The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Charissa Dufour

  This excess of economy had helped her husband achieve his many ambitions.

  Bethany was sitting with the other slaves, furiously polishing silver when Flora entered. The woman was often used to assist Bainard and Hepner with the managing of the vast work force. She looked just as tired and frazzled as Bethany felt. Her short curly hair was frizzy and standing out in all directions, and her usually tidy frock was stained and torn. She stopped in the narrow doorway, her hands resting on her bony hips.

  “Ann. The queen wants you in main hall,” she said in a tone surprisingly harsh for the soft spoken woman.

  “Everything all right?” Bethany asked as she set a silver platter on the work table and scrambled off her rickety stool.

  “No, everything’s not all right! How I supposed to get anything done iffen they keep taking my help?”

  Bethany tried to nod in agreement but her legs wobbled under her, forcing her to grab the doorframe to steady herself. Bethany’s stumbling steps forced Flora to jump out of her way.

  “Now what’s wrong with you?”

  “N-nothing,” Bethany stammered.

  She tried to think up an excuse for her behavior, but her food-starved brain worked too slowly.

  Flora’s eyes narrowed as she stared her. “When’s last time you eat’n something?”

  “Um…” Again, Bethany couldn’t think straight.

  “C’mon” Flora huffed as she slipped her arm through Bethany’s and supported her out of the room.

  They shuffled through a few corridors before reaching the slave dormitory. There, Flora left her on the floor near the doorway. A large swan strutted to her side and delicately picked at her dress. Bethany tried to swat the annoying bird away, but her feeble efforts only made it angry. It hissed at her, raising its wings and stomping it’s webbed feet against the stone floor. The beastly thing was just about to attack when Flora returned and gave it a swift kick to the chest. The angry swan scooted away, but continued to hiss.

  “Eat this,” the older woman ordered before going to the tubs used for the rare occasions when they expected the slaves to bathe.

  A chunk of burned meat dropped into Bethany’s lap. She scooped it up and began gnawing away. Even burned, it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

  By the time she had consumed the whole thing, Flora had a lukewarm bath prepared for her.

  “What’s all this about?” Bethany asked, feeling more like herself now that she’d eaten.

  “Do you really ‘spect the queen to allow you to sew on her gowns while covered in tarnish?” asked Flora in another huff of exhausted indignation.

  Bethany glanced down at her tattered clothing—the same dress she had clumsily repaired with scraps after the prince's attack. It was indeed covered with grayish paste while her hands were black with the stuff.

  “Anyway, they’ll likely have you serve at dinner, so I might as well get you ready for that, too.”

  Bethany shrugged out of her poorly mended garment and climbed into the tepid water. To both their astonishments, the tarnish and cleaning soaps had soaked through her dress. From head to foot, her skin had turned an odd shade of greenish gray. Both women attacked her skin with the rough, cheap soap reserved for slaves, but Bethany insisted on washing her own hair. By the time they had her clean, her skin was a bright shade of pink from scrubbing.

  Once out of the tub and in a special black dress with a red over tunic, reserved for special occasions, Bethany braided her clean hair in quick, practiced strokes. Again, she refused to let Flora touch her hair for fear she would find the signet ring still matted at the base of her skull. She felt thankful that in her younger days, she had asked her servants to teach her how to braid hair. She liked the feeling of it running through her fingers and spent many an evening braiding and rebraiding her mother’s hair.

  The piece of charred meat had renewed her strength, if not her energy. Bethany raced up the steps as fast as she could and scurried to the great hall, where the family was preparing last minute details before their guests began to arrive over the next couple days. The large room was in its own form of disorder.

  She watched the men with the tapestry blow through the crowd before turning back to the frightening din of the great hall.

  A small mob of slaves was working furiously to clean the enormous fire pit used to heat the tall room. Bethany had never known someone to scrub a fireplace, and based on the thick layer of soot, she doubted it had ever been done here, either.

