Bethany tried not to sneer at the large woman, but the truth was she could make her own clothing with far more skill and expediency. She kept these thoughts to herself.
With the seamstress came a small herd of women, all toting bolts of fabric, baskets of notions, lengths of lace, and boxes of jewels. They quickly dispersed themselves under the direction of her new ladies-in-waiting, while the slaves poured their burdens into her personal bathtub. Meanwhile, the queen took hold of the covers Bethany had pulled up to her chin and deftly yanked them away.
“Come now, into the bath with you. I swear, we will never get you clean from... well...”
She trailed off as awkwardness descended on the room. Bethany refused to help her out of the situation, though she did obey and climb out of the bed.
Before she could protest, Dunla rushed forward, seized her nightgown, and pulled it over her head. Bethany quickly climbed into the hot water before the over exuberant lady-in-waiting could have a chance to push her in. Much like her other baths, the slaves applied themselves to her skin and hair, still finding hidden dirt and grime from her slave days.
When the rough and embarrassing treatment was finished, Bethany was manhandled into a plain underdress of soft, white fabric before being propelled onto a low stand that the seamstress and her crew had erected at the other end of her room.
“M-my lady, I have plenty of dresses already,” she stammered as the seamstress began measuring her with non-too-gentle hands.
Evidently, the fat woman didn't appreciate the deception Bethany had played on her, like all the other castle inhabitants.
“Ouch,” she added when the woman accidentally pinched her.
Bethany's own indignation rose as she prepared to slap the erring woman, but she commanded herself to relax and lowered her outstretched hand. Her mother's words came back to her: Striking a lesser being seldom makes them work better or harder. A firm hand does not require damaging or demeaning other.
“Oh, my dear Bethany,” exclaimed the queen who had taken up a seat near the fire. “Those old rags of Mirabelle's will never do. Especially now that you are to join the family! Someday you will be queen, taking my place. You must look the part!”
Bethany felt her heart begin to stampede through her chest. Her knees began to shake, threatening to buckle under her weight and send her careening to the floor. Only her own determination kept her standing as the seamstress continued to measure her body.
So Féderic had announced their engagement to the family?
Bethany swallowed nervously; there were aspects of this coming commitment that she was just beginning to comprehend. She needed time to quietly think about what her future entailed.
What did it mean to be queen?
Despite being a princess, she had never been raised for the duties of a queen. There was no need to, considering she would be lucky to marry a noble at all. She wasn’t even sure what this change meant.
The queen either didn't see Bethany's face grow green, or she chose to ignore it. Either way, she turned her attention to the fabrics and began suggesting different colors and styles. Soon her new ladies-in-waiting joined in the discussion, but Bethany struggled to appreciate the wealth around her. She couldn't think of anything except her impending union with Féderic and its many disturbing ramifications.
Think about this later… in private, Bethany told herself firmly in an effort to maintain her sanity.
If she thought about it too hard or too long, she would surely scream. In an attempt to distract herself, she dragged her attention to what the women around her were saying. They were debating which trimmings to pair with deep burgundy fabric.
“I think that soft, goldish tan—yes, that there—would make a beautiful underskirt. And I want gold embroidery around the shoulders,” Bethany said, using the voice she had often used with her seamstress back home in an effort to calm her nerves. It came naturally to her and the familiarity steadied her.
Yes, this I can lose myself in.
Before they could move on to selecting the fabric for the next dress, the door burst open and another parade of people entered carrying everything from caged birds, to chests of pre-made clothing such as fur lined boots and undergarments, to embroidery supplies, and even an enormous harp. Bethany watched wide-eyed as her ladies-in-waiting ordered them about, arranging her room to their liking.
Bethany rubbed her fingers, rough for months of slavery, but lacking the calluses needed for extensive harp playing. It had been ages since she had made music, and it took all her willpower to keep from running to the instrument and caressing its gut strings. As the last of her new possessions were brought in, Sir Erin Caldry entered and placed himself beside the queen, his face pulled tight into a glower.
She wanted to ask what he was doing there. She felt uncomfortable standing before him in nothing but an underdress, despite the fact he had already seen her naked. This feeling reminded her of all the degradations she had experienced, and a deep blush rose to her cheeks. The more she became accustomed to being a prisoner rather than a slave, the more she was embarrassed by what had happened in the past.
“Now, my dear,” began the queen. “I'm afraid we have already had threats made against your life. Oh but don't worry, we will not let a hair on your head be harmed. Sir Caldry here has been assigned to you for your protection and we have stationed two guards outside your door at all times. Now, for your own protection, we insist you have Sir Caldry in attendance whenever you leave this room. He knows to remain close by and will keep himself available for you. Do you understand?”
Bethany understood. Whatever threats had been made were simply a convenient lie to hide the fact that she was in reality still their prisoner, not their guest. Bethany glanced at the knight, but he was looking at something she couldn't see. In response to the queen, who was still waiting, she nodded.
“Excellent! Now, let's make a few more decisions, shall we?”
