Looking around, the stables were unsettlingly empty.
Nearly half of the twenty followers who had gone on the expedition had been lost, so it was no surprise that their warhorses hadn't all returned unscathed.
In the main stables of the outer ward, where twenty stalls once stood in neat rows, only three warhorses remained, quietly chewing their fodder.
The rest had either fallen forever on the northern trade routes or had suffered injuries so severe—shattered leg bones, torn tendons—that they were given a final mercy on the battlefield.
Even in the medically advanced world Murphy had come from, such injuries would have meant euthanasia for a warhorse.
The fact that Lawson had managed to bring Red Leaf back in one piece was a stroke of Luck that, in a way, had now become Murphy's own.
The other Grooms, faced with empty stables, could only collect their basic wages, but Murphy could continue to care for a healthy warhorse.
This meant that his share from the "reasonable spoilage" of the fine feed could still quietly find its way into his pockets.
A few days later, Hank and Bart arrived at Murphy's stable, wrapped in thin, old coats and trudging unevenly through the deep snow.
The moment they entered, both men collapsed by the fire pit, misery etched on their faces.
"We can't go on like this," Bart said first, vigorously rubbing his frozen hands. "Those of us who were moved to the common stables only make one copper plate a day now! Just one copper plate!"
Hank sighed and added, "Back in the main stables, we made three copper plates a day, every day. Now? We have to work for four days just to make what we used to in one."
Bart's voice dropped. "Those draft horses don't even get bean mash. We don't have a chance to skim anything extra from their feed. Back when we cared for the warhorses, just the oats we managed to deduct for ourselves were enough to trade for plenty of things."
Hank tugged at the hem of his clothes, his face a mask of worry. "My two kids at home... they used to get meat at least once a month. Now..."
He trailed off, shaking his head.
Murphy listened in silence, adding a log to the fire pit.
Bart lowered his voice. "I also heard we might not even get to keep our one copper plate next month. We'll probably end up like the other servants, living entirely off the provided rations."
The firelight illuminated their three silent faces.
Murphy couldn't help but feel thankful that he still had Red Leaf to look after.
A few days later, news of another change spread through the castle.
The six remaining warhorses in the common stables were all transferred to be kept in the main stables of the outer ward.
Naturally, the Grooms who weren't assigned to a warhorse were all sent to the common stables.
That evening, Hank and Bart came to Murphy's stable again, their faces even grimmer than the last time.
"It's over. We're completely done for." Hank slumped onto a pile of hay, not even bothering to take off his coat. "There are only draft horses in the common stables now, and with over forty of us Grooms crammed in there, it's not even two horses per man."
Bart gritted his teeth. "The Steward also said that since our work is easier now, there won't be any more wages. He said, 'The castle providing you food and board is already a tremendous act of grace from the Baron.'"
Murphy silently stirred the coals in the fire pit.
He understood. In this era, ordinary servants were typically paid in kind: two meals a day, a place to sleep, and maybe some cloth, shoes, or farming tools at the end of the year.
The fact that Grooms received actual wages was entirely due to the special nature of caring for horses.
But now, even that privilege was gone for the common stables...
Hank leaned closer to the fire. "Besides, the Steward has a sharp eye. He's been lurking around the stables the past few days, watching for anyone who's working too slow, anyone who's slacking off..."
Bart clenched his fists. "Yesterday, a fight almost broke out over who would get to brush Big Black's mane. You know how foul-tempered that draft horse is. But who dares to be idle now? No one's idle!"
Murphy continued to listen in silence.
A dozen men would have been enough to care for these draft horses.
Now, with the castle's finances tight, more than forty men were crammed into the job. Everyone was desperately trying to find work, terrified of being seen as redundant.
Hank's voice trembled. "I saw Old Jon, kneeling on the frozen ground before dawn to scrub the water troughs. His fingers were cracked from the cold, and he has a sick wife at home... If he gets thrown out..."
Bart grew agitated. "What's the use of us fighting for work? Eighty draft horses don't need forty men to care for them!"
The firelight illuminated their grim faces.
Murphy thought of the mother and daughter from the laundry who had been quietly sent away a few days ago. The rumor was it was simply because the daughter had been sick and unable to work for two days.
"At least..." Hank suddenly grabbed Murphy's arm. "If you ever need a hand here, you have to think of us first. We'll do anything, really..."
Gazing at the pleading in his two companions' eyes, Murphy was once again struck by how precious Lawson's Luck was, and just how important Yor's help had been.
In the end, Murphy could only offer a vague reply. "I'll keep an eye out. If the main stables need more hands, I'll be sure to think of you first."
As Hank and Bart trudged away, their steps heavy, Murphy gazed out at the swirling snow and couldn't help but shudder.
He could offer them no promise, just as the harsh winter could offer the earth no warmth.
...
A few more days passed, and the atmosphere in the castle grew even heavier.
While hauling fodder, Murphy often overheard servants gathered together, speaking in hushed tones.
Tom, Jack, and Will from the laundry had been sent away. The rumor was that they were too thin and weak to scrub the followers' heavy cloaks.
The boy who helped in the kitchen had also vanished. The Steward's official reason was that he had "sticky fingers," but everyone knew the kid didn't have the nerve to steal even a piece of bread.
What made Bart and Hank most anxious were the developments in the stables.
Old Jon from the common stables had failed to keep his job in the end. Many people had seen the scene of him kneeling in the snow, begging the Steward.
His sick wife probably didn't survive the winter.
It wasn't just him; a dozen other older Grooms who had long worked in the common stables were also let go.
This news swirled through every corner of the castle like a cold winter wind.
All the servants worked feverishly, terrified that the slightest slip-up would make them the next to be let go.
Even the washerwomen, normally the most talkative and cheerful, now just scrubbed the laundry in silence.
Murphy noticed the Stewards making their rounds more frequently, their gazes always lingering on the elderly or frail servants.
The castle was like a great tree withering in the winter, shedding its branches and leaves one by one.
...
The next day, Lawson strode into the stable, the heavy soles of his boots grinding against the dry hay with a dull RUSTLE.
Murphy was adding feed for Red Leaf and immediately stopped his work at the sound.
Lawson stopped before him, looking down with a gaze as cold as ice. "As of today, you are no longer my Groom."