Ch#72
This went beyond a mere nominal stripping of the head maid’s position—Bennet would now shoulder every real responsibility it entailed.
Yet Marzella found herself at a loss for any fitting objection. The Duchess had affirmed her status as head maid.
Even so, the power behind that rank had already eroded away.
The “Zella’s Parlor,” which she had painstakingly refined over years—skrimping on funds to reupholster the sofas in leather, swapping out the curtains for finer cloth—now stood open as a shared retreat for even the lowliest maids.
She gazed about in a stupor, realizing the women lounging there were an odd assortment: laundry workers, kitchen hands, staff from unrelated wings, gathered as if deliberately dispatched.
By afternoon, the news would ripple through the entire castle.
The Duchess had orchestrated it all.
Sensing her utter rout, Marzella bowed her head.
I seized the moment to inspect several maids’ dormitories too. The spaces weren’t in dire straits, but the ancient castle showed its age in numerous minor fixes awaiting attention.
I instructed Bennet to compile a full inventory of repairs needed and was heading back to my chambers when—
“The head maid seemed utterly rattled, didn’t she? Her hands shook as she handed over the keys,” Cecilia remarked, her shoulders shimmying with evident glee.
We’d just rounded into my corridor when a towering figure by my door pivoted to face us.
Tiern, clad in crisp uniform.
“…!”
He looked far from his best.
A mottled bruise shadowed his right eye, not yet healed, and a scab crusted the edge of his busted lip.
That striking face of his.
I’d struggled to credit that the typically even-tempered Duke had thrashed him so soundly—but Tiern’s current state left no doubt he’d taken the brunt.
“I’ve come to beg pardon for failing to safeguard Your Grace as I should,” he declared, fist to chest in salute, bending low.
Such formality was new from him.
“Did the Duke dispatch you, or did you choose to come?”
“…I’d have sought you out regardless.”
The Duke had sent him, then.
I exhaled a quiet sigh.
“Enter.”
I ushered Tiern inside.
His formerly pristine features, now marred and swollen, stirred unease in me—he’d even endured jail time on my account.
Though we’d part ways with the guard rotation regardless.
“As you see, I’m unharmed. No need for further worry,” I told him, aiming to wave it aside and see him off.
“I’ve heard of the guard switch,” Tiern replied, gaze fixed on the floor at my feet.
“So the Duke mentioned.”
His idea to detail both the 1st and 2nd knight units to me had felt overkill, so I’d turned it down. Norton resuming his post as my escort, though—that I welcomed.
I’d come to grasp how unnerving it was to rely on unreliable protection.
Truth be told, Tiern had never veiled his antipathy toward me.
He ought to welcome reverting to his prior post, bruised pride notwithstanding.
“Grant me leave to remain Your Grace’s shield,” he urged.
“…Pardon?”
His plea startled me; I scanned his face.
No glare this time, yet that defiant spark lingered.
“Give me the opportunity to atone for my errors,” he pressed.
I glanced at Cecilia.
“Cecilia.”
She grasped at once and slipped out.
The door clicked shut, leaving us alone. I met his eyes squarely.
“No.”
Just that.
Tiern’s brow creased, my blunt refusal insufficient after dismissing the maid, it seemed.
“This touches the 9th Knight Squad’s standing. In mercy’s name, reconsider.”
“Plead as you might, it stays no.”
“Why?”
Should I voice it? I hadn’t meant to dredge this up.
“I know I’ve shown Your Grace disrespect,” he offered. “Punish me for it if you wish—I’ll bear it.”
“That’s not why.”
His brows arched faintly, expectant. I could contain it no more.
“You’re no knight I can trust.”
“…What do you mean?” His tone dipped low, veins corded along his balled fist.
“That day…”
“Was it truly an accident?” I demanded, ice in my voice.
His gaze quivered.
“My maid—swordless novice that she is—lunged to shield me from that egg. Yet Blenheim’s knight captain could not?”
I’d witnessed it.
As the second egg hurtled my way, Tiern had recoiled, arm rising halfway—then frozen.
Had he pressed on, no shame would have stained me. His stunned expression in the aftermath had sealed my certainty.
Tiern gaped at me, uncomprehending.
“The Duke likely chalks it to carelessness. I see intent in your halt.”
“…”
“I’ve kept silent to spare the Duke, who holds you dear. But I won’t have such a knight at my flank.”
Tiern held mute, mouth a thin line.
“Isn’t it craven? Dodging the Duke’s command, then begging the one you wronged for grace.”
More had festered in me than I knew.
The torrent spilled unchecked.
“I can’t fathom what you anticipated from the capital’s ‘villainess,’ but I don’t retain those unwilling.”
At times, that “villainess” tag served as armor against those unworthy of courtesy.
“For your squad’s honor, deem your apology received. Spread word of my pardon if you must.”
Tiern remained rooted, reeling from the onslaught.
“If that sinks in, you’re free to leave.”
His stillness unnerved me; I sent him packing plainly.
He departed sans salute—not from insolence, but sheer bewilderment.
I hadn’t aimed to press so hard.
Perhaps naming him coward was too much.
Yet I’d impugned his knighthood; retreat was impossible.
Still, I resolved against chasing favor from foes.
I’ve vented it all. We’re square.
And with that, I released it.
Tiern strode off, face etched in stone.
“Was it truly an accident?”
The Duchess’s chill query reverberated.
It hadn’t been deliberate—or so he insisted to himself.
Hearing the townsfolk revile her had ignited a flash: shielding her felt like spurning his father. Instinct overrode him; he faltered.
His father had perished by Marquis Fasie’s hand—fitting, then, for that noble’s daughter to suffer scorn?
Regret crashed only as the yolk smeared her cheek.
He’d forsaken his oath, permitting a frail woman’s debasement.
Confined in his cell, her welfare haunted him.
Learning it stemmed from another’s base plot fueled his self-loathing for enabling it.
Thus his plea for redemption.
Her barbs, though—keen and unsparing—had blindsided him.
He stood defenseless; every accusation rang true.
Unfit as knight. Craven to the core.
Her rebuke stung worse than the Duke’s fists.
Rattled to his marrow, Tiern quitted the castle.
Justice descended swiftly on the offenders.
The egg-tosser lost every asset, banished forever past Blenheim’s peaks.
Penniless and adrift, it courted death—yet Cecilia merely tsked, noting spring’s bounty might stave off famine.
The rabble-rousers drew hard labor terms.
The merchants’ guild head recanted the lies about me at a governor-witnessed assembly, dispatching formal retractions to every outlet.
“I never dreamed Lady Meisel capable of such,” Cecilia mused, head-wagging as she readied to depart.
“Truly? You rate her kinder than I.”
“I pegged her as spiteful, sure—but not brazen enough to command this.”
In no haste to depart, she resettled and queried,
“Incidentally, how did His Grace uncover Lady Meisel’s hand in it?”