Relieved of his horse and armor, Siegfried walks Petra down the hill from the garrison, urging her forward with the pommel of his sheathed sword. In tow is a fresh assistant, a man in his mid-forties with a pockmarked face, his beard scruffy and starting to gray. He is addressed as Othmar. Othmar’s is a nasty disposition, a silent meanness. The three of them stop outside Siegfried’s house. Before proceeding further, Siegfried runs his fingers roughly through Petra’s short hair, checking meticulously for lice.
“You shan’t find any,” she tells him, speaking for the first time. He ignores her, but finds that what she says is true.
“No talking,” he orders, unlocking the door. Othmar moves to enter with them but Siegfried stops him.
“Wait outside. The girl will be free in the house, but keep an ear out. Should there be trouble, take her to the marshal’s and if neither of his sons are home then take her to Faramund’s. Bind her if you have to. You have rope?”
Othmar nods, pads the pocket of his gambeson. When Petra notices the guard is not coming in with them, she opens her mouth to scream only to be swiftly silenced by Siegfried’s gloved hand. Biting against his fingers does nothing. They are well-protected. He kicks the door shut behind him. The house is dark. With the shutters closed, only a sliver of light cuts through, alighting part of the table, the hearth.. When Petra struggles against him this time, Siegfried loses patience. He yanks her bound arms sharply, forcing her to yield.
“For the love of God,” he hisses, “Will you please stop? You are making everything so very difficult. I told you before, I shan’t lay a hand on you. If you just, for one moment, stop thrashing about, I will free your hands and we can sit down, like civilized people, and take stock of our unfortunate situation.”
He can tell by her unrelenting tension that she doesn’t believe him.
“Please,” he says again, a little less angry, and after a pause she slackens, but only slightly. Before he removes his hand from her mouth, he tells her, “If you scream, I shall hurt you.” She does not scream, but she breathes shallowly, too afraid even to cry. Siegfried pauses. He watches the pulsation of Petra’s blood coarse through the strong vein in her neck. It moves in time with the heaving of her chest.
“Stay still,” he warns, unsheathing his dagger. “I’m going to cut the rope.”
When he unbinds her, he is unsure how she will react to her newfound freedom. He tenses the muscles in his stomach, expecting her to strike him even though he is still holding the dagger. But perhaps sensing the fragility of her situation, Petra merely rolls her shoulders and stares dismally at deep, red marks the ropes left on her wrists.
“Good,” says Siegfried, “Thank you. Now sit.” He gestures towards the table and Petra does so. He takes a chair across from her. He makes sure she is very aware of the dagger in his hand.
“You will stay here for a few hours. I must go to the castle to see what my consequences are. And yours. You can judge my measure as a man by my leaving you be despite all the trouble you’ve caused me. Sleep, cry, piss in the chamber pot in the corner. Do what you must, but you are forbidden to leave until I receive further orders.” He pauses, feels a need to explain himself. “I grant you this small freedom only because I feel rather badly for what happened earlier. It was not becoming of either of us.”
Petra says nothing, still looking at her wrists. Resigned to her silence, Siegfried leaves.
“Do not make me regret my decision,” he warns, stepping across the threshold.
