“How dare you! To make light of me and my word! You have been in my father’s service for a good many years, but you push what is appropriate, even for a trusted retainer! Take me to my father at once!” Casimir stood as well.
Before the last word was out of his mouth, he found himself on the floor again. “Knave,” panted Theobald. “How dare I? How dare you come into this house of mourning and make a joke of the sadness of two very good people? I will tolerate your foolishness no longer.” He yanked Casimir up, and with his free hand, opened the door and shoved Casimir out.
Coming around in front of him, Theobald dragged Casimir behind him.
“Wait! Wait! I want to see my father! Take me to the king at once! How dare you lay hands on me! Take me to my father! Father! Father! I am home! I am restored!” Casimir struggled against the iron grip as he shouted as loudly as possible.
Taking a breath, he opened his mouth to continue and then all went black.
When he awoke, it was because his arms were hurting. More specifically, his shoulders felt as though on fire. Opening his eyes a sliver, he could see that he was up against a wooden post. Tilting his head slightly, trying to make the motion small and unnoticeable, he could see the reason for the shoulder pain. His arms were shackled in manacles over his head. He let his head fall towards the post and sagged against it, attempting to make himself more comfortable.
“Good. You’re awake.” The voice of Theobald said behind him.
No sense in pretending otherwise. The man missed nothing. “Why am I here?”
“For impersonating a prince. For causing me a headache. For being a disturbance and posing a threat to my king and queen.”
“I am Casimir. I pose no threat to anyone. I do apologize for the headache, although I can safely say you have returned the favor.”
Theobald laughed. “I appreciate your sense of humor. However, that will not spare you the stripes of the lash.”
“You dare to strike a prince of the realm?” Casimir truly was aghast. There would be no way to come back from this when all was revealed.
“No, I would not dare. You, however, are a prince of nothing, unless we count the madhouse as a realm. I have sentenced you to twenty lashes and then, because I don’t think you will trouble me further, I will allow you to have your horse back and leave the castle.”
“I don’t want to leave the castle! I want to see my parents!” Twisting around as much as the manacles allowed, Casimir began to yell in earnest. “Mother! Father! I am here! I am alive! Do not turn me away! I am alive!”
His screaming ended abruptly with the first lash to his back. His breath caught, and he sucked in, trying to get the air that had just been knocked out of his chest.
Before he could catch it, another lash landed. Two. This was two, and he didn’t think he could make it through another…what? Eighteen? While considering this, another lash landed. Seventeen to go. He leaned his head against the post, shut his mouth, and focused on making it through.
Now fifteen. Then it was ten only left. Then five. When there were three lashes to go, a sob escaped his mouth involuntarily. He couldn’t have stopped it. The final two lashes made his knees wobble, and even though his shoulders screamed in protest, he let them hold him up.
One. It was done. Finished. There was silence in the yard around him. He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t stand, and could barely breathe.
He felt hands unlocking the manacles and another set catching him as he fell.
“First time at the lash?” Surprisingly the voice was kind. He thought it was still Theobald. “You never get used to it, if that helps. Now, I will help you to the stables, and see you on your way.” The tone brooked no discussion.
Frankly, Casimir had no energy to expend on trying. He looked up as he was half carried through the yard. He knew where his parents’ chambers were. He squinted in the sun, trying to see whether or not a figure or two stood there. He couldn’t tell. His head dropped.
He made no protest as Theobald and two of the guards—although not the same two who had delivered him to Theobald initially—helped him onto the saddle, and led the horse towards the inner and outer gates.
“No. I must see—” He began, only to be cut off by Theobald.
“Come now. We both know you need to do nothing within these walls. Has the past hour not convinced you? I really do not want to have to put you to the lash again. You don’t seem a bad sort, in spite of your arrogance in thinking you have a right to be here.”
At the outer gate, Theobald handed the reins to Casimir. “Godspeed on your journey. I pray that it does not lead you here again.” As before, the threat was clear.
Casimir took the reins silently. He turned and looked up at the castle again. How had this gone so wrong? This was one of his homes, and here he was being escorted out with threats of further violence should he not leave peacefully. He stared at the windows along the wall, hoping beyond hope to see a face peering out, but he saw nothing.
He turned back to the horse, and slowly walked through the gates to the path that led to the main road. He didn’t turn around again.
Chapter Four
Casimir didn’t know how long he’d been riding. He didn’t care. His world was in tatters. All his planning had been to get him to his parents, and now all that had been turned upside down. His plan had gotten him nothing more than to be tossed out like a beggar.
Finally, it dawned on him that he might want to tend to his back if he didn’t want to be in greater pain than he already was. He sat up a bit, looking around to assess where he was. He knew these woods. Farther along the track lay an opening in the wood that led to a stream. He could tend to his wounds in some privacy there. He didn’t want anyone to see his back. It would brand him as a criminal of some sort, and he didn’t need that right now.
Fighting the urge to gallop to the stream, he shifted in the saddle to find a more comfortable seat. None was to be found. He could feel every stride, every jostle, every everything. He bit his lip. Screaming would be most unmanly, in addition to bringing attention to himself.
