The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Charissa Dufour

  Flora looked at her, her eyes growing large in her dark face until Bethany could see all the white around her irises.

  “I do, m’lady… but…”

  “Don’t worry, Flora. It was a joke. Whichever you think is nicest. I have most of them taken in.”

  Flora picked out a delicate white gown with gold trimming and a gold belt that wound around her thin waist. The slave braided her hair and wrapped the long braid in gold string—scraps from when Bethany took in the dress.

  “You look pretty.”

  “Thank yo…” but she never finished her statement.

  The door burst open, and in traipsed half the royal family. Flora quickly bowed and scooted into a dark corner. The king and queen both looked resplendent in their finest, as did their five eldest children. Even Sir Caldry, who entered last, was dressed in his best. Bethany could see the other knights waiting in the corridor, also dressed in their best. She felt her stomach drop into her knees.

  What was the special occasion?

  Even in her new garments, with her hair clean and braided, Bethany looked pathetic next to them. She couldn’t help it, covered in half-healed bruises and scabbed-over cuts. She knew it and knew it was purposefully done. Still, she held her head high. She wouldn’t fold to them. Not now—not ever!

  “Cal, take her to the wagon,” ordered the king.

  “My lord,” murmured the knight as he passed by the family.

  He took her by the arm and roughly dragged her towards the door. The family parted, watching her pass with cold, calculating eyes. All but Féderic; his eyes glowed with excitement as he watched her every move. Bethany felt her stomach drop farther. She knew what he would want from her, even now that she was no longer his slave.

  Sir Caldry tugged her down to the bailey, where a small cart shrouded in fabric waited. Bethany also noticed the horses of the royal family saddled and waiting. The knight shoved her into the back of the wagon and tied her hands to the sides before mounting his own mighty steed. A soldier climbed into the seat in the front and whipped the horse into motion.

  Even through the breaks in the dark fabric, she couldn’t tell where they were taking her. She didn’t know the city, having been in it only the one time. Bethany had spent all her months of captivity in the castle. After a few stops and turns, Bethany sat back and gave herself over to her fate.

  Wherever they were taking her, she doubted they intended to kill her. They could have done that just as easily at the castle.

  Cal pulled his warhorse to a sudden stop. In the shadows, the horse looked to be a flat dark brown, but the minute the sun reflected off of him, one could see all the varying shades hidden in his thick coat. His muscled legs bore long feathery hair that covered his enormous hooves. Three of his legs darkened into a rich brown that almost looked black, while one of his hind legs displayed a small, white sock. Cal had been forced to fight off bandits and buyers over his horse on numerous occasions.

  “Steady, Éimhin,” he murmured absently as he patted the stallion on the neck.

  The horse was in high spirits today. It had been a long time since he’d had the freedom to take the beast out of the busy city. He wanted to run him, but he had to watch the princess.

  Cal pursed his lips as he watched the tiny wagon begin to slow down. They had travelled out past the houses that had sprung up beyond the protection of the city walls. Now, nothing but forest and the occasional farm tucked into a valley lay ahead of them. They would stop here and wait for the royal family to meet them. Cal watched the soldier direct the old horse toward the side of the roadway.

  It had been a rough journey down the steep mountain road that led from Tolad. No doubt it had been worse for the princess. Cal forced his jaw to relax when he realized he had been grinding his teeth again. It was a nasty habit his sister and mother had often chided him over.

  The knight dismounted and led his energetic horse to a patch of grass and thistles, where he tethered it to a tree. It may not be the same as running him, but at least this way Éimhin wouldn’t get bored. Cal had never seen an animal so curious, or so mean. Most of the stable hands possessed scars on their shoulders from walking too close to Éimhin’s stable. The nasty beast would stretch his neck out and nip at passing workers. They quickly learned to avoid him. The horse knew not to bite Cal; therefore, he didn’t mind his horse’s bad manners too much. Éimhin’s propensity to bite was a great asset on the battlefield.

