Bethany reached the prince's chambers, still wondering where she might find him, when she heard his voice from within. She knocked quietly before stepping back from the door.
“Come,” Féderic commanded.
She entered, bowed, and handed him the slip of paper.
“Got a secret lover?” Lyolf asked from the corner.
Bethany jumped. She hadn't noticed the prince’s visitors. Prince Lyolf and Sir Aedan Mannering were lounging against the foot of Féderic’s bed, and her reaction brought forth a boisterous round of laughter from each of them.
“Flighty little slave!” Lyolf exclaimed when he had finished laughing.
Féderic finished reading the note and tossed it into the blazing fire.
“Yeah, but she works hard, when she's not getting into trouble,” the prince replied.
Bethany glanced up at him before remembering to keep her eyes on the floor.
What had he meant by that?
“Ever wonder what’s beneath all that dirt?” Sir Mannering mused.
Sir Mannering was one of Wolfric’s prized knights. There were six, including Sir Caldry. Mannering, though one of the youngest was by far the richest. Being the second son of a nearby Aardê lord had given him opportunities unknown to the other knights; the result was a cocky, self-indulgent man of thirty five.
“More dirt,” griped the prince, his focus on the burning paper.
“You never answered my question... gotta lover?” asked Prince Lyolf.
Though it had never been stated in her presence, Bethany always thought the black sheep of the royal family looked like Lord Mandek. Could the king's advisor be the queen’s past lover?
“That's none of your business.”
“Ooo! Who is she?” asked Lyolf.
Féderic didn't answer, and Sir Mannering didn’t throw kindling on the fire—he knew better than to enrage the heir apparent; Prince Lyolf wasn't so wise.
“Your silence is deafening,” prodded Lyolf. “She must be quite forbidden.”
“Leave off,” snapped Féderic.
“Touchy,” Lyolf said, raising his hands in a conciliatory manner. “I bet your little slave girl knows.”
Lyolf took the three steps to Bethany's side and grabbed her arm; Bethany felt her stomach give a little jump of fear.
“I said, leave off!” shouted Féderic as he jerked Bethany from his brother's grasp.
Lyolf grew serious, the turning wheels in his head showing through his gleaming, black eyes. Mannering seemed only a short step behind the bastard prince.
“The only woman so forbidden that you would hide her from me is Lynette... you're sleeping with Father's mistress?” the younger prince gasped, his cheeks flushing with anger.
Did he realize the possibility that this woman was his half-sister?
Féderic shoved Bethany away, suddenly realizing he was touching her dirty arm. She bowed and tried to escape to the door.
“Ann,” the prince snapped. “Tell her... ‘She better.’”
Bethany bowed again and scurried away to the sound of Lyolf's insistent voice.
Bethany was quickly distracted by the voices coming from slaves’ stairwell.
“What do you mean they can't get into the larder?” asked a voice Bethany recognized as Hepner's, the castle's head steward.
The princess crept towards the staircase.
“The door has been locked from the inside. And we can hear barking coming from inside.”
“What?” shrieked the steward over the sound of their feet pounding against the stone steps. “Break the door down if you have to.”
Bethany stopped at the stairwell, letting them get farther away. She didn't want to be caught eavesdropping, much less grinning like a fool.
The plan had worked perfectly. Now to think up another.
Chapter Five
“Wake up,” barked the pudgy slave master as he kicked the nearest slave in the leg. Bethany wasn't the only person scrambling to their feet, hoping to avoid his wrathful foot. “You,” he added, grabbing Bethany by the arm as she tried to slip past him unnoticed. “The king's bell is ringing. See what he wants.”
Sure enough, Bethany could hear the low throb of the king's bell ringing from the narrow corridor running between the slave's quarters and the kitchen. Bethany glanced at the trough filled with cold water, where the other slaves were drinking and cleaning themselves. She would have to go without any form of a bath today, a blessing and a curse she realized, as Bainard shoved her towards the door, followed by a stout kick.
How did he manage to hit so hard with such fat legs?
Bethany ran as fast as she could to the king's quarters, hoping she could return in time for a scrap of bread from one of the kitchen assistants that seemed to like her.
At the large, engraved door leading into the king's expansive quarters, Bethany bowed to the guards while one of them turned to knock on the door.
“About time,” mumbled the other as he eyed her.
Bethany kept her eyes on the floor. She had come to realize that those with little power had a tendency to abuse it faster than those with a lot of power. Slave Master Bainard, who was little more than a slave himself, was quick to wallop anyone who even appeared guilty; the castle guards were similar in nature.
“Get in here,” snapped the king.
The guards opened the door just enough for her to enter. She slipped in and bowed low.
“We will need breakfast for two. And inform the stable master I will be late today to inspect the new foal.”
Bethany glanced up at him, then out the narrow window to the pitch black morning. The cooks were barely up and yet he thought this late? Once again, she was reminded just how ridiculous it was for one man to rule this much land. Still, he had time for the simple pleasures, she realized as she spotted the auburn hair of a young woman. Lynette. Clearly he didn't know his mistress also shared the bed of his eldest son.
