No Fury

Now: Two

The first time I'm brought to his rooms, his steward pulls me-bewildered and half-asleep-from my cot, leads me to a washroom deep inside the velvet expanse of the great hall, scrubs my skin with a coarse brush and scalding water, and then pulls me forward and up a set of stairs a servant such as myself is never to climb.

We move through the doors without a word and I'm shoved toward a mattress so high I have to scramble up as if climbing a tree.

"Get up," the steward commands quietly. "Lie back."

My heart explodes into fear as he rounds the bed and reaches to pull away the scratchy blanket he's wrapped around my naked body.

"My Lord," the steward says, prompting. "I've brought her."

I gasp, scrambling to cover myself. I hadn't noticed the prince in the corner, watching as Sir Douglas walks to the edge of the bed and leans forward to grasp my wrists, hold down my arms.

In the darkness, I can see how tall the prince has become. His eyes fall closed, jaw grows tight.

I haven't spoken to him in two years.

"My Lord," the steward repeats.

A plea from the shadows: "Douglas. Don't."

"You must, my Lord."

"Not like this."

"Just this once, and you are done."

The Prince walks over, dressed only in plain bedclothes. Gone are his thick black sleeves, his heavy green vests and coats. The linen hangs open at his throat exposing strong bones at his collar, a chest heaving below.

His face is drawn. I close my eyes at the misery of it, the otherwise beauty of him cracked and broken. For nearly all of my life, I've known his face better than my own.

The last time I saw him was a fortnight ago: riding his horse past the river. The day was perfect, with more sun than wind and a sky so blue I got lost in it the way I used to get lost in childhood dreams. The prince disappeared around a bend almost as soon as I'd spotted him.

His life is different now. Harder.

In the still darkness, I listen to him undress, to the sound of shuffling. I feel the weight of him climb onto the mattress between my legs, hear his rapid, choppy breaths.

I am reminded that the steward's large hands grip my wrists when the prince's gaze flickers warily up to them.

The steward holds my arms down, you see, because it hurts this first time.

But at least it is fast. The prince doesn't touch me anywhere else. He strokes himself angrily, and leans forward, probing blindly.

The words are carried on a choking exhale: "Forgive me."

A thousand determined stabs; a thousand jabs of a knife.

Tears slip from my eyes at the shock of it, at the injustice. I would have come freely. I belong to him, doesn't he know?

Above me, he jerks and shakes in silence, and then rolls off me with a look of disgust and relief aimed to the ceiling.

His arm comes over his face, voice muffled. "Take her away."