He knew just how cold she really was.
Charles was acutely aware of the stickiness of his clothes as Prince Frederic's gaze lingered over him. The Prince was supremely fresh in his linen trousers, silk blouse of the finest weave, and an overcoat of a rich, deep blue. King Otto sat beside him looking decidedly uncomfortable. Charles wondered what had they walked in on. What conversation had been aborted?
Ada turned suddenly, her back now to the Outside and her dark eyes boring into Clara's. Clara’s subdued figure stood steady under the onslaught of the Queen's stare.
“Tell me, daughter.”
Clara sucked in a breath, girding her loins, no doubt. “The yield is as expected...”
“But?” Ada asked the question as a statement.
“The cream has taken on a pink wash.” Clara kept her shoulders back and straight. If she was uncomfortable, it did not show to Charles. Of course, Clara was well schooled in keeping her emotions to herself.
The Queen's hands clenched and unclenched. She looked from Clara to King Otto.
“May I address this, Queen Ada?” King Otto requested.
She nodded stiffly, and Charles heard a vague, grunting sound.
“I will trade the pink pearls for the rare grapes. That is not important.”
Clara looked confused for the briefest of moments. “Did you not wish to trade for the cream, King Otto?” Was it possible she would not be whipped for the wrong color?
The King looked profoundly uncomfortable, and Charles's stomach clenched.
King Otto articulated Charles’s worst fear. “For the pleasure of a hastened Wedded Joining, I will forgive the color and sweeten the exchange with the coveted grapes.” His gaze slid to Queen Ada then back to Clara. “I’ll forgive even red pearls for the opportunity to meld our respective kingdoms.”
Charles was flabbergasted. Clara freshly ten and seven years! She was too young by far to be joined with Prince Frederic.
Before he could comment, Clara interjected. “We agreed that we would wait one year. Upon my Day of Birth celebration, marking my womanhood, ten and eight years, we shall wed.” Clara's face had a pinched quality and had paled, but there she stood, resolute in her bearing.
Charles thought again how beauty had a faceted quality, and hers was many.
Prince Frederic spoke. “I have decided I cannot wait, my Princess.” His smarmy tone indicated his meaning.
Charles felt he would be sick. Anger infused his body, vibrating to his extremities. “She cannot wed legally. She must be ten and eight years, the age of legal consent. Even you must understand that, Prince Frederic, you being twenty and one years yourself?”
Prince Frederic sharpened his gaze on Charles, opening his mouth to say something scathing.
Queen Ada interrupted. “He matters not. What he speaks matters not. He is here by my sufferance alone.”
She looked at Charles. “Yes?”
“Yes, my Queen.” Charles said with the greatest reluctance. He could not bear this man touching Clara. That she did not love him, want him... nay, that she did not even like him, was a misery he could not tolerate for one more moment.
Charles said, “Mayhap she does not wish to rule, my Queen.”
The Queen's eyes narrowed as she stared at Charles. “She has told you this?”
“Not in so many words.”
Clara turned to him, gripping his shoulders. “Do not try to help me, dear friend. You know that I must rule one day. Queen Ada will step down so that I may once Prince Frederic and I are joined to rule this sphere.”
Charles's fists clenched into balls of anger. “You cannot mean that you wish this joining now.”
Clara's face looked pained while she searched for a diplomatic way where there was none. “I wish for a proper betrothal, the length as originally negotiated upon. Not a rushed affair.” Clara stared at King Otto, who looked away from the naked accusation he saw there.
“You get what you wish, daughter, to rule the people who are so precious to you, and I get my grapes.” Ada threw up her hands triumphantly.
Clara knew very well how much of a weakness—or Charles thought, a strength—her love of the People was. She wished for their happiness and the greater happiness of the sphere above all else.
They looked deeply into each other's eyes until Charles became aware of Prince Frederic in his peripheral vision. He turned to face him.
Instead of breaking their interchange, Frederic came from behind Clara wrapping possessive arms about her waist and hauling her up against him. Her fingers fell away from Charles's shoulders.
