chamber, that evening.
As silent as the walls, as overlooked as the furniture, and armed with the knife, Vichelle crept into the lord's chambers. The lord did not see her. The lady's eyes flicked to her once, and flicked away again.
"You know this has to be done," said the lord. "The night without blood on the sheets is the night I die. You don't want me to die, do you?"
"Please be gentle?" murmured the lady. "I'm sure I'm carrying your heir."
"Stupid," growled the lord. "Any son I sire would never know me."
Vichelle set the towels to order, Took the knife out from the poke under her skirt.
"You're trying to end me, traitorous bitch!" He actually punched the lady of the land.
The knife went between his ribs like a song. Not once, not twice. So many times that Vichelle lost count. There would be blood on the sheets, but there was also blood on the coverlet and the curtains. Blood on her dress and the rug underneath her feet.
Blood on the knife and on her hands. On her face. On her boot, after the knife bounced off it to clatter on the floor.
The lady squirmed out from under her husband's body, streaked and spattered with red. Staring in fear at the body, then at Vichelle.
Seen at last. Known at last.
"Sorry, m'm," Vichelle bobbed a curtsey. "Since you're with child, I thought it best t' act in your defence."
"Bundle him up in everything bloody and shove him in the guarderobe," ordered the lady. "It's freezing in there. He'll bide. As for you..."
"I'm practiced at getting blood out o' things, m'm. Won't be an hour." Years of hauling heavy laundry gave her practice enough to haul a dead man and everything he'd sullied with his blood into the guarderobe. Years of worrying blood out of cloth had her dress and apron sparkling clean and drying by the lady's fire.
Vichelle had no idea how she should feel about wearing the lady's second-best housecoat while her regular clothes dried. She merely tried not to breathe too vigorously inside of it while the lady paced nervously about her chambers.
"I have friend in the rest of the castle staff," said the lady. "Enough to help create a story. Enough... to satisfy his damned prophecy. Yes. The stable master's his height and weight... it can be done."
"What can be done m'm?"
"An accident during a hunting party. He can go out with the supplies while Bentura wears his clothes on the way out. They come back the day after I spend a night alone... with a story of how a deer managed to spear him from behind."
"With knives strapped to his antlers?" asked Vichelle.
"My husband was not well liked," said the lady. "I don't think many will be asking too many questions."
Vichelle could only pray it would be so.
[Photo by Dmitrii E. on Unsplash]
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