The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Charissa Dufour

  She returned to her stitching before anyone could notice her distraction. Bethany had just finished a short seam when one of the smaller side doors burst open to reveal Féderic, Lyolf, Rulfric, and the inner circle of knights, including Sir Caldry. Bethany wanted to inch her way into a dark corner away from their prying eyes. She didn’t want to be noticed by the men.

  The scarred knight glanced in her direction and caught her eye before taking up a stool near the fire. Josric toddled up to his leg, but the gruff man pushed him back into the arms of the nurse.

  The older princes and Sir Mannering were still guffawing over some joke as they found seats around the fire, while Sir Caldry and the older knights didn't look amused. The only one without a decided appearance was Sir John Rían, the youngest of the inner circle. He had been captured in a skirmish as a young squire, and when his father refused to pay the ransom, Wolfric allowed Sir Olaf Gregory to take him as his own squire. Eventually he rose to the rank of knight, or at least that was the story. He possessed little fat and his faced showed nothing but hard lines. Despite his physical prowess, Bethany always thought he looked confused and nervous while in the company of the other men.

  Sir Gregory, the man who had taught him everything he knew, was perhaps the only knight who ever spoke to Rían. Sir Gregory was one of the oldest knights with red hair pulled back into a flyaway ponytail, a red beard, and a face weathered and wrinkled from long exposure to the elements during the war. He took up a stool and sat next to Caldry.

  Sir Caldry's firm jaw was clenched, making the muscles role and his scar stand out. Again, his green eyes wandered across the room to where Bethany sat in a puddle of light. She jerked her focus back to her sewing, not daring to look up again.

  “Mother,” wailed Mirabelle from her place at the table. “These are too hard!”

  “Trouble with your numbers, lil sis?” asked Féderic.

  The other men chuckled softly, none of them wishing to incur the wrath of the queen who was making her way to Mirabelle's side.

  “What is the problem?” the queen asked.

  “Forty-nine plus sixteen,” exclaimed the young woman as she threw down her goose-feather quill.

  “Sixty-five,” mumbled Bethany without thinking.

  She glanced up worried that someone might have heard her. The royal family were still going about their activities, unaware of her existence, but the scarred knight was staring at her, his arms crossed and his strong fingers drumming idly against his bicep.

  Bethany swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to continue sewing as though nothing had happened. Maybe he hadn't actually heard her. Maybe he just thought she'd spoken out of turn.

  “What, lil sis, still struggling with addition?” said Féderic as he followed his mother to her side.

  Unlike his brothers, he was more than willing to risk his mother's ire. In many ways, the queen was powerless over him, and she knew it.

  “Remember, two comes after one,” Féderic added, just as Bethany finished the final seam on his tunic.

  It was time for her to stand up to see how the fabric hung, but she knew it would draw unwanted attention. Then again, sitting in a ray of sunlight doing nothing was bound to attract the queen’s notice. Bethany had often wondered if all mothers had eyes in the back of their heads. Like her own mother, Arabelle was able to spot idleness in both her slaves and her children, even if her back was turned to them.

  Bethany heaved a soft sigh, climbed to her feet, and shook out the tunic. Unsurprisingly, it draped just as she intended it to. She hadn't dropped a stitch since she was twelve; her mother wouldn't stand for it. Bethany let her eyes flicker to where Sir Caldry was sitting. He looked away instantly, as though it was a matter of instinct. Surely he knew it didn't matter whether he spied on her or not. He was a knight and special friend to the king; she was nothing, but a slave. He could watch her all he wanted. Still, he looked away, his cheeks sprouting small red patches that caused his scar to stand out.

  “Please, Féd, you're not helping,” sighed the queen as she took a seat next to her eldest daughter.

  Féderic moved away, his laughter undiminished.