  Cal took a moment to watch his horse nimbly curl back its lips and pluck a thistle bloom, before he turned towards the wagon. He would have preferred to leave the woman in the darkness of the covered wagon, but Wolfric had made it clear that she was their guest now, not their slave—a change Mirabelle was not taking well. Secretly, Cal agreed with Mirabelle’s suggestion of sending the princess’ head to her brother in Dothan, though his reasoning greatly varied from Mirabelle’s jealousy.

  The last thing he needed was another noble ruining his life. Wolfric had done that enough for a thousand nobles.

  With a quick, annoyed jerk, Cal pulled the back drape away. The girl blinked fiercely as the morning sun shown down on her. Cal could see that her eyes were watering from the sudden light, but he didn’t feel like caring. He bent forward and untied her hands.

  “You run, I tie you up again. Understand?”

  She nodded slowly. “Where are we?”

  Cal grimaced. He didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want to look at her. He didn’t want to think about her.

  Cal glanced at the soldier, but he had already pulled his hood over his eyes and drifted to sleep. Cal considered smacking him back into consciousness but decided against it. The truth was the soldier was hardly needed. It would look odd if he, a knight, asked a foot soldier for help. He couldn’t very well say, “Please be a third party member so I don’t have to talk to this woman.”

  Any other knight in Wolfric’s castle would have been glad of the opportunity to chat up the captive princess.

  “We are a few miles outside of Tolad.”

  “Why have you brought me here?” she asked.

  “The king ordered me to.” Cal glared at her, hoping to scare her into silence.

  “Why did he do that?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Is he going to have me killed?” she asked the second Cal had finished speaking.

  “Will you not be quiet?” snapped the knight as he lowered himself onto the tailgate of the wagon.

  The sun was warm and it was pleasant to be away from the noisy city, or it would have been had he been left to his own thoughts.

  “Somebody didn’t get his beauty rest,” she mumbled as she settled onto the tailgate next to him.

  “Perhaps I’m simply annoyed with my present company.”

  “You were never this cranky when I stayed in your room,” the girl stated before she could censure herself.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cal could see a delicate, little blush darken her cheeks. It was rather pretty, though he refused to admit it.

  “A few things have changed since then.”

  Thankfully, before she could ask him anymore questions, they heard the sound of approaching horses.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Bethany was about to ask the knight what he had meant when the sound of numerous approaching horses stopped her. Something was different about the scarred knight, but she couldn’t tell what. Bethany had almost thought they were becoming friends during her convalescent time in his room and even during the days that followed. He had been gentle with her, concerned even, but now, Sir Caldry seemed more like the man she had first met all those months ago—cold and cruel.

  Not surprisingly, those who had invaded her room arrived on horseback, surrounded by two dozen mounted guards and the castle knights. Their arrival shook the ground with the pounding of so many heavy hooves. The queen and her daughter remained on their delicate mares, while the men dismounted. Wolfric, Féderic, and Lord Payne, the king’
s advisor, approached Bethany and Sir Caldry.

  “Caldry, get her back into the wagon,” ordered the king. “Men, get this fabric down. I want them all to see her.”

  Everyone jumped forward to do their assigned tasks. Sir Caldry pushed her roughly over the back of the wagon. She tripped in her scramble to climb back in and banged her bony knee against the hard wood, but he didn’t withdraw his constant prodding. Eventually, Bethany made it into the wagon. The knight climbed in behind her and tied one hand to each side of the wagon, forcing her to ride on her knees, facing forward. It was awkward and uncomfortable.

  Within a few minutes, the fabric was removed and the men were remounted. Six guards took the lead, followed by King Wolfric and Prince Féderic, then came the wagon. Bethany glanced over her shoulder to see how the others arranged themselves. The rest of the royal family, with Arabelle in front, followed the wagon. After the royals came the knights, including Sir Caldry and Lord Payne. Lastly, the remaining guards brought up the rear.

