Chapter Thirty-Six
Bethany woke the next day to find herself still chained to the far wall of the slave dormitory. Bainard and Flora were quickly ushering the slaves out: Bainard with swift kicks and Flora with hurried words. No one showed any interest in releasing Bethany. She waited silently. Though her arm ached from the awkward way she had to hold it to keep the chains from digging into her wrist, she didn’t really want them to notice her for fear of further punishment.
Her whole body throbbed with each beat of her heart. She glanced down and saw the damaged done by the slave master. What skin she could see was varying shades of blue and purple. She pulled up the skirt of her dress. The bruising on the back and side of her legs was marred by shallow cuts and swollen welts from where Bainard’s whip had struck her. She could only imagine what her back looked like—and based on the fire searing her half-healed flesh, she expected the worst.
It was hours before anyone noticed her. By this time, she realized holding still was not necessarily the best solution to her problem. Her muscles had grown stiff and began to cramp. She tried to rub them with her free hand, but the dark bruises were too tender. When Bethany tried to flex and stretch her sore muscles, she winced.
Finally, the other slaves began to return to the dormitory. They each glared at her as they passed to the long, splintered table, where they would receive a small midday meal. They had no sympathy for her or her present plight. Despite her battered body, they only saw someone not working, which meant more work for them.
As the entering crowd dwindled down to a slow trickle, Bainard appeared. He presided over the hasty meal and munched with noisy delight. The large slave master ate nearly as much as what fifteen or twenty slaves ate combined. It was a sad sight to watch her counterparts savor their tiny portions while the slave master shoveled food into his mouth. Bethany had never truly hated the fat man until that day as she sat with no food at all.
A few hours after the slaves had left the dormitory, Bethany was awoken by a painful jab from a boot. She had been dozing and had to work to not cry out. Bainard hovered over her for a second, his pouting lips wet with saliva. Bethany had known the slave master to take advantage of the female slaves, especially the ones in disfavor. Until recently, Bethany had mostly been able to avoid his whip and chains.
Sure, when she first arrived she spent many days in the pits, but Bainard tended to look toward the women who had been beaten within an inch of their lives. Perhaps he thought the royal family wouldn’t worry about what happened to their slaves once they were so dishonored.
Whatever his reasoning, Bethany found herself under his bright gaze. A quick glance below his belt, and Bethany knew her fears were justified. Her aching, cramped-up body tightened. She began to scoot away when he grabbed the chain and jerked her back towards his feet. The iron manacle dug into her sore wrist and broke the skin. Bethany was just about to resort to screaming out of instinct when a soft cough from the doorway caused her body to relax.
She recognized the voice. It was the scarred knight.
Hate him as she might, this was the second time he had come between her and rape. His green eyes were soft, despite his ugly scar, and his often expressive face was relaxed as he watched the scene play out. He knew who was in control of the situation, and it wasn’t Bethany or Bainard.
The slave master glared back at the knight before he grabbed Bethany’s battered wrist and unlocked the cuff. He grabbed the collar of her dress and dragged her halfway to where Sir Caldry stood.
Bainard slurped up the saliva that had grown around his wide mouth. “This what you want?” he asked.
“Yes, though I didn’t expect to find her quite so black and blue. Ann, go to Féderic. He needs help dressing for tonight’s feast.”
Though she didn’t want to admit it, she knew what the feast was for.
Her father.
Bethany swallowed the lump in her throat and forced the thought away.
It wasn't true; it wasn’t true, her mind chanted.
She scurried around the knight and out of the room, all too glad to get away from Bainard. Hopefully, her being sent to the prince would keep the slave master from renewing his interest in her, a marked sign of favor.
It wasn't true.
As she expected, Bethany found Prince Féderic dressed in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. It had been a little over a month since his accident, and though he still walked with a limp, his flesh was mostly healed. Despite the weight lost during his convalescence, he was far from flabby or soft.
Bethany had never wanted to stop and admire his body. She knew he had a nice one and that many of the slave girls giggled about his strong arms and defined muscles, but she never joined in.
It wasn't true.
“What happened to you?” demanded the prince when he finally took a moment to look at her.
She had already helped him into his trousers and was lacing up his tunic.
Bethany mumbled something; she wasn’t sure what. Her brain was sluggish, and she didn’t care what she said or what he thought of her. Her mind was too preoccupied.
It wasn't true.
“I hope you’re not up to more trouble, little Ann,” he said as he gently cupped her cheek with his large, warm hand and forced her face up, so that he could look into her eyes. He rubbed the blood from her swollen lip with his thump and wiped it on the towel.
Bethany kept her eyes lidded and focused on his shirt lacings.
“I want you healed and ready to go to the housing I will set up for you by the time I have that wench pregnant.”
Bethany took a deliberate step away from him. This was one of the few topics that could draw her out of her own deliberations. She had not agreed to be his mistress. Granted, she also had not gained the courage to tell him no either. The prince waved a hand towards the clothing item still lying on the foot of his bed. Bethany resumed her task, and her mind resumed its chant.
