by Daya Daniels
He doesn’t do it immediately, but slowly, eventually, he eases down into the chair across from me.
“Thank you.” I offer him a winning smile.
I’m gifted with a grunt in return.
When his eyes land on the bouquet of white lilies which rest in a vase above the fireplace he seems to calm. “I never loved her, Alexander.” He finds the courage to face me. “I do not love her.” He scrubs his face with a hand. “But, still, I failed. I fucking failed and it goads me every day that I could not do what I was asked to do by a man I love so very dearly. All I did was hurt her. Now, I hurt for her, Brother.”
I roll my eyes. “She is no longer your problem.”
He sends me a hard look.
“Why won’t she eat with me?”
Zaccai’s expression crumbles and then his features twist with annoyance. “Is this what you summoned me here to ask?”
The question isn’t ridiculous.
A king not well-informed is no king at all.
“Yesssss.” I am unashamed with my reply.
His brows knot severely. “I have no clue why a woman like Briar would not want to have a meal with a man like you.” He lifts a shoulder. “Perhaps, she is just heartbroken, Brother, seeing that she is most recently divorced and is now living alone.”
“She is not living alone. She is living at Berkhamsted Castle and there are many people here.”
Zaccai laughs. “You will never understand a woman like Briar.”
A slow smile curves up on my lips.
Zaccai sighs. “I spent many months attempting to untangle the woman’s mind and I still have been unable to do so.”
“I understand her.”
Zaccai smirks. “Good, then may I leave now?”
I dismiss his irritating presence with a hand, and he marches off.
CLICK.
When the doors shut, I rise, make my way over to the window, and gaze out at the scenery beyond.
I know what it feels like to be misunderstood. I know what it feels like to be surrounded by so much yet truly want so very little. I know what it feels like to be swarmed by so many people, yet feel so, so alone.
It is dishearteningly the story of my life.
I understand Briar Philomena Wyn.
Perhaps, it is only that I do not understand myself.
CHAPTER
II
Briar
MY TREMBLING PALM SLIDES across the man’s cold forehead.
His eyes are already shut.
Slanting my head to the side, I examine his lifeless form.
Sadness infects my heart.
The man’s mouth stretched wide and his sunken eyes are still open. His fingers are stiff and crooked, oddly, as if he was reaching out for another hand…which never came.
This man died alone.
Cold and all alone.
“Angele Dei, qui custos es mei, me, tibi commissum pietate superna, illumina, custodi, rege et guberna. Amen.” Tucked away in a nearby corner, with her hands clasped and her head bowed, Sister Rebecca prays.
With each breath I take, I draw in the fresh scent of hay and the whinnies of the horses which surround us slips into my ears. The squeal of pigs in the distance do too. And a swift wind fills my aching lungs.
It is early in the morning and we had left Berkhamsted Castle long before most of its occupants had even woken. Now, the sun fights to break through the heavy cloud cover in the sky, and with its failing, I’m assured that it will be another gray day.
Reaching out, I encourage the dead man’s eyelids to lower, tilt his head slightly and force his mouth to shut. “I pray you are at peace now.” With knotted brows, I examine his pale skin which is dotted with freckle-like spots. Perhaps, they are flea bites... If it were not for the swelling in his throat and the open pustules on his skin, he otherwise looks like a healthy man of approximately thirty years of age.
I turn to the weeping woman who stands to my left—the dead man’s wife. “What was his name?”
She sniffles. “Magnus.” A lone tear slides down her cheek. “His name was Magnus.”
I scrunch my face. “I am very sorry.” My eyes glide over the woman’s sweaty flesh.
It’s cool outside today so the appearance of perspiration decorating anyone’s skin seems odd.
“Was he ill?”
“No.” She offers me a little smile. “I mean, yes, he was. But he was fine up until about two days ago. Then, he fell ill. He had a fever and was vomiting blood. So much blood. I put him to bed and watched over him, but when he got really bad, he told us to stay away from his bedside.”
“Oh.” My eyes sweep over the man once more.
“So, I shut the door to this barn and left him here alone, where he died.” She lets out a wail and turns away from me, her face crashing into another family member’s chest after she does.
Sister Rebecca continues to pray.
I rise to a full standing position and peer down at the man one final time.
Sister Rebecca nears me, places a hand on my shoulder, and looks down at the dead body and the sheets it lies atop which are soiled.
I glance over my shoulder and meet Sister Rebecca’s eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“I would say I agree.” She swallows.
The dead man’s wife is still weeping, and still coughing, and still sweating. I am no medical examiner, but I would say that she is sick with something too. Perhaps, with the same affliction her husband had, but I cannot be sure.
“We plan to bury him at s-s-sunset today,” the man’s wife stutters out between her sobs.
Sister Rebecca sends the woman a worried glance.
I peer into Sister Rebecca’s eyes and right away I know what she is thinking.
With a nod, I pull a sheet over the man’s face.
The man’s wife nears us cautiously.
