The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Charissa Dufour

  “And the wolves?” asked a worried voice.

  “Never mind that,” snapped Dana as she gently pressed a swath of cloth to his boot.

  Pelor reflexively jerked it out of her grasp, nearly hitting her in the face.

  “So'eeee,” he slurred.

  She ignored him, quickly barking orders to the gawkers. Dana’s mother emerged from the kitchens at the sound of her daughter’s high pitched voice. One look at the scene and she turned on her heels, scurrying back into the kitchen. Pelor hoped she had left for supplies and not as a result of a week stomach. Despite Dana’s willingness, she didn’t seem to know what she was doing. Pelor took control, laying himself down, and hoisted his injured foot and hand onto the table, well above his heart.

  As he suspected, Dana’s mother returned, her arms loaded with supplies, and took control of the situation. With careful fingers, despite their callouses, she cut away his worn boot to reveal a gruesome sight.

  “What happened?” demanded the mother.

  “The wolf that escaped my traps tracked me and attacked.”

  From the looks of it, the animal’s long canines had missed the bones in his foot, but had still managed to puncture nearly all the way through. His hand was far worse, though, thankfully, it was not his sword hand. From the looks of it, he expected to lose two fingers. His pinky and ring finger on his left hand were barely attached. The bleeding was slowed by a swath of cloth tied around his wrist.

  “Gavius, get the spirits,” ordered his wife, as she continued to minister to his foot. “I need you to hold as still as you can,” she said to Pelor.

  “I can do that,” he said calmly.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d been wounded. First time mauled by a wolf, true, but not his first injury. Wounds were a natural result of being a knight, and his body showed it.

  What was one more?

  Gavius returned with a dark bottle. He pulled the stopper and handed it to Pelor. The ex-knight took it gratefully and chugged half the bottle. The liquid burned his throat on the way down, and sent a warm feeling across his chest and down his limbs. The sensation helped him ignore the pain emanating from his foot and hand. He took a few more sips before handing it back. It was more than enough to make him thoroughly drunk, especially on an empty stomach and with half his blood supply staining the forest floor.

  Gavius’ wife began stitching up the small holes on his foot with quick, practiced movements. She finished in record time and moved to his hand. By this time, the room was beginning to spin, and he couldn’t make himself care what happened to his fingers. Pelor slumped back, grateful to find a soft lap waiting to prop him up. He glanced up and saw Dana’s pretty face. He wanted to reach up and stroke the burn mark on her right cheek but couldn’t find his arm. Even with the imperfection, she was a very pretty woman. He liked her.

  As the alcohol took hold of his brain, her face swam before his eyes, shimmering as though hidden behind a mirage, or a thin waterfall. When his eyes focused again, it wasn’t Dana staring down at him with love and concern.

  “Bethany?” he whispered, his healthy arm stretching out to touch her of its own accord.

  He gently touched her cheek, feeling something rough under his calloused fingers. The face staring down at him frowned while slender fingers took his hand. “You came?”

  “Shshsh,” she said, a small smile playing at her lips.

  He wanted to pull her down and kiss her soundly, but he couldn’t seem to disentangle either hand.

  “What’s wrong with him, mother?”

  “He’s drunk. He clearly thinks you’re someone else, now hold him still.”

  Pelor felt a searing pain from the direction of his maimed hand. He jerked, trying to free himself from the pain. A sudden weight pinned his body to the bench. He wanted to struggle more, but couldn’t find the strength. Finally, when the pain began to subside, the hands released him.

  “Pelor,” said a man’s voice. “How many wolves are left?”

  The ex-knight tried to focus on the man’s face that had come into his line of sight while he thought through the question.

  “None. All 'ut one 'ere caught wiff ma traps. The last kills myself. You send... men to retrieve... c'rsass. Goo' furrr...” but Pelor couldn’t finish his statement.