  Just when the queen had resigned herself to the idea of her daughter never truly grasping how one number could be added to another, a row of servants entered with buckets and lumpy sponges. They moved to the far end of the great hall and began scrubbing the enormous floor in preparation for the family's dinner. The floor was cleaned every night. Queen Arabelle could not stand the idea of eating near a fleck of dirt. Many times Bethany had been assigned to help in this task and felt grateful to be sewing instead. It took over an hour, even with ten slaves working together to clean the floor and the trestle table used by the castle inhabitants.

  A few minutes later, King Wolfric stormed into the hall through the main gate, followed closely by Lord Mandek Payne, the king's trusted advisor, and Hepner, the castle steward. All three men left a thick swath of muddy footprints. Without saying a word, two of the slaves broke off from the group and began cleaning up the mud.

  Payne and Hepner stopped at the outskirts of the group surrounding the fire while their King stormed around the room, each step leaving another mark on the floor. Sir Caldry and Sir Gregory rose and offered their seats to the newcomers. Payne and Hepner took them with a grateful nod.

  Bethany forced her eyes back on her work, which proved to be a mistake. She suddenly felt two strong hands take her by the arm and drag her away. When she looked around she saw the king storming through the very spot she had been sitting, his large, muddy boots damaging the pile of frocks she had finished during the long day.

  Bethany glanced up to see the scarred knight standing over her, a look of surprise making his cheeks redden and his eyes glow. If she was translating the expression on his face correctly, he hadn't intended to rescue her. It had just happened, as if his arms and legs had acted of their own accord.

  “That bloody Fowler has lost every single one of my birds!” barked the king after his second trek around the room, causing more damage to the garments that were now strewn across half the floor.

  It was as though he didn’t even see them.

  Bethany began to climb to her feet, hoping to salvage them from another rampage, but a familiar pair of callused hands pushed her back down. She looked up, and the knight gave an impersonal shake of his head, his eyes never leaving the king.

  “What?” shrieked the queen a second later as though she had just now figured out what the king meant.

  Of course Bethany knew. She had been the one to let them loose in the first place. But why had it taken them two days to realize it?

  “Every single bird has flown the coup!”

  “But won't they just fly to their mate?” asked Lyolf.

  Bethany frowned, she hadn't thought of that.

  “Yes!” growled Wolfric, rounding on his son-of-questionable-origin. “But that will take days or even weeks. And once they've arrived, they will all have to be sent back by land, many of them from such distances as Nava. Leagues upon leagues of land to travel over.

  “And what happens if my officers at the front send out birds to me, not realizing the mate is somewhere in the wilds of Domhain or Bumi. Until we clean this mess up, which will take months, we will be absolutely blind to the movement of King Middin. It's as if someone has cut my tongue out. Do. You. Understand?” he snapped, pronouncing each word carefully to make sure the younger man understand him.

  Lyolf nodded once, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Bethany tried to keep her own mouth from turning up into a smile. Her plan had done more damage than she realized.

  “What will you do?” asked the queen from the others side of the table as she picked up Josric, who was now crying.

  Arabelle knew perfectly well the king would not strike her while holding his child. The Aardê people valued their offspring more than anything else. Husbands rarely assaulted their wives for fear they may fall and become barren. But that did
not mean they didn’t find other ways to punish them.

  “First of all, I'm going to have that damn Fowler's head on a spike! And then I'm going to send to every nearby village with messenger pigeons, and get a new supply as quickly as I can. We'll have to be careful with how many messages we send out until we are completely restocked...”

  The king droned on about his plans, but Bethany wasn't listening. The Fowler was going to be put to death. Her actions had directly resulted in someone’s death. And he probably wasn’t a bad man. How many of those working for Wolfric were just everyday people trying to live out their lives in peace? Were her actions making their existence worse? The answer was obviously yes in regards to the Fowler, but she had to fight back. Their lives would be better if Wolfric was destroyed!

  It was necessary, she told herself. A worthy sacrifice for the greater good.