Finally, he reached the opening, and slid off the horse. Taking the reins, he led the horse down to the stream. He stripped off his jerkin and plunged in, sinking down as much as possible to cover his back.
His back instantly felt better. He positioned his feet so that he could just stay right where he was, letting the water run over him and calm him. He thought about whether or not he had anything that would help the stripes when he finally got himself out of the water. He wasn’t sure.
In retrospect, it was not that he had been lashed. That was not fun, and nothing he wanted to repeat. He’d never been hit in his life. Ever. In thinking on it, his parents had beaten neither him nor his brothers growing up. They had been sent to the stables and worked until they dropped, but there were no beatings. He knew that was not the case everywhere.
It also went back to the whole idea that he was very used to and comfortable being a prince. This was not part of that experience. He was nothing, just a daft man causing problems, as far as Theobald and the guard were concerned.
He had to hold faith that he would be able to return to his life. When he did so, what would he do about Theobald? If he considered the matter fairly, Theobald had not been overly harsh. He also knew, again being objective, which he was in no mood to do, that Theobald had not lashed him as severely as he might have. It felt that way, but this made sense. The person on the business end of the lash would see things slightly differently than the one administering it, or for that matter, the one who ordered it.
He sighed. It looked as though he would have no choice but to go to the chapel and try to find the damnable finger bone. The thought made him want to kick something hard, to throw a royal fit. He didn’t want anything to do with Catrin, her insanity, her quest, and certainly not stealing some poor woman’s bones.
The horse whickered, making him look up. He searched the trees around him and the opening where he
’d come in, but saw nothing. He stood, listening. There was nothing more. The horse didn’t look fussed, either. He lowered himself back into the stream, hissing a little as he did so.
He spent a good amount of time in the stream. When he could feel his fingers wrinkling, he forced himself out. He was honest enough to know that he didn’t want to get out because that meant accepting the things that had to happen next.
He made his way to the horse, and went through his bag. He had a little garlic and some willow bark. He could tell by the smell. He started a fire, then got out the small pot Catrin’s maid had packed, adding the herbs and water to the pot, and set them to boil. He would need to rig some sort of cloth to put padding on his back, but he could manage.
Well. Now to figure out how to get to the chapel. He knew he looked like himself. He couldn’t see in the stream well, but he had some concern that the coloring of his skin might have faded. Groaning, he got up and found the mixture he’d made while still at Catrin’s. He needed to make sure, now more than ever, he was not recognized. He’d be dragged before the castle guard again.
When the water had boiled down, he put his extra shirt into the pot, allowing the material to soak up the mixture. He hoped that it would absorb the herbs in the water, trapping them in the fabric. He carefully pulled off his jerkin, and then took the shirt from the pot, slipping it over his head. Then he put his jerkin on. He wouldn’t need to tie off anything, which was good. Moving was painful as it was. Attempting to rig something for his back might just finish him off.
“Well, old son, the axe didn’t finish you off. A few stripes won’t do it, in spite of your whining.” He felt silly and comforted to be talking to himself.
Once he had his jerkin on and could feel the moisture from the shirt, he dumped the remainder of the mixture down his back. Couldn’t hurt. Then he went to the stream and let the pan rinse. Adding a little water, he came back to the fire and pulled out the skin dye mixture. He dumped it into the pot, stirring it with a twig. He let it heat and reduce. Once it was thicker, he took it off the heat and set it aside to cool.
He then pulled out more food. Had he thought about actually going to the chapel, he might have been more judicious with the food he had. He dug through the pack. Catrin had put a blade within, which meant he might be able to catch a little of his own food. He thanked the stars that he’d put some time in with their head gamekeeper as a young man, because he would be able to set snares. Hopefully, they would catch something.
He rummaged through the packs again. Catrin had been good on her word, providing him with all sorts of things to survive. He stopped himself. He needed to eat, and then he could set snares.
The bread felt stale, but he wolfed it down. Same with the cheese, but it tasted wonderful. He wondered how one went from utter despair to ravenous hunger so quickly. Once he’d finished, he got up and went about setting snares.
Now that he had a fire, he didn’t feel as exposed as he had the last two nights on the road. He took the bedding roll from the back of the saddle and made himself a bed, hoping to sleep. He banked the fire as Granled, his father’s gamekeeper, had shown him all those years ago. He didn’t want it to be visible from the road, if he could help it.
Sending a prayer for his own safety, and feeling selfish for doing so, he pulled the bedding up to his chin and made himself comfortable. Thoughts of quest he would have to begin tomorrow raced through his head as he fell asleep.
He opened his eyes to the sun dappling through the trees. Carefully, because he could feel how stiff he was, he looked around and saw nothing other than his horse. He lay still, listening. There was birdsong in the trees, indicating that he was probably alone. When he sat up, the song stopped. That was good.
He stretched. His back was going to be sore for some time. He wiggled the undershirt, attempting to dislodge it where it had stuck to the open lash marks. It wasn’t bad, though. It confirmed that Theobald had not been as hard or as thorough as he might have been.
