“Is she dead?” asked Mirabelle in a breathless tone.
Cal bent down to feel her pulse. It beat strongly against his fingers. “She’s alive,” he announced while he took the opportunity of pinching her on the flesh running from her shoulder to her neck.
She didn’t move.
There was a moment of awkward silence. No one seemed sure what to do with their sudden discovery. Cal, of course, thought the stocks to be the best place for her. The last thing he needed was another pretentious royal looking down at him.
Finally, when he was about to make the suggestion, Queen Arabelle took charge.
“You two,” she said, waving towards two of the gawking slaves. “Carry her up to the corner room, next to Mirabelle’s.”
“What!” demanded Princess Mirabelle, but no one paid her any attention.
The queen continued, “Hepner, send for guards and inform the captain of the guards I want men at her door at all times.”
While the queen made the arrangements, the king began to pace along the narrow portion of the great hall, his worn hands clasped behind his back. Cal could tell he was deep in thought. The prospect of holding one of King Middin’s children hostage had the potential for changing many of his plans. Of course, King Middin was now known to be dead. But his son… what was his son’s name?
Cal tried to think of it, but couldn’t recall the name of the enemy prince. Still, whoever was now in charge would certainly do something for the girl if they knew she was still alive.
The real question was: How would Wolfric use this to his advantage?
Finally, when the queen’s arrangements had been completed, the king stopped his pacing and spoke. “Everyone return to your meal. When we are finished here, Arabelle, I want you to oversee her needs. Get her cleaned up and well dressed. Mirabelle, surely you have a dress or two that you no longer fit in. I want to see if there is any beauty under all those bruises. Cal, I am placing the princess under your supervision—“
“What?” demanded the knight, before he could clamp his lips shut.
“Did I stutter?” Wolfric growled.
Cal could see the king’s shoulders twitch in half contained emotion. The king was clearly greatly affected by his sudden advantage; though whether anger or excitement prevailed, Cal couldn’t be sure.
“I have no intention of giving that whore any of my dresses,” announced Mirabelle, taking Wolfric’s attention away from the knight, as she made her way back to the dais.
Wolfric grabbed her by the arm and spun her ‘till she faced him. The princess had the good nature to grimace and cast her eyes on the floor.
“You will do exactly as I tell you. Do you hear me?” he added with a firm shake.
Mirabelle nodded while the queen tried to make peace.
“I’m sure, Mirabelle, you have a few older garments still in your wardrobe that you’ll never want to wear again. The girl can take them in herself,” added the queen as she guided her daughter away from her angry husband.
Wolfric might have valued his wife for her ability to bear children and his sons for their ability to rule, but Mirabelle had proven herself useless—she was neither married, nor did she appear to have any prospect in that regard. Mirabelle was the only one unaware of her predicament. Eventually, the king would marry her off to a desperate lord or knight with a smidgen of noble blood, if for no other reason than to be rid of her. The king held no love for his eldest daughter.
Then again, who would? Cal wondered, as he followed the others back to their meal.
More importantly, what was expected from him in regards to the princess? Thankfully, the king chose not to leave his directions open to interpretation.
“Sir Caldry, I want you to set up her guard rotation. They will report directly to you. And any time she leaves her room, I want you and two additional guards in attendance. She has proven herself a schemer. I trust she will not escape while under your care. If she does…” Wolfric trailed off. He didn’t need to finish the threat to make Cal’s gut tighten.
His dislike for the Tokë princess grew as he began to shovel his dinner into his mouth.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Bethany became conscious of her surroundings slowly, one sense returning at a time. The first thing she became aware of was the feeling of a smooth fabric beneath her face. Eventually, she realized the surface was soft against her battered body. Leisurely, she opened her eyes to an unexpected sight. She was lying across a large bed in a room she recognized as one of the castle’s guest rooms reserved for very special visitors.
The room was as large as most of the family quarters—long and narrow. On one of the smaller walls was a narrow, but deep-set window. The pink light of a sunset shining through suggested she had been unconscious for at least an hour. Bethany sat up slowly. Her head ached, and she felt a sharp pain an inch beneath her left breast. Her breath caught in her chest as she felt near the pain. A broken rib, she suspected. That was going to hurt for a long while.
Bethany took the lonely opportunity to look around the room. A large fire crackled in the hearth on the long wall across from the enormous bed. Other than the bed, the room held a writing desk, a small table, a large tin bathing tub, a trunk, and a wardrobe. The stone walls were hung with elegant draperies that showed no signs of wear or age—quite opposite from the tapestries hung in Sir Caldry’s room. Bethany blushed as she recollected her time in the knight’s private chambers.
Without thinking about it, she climbed off the bed and went to the door. Not surprisingly, it was locked. She thought about pounding on it or calling out, but chose not to. The guards wouldn’t let her out if the door was so purposefully locked.
Without knowing what else to do, Bethany moved to the fire and sat on the thick bear skin rug. This fur was white—a common decoration for feminine rooms. Prince Féderic’s room had a brown fur. She ran her fingers through it, enjoying the sensation. Bethany knew she ought to be planning her next move, or, at the very least, worrying about what would happen to her, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. For the first time in months, she didn’t have a life or death secret weighing her down. She felt light, almost carefree. It was unnervingly pleasant.