  It was a long, noisy parade, even when they slowed to a walk at the city gates. One of the first guards began calling out in a loud voice, “Make way for the king and captured princess! Bethany Kavadh, captured by King Wolfric. Make way for the king…”

  That seems like a bit of an exaggeration, Bethany thought.

  The procession wound through what must have been most of the main streets of the city before turning towards the castle. Bethany had never been in the city without her view blocked by heavy curtains. Now she looked her fill. There didn’t seem to be any logical organization to the layout. Roads were seldom straight, or designated for one type of building. She noticed a shop, such as a shoemaker or a weaver, right next to the high walls of a private estate. Blacksmiths intermingled with brothels and butchers.

  Initially, it gave her ample sources of entertainment, but after the third turn, the crowd took to whooping and howling at her. Bethany tried to ignore their words, but the coarser they became, the more she struggled. Eventually, hot tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  “Whore!” one woman yelled, as she hurtled a rotten fish at her.

  The projectile hit her in the shoulder, leaving a gray streak on her dress. The flying fish was the catalyst the angry mob needed. Half the audience took to chucking rotten food at her: cabbage, fish, and tomatoes soon covered her white dress. This continued until one of the missiles grazed the queen’s horse. Quickly, before anyone could lose a head, the guards fanned out and surrounded the procession to effectively end the crowd's target practice. Still, the damage was already done.

  By the time the wagon worked its way onto the final hill, Bethany’s head ached with the creaking of the wagon, the pounding of horse’s hooves, and the crowd’s monstrous shouting. She looked and smelled like the refuse pile. Bethany tried not to think, but her thoughts had a mind of their own, traveling from one topic to another, finally resting on imagining what her family would think if they saw her now.

  She had once been the most loved of her family: Elegant, beautiful, rich—everything desirable in a woman.

  What was she now? Nothing. Worse than nothing. If Wolfric tried to ransom her, she would be a burden on her family.

  Bethany let the tears roll down her smudged cheeks as the parade made its way back to the castle.

  She didn't hold her head high any longer.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Bethany paced down the length of her room, yet again. It had been five days since the horrifying parade. Without anything to sew or the need to sleep, Bethany found herself bored as she had never been in her life. Before captivity, she always had a task to accomplish with her mother—assisting the healers, seeing to the poor boxes, arranging the evening entertainment. Even in her spare time, she had her music to work on, her embroidery to finish, and her sister to visit. As a slave she had never been left with a minute to call her own.

  Now, as a captive, she found she had nothing but time.

  At first she had tried to find some mistake in her alterations of the dresses given to her by Mirabella, but, of course, they were perfect. After that, she sat and stared out the narrow window. She could only see a small portion of the bailey, and it was seldom full of activity. Next, she counted the large stones used to build the hearth in her room. This experiment grew until she had counted all the stones on each wall. After counting them, she began to name the stones, but gave up after the first couple attempts. On the following day, she spent half her time lying on the floor and crossing her eyes in an effort to find shapes in the stones.

  She never found any.

  The only interruption she received was the delivery of her meals and the occasional bath prepared for her by a row of servants that came and left in complete silence.

  Now, when she felt ready to scream, she paced the length of the room, listening to the sound of her bare feet pattering against the wood floor. As the sun was beginning to descend from its zenith—and therefore shining brightly into her room—Bethany heard the lock on her door clank as a key was turned.

  She stopped her pacing as the door swung open. Flora entered carrying a wide, wooden box.

  “Times to getting dressed,” she announced.

  Bethany looked purposefully down at the gown she was wearing.

  “Nopes,” responded the slave. “Something nicer.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “You eating wiff family.”

  Bethany suddenly felt more inclined to remain in her lonely room. Flora set the box on the foot of the bed and moved to the wardrobe. After a few moments digging, she pulled out the only dress Bethany had struggled to resize. It was heavy with thick, rich embroidery. Bright gold thread adorned the dark blue color of the fabric throughout the skirt and around the cuffs of the long sleeves. Bethany swallowed the lump in her throat—what torment did they have in mind for her now?

