The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Charissa Dufour

  “I won’t be for long,” he said with a playful smile. “I’ll go to my father and ask for his permission.”

  He moved to the door.

  “Despite my refusal?”

  “I’ll win you over yet.”

  “Your father will refuse you.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, finally taking her warning seriously.

  “King Wolfric has already expressed his…” she swallowed in an effort to return moisture to her dry mouth, “interest in me.”

  Bethany watched as the muscles around the prince’s mouth tighten. His hand squeezed the handle on the door until his tendons stood out and his knuckles turned white. His reaction surprised her. Though she didn’t know what to expect—from him or anything else in her life—it certainly wasn’t this.

  “And…” Féderic exhaled forcefully before taking a deep, calming breath, “did you… did you give in to him?”

  It was Bethany’s turn to clench her fists until her nails dug painfully into her palms. Surely he knew her better than this.

  “Of course not,” she growled. “Do you really think I’d say yes to him when I had already refused you?”

  “He is king. I am only his heir apparent. And he could refuse me the crown at any time. Many women would choose him over me.”

  “As I have said before, I refuse any man who wishes to take advantage of me in that way.”

  Again, Féderic surprised her by grinning. “Then I have the upper hand on him.” With that he left her.

  Bethany moved to the bowl left for her washing up and leaned over it, feeling ready to vomit. What had just happened?

  I refused him, right? Bethany suddenly felt unsure. At some point or another, she had given him a definite rejection. She was sure of it.

  Bethany realized she was sure of nothing; nothing except one thing—the prince was going to his father to ask for her hand, and she had no power to stop him.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Cal took up his sentinel a few feet from the door to the captive princess’ room, content to wait quietly while the guards watched him with furtive glances. He knew he made the soldiers nervous, but didn’t find it necessary to set them at ease. Their nervousness stemmed from respect of his abilities, and he preferred it that way, even if it was lonely.

  After a short time, far shorter than the knight expected, Prince Féderic emerged with a determined look on his face. Cal quickly fell into step with the prince. A curiosity of what had been discussed plagued him, but he clamped his teeth down onto his tongue to keep from asking. It hurt, but the pain reminded him what happened when he stuck his nose in it—it typically got smacked.

  Cal followed the prince down to the main level and into the small office set aside for the king to use on the rare occasions when he was actually sitting still; when Wolfric was away, Hepner, the steward, put it to good use. Wolfric was an active sort of king—always off inspecting a holding in the area or in distant lands fighting his enemies.

  Surprisingly enough, the king was sitting behind his desk. It was a small table, littered with letters and maps. The walls were covered in shelves filled with rolled-up parchment—stock lists, farm yield expectations, weaponry needs, and many other bits of necessary information.

  The king looked up from what he was writing long enough to ascertain who was visiting before focusing on his work again. Féderic wisely waited for his father to give him his full attention. Cal took up a post next to the door in silence, still unsure what they were doing in the king’s office.

  Finally, after a long wait, Wolfric set his writing stylus down.

  “What is it you want, Féderic?” he asked in an exasperated tone. Evidently, he had been hoping the prince would give up and go away.

  Féderic swallowed. He was clearly nervous, and Cal’s curiosity increased.

  “I would like your blessing to marry Princess Bethany.”

  Cal noticed a flash of surprise on the king’s face and knew it was nothing compared to the shock spreading across his own features. He had never known the prince to seek out the matrimony state. He pursued short term flings and mistresses—but a wife? And the captive princess?

  After a short pause, during which the king recollected his audience and schooled his features, Wolfric responded. “You are already engaged to Gia.”

  Féderic ground his teeth together. “I am, but you have to admit a marriage between me and Bethany would be far more… productive.”

  “Explain.”

  “Though I see the wisdom of a union with the locals we have conquered, I cannot marry women of all the nations presently under our rule. But imagine if I marry a princess of the one nation not under our control. The future heir to your throne would be in the line for theirs, too. If we can’t conquer them through arms, let’s conquer them in the bedroom—breed them out.”

  “You suggesting I cannot beat Middin or his brat?”

  “Not in the least, Father. But imagine what you could do if your resources are not needed to battle Middin’s son.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, you’ve often wondered what was on the mainland. Imagine the glory if you were the king to finally cross the Great Sea. You could bend all your attention towards the mainland. And with Bethany here, we could have the wedding immediately. We wouldn’t have to worry about all those ridiculous customs. In nine months’ time I could have an heir of my own.” The prince finally stopped talking, realizing any further rambling would annoy his father.

  The king sat in contemplation, his strong fingers slowly tapping the paper lying in front of him.

  “And tell me, with Bethany would you be content?”

  “Far more content with a princess than I would be with some foreign lord’s daughter.”

  “Bethany is a foreigner.”

  “But you yourself have said that the Tokë and our people have often intermarried, before the war. They are not so different than us.”

  The king sat in silence again. “I think you will find them far more different than you realize, son. But if this is what you want, I will allow it.”

  “And Middin’s brat?”