  Bethany tried to steel herself against a future attack of her conscience, but she was only minimally successful. Her heart beat rhythmically against her chest as if in protest of what she might try next.

  A few minutes later the king stopped pacing and took a seat at the table. Bethany glanced at the slaves who were washing a section they had already cleaned twice. The water in their buckets was turning an extra dark shade of brown. Bethany's fingers worked mechanically at taking out a seam. She looked down at what she was doing, fully aware that the seam did not need to be replaced, but if she sat doing nothing, someone might notice. She frowned, glancing around at the ruined garments strewn across the floor, before glancing back up at the knight; she was sitting with her back resting against his leg, right where he had placed her. Did he notice her touch?

  “Well perhaps we'd better wash for dinner,” suggested the queen.

  Like her floors, Arabelle expected her entire family to appear spotless for their evening meal. The children at the table rose, while their mother handed her youngest son to the nursery slave. The old woman took Josric and led Vyrabelle out of the room. The two youngest children would eat in the nursery.

  “You there... Ann. Help me dress,” ordered Féderic as he nodded his head towards the door leading to his room.

  She threw the now unfinished tunic over her shoulders and hurried to scoop up the other clothing on her way towards the door.

  How would she ever repair them? she wondered as she followed the prince to his room.

  Chapter Eight

  Bethany stooped down, the small knife gripped carefully in her hand, as she sliced another reed away from its roots. She hacked two more before tossing them toward the nearby bank. Though her back ached and her fingers were wrinkled, Bethany could not remember finding this much enjoyment in a chore since being sold as a slave.

  Two days ago, she had been packed into a small wagon, along with ten other female slaves, and sent down the mountain to a narrow valley. The path winding down the mountainside was narrow and switched directions every thirty feet or so. On numerous occasions, Bethany and the others were forced to exit the wagon and walk through the rain as the large wheels continued to get stuck in the deepening mud. Near the end of the trail, the women were even required to push the wagon out of a particularly muddy section. Still, with each descending mile the temperature climbed, as did her spirits.

  Despite the difficulty of the long journey and the awkwardness of having to sleep in the back of a small tent with male guards watching their every move, Bethany found herself dreading the return. Though the sun rose late and set early due to the surrounding peaks, Bethany enjoyed the few hours when it beat down on her back, the flowing river water keeping her cool. Of course, the evenings spent in the river were frigid, and she often went to bed shivering. Nevertheless, it was all worth it.

  After all, she wasn't in the castle.

  Bethany stood up, arching her back in an attempt to relieve a particularly bad cramp when a voice cried out, “Back to work!”

  The princess glanced at the man-at-arms who prowled along the bank of the river, keeping the women working. Bethany immediately returned to her work, not wanting to feel the wrath of his whip. She also wanted to avoid the piercing gaze of the scarred knight.

  Sir Caldry and Sir Marcus Kerwin had been sent to oversee the excursion. Sir Kerwin was the oldest of the inner circle, with strawberry blond hair matted into long dreadlocks and a light beard that was quickly turning white. His face was wrinkled and his growing stomach showed signs of continual drinking. Unlike the other knights, Kerwin lived for the sordid brawl. Bethany had often heard of him being dragged back to the castle after destroying a pub and half its occupants.

  Bethany slashed three more reeds free in quick succession in an effort to appear productive. Worse than the man-at-arms’ whip was Sir Caldry’s glare. Bethany wondered if the knight had been sent as a form of punishment. The knight’s general bitterness had increased since arriving in the narrow valley. Twice, Bethany had received a blow for simply walking in front of him. He growled every response and ate his meals alone.

  As Bethany twitched the knife in her hand she felt a searing pain shoot up her arm. The princess cried out and jumped towards the bank. One glance at the puncture wounds in her hand had her scrambling out of the river. Before she could make it to the bank, two hands grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her to her feet.

  “What are you doing?” Sir Caldry asked as he spun her around.