Clara's breath caught at the unexpectedness of the gesture, and she automatically struggled against the prison of his arms. Frederic laughed. “Have we not got over this futile resistance, my Princess? So soon you forget how much you will want—no—you will beg for my embrace.” He ran his free hand down her neck, dangerously near impropriety as he approached the bare upper skin of her bosom.
“Frederic!” King Otto reprimanded. Finally, Clara thought, a voice of reason. The Queen laughed at her discomfiture. Clara began to struggle in earnest. She knew what she must do, but he would not embarrass her further, the loathsome man!
Something deep and abiding in Charles broke. His hand, already balled into a hard fist, swung backward of its own accord, and he felt himself gain momentum as he swung it directly into the Prince’s smug face. Instantly, Frederic loosened his grasp on Clara, who ducked and, like the smart young woman she was, got out of the way.
Charles surged forward like a bull before a crimson flag, launching himself at the Prince. The screaming voice of his subconscious tried without success to halt him. But he would not stop. The Prince attempted to shield himself from the pummeling he was receiving, but Charles's fists had come alive. They rained down upon Frederic, unabated.
“Charles! Stop this!” Clara screamed, afraid for him.
Vaguely, Charles heard the Queen yell for the guards, and Charles felt himself unceremoniously lifted off the prince. Royal blood decorated the floor, giving Charles momentary satisfaction before he was strung up like a turkey by ropes at his hands and ankles.
The Prince stood on unsteady feet. He strode directly to Clara and backhanded her in the face, a move so completely unexpected that she fell against the wall.
The Queen's guards moved forward, leaving Charles in stupid surprise, completely unable to defend her.
As the guards approached Prince Frederic, Ada said with quiet menace, “As you were.” She pointed back at Charles, and the guards hesitated. When she repeated what she had said, the guards came back to Charles with uneasy expressions.
Ada turned to Clara. “Remember, dear Clara, the other night when I mentioned that Prince Frederic understood discipline?”
Clara, whose mouth was open and bleeding, could only nod. She slid her hand along the wall to steady herself.
“This altercation has the surest signs of a lack of understanding, does it not?”
Clara was not sure of what was coming but nodded in agreement. The Queen did not really wish an answer. She wished an audience for her wisdom. Her supposed wisdom.
“Do you love Charles?”
Clara nodded. Of course she did.
“Does he love you? Think on this, my daughter.”
Clara felt like a fox in a snare. She knew either answer would cause her trouble, but she settled for what she thought was the truth, but not before looking at Charles. He looked profoundly sorry. She didn’t know why. She had hated the Prince's horrible caresses far more than the back of his hand.
Everyone waited for her response. “I believe he does... love me.”
Charles stared daggers at the Prince and Queen in equal turns while King Otto looked like he might be sick at any time. He did nothing, Clara noted. The guards struggled with their duty to obey the Queen and their desire to protect Clara.
The Prince circled Clara, and she kept her back to the wall, the small movement the only protection she had. Her
eyes searched those of the guards and found indecision. Here was their future monarch, unprotected against another, her betrothed no less, while the Queen gave orders which left her own daughter vulnerable to violence.
The guards were confused and uneasy. They had heard rumors that the princess was abused at the Queen's hand but had not anticipated this level of debasement. They looked at each other, unsure what to do.
Quick as a snake, the Prince slapped the other side of Clara's face, and she sank down to her knees, unable to stand. His blows hurt so much more than the Queen's.
“No! Do not touch her again,” Charles bellowed. The guards held him fast.
Finally, King Otto said quietly, “Stop this. Do not strike her again.”
Clara could not believe a more unlikely savior than he, but she was grateful there might be a respite.
Charles vomited on the floor, distracting them all.
The Queen looked on in distaste. “Elvira, come see to this mess.” She looked at Clara, on her knees on the floor. “You see now how absurd your answer was, Clara?”
