On the way to Barda's home, he paraded me down the street like I was a trophy that he had just one. He tightened his grip around my arm, "Smile!" he grumbled at me. While I was smiling on the outside, my eyes pled to anyone watching, to please save me from my horrible fate. Only a single gentleman looked me in the eye's, but said nothing as I passed. The rest of the people, only stares and whispers.
As soon as we were out of the town square, Barda let go of arm, giving me a little push. I stumbled, trying to catch my balance. "Try to keep up!" Barda grumbled at me again. His voice was rough and raspy. I followed him when all I really wanted to do was run. Running was not an option, for when one ran from a Master, they were hung. Could this really be a fate worse than death?
Upon entering the little shack, which looked no more like a shed than a home, I could smell the stench. It smelled of old ale and sweat. Left-over food and dirty dishes were left on the table, clothes everywhere, as if that is where they had landed after being thrown. Maybe death would have been a better choice.
I stood just inside the doorway, waiting for my orders, trying not to wretch from the smell. "Start a fire, then clean this place up!" Barda walked into the next room, which I assumed to be his bedchambers, closing the curtain behind him. Slowly I made my way toward the fireplace, gently kicking the things that were blocking the way. After a few hours, I had finally completed the work. All that was left for me to do was to wash the clothing and somehow try to get rid of the stench inside the two room shack. I was unsure what to do at this point. The clothes needed washing, but if I went outside without his knowledge, he may have thought I ran. Disturbing him, however, could be far worse. In my mind, death was always better than a beating.
Needless to say, it wasn't long until I figured out that if Barda was passed out I had nothing to worry about, he wouldn't be awake for hours. Every day would be the same, I would spend the morning cleaning, the afternoon rubbing his calloused feet, and making sure that he had an evening meal before he headed to the Ale House. The nights he spent at the brothel were indeed my favorite. It meant I was free, at least for a little while. I would pull my cot with the straw-filled mattress close to the fireplace and fell asleep, nice and warm. He would stumble in at the wee hours of the morning and do nothing more than pass out in his bedchambers.
In the year that I was with Barda, he never really treated me badly. I was never starved or beaten. He would, though, berate me when his clothing wasn't washed or folded to his liking. Soon, that would change. You see, at the age of 16, I was turning into quite the young woman. Barda noticed immediately and soon began to skip the evening trips to the brothel.
Let me just say that the night they found him lying in the street dead was a night I never will forget. From what I had heard, he left the Ale House and passed out in the middle of the street, no one was able to wake him. The gentleman on the street, the only one that looked me in the eye that fateful day, was the one to bring me the joyous news and offered me a room at his home. Of course the room would come with a price. I was to tend to his wife. Knowing that it was either that or living on the streets with the beggars, trying to hide from Asher, who would most certainly want me back, I chose to live with Sir Gavin and his wife Gwendolynn.