  “We’ll inform her people after she’s with child. They won’t be able to deny the marriage then.”

  Cal clamped his mouth shut to keep from revealing his shock. He had always known Féderic would end up with her, and now that the truth was out, he thought they suited each other. He might not have always looked at their union with such contentment, but that was before her real identity had been revealed.

  He didn’t care anymore. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

  Bethany listened to the sound of the prince’s receding steps. She turned away from the wash basin, determined to forget what had just happened. Féderic wouldn’t actually go before the king and ask for her hand—he didn’t want her badly enough for that. Bethany forced her breathing to slow down as she crossed her room to the one deep-set window and stared out at the early morning, surprised to see the bailey covered in a fine layer of snow. Despite being only October, winter had arrived at Tolad.

  The normally raucous bailey was unusually silent; the only sound to drift up to her ears was the soft crunch of booted feet in the snow. Even the voices of the workers were subdued by the hush of winter. Bethany leaned against the window ledge and allowed the silence to calm her.

  It would be okay.

  She couldn’t say how long she remained at the window or what first brought her attention back to the room in which she stood, but she suddenly became aware of noises coming from the hallway. Bethany stepped away from the window. A shiver ran up her spine. She had been standing by the window longer than she’d realized if the cold had permeated her thick dress. Bethany moved to the fireplace.

  As she reached out towards the warmth, her door burst open and the prince entered, a triumphant smile spread across his face. Before the guards could close her door, the prince had reached her side, wrapped his arms around her waist, and began kissi
ng her.

  Bethany pushed against his chest and wriggled in his arms, but the more she moved, the more aggressive he became. The prince forced his tongue into her mouth and pulled her closer to his chest, making struggling all but impossible. In an act of desperation, Bethany went limp. Though she kept herself upright, she did not press against him, did not try to pull away, and did not fight. At first the prince acted as though she had given in, but slowly, as his groping hands found her non-responsive, he realized she was fighting him the only way she knew how.

  Finally, he released her mouth and peered down at her. Bethany could feel her heart pounding against her chest and the heat of a blush forming on her cheeks. While keeping one arm securely wrapped around her narrow waist, Féderic reached up and ran his thumb along the line of her jaw.

  “The king has consented.”

  “I figured,” Bethany responded through clenched teeth.

  “You’re angry?”

  “What made you think that?”

  “Why?”

  “I told you, I do not wish to be your wife.”

  To her disgust, the prince smiled. “And I told you, I would win you over.”

  “My brother will never allow it.”

  “Who says we will ask for his permission? We’ll tell them once you’re with child. They can hardly argue the validity if we are expecting an heir.”

  Bethany stared at her new fiancé, her eyes wide and frightened.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Cal stomped his boots on the flat stones near the entrance to the great hall before following Prince Féderic to the roaring fire. They had been overseeing the progress on the road and encouraging the frozen workers—a task not appreciated by the young prince. The snow had fallen early and heavy, even for the mountain region. The steep path leading up to the remote city of Tolad had been blocked by the sudden storm. With the aid of the castle soldiers and half the townsfolk, the snow was slowly being cleared and the road repaired.

  Cal shook his thick, fur-lined cloak out but wasn't ready to resign it to the care of a slave. His body ached with the cold. He hunched forward, reaching out to thaw his fingers. The prince was doing the same thing; despite the thick fur lined mittens, his fingers had turned a shocking shade of red. Cal's didn't look much better.

  Before they had finished warming themselves by the fire, Queen Arabelle joined them, followed by a slave girl carrying mulled wine. They each took it and gratefully downed the hot liquid in one long gulp.

  “And is the road cleared?” the queen asked anxiously while they returned the empty mugs to the slave.

  Féderic bent forward as he burst out laughing, nearly dropping his cloak into the crackling flames.

  “Hardly, mother,” he guffawed, mirth still sparkling in his eyes. “That storm hit us hard. But the soldiers have it under control, especially with the help of the townsfolk. We'll have it cleared enough for a cart in another day or two.”

  “I suppose that will have to do,” said the queen, her soft voice speaking all the frustration of a man's greatest tirade. “But there is much to be done before your wedding with Princess Bethany.”

  Cal tried not to smile at the queen's obvious disdain. She did not appreciate her son's present infatuation. Arabelle thought Gia quite suitable enough and more likely to promote peace throughout her husband's vast nation. A marriage to Princess Bethany had the chance of producing even greater peace, but the chance was slim. Arabelle preferred a surety to a possibility.

  “Yes...” drawled the prince, his eyes flickering between the queen and the roaring fire. “About that...”

  Arabelle's eyes grew wide. Cal couldn't decide if she had finally reconciled herself to the idea of their union or if the queen was excited at the prospect of it dissolving. The knight chose to feel nothing on the matter; instead, he focused on the sensation of warmth spreading over his icy body.

  “Mother, can you tell me how to win the princess over? She is determined to think ill of me and our marriage.”

