Storms of Destiny (27 page)

Ulandra gasped, trying to do as he bade. His hand was between her thighs now, pushing … pushing at her most secret place! She clenched her teeth, trying not to fight, but she could not make herself move. He solved the problem by swinging one leg over her right one, then yanking her legs apart.

As he did so, Ulandra felt his hand, his big finger, slide upward, into her, until it suddenly stopped. She gasped. It hurt, even though his hand was slippery with some oil.

“Please, my lord, that hurts,” she whimpered.

“Has to be done,” he said, his voice harsh with urgency.

“You want a baby, don’t you?”

“Y-Yes … but … please … not like this … please …”

He gave a short bark of exasperated laughter. “I’m sorry, m’lady, there just isn’t any other way. Now just hold still.”

With one of his quick, pantherlike motions, he rolled atop her. Ulandra felt something large and hard and hot butting at her thigh for a second, then it touched the spot his finger had invaded. “Hold still!” he ordered, and she felt his body gather itself, then he shoved himself into her.

The pain was excruciating. Ulandra’s eyes popped open and, without her willing it, her mouth popped open, a scream welling in her throat—but his hand was there, clamping over her mouth.

“Shut up,” he snarled, his expression so dark and savage that he looked like a wild beast. “Goddess, you’ll bring the guards in here! Lie
still
!”

He thrust into her, harder this time, and his hand slipped until it was covering both her mouth and nose, smothering her. Ulandra tried to move her head, push at his shoulders, but he was too strong, too heavy. Now he was pushing into her again … then pulling out partway, then another thrust, another …

Ulandra jerked her head, thrashing wildly, and managed to free her nose. She drew breath. That was better … but oh, how the invasion hurt!

He was thrusting harder and faster now, panting. He dropped his head, nuzzled her breasts, then bit her nipple.

More pain. Ulandra closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear to watch his face, his mouth, against her skin.

Seconds later he thrust into her so hard that he grunted with the effort, but this time he did not withdraw. Moments later she felt his whole body quiver. He grunted again, and now the sound was soft, filled with pleasure. She felt him relax. A moment later he rolled off her.

“There,” he said. “All done. That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

He yanked the covers up over himself and turned away, his back to her.

Ulandra lay there, afraid to move. She didn’t want to disturb him.
Perhaps he’ll fall asleep …

He did fall asleep. Within minutes his breathing had steadied, become regular, and then he began to snore lightly.

Only then did Ulandra dare push herself up and look down at her body. Blood streaked her thighs, and the white sheets were as stained as if she had gotten her monthly flux in the middle of the night and never awakened. She moved her legs slightly, and pain answered. She was lying in a sod-den, sticky red mess.

She wanted nothing more than to get up, to leave, to wash all trace of him away. But if she moved, he might awake, and perhaps he would want to do
that
again.

It was cold in the chamber. The fire had gone out.

Greatly daring, she eased her hand down, managed to tug the blanket up over her.

She did not dare weep aloud, lest it wake Salesin, but tears flowed from her eyes, wetting her tangled hair.

Goddess … please, help me … please …

Ulandra wasn’t even sure what she was praying for. She lay there, exhausted, her body throbbing with pain. If only she could sleep!

But she hurt too much to sleep.

Why did it have to be like that?
she wondered.
Why didn’t
someone tell me?

She knew now that her husband cared nothing for her. To Salesin, she was naught but a means to an heir.

Goddess, is it too much to ask that my husband treat me
with some respect, some kindness?

As she lay silently weeping, a face suddenly came into her mind. Prince Eregard, as he’d stood looking down on her, that day in the hall of the palace. There had been more than kindness in his eyes—there had been tenderness. Caring.

Why am I thinking of Prince Eregard?
she wondered.

He’s dead. He can’t help me, nobody can help me.

Finally, when there were no more tears in her to weep, Ulandra had a thought.
Perhaps he has gotten me with child.

If he has, this will not have to happen again.

She lay awake the rest of that endless night, praying to the Goddess with every fiber of her being.
Please, Lady Goddess, let me be with child!

