“Is this the slave that gave you those herbs?” asked the queen in a lofty voice.
“Y-yes,” stammered the older woman. “She said they would help your dry skin.”
“I don’t understand. Did they not help?” asked Bethany, trying her hardest to sound concerned and innocent.
The queen carefully lowered the cloak just enough for Bethany to see a few inches of her neck. The skin was a shocking shade of mottled red.
“Does it look like it helped? Go get the healer and the herbalist,” she added to the guards, who scurried away.
“I didn’t do that!”
“Don’t lie to me, brat,” screeched the queen as she stepped forward and kicked Bethany in the face.
Bethany felt her lip split and hot blood warm her chin.
“You’ve caused other mischief before this. My son may be blinded by your beauty, but I’m not. Cal, I want you to whip her until there isn’t a shred of skin left untouched on her pretty little body and leave her in the pits. That will teach you to meddle with the looks of your betters.”
“My lady,” began the knight in a strange, choked voice. “I don’t think she did this, at least not on purpose. It is possible the herbalist made a mistake.”
Bethany wiped away the blood from her mouth before speaking. “I don’t know what happened.”
She didn’t have to pretend to sound frantic and afraid. The queen’s orders had driven all warmth from her body and fight from her spirit. For the second time in just a few days, she knew she had truly gone too far. After all, the knight would not hesitate to inflict any form of punishment on her; he would even kill her if ordered to.
“Silence,” barked the queen as she kicked Bethany again, this time hitting her in the shoulder.
Bethany rolled with it, causing her to collide with the knight’s legs. He knelt down and placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. Before anything else could happen, the door burst open and two elderly men entered. They quickly took stock of the scene, including a bleeding slave, a crying lady-in-waiting, and an enraged queen. They bowed as low as their old bodies could manage. Bethany wondered at the healer bowing, being that it was not required from him, but then she noticed the fire blazing in the queen’s eyes.
Before the door could swing shut, in stormed King Wolfric. “What is going on?” he demanded.
“That… thing… has destroyed me,” spat the queen as she opened the cloak to reveal a low cut night gown and her discolored skin.
The room was silent as the small crowd stared at her. Bethany felt, rather than saw the knight avert his gaze from her bare skin. Though the mother of many children and covered in a horrible rash, the queen was a beautiful woman. Unlike the knight, the healer and herbalist looked at her with clinical interest.
“Looks like a rash cause by some sort of plant,” stated the herbalist.
“She gave my woman some herbs for my bath. I tell you, it was her who did this.”
“What did you give her?” asked the healer in the soft voice
“Just chamomile, calendula, and lavender.”
“You also got sweet alyssum from me,” stated the herbalist.
The healer glanced in his direction before returning his gaze the queen’s rash.
“And what did you get that for?” the healer asked after a long moment of silence.
“For the prince. He was restless during my watch. I thought if we mixed some in with his food, it would calm him.”
“Lies!” spat the queen while the healer frowned.
“I’m not so sure, my queen. Though I admit sweet alyssum isn’t my first choice, it is known to have a calming effect.”
“Then how did it get into my bath?” demanded the queen. “This wretch has been known to play tricks and cause problems. I want her put her death!”
Bethany’s heart pounded against her chest so forcefully she began to wonder if it could escape on its own accord. Her palms grew sweaty and her mouth dried out. Never in her life had she been so afraid. Bethany glanced up at the knight, hoping he would do something. Why she turned to him, she couldn’t say, but she did just as he spoke.
“My lady,” Sir Caldry began, “the slave did bring herbs to the prince’s room after delivering the items for your bath. And she did say it was to calm the prince.”
“Besides, Arabelle,” muttered the king, who looked more annoyed than angry over the whole situation. “She is Féderic’s slave. And I will not have you killing my son’s slave just because you put the wrong herbs in your bath.”
The queen looked ready to fight back when her face suddenly took on a demure smile which made Bethany’s blood run cold.
“As you wish my king, all I ask is that she is punished for her crimes, being that the prince is not in any shape to judge over her.”
Wolfric thought it through for a moment before nodding once. No doubt it was easier to whip an errant slave than wage war with his wife.
“Good,” snapped the queen. “Cal, have her whipped and put into the pits.”
“My lady, I really don’t think…”
“Silence,” screamed the queen. “If you will not do it, I will have Bainard.”
“No, my lady. I will do as you bid.”
“No! You will go soft on the girl. I see it in you; like the prince, you are blinded by her youth and beauty. Fetch Bainard.”
In less time than Bethany thought possible, one of the guards returned with the fat slave master panting behind him. Bainard took in the scene in one quick sweep of his beady eyes. For the first time, Bethany felt she would rather be beaten by the knight, despite his stronger arms. Though she was actually guilty, she felt the knight was on her side and would go easy on her.
“Have this slave girl whipped and thrown into the pits for a month!” ordered the queen.
Bethany felt her wet eyes grow wide. A month? She had never heard of a slave being punished for so long. How could she survive it? Especially after being beaten! She would die from infection, if nothing else.
“And I don’t want her anywhere near the prince while he is ill,” continued the queen. “I will let him deal with her once he has recovered.”