  The last of his strength slipped out from his cold finger tips, and he collapsed against someone’s chest, happy to be unconscious.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bethany stared down at the two pieces of parchment clutched in both her hands. One was a note for Lady Lynette, the other a note for the herbalist. She wasn't sure if this would work, but it was the best chance she had. The note for the herbalist contained a long list of herbs to be sent back with her. Bethany had been trained since childhood to have some understanding of herbs and healing. After reading through the list several times, a hot blush rose to her cheeks. The only possible reason to take such a bizarre combination of herbs would be to improve one's sexual performance. Though her mother never taught her such a concoction, she had heard women in the castle whisper their needs to the herbalist if they were having trouble getting pregnant. Combined with a note to the prince's mistress, it all made sense.

  Bethany scurried to a small alcove where the steward kept a tiny desk. She glanced up and down the corridor before pulling the one drawer open. Inside were a few scrap pieces of parchment, a stoppered bottle of ink, and a tiny, well-worn quill. Bethany quickly pulled the stopper from the ink bottle, dipped the quill in the black liquid, and scratched the herb ‘oleander’ and the amount she wanted to the end of the prince's list before returning the desk to its original state. Hopefully the herbalist wouldn’t notice the addition of an herb that was used in moderation to fight infectious illnesses and incidentally to be unhealthy for horses.

  With this one change, Bethany refolded the note and scurried towards Lady Lynette's quarters, where she found her lady-in-waiting, who agreed to deliver the message. After a quick nod of thanks, Bethany raced towards the nearest servant’s staircase and descended to the main level, where she pelted across the bailey. In the far corner sat a small hut, built of sturdy stone and with a newly thatched roof. It was one of the better kept buildings. Bethany knew, as did the king, that the herbs had to be kept dry otherwise they would be destroyed by mold and mildew; therefore he replaced the roof each summer. It had just been completed.

  Bethany slid to a stop at the door, ignoring the mud that she had kicked up. She didn't care anymore how dirty she got. The dirt was a good way to stay clear of men's notice. Even Sir Caldry seemed to be suddenly aware that she was a woman. His interest in her had increased greatly since she burned the withies. Granted, it wasn’t sexual interest. He watched her to make sure she didn’t step out of line. It was a very inconvenient side effect of being caught.

  She knocked carefully on the sturdy door and entered. Inside, the herbalist sat at a long table placed near the small fire. The entire hut was one room, lined with tall shelves; each shelf was packed with small bottles of medicines, large jugs of water, wooden boxes filled with dried herbs, and tools used for measuring. Bethany took an appreciative sniff at the familiar smells. Lemon grass, thyme, and lavender pervaded over the more subtle smells. It reminded her of home.

  For a brief moment, Bethany couldn't move or talk. A lump lodged itself in her throat. She fought to swallow the mass while the herbalist and his young apprentice stared at her. When she was sure she could speak normally, she stepped forward and thrust the note into the herbalist’s hand.

  The herbalist was a wizened old man, with little hair on his head, but plenty poking out his drooping ears; in contrast, his apprentice was a towering lad of at least six feet with startling red hair. The herbalist's bushy, white brows came together in the center of his forehead as he read through the list a second time. Bethany felt her heart stop for a moment before it picked up double time. Had he noticed the oleander she had added to the list? She had done her best to match the prince's roug
h letters.

  Finally, the old man let forth a grunt of laughter before waving to the young apprentice.

  “Shall I get it?” asked the nervous boy.

  “No. I need you to go out and pick another batch of lavender,” ordered the herbalist. “We're running low.”

  Like the apprentice, Bethany's eyes wandered to overflowing box of lavender. Bethany was relieved to see the boy leave without a word of protest, for she knew the fewer people to know that oleander had left the herbalists hut, the better. The old man groaned as he climbed to his feet and began gathering the requested supplies. He moved slowly and Bethany struggled to remain where she was. She wanted to do the job for him to speed up the process, but it would look strange if a lowly slave knew too much about herbs or proved they were able to read. So she kept to the corner and waited patiently.

  When the old man had finished, he handed her a heavy basket, but kept the piece of parchment. Bethany didn't want such evidence to linger in his care.