Sister Rebecca places a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “We should have this body examined, if you will allow us to. We can return him for burial following a complete inspection of his illness, but I suspect that this corpse should be burned. I am very sorry.”
After letting out the most horrendous bloodcurdling wail, the man’s wife passes out right before her family member catches her so that she doesn’t collapse to the floor of this barn.
Sister Rebecca prays more fervently this time.
But it becomes clear that the words of God are not enough to bring an end to this woman’s pain.
When are they ever?
Alexander
THE CHERRYWOOD IN THE fireplace across the room burns, sending warmth throughout this chamber this morning. Now, I sit at the head of the table, fork in hand but discouraged to eat from the plate which rests in front of me. Tapping the edge of the plate with it, I peer at Briar who sits at the opposite end of this gargantuan table, lost in thought, hazel eyes fixed in the food in the plate set in front of her.
Her mahogany locks are pulled away from her face in the most demure style and her pale cheeks are pinkened from either the cold or her constant fucking sobbing. I’m not entirely sure which.
I clear my throat which seems to earn her attention.
Her head lifts.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
I frown. “Please call me Alexander.”
“Alexander.” She smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I am sorry that you were summoned here.” I truly am not.
She swallows. “I don’t usually eat breakfast. I am always in the garden by now. So, all this food is just too much, Alexander. I must regret to tell you that I do not wish it.” A long breath leaves her. “I am not hungry.”
“You are not hungry?” I lift a brow. “Or, has something stolen away your appetite?”
She shifts. “Maybe a little bit of both.”
I’d heard about the man found dead this morning in the villag
e and the state he was in. I am fully aware that this is how Briar chooses to spend her mornings. But the realization she thinks that staring death right in the face does not take a toll on a person after a while is naïve to say the very least.
That man’s body is stretched out on an examination table at this very moment and will soon be cut open…
This woman is so very brave and strong.
But her heart is tender.
I wish to treat is at such.
Her eyes become downcast once more.
I sigh.
“Why do you wish for me to be here, Alexander?” She glances around this chamber and then out the window. I do pray she notices the flowers and how well they are kept by the servants. They add life to Berkhamsted Castle, as they always have. “There are many here who you can choose to eat breakfast with?” She gestures with a hand. “Hamilton…the Queen Mother…”
I groan.
“And why are we not eating in the dining hall anyways?” Her nose wrinkles.
“I thought this would be more private.” I stab my fork into a slice of apple and take it between my teeth and speak before I chew. “Are you not happy your sister has been returned to you?”
I have never mentioned to anyone how Vesper had killed her master and his wife one day before the bounty hunter had made it to the opulent residence in Berkshire where she once resided. Vesper was days away from being hanged. Officially, she should be dead. Yet, here she is, now a permanent resident of Berkhamsted Castle because of my unwavering desire to make the woman who sits at the opposite end of this table happy.
Yet, her ever-present sullen demeanor now makes me doubt that I truly have…
“Yes, Alexander, of course.” Her eyes grow bright but still she is fragile. “Thank you.”
I groan.
“I will admit that I have not been happy as of lately.”
I nod once.
“Zaccai will not speak with me.”
“What is there to further debate, Briar?” My voice rises when I ask the question.
She stills. “I-I-I don’t know.” Her head lowers.
I wait patiently for a response.
“There is nothing more to speak of on the matter. You are a free woman now.”
Her eyes snap up to meet mine. “I am no longer a princess.”
Sadness forces my jaw to tighten. “It is the sacrifice you have made for your freedom. Is it not?”
“I did not ask for this.”
“Yet, it was granted to you…like a gift.” I continue to eat while impatience fiddles around with my mood.
She sniffles. “Your Majesty, maybe you will not understand, but I have been abandoned my entire life…by my mother first…as you know. My father’s death felt like much of an abandonment even though I know that he could not help it. It was God’s plan that he be taken away from us. I have been left behind by those who I love the most. And now my own husband had decided too, that he no longer wants me, and I have had no say in the matter.” Even though she tries, with no way to stop it, a tear soaks her cheek. “You have been a prince most of your life. Now, you are a king. You do not know how it feels to not wish to be kept.”
My chest rises and falls with my breaths and my soul splinters a little more at the sight of the woman who is sitting what feels like miles away from me, weeping, yet showing no other emotions except for her tears.
With a sigh, I rest my fork down. “How do you know this?”
Her face scrunches. “Pardon me?”
I clear my throat before I repeat the question. “How do you know this?”
More of her tears fall. More sniffles. A little shudder…
“How do you know that I do not know how it feels to not wish to be kept?”
Each time she fails to acknowledge how I look at her, how much I care, how much I fought to ensure that her sister was returned to her before Sinabaldo granted the divorce…I become more agitated. With each rejection and with every single outright failure on her part to see the admiration I have for her, I grow a little more impatient like a lightning bolt, sparking, sparking, right before it sizzles across the sky.
Briar struggles to find her words. “I do not know, Alexander.”
