Immalaine wakes with groan at the pounding on her door. It's been four days, now, since the brutal 'dinner party' with the Angmarans, and she's still not accustomed to these pre-dawn mornings her punishment requires.
Sallastin himself was there that first morning after the party, dressed as immaculately as ever despite the early hour. "Don't think your insolence last night went unnoticed," he said. "Perhaps carrying out the chamber pots for the next week will teach you. Their contents are as acceptable as back-talk.”
Now Immalaine pulls herself out of bed, takes a moment to regain her balance, then hurriedly pulls on her clothes and dumps her own chamber pot into a wooden bucket. Two dozen buckets like these await her throughout the villa, to be carried downstairs, out into the courtyard, and then emptied into the shaft of the exterior privy, sending the foul substances down the steep slope of the knoll on which the mansion sits. Her nose wrinkles in anticipated disgust at the concentrated smell within the shed that covers that outdoor shaft.
A heavy fist pounds the door again, followed by the sound of the bolts being drawn back. "I'm up, I'm coming," she answers, stumbling slightly over her chains. With the next knock the guard probably will come in, whether she's ready or not. She takes a deep breath and opens the door to begin the unsavory task.
An hour later, with the last two buckets in hand, Immalaine trudges across the cobbled pathway of the courtyard to place them with their fellows, lined in front of the privy shed at the far end of the wall. She tries not to think about the smells coming from the shed’s interior.
"Hurry up, girl!" the guard snaps, pushing her forward before retreating a few paces away from the miasma. "You've not all morning to see to that, you know." Immalaine nearly drops the bucket, but she bites her tongue and hesitantly opens the door to begin the most unpleasant part of this punishment: the dumping.
The dimmer light inside the shed does nothing to reduce the force of the odors rising from the shaft. Holding her breath, she lifts the wooden lid and dumps the first bucket in, then glances down after. ‘Material’ can get stuck on the iron grate that is set two feet below the opening, meaning an extra trip or two with water from the rain barrel to rinse it clear. This morning, looking down, she sees, below the grate, a face emerging from beneath a soiled cowl. She stares. Someone is wedged in the steep, narrow shaft, clinging to it and looking up at her.
For a moment, disbelief fills her mind. Surely the smell has her imagining things, she thought. Yet the face remains, looking none too happy to be there. "How .... who ..." Immalaine stutters and takes a quick step back as she tries to scream, nothing but a squeak emitting from her mouth.
The figure releases hold of the grate with one hand to press a filth-encrusted, gloved finger over his lips. "Immalaine," comes the low, amused voice, quite at odds with the foul surroundings. "Keep quiet!"
Still shocked over the strange appearance, she stares down the hole again. It knows my name, she thinks. I've gone mad! Closing her eyes tightly, she wills the apparition away, only to see it still there when she opens them again.
The improbable stranger stares at her puzzled expression for a moment, then pulls the cowl further back to reveal his features. "It's Ceolfred, Rastellion's uncle. Do you remember me?"
Immalaine peers closer at the man, her eyes widening as she finally recognizes him under the smears of filth. "Ceolfred! I ... is it really? Rastellion, is he here too?" she whispers, her voice filled with hopeful desperation.
"Shhh," cautions Ceolfred again, then pulls his cowl back and resumes his grip on the grating. "Go get the next bucket," he urges. "Don't tarry so long and make your guard suspicious."
With a brief nod, Immalaine turns and leaves the shed. Fortunately, the guard appears more intent on eyeing one of the laundry girls than on watching Immalaine’s chores. With a sigh of relief, she drops the first empty bucket and picks up the next.
"How ... how'd you find me?" she whispers to Ceolfred, back inside, as she attempts to avoid hitting him with the odoriferous contents.
Ceolfred ducks his head under his cowl as she dumps, for the narrow shaft leaves no possible way to avoid getting splattered. When the unsavory pattering ceases, he glances back up. "Followed one o' 'is men outta Bree. Been stakin' this place out f’ra few days now." He shakes his head, inadvertently dislodging a chunk of nightsoil, which goes sliding down the shaft below him. "Don' matter; no time. Imma, tell it plain; yer here against your will? Th' shackles seem clear 'nuff but - well, we don' know wha' happen'd. Why y' left wit' him."