Bethany bowed again to hide her shudder of disgust. She exited the large room, her pace more sedate as she realized there was no way she could get back to the lower levels in time for breakfast. Instead, she took the easiest route to the bailey. The summer morning was cold and she wondered just how cold it would become in winter. Bethany wrapped her arms around her middle to conserve heat and trudged across the wide yard to the large stables. The horses whinnied at her as she entered the stable. She ignored them as she made her way to the small alcove where the stable hands slept. Their fire was nearly out, so she stoked it and added another log before turning to the stable master.
Much like Bainard, Josiah was little more than a slave. As the stable master, he was in charge of two things—the horses and the few slaves used to tend them. Still, controlling one of Wolfric's primary weapons gave him an opportunity to manipulate the future. If the horses were healthy and trained for battle, the king could conquer more nations. If the horses were sickly and quick to tire, he would lose. With this power also came an increased chance of getting beheaded.
Bethany glanced down the long row of stalls, an idea forming in her head. It would take careful planning. For now, she tucked the idea away and gently shook Josiah. The middle aged man groaned and rolled over to look up at her.
“What? What is it?” he asked in a voice roughened by years of breathing in hay dust and bellowing over the general sounds of a stable.
“The king says he will be late to inspect the new foal.”
The man's brows furrowed as he contemplated her statement. He blinked a few times as he realized what the king meant by “late” and jumped from his bed.
“Wake up you lazy cows!” he snapped.
He roughly pushed Bethany out of the way, and she fell against the iron stove used to contain their fire, the hot metal burning her through her thin dress. Bethany cried out, but no one heard her over Josiah's shouts and his workers’ moans.
Suddenly the day stretched out before her—too many hours of pain and hard labor on no food. Bethany sighed as
she dodged past the flailing arms and made her way out of the stable. The cold morning air eased the worst of her burn which felt as though it ran from halfway down her thigh.
She glanced around, noticing the horizon's first signs of color. From within the next thatched building, she heard the waking sounds of carrier pigeons. Another idea sparked to life and her feet took off before it had finished forming, excitement replacing pain.
Bethany had often heard her father declare carrier pigeons to be the key to any victory. Though she didn’t fully understand how the system worked, Bethany knew that each pigeon had a mate and if released the bird would fly to its mate. It was a simple matter of keeping one bird in one city and the mate in another until one needed to send a message; they provided the means for quick communication over nearly any distance. She knew Wolfric used them to send orders to the front and to request supplies from neighboring cities. How great would their necessity be in a nation this size?
Bethany slipped into the small building, grateful to see no one slept inside. She didn't blame the bird master, for the interior of the thatched building was nearly as cold as the outside and could not contain a fire. Inside, seven different cages sat, packed full of cooing birds. In the dim light, she couldn't read the tags that indicated which birds would go to which cities, but she knew they were all important. Bethany assumed the best way to disrupt their communication was to release all the birds. But how to do that without advertising human interference?
Carefully, she cracked the door open. Other than Josiah's muffled rants, she couldn't hear any other morning sounds. She would need to make it look as if the birds had pecked their way out of the cage. Bethany moved to the first cage, and reached in to tear at the tiny leather bindings used to hold the cages together. She slowly managed to create a hole in the first cage, and eventually moved on to the next. After what felt like an eternity, she had small holes formed in each cage. But how would the birds escape? She couldn't just leave the door open, advertising that someone helped them.
She glanced up and spotted a thinning spot in the thatched roof. Perfect. With the aid of a small step stool, Bethany parted the thatching, grabbed one of the birds that had discovered the opening in its cage, and shoved it through the hole. The animal let out a surprised squawk and took off. In no time at all, a few of his inmates began to follow his screeching example.
Bethany ducked out of the way, put the stool back where she found it, and slipped out, hoping the birds’ natural instincts would do the rest. The sky was just beginning to grow pink and the castle was barely stirring. Bethany rushed to the small entrance leading down into the kitchen. The day cooks were awake and taking the place of the night shift. She was just about to leave when she remembered the other half of her orders.
Quickly, she spotted Malak, the cook's assistant who had been kind to her in the past. He spotted her and carefully cut off a small piece of crusty bread. She smiled at him, trying to appear inviting.
Before now, Bethany had never had to work at making friends. Her status had done that for her. Everyone wanted to be kind and agreeable to a princess. Now, she found it was hard work to make friends, but also more rewarding.
“Thank you,” she said before biting into the bread. “The king says he'll be needing breakfast for two.”
Malak smiled at her, a twinkle in his eye making her laugh. “No doubt.”
Unlike herself, Malak was a free man. Wolfric didn't trust slaves to prepare his food; too many opportunities to poison him. He hired two cooks and many assistants. From what she could tell, they were well paid. Perhaps if Malak knew the truth, he would help her escape.
No. He may have shown interest in her, but that wasn't enough to risk his cozy position, nor did he possess the skills needed to get her home.