It wasn't true.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Féderic said as he slipped into his boots. “You better get down there before Bainard takes another whip to you.”
Bethany bowed and scurried away.
In the small room attached to the great hall, she retrieved her burden and followed the other slaves to their place behind the tall dais. The royal family entered, their faces bright with laughter and excitement. No one commented about her battered appearance.
“Have you heard more news?” asked Rulfric, as he flopped into his chair.
“Yes, actually,” responded the king. “I received another note from the front earlier today. They have confirmed the report.”
The family clapped again, though not as emphatically as the night before. Bethany swallowed the bile that rose to her mouth as hot tears welled in her eyes and quickly began rolling down her cheeks. Try as she might, she couldn’t deny the truth anymore. Before she could control herself, her silent tears turned into gasping sobs. Her hands shook until she couldn’t grip the platter any longer. It slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor, effectively silencing the family’s request for more information.
Bethany could hear the king’s final words trail off into the dead silence that followed. “…of a fever.” As she raced out of the great hall, she heard their exclamations of surprise and anger. Bethany charged to the small storage room she had used before to cry out her sorrows. Once again, she ducked behind the convenient pile of broken crates, wrapped her arms around her knees, and hid her face in her lap.
The truth was a hard bite to swallow.
Her father was dead? Her strong, courageous father was dead? It couldn’t be. The report had to be a lie. Her father was not even sixty yet. How could he be dead? He had always been so robust.
Bethany felt a numbness rush over her body while the world faded away. The only thing that existed was a devastating lie: Her father was dead.
All the fight and rage left her in one quick stroke. It didn’t matter if she fought an
ymore or even if she lost the battle entirely. What was the point? The entire fight against Wolfric was dependent on their being a home for her to come home to.
If her father wasn’t there, could it still be called home?
Bethany pulled her wet face away from her knees and, with quivering fingers she yanked her signet ring from the mat in her hair. It hurt, but the pain of tearing her hair out by the roots was a dull inconvenience compared to the all-consuming agony of suddenly being fatherless.
It took her a long time to untangle the long, matted hair from the gold ring. Bethany rubbed her finger against the etching of the eagle that was her family’s crest. In her father’s castle, the walls of the great hall would be lined with long banners, displaying the noble bird in gold on a black background. It made her heart ache to think she would never hear her father tell her how their ancestors chose the eagle for their motif.
Bethany lifted the ring to her lips and kissed it while the tears continued in their path down her red cheeks.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Cal tried not to stare at Féderic’s slave. If he gaped at her too long, he might go down and skewer Bainard. The pudgy slave master had beaten her black and blue. Just looking at her made his gut tighten in disgust, but he had no control over it, and he needed to remember that. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if he were to get himself exiled over some slave girl.
The royal family was entering the great hall quickly, but taking their time reaching their seats. They were still excited by the idea that King Middin might be dead. They talked and laughed as they meandered toward the dais. Being now allowed to sit with the family once again, he waited near the short staircase, knowing he had to be the last one to reach the table. He tried to look busy, but it was hard to look busy and wait at the same time. Eventually, the family seated themselves at the table and he was allowed to do the same thing.
“Have you heard more news?” asked Rulfric, as he flopped into his chair.
“Yes, actually,” responded the king. “I received another note from the front earlier today. They have confirmed the report.”
Cal’s gut tightened again. Middin was the only hope this land had. The knight sighed. He was a hypocrite, and he knew it—rooting for one king while serving another, but he couldn’t help it.
His sister.
She needed his help, and he would do anything to save her from the clutches of Wolfric and whatever lord held her. Cal plunked his mug down on the table with too much force. The liquid sloshed over the rim and down to his fingers. Cal wiped his hand on his pants as his eyes scanned the room.
His brows pulled together as he noticed the battered slave girl. She looked as though someone had punched her in the stomach. Her lips quivered and her hands shook until the plate fell to the ground, breaking into a thousand pieces. Before the room could grow silent, she ran from the room.
“What in the world…” murmured the queen, her voice trailing off as she watched the slave exit the great hall.
“That girl of yours needs to be dealt with, Féderic. She’s getting completely out of hand,” grumbled the king as he slopped more food onto his plate.
Féderic stumbled over a few words, clearly at a loss for something to say. His eyes were still on the door. Cal imagined he knew what the prince was thinking—how dare she ruin his plans.
“Sir Caldry, drag that girl back here. She will explain her actions,” demanded the outraged queen.
Cal stifled a sigh and rose from his seat. Once again the slave girl was keeping him from his dinner. He stomped out of the room, trying to look slightly frustrated. It was a fine line to balance—looking frustrated at having to leave so that they wouldn’t know his true thoughts, but not so frustrated that the finicky royals were offended.
Once he was out of the great hall, he forced himself to relax under the weight of his chainmail. He contorted his face into a glower to keep people at a distance, while clomping down the narrow steps. In the lower level he stopped, wondering where she would have run off to, then he remembered the last time she had run away. He turned toward the small storage room.