And the rest of the day was spent selecting fabrics and embroidery patterns.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Enter,” Bethany commanded from her place at her new harp, her fresh gown draped elegantly over the small stool and across the floor. Over the last three days, the seamstresses had produced a record number of dresses for her. Though some of them were rather poorly made, and in her solitude Bethany had repaired a number of them. Still, for the first time in ages, she felt like a lady.
Her current gown was made of thick, blue fabric that kept her warm, despite the enormous snow drifts pressed up against the keep. Tunnels through the clogged bailey had been shoveled each morning to provide access to the essential outbuildings, making the deep snow appear even deeper in some places. Her snug underdress, made of a darker blue, peaked through beneath her skirt and around her forearms, where the overdress opened into wide sleeves that often acted like a blanket over her lap.
Bethany looked up from her harp to see Sir Caldry enter. She stared. She couldn't help it. For the first time that she could remember, he was not swathed in heavy chain mail. Instead, he was garbed in a sleeveless leather jerkin, strapped snugly to his chest. The muscles in his arms and shoulders rippled as he caught the door to keep it from banging shut. Bethany forced her eyes up to his scared face.
“The prince has sent for you,” he stated in a voice devoid of all emotion.
Bethany was still taken aback by his sudden, and inexplicable, coolness towards her. She returned it in kind, extending her neck to its full length, having learned the trick from her older sister of looking down on even the tallest of men with this little movement. She saw a flicker of emotion cross his face and felt a surge of triumph.
Bethany rose from her seat and crossed the room to where he stood. He thrust his arm out for her, and when she delicately took it, he jerked it back to his side so forcefully she nearly fell into him.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he simpered, using just the right tone of voice—a perfect mix of sneering disdain and polite conce
rn—that she couldn't call him to task as she wanted to.
Then again, she had no idea how the knight would respond to her reprimand, or if she even had any power over him at all. If she truly was to be the wife of the heir apparent, then it stood to reason that she did carry some authority within the castle, but much like her freedom, she doubted her authority's validity.
The transition from disfavored slave to future queen was a hard one to make.
The knight led her down the corridor and to the main level. As they walked, she noticed a slight layer of perspiration on his bare arm and smelled his personal scent: a mixture of leather, horse, and man. It was disconcerting to notice such things about any man, but especially him.
They entered the great hall where all the furniture, save a few benches lining the walls, had been removed. In the center of the room, the princes, the castle knights, and a number of men-at-arms were play-fighting with wooden swords.
“Bethany!” exclaimed Féderic as he dropped his own wooden sword and ran to her.
His clamor had brought the entire room to a standstill as they watched the prince cross the room and carefully kiss the back of her hand. Bethany tensed, ready for a sudden and inappropriate display of his affection, and was duly shocked by his courtly behavior. She honestly didn't think he had such gentlemanliness in him.
“I thought you'd like to get out of your room. I'm sorry these threats have you locked up like a bloody prisoner. Yes, thank you, Cal. I can take it from here.”
Féderic pulled her away from the knight, whose arm she had still been holding, and led her across the room to where Anabelle, Mirabelle, and a few of the ladies-in-waiting were sitting. Instead of placing her with the women and returning to his sword fighting, he sat with her, absently playing with the fingers resting in the crook of his arm.
“I've missed you,” he whispered in her ear once the others had returned to their tasks. Without meaning to, she noticed Sir Caldry take up a wooden sword and engage in a mock battle with Lyolf.
“You can't miss what you've never known.”
“You think I don't know you?” he asked, looking down at her.
“Of course not. Up until three weeks ago, you thought I was your possession, to do with as you chose. Now... now I am your captive. I suppose not much has actually changed.”
“You are not my captive. You are my fiancée.”
“Not by choice, making them the same thing,” Bethany replied, her eyes still on the fighters.
“You will like it here. I promise. In a year’s time you will loath the idea of ever leaving this place, or me.”
Before she could respond, the king called his son to task. “Féderic stop making love to your bride and get back to work.”
“Guess the break is over,” joked Féderic before he pecked her lightly on the cheek and ran toward the end of the room where his brothers were doing battle.
The prince gathered up his sword and engaged Rulfric. Bethany watched them for lack of something else to do. Despite her lack of interest, she couldn’t help but notice the differences among the men. Rulfric was a lazy fighter, tending to let his opponent do all the work for him, while Féderic was aggressive and prone to bouts of rage if he misstepped. Despite this failing, Féderic showed signs of real skill with the blade and even stopped to quickly give his younger brother tips. The king, who was working with Cedric on his basic form, was far more patient, and Cedric far more distracted than she had expected. Lyolf, the bastard son, fought as though his life and standing depended on it, and perhaps it did. Unlike the others, his future in the castle was not set. His ability with the sword might genuinely be his bread-winner one day.
Sir Caldry... Bethany paused in her assessment as she watched the sweating knight. Caldry fought as though he knew the realities of war. There was a grim determination to his face and movements that she did not see in the others, despite the fact he was obviously going easy on the bastard prince. She saw him check swings and slow his feet when it was clear he was getting ahead of the younger man.