Before she could enjoy the impression for long, she heard the lock on the door rattle. A second later, the door swung open. A row of slaves entered, each one carrying pails of steaming water and trying their best to gawk surreptitiously at Bethany—no doubt the rumor of her true identity had spread through the castle like wild fire. After the row of water-carrying slaves came a slave with a pile of fabric, which she deposited on the bed, and another with a plate of food. While the slaves filled the tub and generally fidgeted around the room, the queen entered. She dismissed all but two young, female slaves.
With a calculated smile, the queen turned towards her captive. “Now Bethany, let’s get you cleaned up. Come on,” she added when Bethany failed to move.
The princess rose with difficulty and came closer to the queen. She didn’t trust the other woman or her smile. After all, she had once contaminated the queen’s bath. Would the queen be seeking revenge for that?
“Come on. Off with… that…” encouraged the queen, as she struggled to name the filthy garment Bethany presently wore.
After a minute’s hesitation, during which the queen grew increasingly impatient, Bethany began awkwardly and painfully, pulling at the lacings. One of the slaves came to her rescue.
Finally, with a hiss of shock and pain, Bethany lowered herself into the steaming water. It was soothing to her bruised muscles but stung her numerous cuts. Before she could truly appreciate it, the two slaves jumped forward and began to scrub at the layers of dirt. In the end, the bath was more painful than relaxing, and Bethany was glad to leave it.
By the time they had declared her clean enough, the queen had sorted through the fabric on the bed and picked out the smallest lump—a dress of grayish-blue fabric with double-layer sleeves, one layer designed to be snug against the
skin, while the out layer draped from the shoulders in folds of elegance. Of course, no piece of the dress was snug on Bethany. Though she had gained back a pound or two while recovering in the knight’s room, she had lost nearly every ounce of fat while in the pits for such a long time. Despite the months of captivity, Bethany had never been this thin.
Mirabelle’s dress, many years out of style, hung from Bethany’s boney shoulders. They tried adding a belt to the gown, but the result was nearly comical. Pulled tight around her tiny waist, the belt caused the ample fabric to bunch oddly, making her look like a bushel of cloth. In the end, they allowed her to sit in a night frock and robe, and nibble on the food provided.
Over all, Bethany couldn’t figure out what was going on. The queen seemed perfectly cordial, pleasant in fact, though she did avoid looking at Bethany's scarred body. Nevertheless, Bethany didn’t trust her for a moment. Not a syllable was said about what they planned on doing with her; the queen talked about gathering supplies for Bethany so that she could take in the dresses condescendingly provided by Mirabelle, and even sent for said supplies.
Finally, when the skies were dark, and Bethany felt exhausted from the emotional tumult of the day, Arabelle left her.
Bethany climbed into the large bed, pulled the thick curtains around it, and fell fast asleep.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Pelor hovered over his struggling fire, afraid another gust of wet wind would put it out completely. He had already sacrificed his cloak to provide a rain shield—suspended over the fire with a few twigs and an obliging tree—but with the wind blowing moisture in from all angles, he wasn’t sure if the sodden fabric would be enough. With shaking fingers he crumbled up another small piece of dried tinder, which he had found under a thick bush, and blew into the flickering flame. The wood caught and the fire took.
The knight, wet and exhausted, gave a sigh of genuine relief. He had already spent the last two nights in the rain, propped up against large trees or stumps to keep his head out of the mud. Pelor carefully added a few larger pieces of wood before crawling under his cloak. Between it and a few carefully placed branches, he had managed to create a less-wet spot. The space wasn’t large enough to stretch out in, but he would take cramped leg muscles over wet ones.
He was just beginning to pull out the last tiny wedge of cheese from his pack when he heard the sound of approaching horse hooves. They didn’t clunk against the ground. It was far too wet for that, but the steady tread was audible nonetheless.
Pelor ducked his head in an effort to see beyond his impromptu shelter and carefully drew his dagger. After a short wait, the horse in question appeared. It was an old, swayback paint, ready for the pasture. Pelor unwillingly dragged himself out from under the dubious protection of his cloak when it became clear the traveler was going to stop.
In what little light still filtered through the thick clouds and forest canopy, Pelor spotted a pale man dressed in healer’s garments, dismount from the tired-looking animal. The knight carefully returned the dagger to its hidden sheath tucked into his jerkin. He had another one hidden in his left boot. It was his nature to be prepared for the worst, but the pudgy healer could hardly be a threat.
“I saw your fire, friend,” began the other man as he led his horse forwards, “and hoped you had space for another.”
Pelor glanced down at his already cramped quarters. He didn’t want to share it, but the heat of another body would be welcome.
“I have bread and jerked beef to offer to the super table,” added the healer when he noticed Pelor’s hesitation.
Pelor waved him towards the fire. After tonight he would be out of food, and a full stomach would be welcome. While the healer tethered his horse next to Pelor’s little mare, Pelor added more wood to the fire. Before the rain had picked up to its present fervor, Pelor had scrounged up a decent pile of dried brushwood.