  Bethany held up her mangled hand. The blood was oozing out and running down her arm, mixed with the river water.

  “Do I look like I care?” he growled, slapping the injured hand away.

  “My lord,” mumbled Sir Kerwin; even the other knights feared Caldry.

  “I’m not a lord and you know it,” snapped the scarred knight.

  “Isn’t that the prince’s special slave? If that is a snake bite, and she dies, it will be on our heads.”

  What did he mean by special slave? she wondered.

  Sir Caldry glared at the older man for a moment before conceding. “Fine, deal with it.”

  “I know nothing of healing,” said Kerwin.

  Caldry glanced around at the guards; each one looked more confused than the last. Bethany forced her mouth shut. She knew how to handle a snake bite, but didn’t want to say anything unless it became absolutely necessary to keep from dying.

  “Fine,” he sighed.

  To her astonishment, the knight flung her up into his arms and marched away.

  Bethany felt her heart begin to pound against her chest. She cringed at the proximity of the man’s tattered face and desperately wanted him to let her walk, but she also knew why he carried her. They needed to keep her heart rate down. Sadly, his unnerving touch was doing the opposite.

  Caldry set her on the ground in the entrance of the large canvas tent—the one rainproof structure in the valley—and knelt down in front of her. The knight gently pulled her bloodied hand away from her stomach, produced the dagger he kept in his boot, and began slicing open the wound. Bethany flinched and convulsively tried to yank the hand out of his grasp, but he had been prepared for this reaction. His strong hand kept her from jerking away and he timed his second cut for after her initial flinch. The already throbbing wound blazed with a new fiery pain. A fresh flow of blood spurted from the open wound and began dripping to the dry earth.

  The knight surprised her again when he bent forward and pressed his lips to her hand, as though he could kiss the wound to make it better, like a mother would do for her child. This was a far different treatment than the one she had been taught.

  Again, Bethany tried to pull away, but he was too strong. As it turned out, the knight was not kissing her at all. He removed his mouth and spit out a large glob of her blood.

  Bethany swallowed the bile that rose to her throat as he returned his mouth to her hand. He spat out yet more blood before placed his warm lips on her hand yet again. As he sucked on the wound for the third time, Bethany felt her arm deaden and the edge of her vision begin to shimmer.

  The knight spat a few
times to clear the worst of the blood from his mouth before speaking, “You’re blood tastes clean.”

  Bethany tried to nod, but her head felt as though it would roll off her shoulders. Was she falling?

  The knight quickly began to clean and bandage the wound with deft, but gentle hands. By the time he was finished, the world had receded as her vision darkened. She slumped back against the pole of the tent and let him finish tying off the bandage.

  Once again the knight picked her up. “I shoo get back t‘erk,” she mumbled against his chest, afraid someone might get angry with her.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” he stated as though that was an excuse, but she knew better.

  If the prince or queen saw her shirking her work, they’d have the knight whip her. Wait. The prince and queen weren’t here, right? Bethany couldn’t think straight.

  Sir Caldry laid her on the pile of straw designated for the slaves to sleep on and covered her with the two long blankets shared by the ten slave women. Bethany was thankful for the extra covering. A shiver ran up her spine as she drifted into an uneasy sleep. Distantly, she felt the knight place her hand above her head, on an extra thick pile of straw

  Bethany dreamed of snakes, whips, and angry princes; when she woke up, she found herself on a dry pile of straw, covered with a blanket, and being watched by a knight. Sir Caldry reclined on one of the few stools, his back against a tent pole, and his eyes half lidded. She blinked a few times before gazing around the tent. The sun was shining into the tent, casting long shadows.

  It must be well into the afternoon, she thought. Maybe even evening.

  A sudden burst of harsh laughter coming from outside the tent roused the knight. Before he could notice her open eyes, Bethany heard the sound of women’s voices growing louder. Was it time for the evening meal? The princess felt her stomach growl at the thought of food.