The noon watch-bell rang from the upper belfry of the central keep, twelve deep, echoing iron strokes that set the flock of mountain ravens circling above the castle walls into ragged flight. Across the lower ward, the rhythm of work shifted with military care. The four brick bread ovens were banked with wet turf for the afternoon simmer, the laundresses set their wooden stirring paddles against the water tank coping to eat their bowls of cold porridge. The heavy iron bolts of the inner gatehouse clattered as the guard relief filed into position.
Standing in the sheltered recess of the inner gatehouse arch, out of the direct path of the manure barrows, Yseld Arken held an ordinary boxwood wax tablet in her left palm. In her right hand, she balanced a brass-tipped iron bone metal pen, its flattened heel smoothing old wax. Meanwhile, the pointed tip etched crisp, abbreviated marks into the black surface.
She wasn’t looking at the ceiling vaults or the solid mountain stone below the threshold. Her sharp, grey eyes were fixed entirely on the movement of boots, keys, and iron straps.
Shift relief: 12 bells. Fourteen pikemen, second company, relieved by twelve spear guards, third company. Sergeant inspects breastplates at gate center: 95 paces from armory. Safety check pause: two minutes, twenty seconds. North wagon gate barred during relief. South outer gatehouse left on single-wicket access. Midday traffic window. Ash-barrows and laundry hampers allowed through southwest back gate for forty minutes.