With this final statement, the queen waved them off. Bainard lunged forward and tore her out of the knight’s hands. With his fist tangled in her hair, he dragged her from the room. Bethany couldn’t help but cry out as she felt her hair slowly give way to his rough jerks. She reached out and took a firm hold of the slave master’s wrist in an effort to relieve the pain in her scalp as she scrambled to her feet, or tried to anyway. He jerked her off balance while cursing her very existence. As he dragged Bethany out of the room, she spotted the knight. His scar was pinched from the dark frown that pulled his eyebrows together.
Bainard was like many slave masters; he took pleasure in dishing out punishments, while at the same time hating anything that interrupted his own free time. Judging by his attitude, the queen’s summons had interrupted something far more enjoyable than punishing a wayward slave. At the narrow, winding stairs, Bainard thrust her forward, causing her to stumble. She barked her knees against the stone steps as she fell, tearing open the skin and leaving a red stain.
This didn’t stop the angered man. He kicked at her as she struggled to get back to her feet in the narrow quarters. Bainard’s large belly took up most of the available space. Using the wall, Bethany managed to struggle to her feet, just as they reached the bottom of the staircase. Hot blood flowed down her leg and made the skirt of her dress stick to the torn skin. He prodded her in the back anytime she slowed down.
In the slave dormitory, he pushed her to the chains, where a large male slave helped him remove her frock and hang her from the ceiling by her wrists. Bethany felt hot tears role down her cheeks as a fresh sense of shame poured over her. It was a strange mix of embarrassment for her nakedness and shame for causing more problems.
She had sworn to stop after her antics had caused the prince to nearly die, and yet, here she was being punished
for yet more mischief. Granted, she hadn’t endangered the queen’s life.
The truth was, she had to do something to rebel against her captives, even if it resulted in her death. She was, after all, a princess of Tokë. No matter what they did to her body, she would always be a part of that family, and she knew the Kavadh family never gave up.
But the current situation, and the forthcoming pain made it difficult to hold fast to her resolve. She wanted to snivel, grovel, and seek the favor of those above her, if only to protect herself from further punishment. She wasn't certain how much more she could take.
One more beating, she told herself. Just hold out one more time.
Despite her efforts, the princess cried out many times over the next half hour. She tried counting the lashes in an effort to distract herself from the growing pain. It worked… briefly. After the ninth lash, she lost track. On multiple occasions Bainard was forced to stop and catch his breath before continuing. It seemed an eternity before they lowered her to the cool stone floor, but they didn’t give her time to catch her breath. The slave that had helped Bainard string her up grabbed her by the wrists and dragged her across the dirty floor to the entrance of the nearest pit. Bethany absently noticed the streak of red she left in her wake.
“Get in,” barked the slave master.
The large slave pulled her over the opening and lowered her to the floor of the pit. There she trembled with pain and exhaustion until unconsciousness released her.
Chapter Thirty
Pelor folded the top of his saddle bag over the opening and fastened the clasp before flinging them over his shoulder. For the last time, he tromped down to the main room of the inn. He had been hoping to slip away unnoticed, but the room was filled with Gavius, his wife, Dana, and Jos. Jos shuffled forward to clasp his hand. The boy still limped after Pelor had cut the scarred portion of his leg away. It would be the ‘proof’ that Pelor had found the boy dead.
A small price to pay for his life, Pelor thought.
Next came Gavius’ wife, who shook his hand and presented him with a bundle of fresh bread and hard cheese. He nodded his thanks. Gavius came forwards, an encouraging smile on his lips.
“I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for us,” he said before giving the ex-knight a low bow.
Pelor nodded solemnly, feeling uncomfortable. It only got worse.
He glanced at Dana, the one person he had really hoped to avoid. Her eyes were puffy with her failed attempt at not crying. Pelor knew the young woman had grown to like him and had created unrealistic expectations in regards to their future. Pelor had tried to deter her, but it was difficult when he found her company genuinely pleasing. In fact, a large part of him wanted to stay and take her for his own, but facts were facts. He was not going to stay in this small town, where he had no hope of making a living for himself. He needed employment and activity to be happy.
Pelor tried to avoid her gaze as he made to leave.
“Let me walk you to the stables,” murmured Dana in a choked voice.
“Dana, let the man go in peace,” began Gavius, but Dana silenced him with a glare she had learned from her mother.
Pelor forced himself to feel a sense of resolve. He would leave, no matter what she said. Dana followed him out of the inn and across the little yard to the stables. The new—well new to him—horse stood already groomed and saddled. No doubt Jos had done it for him. Evidently, they had all suspected his intentions of sneaking out this morning.
“Pelor,” Dana began as he draped the saddle bags over the animal’s rump and tied them to the saddle.
It was difficult considering his damaged fingers were still tied to a narrow, sanded piece of wood. Pelor felt his stomach tighten in anticipation. He didn’t like disappointing people, especially pretty women. He wasn’t a man to use them and toss them away when he was finished and yet he had allowed himself to show more than he felt for this woman.
“Please. Don’t go,” she continued.