  “Um...” she said before she could stop herself. “Can I have the note back?”

  “What for?” demanded the herbalist, looking confused and affronted.

  “Well... I... I think the prince... I mean, he just asked for it back,” she stammered, remembering at the last moment that she wasn't supposed to know why the prince wanted the herbs.

  The old man gave her a knowing smile before handing her the parchment back. She returned the smile timidly and left. As expected, the apprentice was knee deep in the herb garden carefully cutting off stems of lavender for the full box. She ignored him and rushed towards the keep.

  As she weaved her way through the kitchen, she carefully dropped the note into an open stove. Now there was little proof of the extra herb she had requested. In the empty stairwell, she stopped, rummaged through the basket, and retrieved the oleander. After making sure no one was coming up the stairs, she carefully pried a previously discovered loose stone out of the wall and stowed the bushel of long stocks. She replaced the rock and brushed some dirt over it to hide the wide cracks.

  Finally, feeling a sense of security, Bethany hoisted the basket to her shoulder and took off toward the prince's room. It had taken her far longer than normal to complete the task, and she didn't want to incur the prince's wrath. While the guards knocked on the door, Bethany worked to catch her breath. She didn't want to appear flustered; out of breath perhaps, but not flustered.

  “Come in,” snapped the prince.

  The guards opened the door and nudged her into the large room. Féderic was pacing the length of the room, his strong hands balling into fists with every third step. Bethany tried to bow but risked spilling the basket. Féderic snatched it from her hands and took it to the table pushed up against the interior wall, where utensils used for grounding herbs waited. Bethany wasn't sure if she was dismissed, so she waited silently by the door, eyes on the floor.

  The prince glanced up and noticed her waiting. “Come here.”

  Bethany carefully sidled up to his side, wanting desperately to keep as much space between them as possible.

  “You're going to help me. Ever made an herbal tea before?”

  Bethany shook her head mutely, afraid he'd see through her lie if she spoke out loud. The prince’s large fingers were roughly breaking off dried horny goat weed from its delicate stalks and tossing them into a pile.

  “Put those in that bowl, and crush them with that. I'll give you more stuff to add,” he ordered.

  She picked up the pestle and began to carefully crush the leaves, specifically using the wrong gesture. Féderic opened the small pouch containing flax seed and poured a small amount into the mortar. After some time, he had added all the ingredients for the tea. Bethany wisely chose not to point out that he had mixed up two of the herbs, adding the one for women into this concoction, which was clearly designed for him and the herb for a man into the concoction designed for a woman. When they finished, she poured the contents into a small pot and placed it on a hook over the fire, before returning to help him make the second batch—one intended for Lady Lynette, no doubt.

  Bethany had just placed the second tiny pot on its hook, well within the reaches of the large fire, when a knock on the door broke the silence. She scurried to the door and opened it. The guard held a note out for her. Before turning away, Bethany spotted Lynette's lady-in-waiting scurrying away. Bethany felt her stomach tie into knots as she took the note to Féderic. He snatched it from her hand, opened it, and read it in one quick glance.

  The change was instantaneous.

  Until that moment, Bethany had noticed an electric energy pouring off him, as though he had been kept in bed for a day and was now bursting to do something. It was almost contagious. Even she, who loathed him, began to feel energized. Now it appeared as though all his infectious energy had been trapped inside his quivering body. His muscular arms trembled as he clutched his fists and crumpled the small piece of paper.

  The prince glanced around the room. Bethany waited until his head was turned away from her before carefully taking a step towards a shadowy corner. Sadly, he continued his angry perusal of the room and turned back towards her just as she took a second step. Her movement was enough to release the powerful energy held tight within his body.

  Féderic lunged at her. Bethany let out a cry of surprise as he pushed her towards the fireplace. She tried to pull her arms free of his grasp, a sudden realization made escape essential, but her struggling was pointless against such a large, strong man. His grip tightened around her arm until she felt his fingers press tendon to bone.