  It just proves how important this banquet was, Bethany thought as she ducked passed another group working to set up trestle tables.

  Féderic was required to marry within four months, or so the castle gossip stated. Bethany knew the queen hoped he’d find a wife at this special event. Bethany felt a smidge of sympathy towards the queen considering the task that lay before her. Marrying off Féderic would not be an easy goal.

  As a princess, Bethany knew the value of a suitable marriage. She also knew that such a future was closed to her forever. In a life filled with privilege and fortune, it had been Bethany's one dream, one purpose. She saw her mother as a shining beacon—an example of what every lady should be. Her mother was kind to everyone, loving and respectful to her husband, strict with her children, and generous to the poor. Bethany wanted to be just like her mother.

  But how could she be, trapped as a slave?

  Bethany bowed low before the queen.

  “Ahh, there you are Ann,” Arabelle said from her place in the corner.

  “Oooh, it’s that littler sewer,” stated the fat seamstress.

  Mirabelle stood on a small platform with a nearly-finished gown hanging from her shoulders. The indignant princess looked down at Bethany from her perch with a glower. Lyolf and Sir Kerwin sat next to the queen, both looking bored to tears. Vyrabelle and Josric were running around the area designated for sewing, followed closely by the nursery slave who was doing her best to keep them out of everyone’s way, but generally failing.

  “Get this hem finished for me while I sort out the next gown,” added the seamstress.

  Bethany struggled to keep her face neutral. How many dresses did Mirabelle need? Then again, Bethany remembered the number of gowns made for her for a three day tournament. She felt her face flush at the thought of the wasteful extravagance of her younger days.

  She now knew the difference between need and want.

  Before she could finish the hem, the doors to the great hall burst open, revealing an outraged king. Hepner ran to his side, barely avoiding a blow to the head by the king's flailing fists. Josiah, one of the other stable hands, and Sir Caldry followed him, each keeping a safe distance from the king. Evidently Féderic, Rulfric, Cedric, and the other knights had managed to make themselves scarce.

  “What do you mean the horses are sick? Horses don't get sick,” added the king as he rounded on the other men.

  Bethany felt this to be a rather uninformed statement. She bit her lip, trying not to smile. The oleander had finally taken affect. After two days of waiting, she had begun to wonder if her attempts at poisoning the horses had been discovered too soon, or if she hadn't mixed enough oleander into the feed.

  “They can be poisoned,” stated the knight in a droll voice.

  “Poisoned?” snapped the king. “You think this was deliberate?”

  Bethany watched as Sir Caldry rolled his eyes towards the stable master.

  “Well, Sire... you see... I-I've found oleander mixed in with their feed,” stammered the unfortunate man.

  “And what, exactly, is oleander?” asked Wolfric, pronouncing each word carefully.

  “It's an herb used for many human medicines... but is quite unhealthy for horses.”

  “And how, may I ask, did such an herb get into my horses' feed?”

  An innocent bystander may think the king was calming down, but anyone who had served in his household for more than a month knew this soft, steely voice was the king at his most dangerous. Evidently the stable
master was quite aware of the king's growing wrath.

  “I don't know your majesty,” he said, his voice immediately turning into a begging whine as he dropped to his knees. “I've removed the affected feed and have begun flushing their systems.”

  Bethany quickly pulled her attention back to her sewing. Sir Caldry had begun to sweep the room with his piercing gaze, clearly annoyed by the conversation. She didn't want to get caught watching too closely. In an effort to keep her face free of emotion, she began counting her stitches, but even this exercise could not keep the loud conversation from penetrating her thoughts.

  “Can they be saved?” demanded the king.

  Two-three-four, she counted

  “Oh, yes, my lord, but it will be a week or so before they will be able to be used.”

  “What?” squawked the queen from her place in the corner.

  Bethany glanced up.

  “But we need them... we have orders from the valley to be brought up for the banquet. They have to work,” wailed the queen.