Clara could not see anything. Her ears rang from the second blow, and her head buzzed with the beginnings of a punishing headache. She did not care one fig about what her answer had been.
“He does love you, Clara. Nay, not simple love, but real love. He is in love with you. Your abuse was for him.” She and Prince Frederic looked at each other and then at Charles.
Kneeling down to face Charles, Frederic said, “It is so much more effective to seek my revenge upon you by using her.” He inclined his head at Clara. “Certainly, it would be satisfying to see you flogged, but to see you put away so miserably in your ineffectiveness to do nothing to aid her? Well that, I must say, is profoundly satisfying.”
Smirking, the Prince stood, gently dabbing at the corner of his mouth where it bled. “Profoundly,” he repeated.
King Otto stood. “It is settled then. Three months hence, they will be joined in the Kingdom of Kentucky.”
From the floor, Clara looked up at the King, utter disgust covering her bleeding face. His gaze took in her swollen lip and cheek. Then he looked from his son to his soon-to-be-relative, and his shoulders slumped. Clara realized he would be no help to her. Her eyes sought Charles's and saw sadness and regret there. She gave a subtle shake of her head. It meant so much that he had tried to help her
The Prince approached Clara, and she flinched. He laughed. She expected another blow, and the guards looked ready to assist, perhaps having lost all sense before a woman beaten. Instead, he reached out and tenderly ran his finger over the most sensitive part of her lip. She stifled a whimper.
“We will see if you are a woman who learns quickly. Mayhap you are. If not, I shall enjoy the lessons. Oh yes, I shall.”
Clara could not help it. She moved away from his touch as if scalded. She could not marry this fiend. He would kill her. But first, he would make her suffer. Then he would take her kingdom and rule it with a scepter of tyranny.
Prince Frederick, King Otto, and Queen Ada left her bleeding on the floor. The guards hauled Charles away to a special cell. Elvira waited until they were all gone before rushing to Clara and using a fresh washcloth, ministered to Clara's wounds. Clara thought not of the tears she wished to shed, but of the plans to be made. Sarah, who would be calling momentarily at the Royal Manse, would know what to do. Together they could formulate a solution. Quickly.
***
Sarah was ushered in by Peter, who looked at Clara resting on her bed and quickly away. “No, come, Peter. Do not fret.”
Peter, the faithful butler, looked about the hall and rushed to her bedside. She looked a mess, she knew. Her hair in disarray, framing a face swollen and red from blows and tears. Peter's face reddened in a most alarming way.
“Princess, oh my Princess.” Peter kissed the hand that had beckoned him.
Sarah looked down at her solemnly, her natural humor dead on her face. Clara had not gazed in a looking glass but felt that her people's faces told her what the mirror could not.
“You cannot wed him, Clara. He means your death,” Sarah said indelicately. True to form, Sarah was bold with her words. Peter put her hand back upon the blanket and nodded in agreement.
“What of Charles?” Clara asked.
Sarah smiled. “And he asked only of you.” That caused Clara to smile, then she winced at the pain in her mouth.
“Ouch!” She instinctively placed a finger on the sorest part of her mouth. All of it hurt fiercely, throbbing, but one corner was very tender.
Olive slid through the chamber door, closing it softly behind her. “I have some ice, mistress.”
Clara eyed the bundle, swaddled in a thin, cotton cloth used for drying dishes. Billy must know, she thought absently. She gave a sigh of relief when the crushed ice made soft contact with her mouth.
She closed her eyes briefly. The throbbing heat became more bearable.
Sarah looked at Peter, and he stood to go. “I must not be absent overlong, Princess.”
Clara's eyes opened, and she nodded. He wished to escape the Queen's notice. They all did.
Peter, Olive and Sarah looked at one another, then Sarah nodded, and Peter inclined his head to the two women, taking his leave.
“He is a good man,” Sarah remarked, and Olive nodded.
“Yes,” Clara whispered through her swollen mouth.
