The Servant’s Quarters

“Hush girl,” Martha warned. “Hush or the master will send you away.”

The young girl Eliza tried to quiet her sobs but to little avail. Her parents were dead, slain by the master’s own hand and for no better a reason than that of being hungry. Stealing from the master’s pantry is punishable by death, and they knew that—all who live and toil within the castle walls know that. Still they did it. They crept into the pantry in the wee hours, before the crow of morning. Their daughter, Eliza, a thin girl weighing no more than a small goat needed fare. Rations of late were considerably less. The master rescinded kindness after the last banquet. It was there that Eliza’s parents made a ghastly error in judgment and spilled scalding hot soup on Lord Pelinoa of Blackmoor Castle. Since that night all the master’s servants have paid the price and now Martha feared that Eliza’s cries would bring more wraths upon them.

“Hush, I tell you! Or I’ll stuff my stockings in your mouth to quiet you.”

But, Eliza could not be silenced. Martha looked upon the frail child, no more than ten years of age and found pity in her heart for the girl. Martha herself was a mere child when her parents were slain. Suddenly the old woman shook her head.

Why had it not occurred to her before? It was the same master now that destroyed her mother and father long ago.

Martha went to the girl sitting beside her reclined figure on the bed. She patted the frail Eliza on the back as one pats a baby to sleep. Soft, rhythmic beats against the girl’s back quieting her sobs and aiding Martha in her thoughts. She was filled with thought now. The room in which they sat was starkly plain, with stone walls-- too cold to touch in winter, and small rope beds with their rag mattresses. There was a chair in the corner, and a trunk to keep their possessions, of which there were little.

Perhaps Eliza is far braver than Martha could ever have been? When Martha’s parents were slain she did not cry but went as the Master ordered to the kitchen to prepare dinner. She thought of these things as she sat beside the crying girl.

The candle cast shadows against the stone as evening thickened.

“I too have suffered, Eliza,” Martha told the girl. “Your weeping has restored my memories from so long ago. The Master killed my parents as well.”

Eliza turned then. Wisps of red curls fought to escape from beneath her kerchief. Her eyes searched Martha’s wrinkled face for sympathy.

“It is true,” Martha nodded. “I was younger than you when my Mother refused the Master his bidding for the night. The Master had her put to death. When my father tried to intercede he forfeited his life as well. Strange is it not Eliza, that I did not remember this until now?” Martha rose and walked to the wooden plank door of their bedroom. Beyond the door was the kitchen. She could hear the others as they worked feverishly to prepare his dinner. He is a foul man.

“It was fear,” Martha announced. She turned from the door and hurried back to the young girl. Her excitement at having discovered her own thoughts was overwhelming and for a moment Martha sat, her hand clutched to the gray apron of her position. Then she bent toward the child and whispered. “It was fear that kept me from remembering. And it will be fear that will sustain you.”

“No fear can make me forget my mother’s kind face, or my father’s gentle voice,” Eliza argued. “I will go to the Master, if he will have me-- and carry a knife hidden in my pocket. I will stab at him…” she plunged her imaginary knife into the rag mattress.

Martha grabbed the child firmly by the shoulders and shook her. “No, you will not! It will be certain death of an unpleasant nature.”

“No loss could be this great,” the girl insisted. She pushed Martha aside and swung her legs to the floor. Martha grabbed her wrist before she could reach the latch on the wooden planked door.

“It is not just your head, child,” Martha warned. “We-- all of us who toil here will suffer as we endure your screams, your pain-- unable to assist you. Our dreams will be plagued with your sufferings for many nights.”

Eliza knew Martha’s words were true. In her short life she had witnessed the wrath of the Master turned against others, and the cries of her own mother and father would last with her in slumber. She fell against Martha allowing the woman to embrace her.

The candlelight flickered against the bleak walls of the women’s room. Martha smiled. She had never been privileged to so many thoughts, and now they seemed to grow as the shadows cast by the candle grew against the walls.

Yes, it can be done. I will do it.

She pushed the girl away from her bosom holding her at arm’s length.

“There will be satisfaction this night, girl, but it will be by my own hands.”

Before Eliza could question the woman as to the meaning of her words the door flew open. The Master entered. He scowled at the women. He was a big man who filled a doorway completely. His tunic was a dark green. His beard and boots were black, and his eyes pierced through the room like a beacon.

Martha curtsied.

“I am not of habit to attend my servants,” he stated. “You will serve my dinner or be hanged before moon rises.”

Martha curtsied again. Her master turned and left the room. Eliza stood behind Martha and now watched as the woman went to the trunk and raised the lid. Inside she drew out a small flask and pressed it against her chest. She smiled at Eliza.

“One drop of this and the master will be the one who sees the moon rise from the other side.”

“What is it?” Eliza asked.

“Poison,” Martha whispered. “I bought it from a gypsy long ago. I didn’t know why then I thought it such a good idea, but now I know. It is fate that drives my hand tonight, and shame that I have not acted before. You stay here child.” Gently she pushed against Eliza. “You stay here. This is on my hands.”

Eliza backed until her legs touched against the bed and she sat. She watched Martha pass into the kitchen. She could see from there as Martha poured the liquid from the bottle over the master’s meal. She smiled. Martha raised her head to look at the young girl. Eliza smiled again. It was a peaceful smile. Martha nodded, lifted the platter and carried it to the Master’s table.



He lingered for four days and during that time the house was made to suffer. Martha and Eliza indulged in curious smiles throughout that time, and upon his passing—it is said that they danced late into the night.