“My name’s Micah,” announced the healer as he crawled under the protection of Pelor’s delicate shelter.
“Pelor,” the knight grumbled.
He wasn’t in the mood to dialogue with a stranger and hoped the healer wouldn’t insist on it. His hope would go unanswered.
The healer rambled on as he prepared their meal, asking the occasional question and not growing offended as his companion refused to answer. Finally, the meal was consumed, and they agreed to seek the quiet refuge of sleep.
The healer fell asleep with ease, quickly drifting into a deep sleep that produced a loud snore. Pelor rolled his eyes as he settled against the healer’s back. Even if he snored, at least he produced some heat. It was a long while before Pelor found his own peaceful oblivion.
Pelor woke with a start. Something was wrong. His back was cold. He kept still as he listened to the low crackle of the dying fire, slowly tuning it out and focusing on the other sounds. The rain had stopped, but the trees still dripped noisily. Beyond that there was something more. Pelor opened his mouth slightly to lessen the sound of his own breathing.
And there it was—the sound of creaking leather and the soft rustle of fabric. Slowly, Pelor opened one eye. Not surprisingly, he spotted Micah rummaging through his saddle bags resting by his head. There wasn’t much to find there. Pelor kept what little gold he had in his boot, far from prying fingers. With a quick jab of his fist, he took hold of the thief’s pale arm and twisted. The man, whom he doubted was a healer at all, tried to follow the sudden movement of his arm to relieve the pain, while at the same time letting out a little cry of surprise.
“Want to tell me what this is about?” asked Pelor. “Did you really expect to find anything worthwhile in there?”
Micah grunted, as he tried to pry Pelor’s fingers from his arm. When it became clear that Pelor would not let go, the thief began to speak.
“You can hardly blame me.”
“Oh yes, I can.”
With his other hand, Pelor threw a quick punch, striking Micah in the eye and sending him onto his backside. Pelor used this moment to scramble out from under the shelter and land a swift kick on the other man’s ribcage. Micah grunted with the impact of his kick and rolled away, but Pelor was faster. He pinned Micah to the ground, pressing his knee slowly towards the other man’s neck.
“Now…let’s have a little chat. Are you alone?”
“Yes… yes… quite alone,” stammered Micah as he suddenly realized how dangerous his companion was.
“Who do you work for?”
“No one. Myself, I guess.”
“And what were you looking for in my bags?”
“Anything! Money! Food! Anything!”
Pelor was silent for a moment, considering what to ask next. Before he could make up his mind, his captive stammered on. “What…where… I mean, what are you going to do with me?”
The knight hesitated again. He really didn’t want to kill the thief, nor did he want the man following him.
“This,” he answered with a hard blow to the man’s head.
Micah jerked once before collapsing into unconsciousness. To be certain, Pelor pressed his hand against the man’s mouth. He was still breathing.
As quickly as he could, Pelor tore down his shelter and saddled his horse. The thief’s horse whinnied at him as he pulled the cinch tighter one last time. It was hardly worth the meat on its bones, but that was still something. Pelor took its lead and tied it to his own saddle before swinging up onto his own horse.
As quickly as he could, he rode away, determined to not think about what would become of the man when he awoke.
Chapter Forty
Bethany had enjoyed, and endured, six days of nearly complete solitude. She spent her time obeying the queen and taking in the few dresses given over to her from Mirabelle’s wardrobe. Even the smallest was inches larger than her waist required. Three times a day a slave arrived with a plate of food. Bethany willingly ate anything they brought, though it was not exactly the cuisine consumed at the king’s table. Still, it wasn’t stale or burned.
When
she wasn’t sewing, she slept. If left to it, she would have slept the clock around, but each day the queen or her lady-in-waiting came to check on her progress. Those brief visits did little to interrupt her solitude, but they did force her to continue the work left for her.
It could be worse, she told herself on the sixth day.
She was right.
On the morning of the seventh day, she received a surprising visit. Flora entered, followed by a row of slaves with hot water. Bethany could imagine the purpose of this visit: It meant she would be visited by someone other than the queen before too long.
The other slaves filled the tub and left. Flora remained, gently nudging the princess towards the tub. Bethany removed the robe she had been wearing willingly enough. Despite her elevation to the rank of captive, she knew it was pointless to return to her former modesty—too many had seen her naked already.
Therefore she quickly lowered herself into the water and let Flora wash her hair. The slave didn’t speak for a long while, but finally, her curiosity got the best of her.
“Princess,” she whispered.
“Speak freely, Flora.”
“I wish you told me.”
“And what would you have done with this information?”
Flora was silent for a long time as she rinsed the soap from Bethany’s hair. “Still, I could’ve helped you in some way, I’m sure.”
“That would have only gotten you in trouble. It is best that you didn’t know.”
“You might be right, at that.”
They were silent for a long time after that. Bethany climbed out of the tub and dried herself off.
“The king is coming. What you wanna wear for him?”
Bethany hesitated. “You have my old slave frock?”
The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy Page 21