Before she could finish her assessment of the knight, Féderic called out to him. “Cal, you need a real opponent. Let me have a swing at him, Lyolf!”
Bethany noticed the prince glance back at her. Had he noticed her staring at the knight? The two men engaged each other. At first, they appeared evenly matched, but as the battle continued Bethany spotted the prince beginning to trip over his own feet and his sword arm slow, while Sir Caldry was just as crisp and fast as before.
Thankfully, she didn't see the end of the fight. Arabelle, obviously aware that her son was not preforming well, came to sit next to her and engaged her in conversation. The queen asked mundane questions, her eyes occasionally glancing towards the battle. Bethany would have liked to have seen the outcome, but she allowed the queen to save face. It would be better than offending her captors by insisting on seeing their son's failure.
A surprisingly short time later, Féderic stumbled up to her side and collapsed in the seat next to her. She turned away from the queen to see an impressive cut across his left eyebrow and blood streaming down his cheek.
“Will you bandage my wounds, sweet lady,” he said in a breathless voice.
Like the others, he was trying to distract her from the fact he had been beaten soundly. Bethany glanced at the knight, unable to keep her eyes away. He was unscathed, barely breathing heavier than before and already working with Lyolf again.
“I am sure your mother would prefer the healer to attend to you.”
“Oh, nonsense,” piped in Arabelle in her most congenial voice.
Bethany cringed inwardly. Why couldn't she stay distrustful?
“C’mon, Bethany. I still have some supplies in my room.” He took her by the hand and started to guide her from the room.
“Sir Caldry, please attend them,” commanded the queen in the loudest voice Bethany had ever heard her use.
Bethany couldn't decide if she was relieved to have a third member to their party as they made their way to Féderic's room or if she was disturbed by the knight's continued presence. They reached the prince's room, where Sir Caldry stationed himself in the corner. Féderic pulled out the supplies remaining from his long convalescence and seated himself on the edge of his bed, well away from the fire.
She didn't want to bathe his ill-gotten wounds, especially in her new gown. Without asking, Bethany went to where she knew the prince stored his tunics and slipped one on over her dress before taking up the damp cloth and cleaning his face.
“I must say, I like you in my clothing. Though the dress underneath does ruin the effect.”
Bethany felt her face warm with a blush, but she chose to ignore it and him. She cleaned his cheek, determined to use the same detachment her mother had taught her to use when dealing with patients not long for this world.
“Of course, I could help with that,” he added as his idle hands reached up under the frock and began playing with her lacings.
She continued to ignore him, despite her growing discomfort. In record time, she had the cut cleaned and covered it in a paste that would act as a bandage until it scabbed over.
“There,” she stated as she casually stepped away, removed the tunic, and dumped it on the prince's work table. “Sir Caldry?”
The knight pulled himself away from the shadowed corner and opened the door for her before the prince could protest. As they walked back down the hallway, Bethany could hear the prince cursing. When they rounded a corner she reached up and stopped the knight.
“I am sorry to ask, but may I beg a favor?” she asked in her most formal of tones.
“Of course, my lady. I am here to serve.”
“I fear the prince has grown too accustomed to ladies lacings and has undone mine. Would you retie them before someone notices?”
Bethany tried to keep her dignity wrapped around her like a comforting blanket, and yet she felt tears prick her eyes. How dare he compromise me in such a way as to force me to ask this ma
n, of all men, to help me!
Why did she have to be so bloody formal? Cal wondered as he motioned for her to turn around. Whether he liked it or not, he missed the fiery slave who burned withies and gave the queen a rash. Was this pretentious woman the real Bethany, or was it just a mask to hide the deep hurt and fear tearing her up from the inside out? Much to his disgust, he suspected it might be a mix of the two. She was afraid, no doubt about it, but it wasn't enough to push her back into action. Her new position was too comfortable to be worth risking.
Cal felt his gut tighten in disgust as he finished lacing up the back of her dress.
Yes, the woman he had grown attached to was gone and this... this lady stood in her place, wearing her face. Ann was gone, and he would just have to get used to it.
Bethany turned around and absently took his arm. He felt her tapered fingers shake ever so slightly against his bare skin. She must be hungry, he thought. Despite three weeks of excellent food and plenty of rest, she was still much too thin.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Bethany sat next to a roaring fire, a precious book lying in her lap, completely forgotten. She stared into the crackling fire, trying her best not to think. It was not a skill she had mastered. Her wishes ignored, Bethany's thoughts trailed easily to her past, and more often, to her future.
It seemed the more the prince and his mother pampered her, the more her emotions sank. The book in her lap, the harp in the corner, and the beautiful dresses in her wardrobe all reminded her of the life she had lost. In many ways, Bethany had handled her slavery better than she now coped with her engagement to the heir of the most powerful nation in the history of the peninsula.
Bethany had grown up living much like she did now—her life had been arranged and organized by someone else. She had gone where she was told. She had comforted the soldiers she was told to call upon. She had encouraged the lords and relatives she was told to visit. She had eaten when a meal was presented to her and rested when she was told to go to bed for the night.
The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy Page 25