  A few minutes later, she was dressed in the new gown and her hair was piled on her head in intricate braids. With a smile on her wide lips, Flora took the box and flipped the lid open. Inside lay an array of jewelry, the center piece being a thick belt of gold links.

  Bethany frowned at the slave, who was already pulling the belt out of the box and moving to fasten it to her waist. When it was attached, Flora took up the necklace—a heavy gold chain accented with three large sapphires. Once the heavy chain was on, Flora flipped the padding aside to reveal a matching bracelet and three sapphire rings.

  “Don’t you think this is a little much?” asked Bethany.

  Before becoming a slave, she would have liked nothing better than to wear this much wealth on her body. It made her feel grown up and regal—like her elder sister or mother. Now, it just felt ridiculous.

  “The king sent them to you; I think he means you to wear them.”

  “Not to keep, surely.”

  Flora shrugged. Finally, the last piece of jewelry was on. Bethany felt weighted down and overwhelmed.

  What in the world were they planning?

  Flora turned back to the box, and Bethany wondered what else could be hidden in its depths. The slave pulled out a small pouch, loosened the drawstrings, and dumped a small, golden item into Bethany’s outstretched hand. She looked down at it and gasped as she recognized her own signet ring.

  Before she could question the slave, the door opened to reveal Sir Erin Caldry. Once again, he was dressed in his best. The sight of the knight, normally looking as though he was about to step onto the battlefield, brought a shiver of fear down her spine.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Bethany watched as his green eyes assessed her appearance. They darkened, and the skin around them tightened as his expression turned into a glare.

  What have I done now? she wondered.

  “Yes,” Bethany responded aloud, trying her best not to let her voice crack. Her efforts caused her to sound disdainful and condescending, even to her own ears.

  The knight held out his arm in a quick jerk. Determined to not look frightened, Bethany th
rew back her head and, with all the grace she could muster, placed her small hand in the crook of his arm. He lowered his arm and bent it until her fingers were smashed in the inside of his elbow and the back of her hand was crushed between his arm and his side. If Bethany had been inclined to flee from him, she would never have been able to free her hand.

  They left her room and made their way to the main staircase that led down to the great hall. At the head of the stairs, the royal family waited. Bethany thought she was overdressed until she saw the others. Mirabelle was dressed in a gown of rich, green velvet. Her long, flowing sleeves were pulled up and pinned at the elbow, to reveal the thick brown fur lining the sleeves. Gems and gold trinkets had been sewn into the heart shaped neck of the dress and along the waistline. On top of this, the local princess wore a delicate crown and a heavy necklace of gold. The queen was no less adorned.

  Even the men were embellished with gold and jewels.

  “Ah, I see Cal found you ready, my dear,” said the king as he approached her. He took her hand and kissed it gallantly. “You look radiant.”

  Bethany felt herself glow with the compliment, and it sickened her. Was she so desperate for admiration that she would accept it from Wolfric—the man who had destroyed her life? Bethany ground her teeth together and lowered her head a fraction of an inch in response. The king’s smile faltered for a second before he gestured for the family to head down the stairs. They waited for Wolfric to take Arabelle’s arm and lead the way. The children descended, oldest to youngest, followed by Bethany, escorted by the knight.

  At the entrance to the great hall, a herald announced them as they entered. It surprised Bethany when she heard him call out.

  “Princess Bethany Kavadh, guest of the king, escorted by Sir Erin Caldry, hero of the Battle of Cascina Bridge, the assault on Nájera, the Battle of Rouen …”

  Bethany’s eyebrows contracted in wonder as she tried to steal a glance at the man escorting her to the high table. She had always feared him, especially when he held a whip, but she had never realized how truly dangerous he was. Many of the men in the castle were dangerous as a result of a bad temper; he was dangerous due to skill. Suddenly the clink of his chainmail and the tap of his scabbard against his leg became deadly, foreboding sounds.