  Cal glanced at the queen, his interest peaked in the conversation. The queen looked just as surprised as he was, her eyes round as pails and her fair skin turning pink with a delicate blush. Her eyes darted to where Cal stood and back to her son.

  “I—uh,” she stuttered. “Sir Caldry, you are quite popular with the ladies. What say you?”

  Cal ground his teeth, annoyed with being drawn into the conversation. Though he had every wish to listen, he did not want to participate. If he gave the wrong advice, who knew what the prince might do?

  The knight cleared his throat before speaking.

  “Well, obviously we want her to be excited by the marriage. A willing bride, especially a princess, will be of far greater political value than one forced into it.” Cal hesitated. What he wanted to say would surely get him into trouble with the love-struck prince. “May I have your permission to speak freely about the princess?” he asked, turning toward Féderic.

  “Of course, dear friend. I am not so foolish to think that everyone sees her perfections as I do.”

  Cal bowed his acquiesce to the prince's statement, not trusting his voice to keep from expressing his growing humor. Once he was sure he could speak calmly, he continued, “I believe the princess to be one... awed, shall we say, by wealth and power. Shower her with the wealth of this nation, show her the bounties available to her as your wife, and she may capitulate with good grace. If she doesn't, you haven't actually lost anything. Any presents given to her will not leave your possession in reality.”

  Sir Caldry glanced at the queen. A bright, cheerful smile spread across her face. He had saved her the awkwardness of saying something she may not actually believe. No doubt the queen did not want to forward the match, nor could she refuse to answer her son's questions.

  “What wonderful advice. The girl is a vain little creature,” the queen added, just to make sure her distaste was universally known.

  Féderic rolled his eyes at his mother, though a playful smile was pulling at his lips.

  “And will you help me with this, Mother? We must all woo her if we wish to win her to our cause. Cal is right; a willing bride will be a more powerful ally against her family. She must want to remain with us.”

  Cal thought the queen looked ready to vomit as she slowly nodded her elegant head, her delicately braided hair never moving an inch. At least this would not require any work from him; it was up to the family to win her to their cause.

  Bethany sat on the edge of a stream, happily playing with the hem of her sleeve, while listening to the handsome man sitting beside her. His voice was firm, deep, and yet soft. It made her feel safe. She closed her eyes, and listened to his words of love which he read from a much smeared piece of wrinkled paper.

  My dearest love, my heart beats for you

  I fear that I cannot go on; I may only have a few

  You are wonderful, beautiful, and clever

  I know that I will love you forever.

  I’m so glad that you’re in my life

  You make my heart sing like a fife

  You are lovely when you are sweeping

  And ever more when you are sleeping

  We will soon be together

  We will be each other’s tether

  From you I will never roam

  For I know with you is my home

  Bethany woke with a start, jerking her head against the thick headboard. She looked around, momentarily forgetting where she was. After nearly three weeks as his captive, rather than his slave, she had yet to grow accustomed to waking up in a plush bed with a roaring fire in the hearth.

  The princess took a deep breath, trying to remember her dream. It left her with a feeling of ease and comfort, and yet she felt a strange desire to laugh though she couldn't remember why. Something about the dream made her think of childhood fantasies, but rather than make her long for her adolescent naivety, she felt a sense of bashful chagrin.

  Bethany shook the remainder of her dream from her head and wo
ndered what had woken her. Then she heard it again: a gentle knock on her door.

  “E-enter,” she stammered, her voice rough with sleep. She pulled herself up into a sitting position and dragged the covers up to her chin.

  Queen Arabelle swept into the room, her thick, winter skirts flowing around her ankles in folds of warmth. Two exquisite ladies-in-waiting followed closely. The first was rather young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with hair so blonde it looked almost white. Her features were beautifully molded, as though she were the invention of a master artist, rather than a human. A sudden and unexplained hatred for the young women boiled inside Bethany's chest as she watched the woman eye her disdainfully. Once, before all this had happened, Bethany had been just as beautiful, but work and starvation had changed her.

  Bethany used the haughty look she had learned from her older sister, and the younger woman shuffled off to the corner.

  The other woman was older, but with an air of sensuality Bethany had begun to recognize in women who used sex as a mode of currency, just as Lynnette had as the king and prince's former mistress. The woman’s long, black hair was done up in braids wrapped around her head, and she wore a dress of startling red, designed to attract the eye.

  “Princess Bethany, may I introduce you to Dunla,” began the queen as she motioned to the young, fair haired woman. “And Matty. We just call her Matty, of course. Her real name is quite unpronounceable.”

  Bethany glanced at the woman in question and noted the resigned expression that flitted across her uneven features. She wasn't nearly as pretty as Dunla, but Bethany would guess a man would be quicker to go to her than the younger woman.

  “I thought it high time you had some ladies-in-waiting of your own, since it looks like you will be staying with us. And here are a few slaves that will answer to you,” Arabelle added as three female slaves entered carrying heavy pails of steaming water, followed by a plump woman Bethany recognized as the seamstress that made all the clothing for the royal family.