“This must stop. The abuse you endure from her Majesty, our Queen,” Sarah said with obvious disdain, “is something I know you feel you do for our kingdom.” She waggled her finger. “But that creature who pretends to be a man—for Guardian's sake, what right does he have to lay hands upon you? None! I say none.” Sarah's face was bright red. She had spun, pacing about the room and returned to Clara's side.
“Is this why you stopped by the schoolhouse? So that we may confer together? I must say, it is a long time coming if that be the case. You cannot wed him.”
“I will not,” Clara whispered.
“What?”
“I said, I shall not wed him.”
Olive gasped, then clasped her hands together in delight.
“There will be a hell's ransom to pay, you know,” Sarah said.
Clara nodded. She knew.
“I will assist you. You must escape.”
Clara's eyes widened.
“Shh, do not speak. Listen to what I say.” When Clara lay silent, Sarah continued. “Trading day is one day hence, correct?”
Olive and Clara both stared at her.
“It is a perfect time for you to move through the tunnels. I have friends in the other kingdoms. You could make your way there, possibly hide for a time until things quiet down.”
Clara smiled. Sarah was so naïve. Brilliant, but not versed in the intricacies of royal life. As if Clara's absence would pass without notice.
Clara held both hands out to Sarah who took them. “Dear Sarah, a most excellent plan, but it is time that is my enemy, not placement.”
“Yes, my lady. It has been announced that Clara is to wed Prince Frederic three months hence, not twelve,” Olive clarified.
Sarah's eyes widened. “What say you?”
“Three months hence.”
“Is that true, Clara?”
“It is.”
“Speak,” Sarah asked.
Clara did.
She told her friend the entirety of the interchange, leaving out nothing. Sarah stopped her, asking questions.
Clara asked after Charles.
“He is fine. Eager to see you.”
“When will he be released?”
“A fore-night, no more,” Sarah said.
Clara nodded. She tried to not rely on Charles overly much, but she could admit, if only to herself, that the Prince terrified her. She cast a glance at the door then looked to Olive, who nodded.
Olive walked quickly to the door, stepping into the doorway. Looking each way, she closed it softly, throwing the lock simultaneously with its closure. Clara felt t
he breath slide out of her body in bold relief. She could possibly sleep.
Sarah smiled. “Let me lie on your couch. I will stay here this night, standing watch over you.”
Clara wanted to tell her no, but Sarah was terribly stubborn, not unlike Clara herself. She smiled at Sarah, and Olive fetched a bundle of bed linen for the fainting couch.
Clara needed to relieve herself and brush her hair. She swept the covers aside, and Olive was suddenly there. Clara quietly told the girl her needs, and they walked over to the necessary together. Afterward, Clara sat down in front of the vanity, and Olive stood behind her brushing her hair. Sarah flanked her. Slowly, Clara lifted her eyes up from her lap and met the ones in her reflection, if one could call the image that greeted her a recognizable likeness.
Clara stared at the swollen cheek, a lump of reddened flesh the size of one of her beloved tangerines, buried beneath an angry welt. Her lips were twice their normal size with a sore, open and bleeding on one side. A bruise formed, seemingly out of nowhere, underneath her left eye, a shadow mark, making her turquoise eyes appear to float.
She looked at herself, and every abuse the Queen had ever made swam to the surface of her consciousness, and her soul could bear no more. A strangled cry rose from deep in her throat, and hot tears slid down her face, scalding her wounds. Her crying, for once, was not silent. Her two friends attended her as she cried tears of loss and grief.
Some for her people and many for herself.
CHAPTER 14
If Charles had anything left in his stomach it would be dispatched immediately. If the situation with Clara had not been so grievous, he would have taken a certain grim satisfaction in begriming the Queen’s room so thoroughly. As it was, he could not.
Being helpless to protect Clara as the Prince savaged her had been the very worst experience of Charles's life. It left nary a doubt as to Prince Frederic's intentions toward her. He meant to deal with her as a possession he had a right to abuse, neglect, then throw away when the time came for such things.
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