  Josiah shook his head, clearly at a loss for words as the group made their way to where the queen sat.

  Bethany forced her eyes back on the hem before the knight could notice her.

  Five-six-seven-eight, she continued to count.

  “May I suggest, my lady,” began Sir Caldry, “we ask the townspeople to lend their beasts to us. It is but a minor inconvenience,” he added, his green eyes drifting over towards the stand where Mirabelle stood.

  Bethany couldn't help but wonder if he knew she had put the oleander in the horses' feed. After all, he had caught her burning the reeds, and somehow, he just seemed to know everything. Was he aware who she was and the mission she had given herself? She cringed and redoubled her efforts, making a staunch vow to avoid the knight at all costs.

  Bethany stitched furiously, if not accurately, trying to pour her anger and frustration into her work. She had planned on the horses’ illness to be a major crisis. Instead, the knight had quickly produced an alternative to the problem. What more could she do? Bethany racked her brain, trying to think up a way to increase the damage, but she failed to come up with a new plan that would have any effect on the banquet.

  By the time she had finished the hem, the debate about the horses was over.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bethany was sent up to Féderic’s room. She hesitated in front of the door, not wanting to be near the man who had tried to rape her. Would he try to do it again? Bethany fought an image of herself returning to the banquet, her hair and dress rumpled, her body bruised from another attack. To her disgust, she felt her body begin to tremble, and her breath come out in desperate gasps.

  Finally, when the guards began to laugh at her, she straightened her scrawny shoulders and pounded her fist against the wooden door until her knuckles smarted. They would not get the best of her, try as they might, laugh as they would.

  “Enter,” came the prince’s voice.

  Bethany ignored the shivers running up and down her spine, and the pounding of her heart as she marched into the dreaded room.

  Prince Féderic stood in the center of his room, with nothing but a small cloth wrapped around his waist. Bethany averted her eyes to the wooden floor and bowed low.

  “Is that you Ann? Who knew you could clean up so pretty?”

  Bethany felt her heart give an extra beat before settling into a frantic race through her ribcage. She swallowed again, trying to bring moisture to her suddenly dry mouth. Bethany noticed a pile of elegant clothing draped across the foot of his bed, but the prince made no movement towards them. Instead he stared at her from his place by the warm fire. She tried to hold still as an extra violent shiver ran up her spine.

  “Look at me,” commanded Prince Féderic.

  Bethany raised her face, but kept her eyes on his chin. They stood like that for a long moment. Finally, when she was about to say something, anything, the prince prowled to her side and took hold her cheeks.

  He leaned forward and whispered, “I could make you wealthy.”

  Bethany's breath caught in her chest, but she chose to ignore his taunt. She knew what he was offering; most female slaves would have given their right arm for the opportunity to be a crown prince’s mistress, but it was not in her to accept such degradation.

  “You are young and beautiful. I could free you…” he left the rest unsaid.

  “And when you are done with me?” Bethany asked, remembering to lower her eyes at the last moment. “My people do not believe in multiple partners. If I were to… do as you say, I would be an outcast for the rest of my days, never accepted back into their society. The freedom you offer would be the beginning of a new kind of bondage.”

  “And what people are these?” growled the prince as he let go of her face and took a step back to better see her.

  Bethany panicked. She couldn’t think of another nation with such guarded principles. If she lied, he would know, but if she claimed Dothan as her home, she would be in far greater peril. Féderic didn’t give her a chance to answer.

  “You refuse a prince, simply because you fear the judgment of people you may never see again?” he growled.

  Bethany could see his cheeks beginning to turn red with suppressed anger. It was not very often that a prince was refused anything, especially by a slave.

  “You're a coward.”

  “No, I am not.” she said, before she could censure herself.

  “What?” he snapped, grabbing her by the shoulders and dragging her to the center of the room; he didn’t want her trying to run away when he was not dressed to chase after her.

  Bethany’s heart sped up again, beating against her chest so that she was sure the prince could hear it.