First things first. He rolled up his bedding and added some twigs to the fire. Then he went around checking his snares. The first two had nothing, but the third one had caught a rabbit. He quickly broke its neck and took it back to dress it for a meal.
Once the rabbit was over the fire, he planned his next move. For the first time in what felt like ages, he thought of Thea. Her face in his mind brought an ache to his chest. He hadn’t thought of her because he’d been focused on survival. Was this why those not of noble birth didn’t seem to be as interested in extolling the virtues of love? There was so much more to do just to make it to the next day. As a royal, he didn’t have those concerns.
It didn’t make him miss her any less, however. He could still see her as she was when he gazed at her from the block. Tears streaming from her eyes, and he could see love and regret in them.
He wondered at the regret. Catrin had shaken him, in all honesty. He knew that Thea had something she was holding back, something that was tearing at her from within. No matter how much he’d tried to speak with her, encourage her to speak freely, she’d not said a word. Catrin was right. She’d let him go to his death. But remembering that look on her face, the knowledge in her eyes, he knew that it was not by choice or disinterest. There was something else at play here. He just needed to figure it out.
Casimir sighed. He wanted to do nothing but lay here and ponder Thea. That would bring him no closer to getting his life back. He stood, stretching again. He’d have to make sure he got down from the horse regularly. His arms stretched in the manacles along with the lashing would make for a stiff form for some days more.
He wrapped up the rest of the rabbit and tucked it carefully into his pack. He still had bread, cheese, and a few pickles. He also had coin, which would allow him to buy a meal once every other day or so as he passed through towns. He hated the thought of having to find all his own food, but the fear of recognition was strong.
Packing up his small camp, he looked around to be sure he had not missed anything. Seeing nothing, he went to the stream and cupped water in his hands to damp the fire. It required several trips, but finally the flames and embers glowed no longer. To be sure, he tossed several handfuls of dirt onto it as well. Then, he brushed his hands on his trousers, which made him grimace. Another thing he was finding was that as a prince there were baths whenever one wanted them. His dip in the stream had been the first time he’d felt somewhat clean since leaving Catrin’s.
Mounting his horse, he sighed. “Well, it’s just us, isn’t it? You need a name, boy. Since it seems it will be us for some time. What’s your name, then?”
The horse flicked his ears towards Casimir, acknowledging the words. But as to a name, there was no clue. “We shall have to see who you are as time goes on, then, shan’t we?” Feeling more cheerful than perhaps the situation warranted, he chirruped at the horse and left the little copse. Once they reached the road, he pulled up and looked both ways. He saw no one, which comforted him. He gave the horse a nudge, and they were off, back on the road.
His parents’ border castle was on the eastern edge of the realm. The Blanchewood Forest was further west and south. He would not need to traverse the entire length of the kingdom, but he had a piece to go. He thought about what villages were between the border and there—he’d not find many once he got to the forest itself. Many considered it haunted. With a tad of embarrassment, he feared there was some truth in that.
If he recalled correctly, there would be a medium-sized village close to where he could stop for the night. He doubted he had enough for a room in a tavern, but he could buy some bread, maybe some chicken. That would feed him through tomorrow, when he knew he’d pass through another village. He should reach the forest midday after that, if he kept up a decent pace.
With luck, the tavern would have a stable, and he could bed down with his horse. He thought that he remembered hearing talk about impoverished nobles saving coin by sleeping in the stables.
“You’ve surv
ived the axe,” he reminded himself. He’d have to keep that in mind, because the rigors of this all conspired to bring him down. But he had survived, albeit with a delusional woman’s help. He could survive this.
The horse kept up a steady trot, and before nightfall, he found himself reaching the outskirts of the village. There was a bustle about the place as people came in from the fields. He could see the tavern in the distance and a steady flow of women with jugs coming in and out. Ale would be good, since he’d had the rest of his earlier yesterday with Morely.
As he approached the tavern, he could feel people looking at him. He ignored them and reaching the entrance, got off the horse. It took some time, as he had stiffened not only through his back but all over. Feeling ancient, he tied the horse to the railing, and then pulled his saddlebags down. He wasn’t sure if this was an accepted practice, but with all the food and money that he had in the bags, he didn’t want to leave them unattended.
The interior was dark, and smelled of meat. Boar, if he smelled right. Fresh bread too, and the underlying smell of old ale spilled over many years. He made his way to a table in the corner and took a seat that faced the door, his back to a wall. He placed the saddlebags onto another chair, and then carefully pulled the table closer to himself and the wall, protecting both his person and his bags.
For the first time that he could remember since awaking at Catrin’s, he leaned back in the chair and sighed, feeling himself relax. This place might hold danger, but for the time being, he would not think on it.
A little maid came over. “Something to eat, sir?” She was small and pert, with an upturned nose and a smattering of freckles. She wore a faded gown with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, mostly covered by an almost white apron. He could see she’d been in the kitchen from the spatters across her front. She must have been near the bread, because the smell of it traveled with her.
Casimir's Journey Page 6