A new wave of guilt billowed up inside him at the sound of her quivering voice.
“Dana,” he said, making his voice firm and rough. He would lie to her to make her feel better, he decided suddenly. “If I had the wealth of kings, I would stay here… with you. But I have nothing I can call my own. I could never give you the life you deserve.”
She shook her head, hot tears flicking off her red cheeks and splattering them both. “I don’t want wealth.”
“I don’t think I could forget about you, even if I tried,” he lied frantically, cupping her warm cheek in his good hand. “But I have to go,” he added.
He quickly climbed onto his new steed and kicked it into a gallop. He heard hear cry out but ignored her. It would be better to have a clean break. He kicked the horse again.
The new beast was a young, chestnut mare with a startling cream mane and tail. He had never seen a horse with such unique coloring. Though she was a far cry from the war stallion he had once owned, she was fast and spirited. Just as she was nothing like his old stallion, his previous nag was nothing like her. Before he could think about anything other than Dana’s cry, she had carried him down the long street of the village and into the early morning sunlight.
It would take him at least a few weeks, if not a month or two to return to Tolad, depending on the weather. It was plenty of time to forget about what he had done to that poor woman.
Chapter Thirty-One
Bethany never knew how many days she spent in the pit. The food and water cup came too rarely for her to keep count. When the trap door finally flew open all the way and a familiar voice ordered her to climb out, Bethany’s back and shins were caked in dry blood, and her body was covered in her own filth. She squeezed her eyes shut against the unusual brightness. Bethany’s arms and legs shook as she struggled with the rope ladder. After a few minutes of exhaustive effort, she fell back and collapsed against the cold stones of her cage.
“Ann?” came Flora’s voice from the direction of the bright glow over her head. “Ann?”
“I c-can’t…” she choked out.
“You gonna have to carry her outa there,” said Flora, in a deferential voice.
A second later, Bethany heard the sound of someone clambering down the awkward rope ladder. Before she knew what was happening, someone had thrown her over their shoulder, and the two of them were emerging from the hole into the light. Whoever hoisted her out quickly pulled her off their shoulder and laid her on the floor.
She collapsed on the stone floor and lay still as she tried to catch her breath. For some reason, she was not pushed or prodded back into motion. Once the world stopped spinning, and she no longer felt ready to throw up, she opened her eyes and looked around. The scarred knight and Flora stood over her, both their foreheads creased with worry. She could only imagine what she looked like.
“We’ll have to clean her up before we present her to the prince,” stated the knight.
Flora nodded.
“Roll over, Ann. Let me see your back.”
Bethany obeyed, but regretted it when she heard their sudden gasps, followed quickly by the sound of someone scrambling across the hard stones and the sound of dry retching. Bethany didn’t know what they were seeing, but it couldn’t be good.
Bethany was sure she was running a fever. Would they finally help her?
“I don’t knows how to deal wiff this,” whispered Flora from some distance away after the retching had stopped.
“Well, we can’t call the healer. Not for a slave in disgrace.” The knight knelt down and brushed her matted hair out of her face. “Ann, your back is badly infected. There are maggots in the wounds. Can you tell me what to do about it?”
Bethany tried to think through what he was saying, but it didn’t make sense. Why was she wounded? And if she was hurt, surely her mother would take care of her. What was that awful smell? Why were they whispering?
“Maggots?” she said, looking up at the familiar face.
“Yes, Ann. H
ow do I get rid of them?”
Who was this “Ann” they kept talking to?
“Are they eating dead flesh or healthy flesh?” Bethany asked, more out of reflex than understanding.
“I don’t see any dead flesh.”
“Flush ‘em out, then,” she murmured quietly.
Didn’t everyone know that?
The scarred man nodded, took her by the arms, and dragged her to the trough where the other slaves washed. With more patience than she thought he possessed, he slowly flushed out the wounds. As he did this, the horrible smell that caused her empty stomach to roll, began to dissipate. She watched from her position, propped up against the trough, as the water rushed away from her, toward the small drain in the floor. Occasionally, a few maggots would flow with the murky water and disappear into the drain.
While the knight dealt with her back, Flora used more water and a rough rag to clean the rest of her body. The water was frigid to her boiling skin, and she begged them to stop.
“She’s burning up,” one of them said.
After this realization, they gave her some water to drink and some bread to eat. She could barely swallow the coarse food, but managed to get it down after a stern look from Flora. Once her wounds were cleaned—and clear of maggots—they bound them in torn strips of cloth. Flora didn’t even bother combing her hair. They got it clean and wound it up in a loose bun at the base of the neck.
“Why’d you do it, Ann?” asked the knight.
Bethany, slouched against the water trough and rolled her head to look up at the knight. His brows were still pulled together as he stared down at her.
“How can you just give in?” she asked in response.
Cal stared down at the skeletal slave, her mangled body propped up against a filthy water trough. Despite their effort to clean her, she still looked awful. Another day or two in the pit and she would have died, he was sure of it.
“How can you just give in?” she asked in such a soft whisper that he found himself leaning closer to catch her words.
The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy Page 17