“Precisely.”
Briar
THE MOST CAPTIVATING GRAY eyes pierce mine with a stare that makes my heart fully aware. They are half hope and half of something else I can’t quite name.
Perhaps, we share the same pain of being unwanted?
I shift uncomfortably where I sit on the plush velvet cushion beneath my bum as the room settles into the silence with only the whispering wind outside serving as background noise to this very uncomfortable breakfast.
Wiping my cheek with the back of my hand, I face Alexander head-on, eyes roving over the polished surface of this massive table. “What do you want from me?”
He runs a hand over his beard and tilts his head to the side regarding me. His ash-brown locks are pulled away from his face. The smooth strands reflect the faint sunlight which pours in through the large windows which surround us. The style accentuates his sharp features—a perfectly straight nose along with its prominent bridge, a strong chin, the most full lips and an intoxicating smile.
For a moment, since I haven’t seen him face to face, I’d almost forgotten about how beautiful this man is. And now that I am in his presence, breathing the same air and unable to run away from his arresting eyes, I see all of him. Nevertheless, I can see why all the women in England seem to throw themselves at this man.
They say he is gold—all he speaks, all he does, all he is.
He is Midas.
And possesses his touch the same. And that his cum is the most sought-after commodity in all of England.
“Why do you pretend as if you don’t know what I desire from you?”
Biting down on my bottom lip, I suck in an exhausted breath. “If you want to bed me, Alexander, then bed me.”
He gifts me with an easy look—boyish smile and gently arched brows.
“You are the King. Therefore, you may have whatever you want without question…” I sniffle.
“If I want to simply bed someone, Briar, then that is what I would do. This morning, I simply did not want to have to eat breakfast alone.” His eyes narrow. “And I did not want you to have to eat breakfast alone either, so I thought that we might enjoy each other’s company…eating breakfast together.” He stabs a slice of pear and pops it in his mouth.
Helplessly, anther tear rolls down my cheek and I fear I cannot stop them.
All the sadness that I’ve been holding in these past few months seems to be coming out of me sideways. I worry tears will start pouring out from my ears too if I don’t get a bloody hold of myself.
Alexander taps his goblet. “I do not like it when you cry, Briar.”
I laugh a little, feeling superbly pathetic. “You should not fret because it happens all the time.”
He does not smile.
Despising how powerless I feel to stop myself from weeping, I shudder. “I am sorry, I will stop.” I hold a hand up, palm facing out, wordlessly requesting a moment to gather myself. “Please just give me a moment.”
“No, please carry on.” His deep voice lowers to a whisper. “Your weeping…it is a cleansing of the soul.”
More tears. More sobs. More gasping for air.
“To weep is not a flaw but a mark of true humanity.” He sips from his goblet. “Please do carry on.”
I cry away.
I am a complete disaster!
And Alexander lets me be.
No one ever lets me be!
No one has ever seen my tears as a mark of strength, only weakness.
Alexander gazes out the window ahead at all the land and lets out a breath.
It is breathtaking beyond the glass.
Green.
Endless.
Wide-open space.
And at the edge of a
ll the green is Raven Forest which appears to be calm today.
His deep voice cuts into my weeping. “As a boy, I would often cry…”
Stunned at his admittance, my eyes fix on his perfectly symmetrical face and study its lines.
Alexander chuckles softly. “I cried too much, Mother would often say. I cried for everything…If I fell. If I could not get my own way. If the most tenderest part of my heart was hurt, I would cry. Mother often yelled. She chastised me and called me a ‘baby.’ She would push and shove and knock me around thinking that it would toughen me up. It never did. I would only weep more. And then when she was done admonishing me for being so soft, I would run to my father. And he would hold me close to his heart. He would speak to me and soothe me until my sobbing eased and I calmed.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and shakes his head. “She was cruel.” He sighs. “At those times, when I was sad, all I wished was for her to hold me.” He brings his hand to his mouth, covering it, and with the action the glint of the gold signet ring which decorates the pink finger on his left hand consumes my vision. “All I wanted was for her to hold me and tell me that everything would be okay, and that there was nothing wrong with me for allowing all the pain to flow out of me.”
I cry more until I am full-on sobbing.
A welcomed silence settles over us for a long while, and then…
The shift of a heavy chair.
The steady rhythm of bootfalls as they hit the stone.
The heady scent of man settles near me—sweet and spice and crisp, so clean.
“Briar.” His lips near my ear as he whispers my name and his heavy hand falls to my shoulder, caressing it, fortifying it with his strength which he lends me at this moment when I am at my very weakest.
All visions of what happened the last time he touched me crowd the front of my mind.
Panting. Sweating. Wailing. My dress pushed up and over my ass and his dick safely tucked away between my cheeks. The filth sickens me. The zealousness with which he rutted himself against my flesh makes me cringe. And the degree to which I enjoyed every sordid moment about it makes me feel like one ungodly woman.
I shouldn’t have liked it.