"I didn't have a choice! He threatened to hurt Merry or ... or the baby if I didn't come! I didn't want to ... but I didn't want anyone to get hurt either!" Immalaine sniffs in sorry, then shudders at the smell that hits her.
Ceolfred nods. "Had t' ask. But time's passin'." He grimaces briefly. "Next bucket."
Immalaine hurries back out and grabs the next bucket. The guard has made his way to the lines of laundry in the courtyard. She returns to the privy hole and lifts the next bucket. "So ... Rastellion didn't come?" she says, her voice laced with disappointment and hurt.
"No," Ceolfred confirms, before ducking his head again. "But now I've found you, I can lead t'others here." He pauses as the next bucketful washes over him, spits, then looks up. "You do love 'im then? Rastellion?"
"Of course I love him!" Immalaine exclaims. "I miss him horribly and ... and ..." she bites her lip to keep from crying as she remembers the last conversation they had, then she races out of the outhouse to heave a few quick sobs, before grabbing the next bucket.
"Easy, child," Ceolfred says as her face reappears above him. "Jus' makin' sure. Now, think. How're we t' get you outta here? Shackles, guards, locked gates... it's a fair challenge, 'specially wit'out trained men. I need you t' think." He ducks his head again.
Immalaine scrunches her eyes shut as she imagines the layout of the compound and all the guards. "I don't know ... These chains, they never take ‘em off me, even at night. Sallastin has the whole place guarded, and there's always someone watching me. I'm not ever allowed outside the walls." She purses her lips, her expression one of weariness and intent concentration. "And with the wedding coming up ..." Immalaine turns pale at the thought.
"Wedding?" Ceolfred demands, startled, then adds, "No, tell me on the next trip."
Immalaine returns with another bucket, and dumps it down the hole as Ceolfred ducks his head. "Yes, wedding,” she says. “He's determined to have my farm, and he's making me marry him!"
"Tha’s a whole lot o' trouble jus’ for some farm. Don’ make sense...” He spits again and muffles a cough, then mutters, "I'm gettin' too old for this shit." Peering out from under his cowl he says, "We need a better way t' meet when I'm back. I ain’t doin’ this again. Can you write messages? Or is there someone y' trust t' carry yer words down to th' village?"
Immalaine thinks for a moment, then nods. "There's another girl in here with me, name's Marybelle. She's nice to me ... I'm sure she'd do it for me." Immalaine nods emphatically, then remembers her waiting guard, and darts out the door long enough to exchange buckets.
Ceolfred waits for the next offering to wash over him. "This girl... she leaves the villa? You sure you can trust her? Certain?
Immalaine gives a tentative nod. "Pretty certain. I know she's allowed to leave. Oversees th’ market shopping. And yes, I think I can trust her, especially since I promised her I'd help her get away if I could."
"Make certain. We can talk through her when I return wit' th' others. Tell her…” He frowns, thinking. “Tell her I’ll be wearing a woven hat wi’ a turkey feather stuck in’t. She’s to ask me if I caught the bird it came from, an’ I’ll answer that I’ve come to save two birds from a bush. Last thing: this wedding. How long d' we have?"
Immalaine goes to fetch the final bucket while she tries to recall snippets of conversation she'd overheard. "Don't know exactly, but if I have the rights of it, about eleven days?"
Ceolfred growls, "not much time then. Right. I'm back off t' Bree, then, t' tell them your found. Y' hold tight. We'll be back in three, mebbe four days." He shifts his grip on the grate. "That's the last bucket?" He huffs out a relieved breath at her nod. "Good."
Then, for the first time, his voice loses some of its confident control, as he asks, plaintively, "I don' suppose you could give the shaft an extra good rinse this mornin'?"
(Credits and love go to Rastellion, who provided the voice of various characters in the stories. *Blows kisses to Rastellion and grins widely*)