Eregard lay with his face pressed against the sour dirt of the gaol cabin, his back throbbing with every gasping breath. He remembered hearing his father’s judges when they’d sentenced petty thieves and other miscreants to public whippings—five lashes, ten, fifteen, twenty or more. But never, in all that time, had he given even a moment’s thought to the pain those people would soon suffer. Pain … it was beyond pain. Pain was a stomachache, or toothache. Pain was a throbbing head. This was something huge that filled his whole world. He could feel every stroke as a separate line of agony, like fifteen red-hot bars of iron lying pressed against his flesh.

Fifteen lashes …

The Prince had lost track of how long it had been since he stumbled onto the dock in Port Alvar. Midwinter Festival had come and gone. He remembered the day, remembered the decorations that had festooned the entrance to the master’s estate. The master had ordered a side of bacon and a jug of ale to be given to each slave, and they had all had a holi-day from work. Eregard remembered the other slaves cautioning him to save his bacon, portion it out slowly, rather than devour it as he had wanted to.
Ye’ll get sick as a poisoned pup, lad,
the oldest slave, Malfrey, had told him.
Trust
me on this. Ye can’t live on greens, fello bean mush, and
river-mussel broth for months, then fill up on bacon.

Those bits of greasy, oversalted bacon had tasted as fine as anything he’d ever eaten at his father’s table. He had a sudden, vivid image of those Pelanese royal banquets, the tables groaning with everything from roast peacock to airy meringue concoctions filled with creamy ices …

Eregard felt tears well up, and gritted his teeth, trying to force them back. Weeping did no good. He’d found that out long ago. His first week at Master Corlena’s estate he’d tried to run away. He’d been caught before nightfall. Master Corlena had not punished him, physically. Instead he’d shown Eregard one of the slaves, the man who worked the bellows in the smithy.

“Frin here ran away, too,” Master Corlena said. “How many times, Frin?”

“Two, Master Corlena,” the red-haired slave had replied, not looking up.

“Come over here and show His Highness what happened to you after the second time, Frin,” the master ordered.

Obediently, the slave crossed the smithy, walking with a painful, lurching gait. He stopped before Eregard, turned around, then leaned over and rolled up the leg of his breeches. A hideous, livid scar ran across the back of his knee. The leg had healed, but it was clear that the man had been deliberately crippled.

Eregard had not tried to run away again.

The little gaol cabin was dim. Not much light filtered through the small barred windows, but he thought it must be almost evening. He must have lain unconscious for an hour or so after they’d taken him down from the whipping post and tossed a bucket of brine across his back. He repressed a shudder at the memory.

Just three mornings ago he’d awakened realizing that spring was well and truly on the way. As he headed for the office to work on Master Corlena’s accounts, he’d actually felt his spirits lift as he felt the mild breeze and the warm sunshine caressing his face. After months of winter, huddling into a tiny cabin and a single bedstead with four other unwed male slaves, nursing a smoky fire to keep warm, the spring weather felt like a benediction.

When he’d arrived in the office, though, he found not only Master Corlena, but Overseer Barlin waiting there, and his spirits had plummeted. The overseer, a big man with swarthy features and lank black hair, had smiled, showing stained and blackened teeth. “G’mornin’, Your Highness. You won’t be needed here today, you’ll be joining us in the fields. We need every hand for the planting, make no mistake.”

Eregard had stared at him for a moment, feeling the metal collar around his neck seem to tighten. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.

The Prince had worked the fields before, and had come to dread the experience. His hands were rough and callused now, but the rough-handled farm implements could still raise blisters. He could tell that he was stronger than he had been—he was certainly far thinner—but his back still ached fiercely from the endless bending and straightening, bending and stooping.

But he’d learned quickly to say as little as possible, so he silently followed Barlin to the fields. He and the other twenty field slaves had worked hard the entire day, breaking up the winter-hard clods of earth with hoes, hauling barrows full of rocks out of the field, then planting and fertilizing the seeds.

Eregard had worked as hard as any of the field hands. He’d also learned that slacking was sure to call the Overseer’s attention to him.

Apparently, Master Corlena had told the man about Eregard’s claim to be a Prince of Pela, because Barlin never lost a chance to gibe at Eregard, calling him “Your Highness”

and burlesquing formal bows whenever he addressed him.