At the entrance, he stopped to listen. Sure enough, he heard soft crying. It wasn’t the heart wrenching sobs he had heard the other day. In many ways, the gentle sound was far harder to listen to—filled with more pain—as if there wasn’t enough hope left in her to muster more volume.
Cal felt his insides twist as he listened. What had happened to this girl? Was she so ill-fit to handle slavery? It seemed like a stupid question, but he knew some people were pushed to suicide while others survived as slaves.
Cal didn’t want to interrupt, but if he didn’t take her back to the queen she would send someone else to find them. It took him another minute to muster the courage to take the next step into the store room, but he dragged his foot forward and marched ahead.
He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t what he found. The slave girl sat, with her legs crossed, staring down at a shiny object resting in the palm of her hand. Thanks to years of training and hunting, Cal stepped into the room and knelt beside her without her noticing him.
It wasn’t until he reached for the item in her hand that she became aware of his presence. She flinched and scooted a few inches away. He had taken her completely by surprise. The look in her stormy gray eyes said everything—she had lost all hope of secrecy, and he was about to finally learn the truth.
Cal reached forward, pinning her with the fiercest gaze he could muster, and plucked the golden object from her hand. He noticed her cut and swollen lower lip begin to shake, before he looked down at what he held. It was a delicate, golden signet ring. An elegant eagle was etched across the flat top of the ring.
An eagle? Middin?
The knight looked back up at the slave girl. Only, she wasn’t a slave… not really.
In the time it took him to take two breaths, her distraught face contorted into a look of arrogant distaste. It was impressive considering the bruises and tear streaks marring her features. Cal opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words.
Finally, they came out on their own accord. “The lost princess?”
Slowly, with a proud quirk of her upper lip, she nodded. A sudden desire to slap the look of haughty disdain from her battered face rose up inside of him.
Who was she to look down at him?
He had to quell the urge with every fiber of his being. He knew she had been more than a slave for a long time, but he never truly imagined she could be royalty.
Yet here was the truth, sitting right in front of him. She was just as privileged as the bastards upstairs dining on venison and pheasant. All the compassion for her that had been growing inside him over the last couple weeks vanished. He couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be sympathetic towards her.
“You need to come with me,” he growled through clenched teeth.
She rose with a surprising amount of grace, considering how broken her body was. It hadn’t been a month since the last time she had been thrown into the pits. He knew her back was far from healed, not to mention the recent beating she had received from Bainard. Still, she made it to her feet with all the elegance of an empress. It was only then, as he watched her without her careful mask, that he realized just how well she had hidden her true self from them.
Cal carefully placed his hand on her bony elbow and began to guide her out of the narrow room. Though he didn’t really expect her to run, he didn’t want her to try. He guided the princess up the slave stairway and back into the great hall.
The family was happily eating their food and maintaining multiple conversations at once. As Cal and the princess reached the center of the room, the family began to notice their presence. Arabelle delicately placed her fork on her plate, a scowl already in place.
Cal hesitated a short moment, expecting the slave girl to bow. When she didn’t, he placed a hand on her dirty shoulder and pushed until she fell to her knees. He knew it hurt and felt a smile
play at his lips.
That would teach her.
While she stayed on her knees with her head held high, he strode onto the dais and placed the golden ring in front of the king. Wolfric had continued to eat, until the glint of gold caught his attention. He wiped his hands carelessly on the cloth provided before lifting the ring from the table.
It only took the king a quick, cursory glance to realize what he held. Before Sir Caldry could step away, the king jerked to his feet, causing his heavy chair to fall backwards. Cal caught it before it could fall on his feet and righted it, then followed the king to where the girl waited.
By the time the king reach the floor, the other family members caught on to their father’s excitement. Each one began to follow their father, crying out for more information. Those sitting at the lower tables abandoned their meal to watch the spectacle unfold.
Cal placed himself beside the girl, in case she decided to run, while the king grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. Somehow, regardless of the large family crowding around her, the princess maintained a look of proud aloofness. Even though the girl barely reached Cal’s shoulders, she managed to look down on them—giving each their own, personal glower. The look was of complete dismissal; it said: Wolfric isn’t worth my time.
Wolfric grabbed her bruised jaw with his large hands and forced her attention back onto himself, while his other hand grasped the precious ring. The princess allowed him to stare at her for a few seconds before jerking her face out of his grasp. The king let her, too shocked to punish her for such brazen behavior.
“Are you Bethany?” he asked. Wolfric had never been a man to parse words. If three would suffice, why use more?
“I am Bethany Kavadh, youngest child of King Middin Kavadh, eldest son of King Faelan, eldest son of King Herral, second el…”
She never finished her lengthy sentence. In a quick burst of rage, Wolfric back handed her across the face, sending her colliding into Cal. The knight tried to catch her out of reflexes, but she slipped through his fingers and collapsed on the floor. The princess lay in a silent heap, not moving a muscle. Cal wondered if she were trying her old trick of pretending to be more hurt than she really was.
The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy Page 20