  I’m in for it now, she thought. I might as well say what I think.

  “In the face of those more powerful than me, I stand for what I believe. That makes me brave. I choose what I know to be right over immediate reward. That makes me strong.”

  To her surprise, she spotted the corner of Féderic’s lips twitch towards a smile. He released her shoulders.

  “Perhaps you’re right. Don’t worry, little Ann. I won’t force myself upon you… But nor will I give up,” he added in a whisper as he leaned down. “I want you. And I want you to want me. A time will come when you realize that my offer is the best you will ever get.”

  With this final statement, he kissed her gently on the cheek.

  Bethany swallowed a large knot in her throat and stepped away. “I want to be loved.”

  “Then you’re living in a dream world, slave girl.”

  She lowered her head, staring at the floor. “My life once was a dream world,” she whispered, more to herself than to the naked man before her.

  “What?” he asked.

  Bethany was saved from answering by a knock on the prince’s door. Féderic took two more steps away as he checked the towel wrapped around his waist.

  “Yes?” he asked in a husky voice.

  Bethany carefully wiped the moisture from her eyes as the door swung open to reveal Sir Caldry.

  The tall, broad-chested knight was dressed in his best—a beautifully embroidered tabard that reached past his knees over a shirt of highly polished chain mail. From his shoulders hung a matching cloak, lined with soft fur. Across his chest, the rearing black horse of the king’s livery was emblazoned with delicate stitching. At his hip hung the knight’s heavy long sword. He stopped in the doorway and glanced between the prince and his slave. His soft green eyes stared with penetration.

  The knight saw things in a way others didn’t. Bethany was beginning to believe that nothing happened within his gaze without the knight being fully aware of any hidden layers or meaning.

  “Am I interrupting?” Sir Caldry asked, his eyes flicking to the prince’s cloth.

  “Nothing that can’t be resumed later,” answered Féderic, his own eyes remaining fixed on Bethany. “Now, girl, help me dress. What is it you wanted, Cal?” he asked as he
moved back to the warm fire.

  Bethany erupted into action, happy to have something to do.

  “Your mother sent me to see if you were nearly ready. The guests have arrived, and she wants the family to enter together.”

  “It won’t take me long now,” the prince replied as he climbed into his black, leather trousers. “Have you seen the guests?”

  “Some, my lord.”

  “Any of the ladies pretty? Are they as pretty as our Ann here?” the prince asked as Bethany was coming forward with his undershirt.

  Bethany froze for a second before lifting the undershirt over the prince’s head.

  Sir Caldry stared at her a moment longer than strictly necessary before responding: “I will leave that to your better judgment.”

  Féderic laughed as Bethany fetched his new, black tunic. It had been sewn for the occasion, with Bethany doing many of the finer details surrounding the neck. She slipped it over the prince’s head and tied up the front lacing, while he stomped into his tall, black boots. Finally, Bethany attached a long, black cloak, lined with gold and placed his delicate, gold crown upon his head. With nothing but gold to accent his black outfit, even Bethany had to admit, the prince looked very striking.

  As she finished adjusting the gold belt, Cal said, “Ann, you better go. Hepner wants all those serving at table downstairs.”

  Bethany scurried out of the room, where she breathed the free air. Well, the less repressive air. She didn’t dally. Hepner might have been less violent than any other master in the house, but he still wouldn’t look kindly on her late arrival. With her feet flying, Bethany scurried towards the special room just off the great hall, where the food received its last minute touches before being delivered.

  Despite her efforts, Bethany was the last slave to arrive. The other slaves glared at her as they stepped away, giving her a clear space, as though her very touch could infect them. Ever since the reed incident, she had become despised, if not downright, hated by the others. Hepner seemed inclined to ignore the situation. If it didn’t cause direct problems to the efficiency of his staff, it wasn’t worth his attention. He quickly took control of the situation, explaining the plan and expectations.