Eregard tried to close his ears, but rage built in him, slowly but surely. By the end of his third day in the fields, he found himself hoping that Barlin would trip in a furrow and break his bull neck.

Still, he’d managed to keep his temper until the work was finished, mid-afternoon of the third day. “All right, come on, come on in!” Barlin shouted, waving them to him. Eregard was glad to dump his last load of rocks on the rock pile, then head back. He was thinking about nothing more profound than a long drink of water, then a wash at the pump.

One of the young, female slaves, pregnant with her first child, was slow to return from the field. Barlin had waved at her impatiently as the others gathered around him. “Analis!

Hurry up! Run, bitch!”

By the time she plodded, one hand on the small of her back, up to where the work crew was gathered, and reached out for the dipper that stood waiting in the water bucket, Barlin, never a patient man, had been in a black mood. As Analis raised the dipper of water to her lips, the overseer slapped it out of her hand, then cuffed her sharply across the face. “No water for you until you learn to obey orders, you ugly sow!”

Analis had stood there, water running down her face, staring at him in shock. Eregard must’ve made a sound of protest, for the big man swung around to confront him. “Oh, so you fancy pigs, Your Highness? Well, this one would make a clumsy lady-in-waiting!”

Eregard didn’t think; he made no conscious decision. He was as surprised as his fellow slaves when he saw his own fist connect squarely with Barlin’s face. As if it had happened to someone else, he heard the man’s nose crack as it broke, saw blood gush as the overseer fell back onto the ground, then stood there gaping at the man lying still.

After long moments, Eregard realized that his hand hurt.

Absently he stood there rubbing it, unable to believe what he’d just done. Then, while several slaves tended to Barlin, two of his fellows grabbed his arms and marched him back to Master Corlena. Excitedly, they reported the entire incident.

The master had shaken his head. “I knew you’d bring me trouble,” he said to his erstwhile clark. Turning his head, he ordered his grown son to go and tend to Barlin.

Corlena had overseen Eregard’s punishment personally.

First they’d branded him on the wrist with the numeral 1.

Striking a master or overseer was not a crime punishable by death … the first time. If he ever did it again, though, Eregard knew that brand would mark him for a slow and grotesque death.

“Fifteen lashes,” Corlena ordered. “You two—the ones who brought him in—see to it, and stint not. Your reward shall be a jug of ale for each of you.”

Eregard had been in such pain from the brand that he offered no resistance as they marched him to the whipping post, then fastened his bound hands to a hook set up high.

One of the burly fieldmen swished a long teamster’s whip

back and forth. When Eregard was securely tethered, his captor stepped back.

The leather lash was narrow, and cut deeply with each stroke. Eregard repressed a shiver as he relived that slow, deadly count.
“One …”
and then the hissing of the lash through the air had followed, and the loud crack as it struck.

He tried to keep silent, but by the time they reached
“Five”
he was screaming. By the time they cut him down, he was barely conscious, and so hoarse he could scarcely whimper. They’d tossed the bucket of brine over him, then dragged him to the prisoner’s crib and flung him inside. He hadn’t even felt the impact with the dirt floor.

Now he tried to raise his head, but even that tiny movement made his vision blur. Eregard moaned; he urgently needed to relieve himself, but he couldn’t move.
I will wet
myself like an infant, then lie here in it,
he realized.

Behind him, he heard the door creak, then soft footsteps.

He managed to open his eyes and turn his head slightly. Two small bare feet were approaching, encrusted with dirt from the fields. Another slave, then.

Someone knelt beside him, and he saw cheap, faded cal-ico spread out—a skirt. His visitor was female.

“Eregard?” a soft voice whispered. “Can you hear me? It’s Analis. I’ve brought some willow bark salve for your back.”

His lips moved. “Analis …” It was barely more than a breath.

“Shhhh, this will help.”

The first touch stung like a brand. He couldn’t hold back a whimper. But the cool salve was soothing, and after a few moments it did indeed deaden some of the pain. By the time Analis was finished with her ministrations, Eregard was able to sit up. He gestured weakly at the bucket that rested a few feet away. “Can you … can you hand me that, please?”