  With their momentum, the prince slammed her against the stone hearth. Bethany wasn’t sure which portion of her body hurt worse: Her shoulder throbbed where it had been smashed against the stone supports, her wrist blazed with an internal fire, and her head felt disconnected from the rest of her body. Bethany felt hot blood run down the side of her face, but before she could reach up to wipe it away, the prince pressed a blisteringly hot pot against her lips.

  She reflexively jerked her head away from the heat. Féderic growled incoherently, unaware of the hot cup burning his fingers, and grabbed a fist full of her matted hair. With a jerk, he tipped her head back. For a brief moment, Bethany worried he would feel the small signet ring she had knotted in her matted hair, but one look at the prince’s blazing eyes told her he was far beyond noticing small details.

  With her head completely in his control, she couldn’t pull away when he returned the hot cup to her lips and poured the steaming liquid down her throat. Once the contents were in her mouth, he dropped the cup and placed his hand over her mouth and nose. Bethany jerked her aching head from side to side, feeling the prince’s controlling fingers pull strands of hair from her scalp. She didn’t want to swallow the concoction. Despite the prince’s mistakes, it would be a powerful aphrodisiac.

  When black dots began to cloud the edge of her vision, she swallowed.

  “Again,” commanded the prince.

  She swallowed again, anything to get him to release her face. He stepped away, taking his own cup and downing it in one large gulp.

  Bethany opened her mouth and sucked air into her burning lunges. She trembled next to the fire, petrified of what he was about to do and yet more fearful of the fabricated urgings beginning to run through her body. Her blood boiled in her veins, and her heart beat a quick staccato against her ribs.

  Did her heart beat from fear or arousal? She wasn’t sure.

  The captive princess had never been in a position to feel true desire for a man. At the age of twenty, she was considered well passed the marrying age, and her younger years had not involved a beau or courting of any kind. Her nation was waging a losing war, and marrying off a youngest daughter was not on the king’s list of priorities.

  She had no idea what it was supposed to feel like to want a man in that way.

  Bethany swallowed again, trying to remove the bitter taste from her mouth. She watched as the prince’s face grew flush w
ith a new kind of excitement. Féderic stepped towards her and hesitated, his caramel eyes glowing as they scanned her face.

  “Go wash yourself,” he growled, nodding towards his enormous washing basin.

  Bethany shook her head instinctively. Despite a desire for something she couldn’t name, she refused to make this easy for him. Though she was resigned to her new life, she was not ready to give herself over to him. Sullied in such a fashion would mean no welcoming hug from her mother. She would be a blotch on their family’s history—the relative no one spoke of.

  Prince Féderic’s face flushed darker, slowly turning the shade of a ripe plum. Bethany swallowed again, more out of a sudden increase in fear than anything else. He pounced on her, clutching her by the shoulders. After giving her a quick, rough shake, the prince threw her over his shoulders, stomped across the room, and plopped her into the large basin. It was more of a small tub than anything else. The enormous tin bowl was too small for the prince to do more than dunk his head in, but Bethany was considerably smaller. The water nearly came to her waist as she sat where he had placed her, half fearful the delicate stand would either break or tip over under her slight weight.

  The prince kept one hand on her shoulder, to keep her from bolting, while the other hand poured the pitcher of water over her head. Bethany noticed the water turn pink with the blood from the cut on her head.

  With rough fingers, the prince rubbed at the dirt on her face. His blazing eyes had lost none of their fire as he continued to rub the dirt off; they traveled over her shivering form, as though drinking in the very sight of her. Belatedly, Bethany realized he not only wanted to remove the stench that clung to her, but he also wanted to see what she looked like under her careful layer of dirt.

  Evidently he had seen enough. With a suddenness that left her breathless, he dragged her out of the basin of murky water and pressed her wet body against him. She heard the basin’s stand crash to the floor and felt the water splash over their feet. The prince’s fingers returned to the base of her neck, twining into her damp hair. He tipped her head back and applied himself to her mouth.