Malak called out, passing on the news. The other cooks chuckled and made a few jokes that Bethany didn't quite understand. Malak tapped her on the nose, leaving a dash of flour behind. She grinned and was about to wipe it off when someone bumped into her. The contact reminded her of the burn on her leg.
Bethany felt any happiness from her moment with Malak slip away as the pain caused tears to prick her eyes and roll down her cheeks. The cook noticed it and demanded to know what was wrong as she tried to hold the folds of her skirt away from her leg.
“What's happened?” he demanded, trying to pull the fabric up.
Bethany slapped his hands and held the fabric firmly down, though its rough nape hurt the tender skin.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“I-I’m fine,” Bethany stammered, trying to stop the tears from continuing down her face.
“How did you hurt yourself?” Malak asked, ignoring the murmurs coming from their growing audience. The other cooks had stopped their work, and were watching the commotion. “We need to get you to a healer.”
Bethany couldn't believe Malak's naivety. Did he really not understand what happened to slaves? Before she could respond, another voice brought the crowd to a standstill.
“What is going on in here?” Sir Caldry stepped into the kitchen.
The crowd parted for him as he marched forward. He spotted Bethany holding her dress down and Malak's hand trying to reveal her legs.
“You dare touch the prince's slave?” he demanded in a fierce voice.
He took Malak by the hair and flung him towards one of the central tables used for prepping. Malak hit his head and slumped to the floor, unconscious.
“No, sir... wait...” Bethany called out in an effort to keep the knight from kicking Malak, the tears still streaming down her red cheeks. “I-I'm hurt. He just wanted to know how bad it is.”
Sir Caldry turned to her, taking in her expression for the first time. He glanced back at the unconscious man one last time before taking her by the arm and dragging her out of the kitchen.
“Back to work,” he yelled over his shoulder as they rounded the corner.
Bethany heard the clatter of work as the cooks returned to their task, making more noise than progress. She wondered what would happen to Malak. At the far end of the deserted corridor, Sir Caldry stopped and stepped back, glaring at her.
“In the future, keep your woes to yourself. Maybe then that boy wouldn't be unconscious on the floor and about to lose his job.”
“Lose his job?” she asked, not sure why that would happen.
“He touched one of the prince's slaves,” spat the knight. “And all the cooks saw it. The rumors will have already started.”
“But you've touched me… my lord,” she added at the last minute.
“I'm not a cook, and I’m not a lord,” Sir Caldry snapped, his anger turning his face a bright shade of red and causing the ugly scar to stand out. “Now get up to the prince before I give you a reason to quiver.”
Bethany hadn't realized she was shaking in fear until she tried to scurry away. As quickly as she could, she ran to the prince's chambers.
While the guards were spouting a few nasty remarks about her appearance, Bethany slowed her breathing. She glanced back down the corridor, noticing the knight following her at a steadier pace.
He waited at the door with her while the guards knocked and ushered them in. To Bethany's astonishment, the prince's room was full with half the royal family, a few seamstresses, and many bolts of fabric. Sir Caldry nudged her through the door. Most of the room’s occupants barely noticed her arrival. She kept her head low and skirted to one of the darker corners, but a seamstress noticed her.
“You there! Can you sew a straight seam?”
“Yes, ma'am,” she said, her eyes still focused on the floor.
“Trim this cloak,” ordered the older woman.
Bethany glanced around, unsure where to place herself.
The prince noticed her confusion and grinned.
“The little wench is lost,” he commented from his perch on a box in the center of the room.
“Sit by the window,” ordered the queen from her seat near the fire.
&nb
sp; The window would provide more light, but it would also be colder. Bethany headed for the window, nearly forgetting to curtsy to the queen. Josric, the youngest son of three years old, sat in the queen’s lap while Vyrabelle played near the fire.
“Now, Féderic, I have received confirmation that nearly all of the lords will be present with their daughters, of course.”
“Dammit, Mother!” Féderic bellowed, “can't you leave off?”
Bethany cringed. Had either of her brothers spoken to their mother like that, they would have had their mouths washed out with goldenseal, a strong herb that left the mouth dry and bitter for hours. Even as an adult, they would have been forced to endure the punishment after such a rude exclamation. Bethany tried to close her ears to the conversation, as she focused on her sewing, but each curse from the prince brought her back.
The queen shrugged and forced a smile to her face.
“Dear, we need to find you a suitable match, and your father thinks you marrying a daughter of one of the locals will help strengthen the bonds he is trying to establish.”
“What bonds?” snapped the prince as the seamstress helped him into a long, embroidered robe that reached his knees. “We came, we conquered, end of story.”
“That's never the end of the story, dearest. Besides, it doesn't hurt to do our best to keep them from rebelling. And the longer King Middin withstands our attacks,” she added, saying Bethany's father's title as though it were a curse itself, “the more agitated the people get. A royal wedding, where the heir apparent marries an indigenous woman would be a great boon to their flagging spirits.”
Féderic responded with an icy stare, which his mother pointedly ignored. Instead, she followed the movement of the seamstresses as she crossed the room to where Bethany sat, tying off the hem of the cloak in quick, practiced strokes.
The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy Page 4
