Whumptober, days 16-20
Oct. 20th, 2019 09:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
osprey_archerMore Whumptober! Only eleven days left!
16. Pinned down. The Eagle of the Ninth, Esca.
It was not only the ugliness of holding Marcus down so Galarius can cut his thigh open like raw meat and remove the splinters from the old wound that leaves Esca with a sickish feeling to his stomach, although that was bad enough in all conscience. “Was it as bad as all that?” Marcus asks, already drifting a little on the bitter soothing draught - even laughing a little, as he asks.
Esca manages a smile, because two years as a slave have taught him to put all his feelings aside as needed. “Go to sleep,” he says, and mercifully Marcus does; and Esca staggers out on shaking legs.
He will go to Cottia and Cub soon, to let them know that all is well. Once his legs have steadied.
It is not only seeing Marcus in pain that has cut Esca like a knife. He is remembering the time he was held down himself, after he tried to run away, and they caught him and clipped his ear.
He had not been a slave for very long, then. He thought the make his way to one of the tribes of the Brigantes who do not yet bow to Rome; or, if they had all been defeated, at least to find some who live far from a Roman fort, and live out his days in peace among his own people.
But he did not make it very far. The escape was not well planned, for he was still sick with grief for his family, and also from the blow to his head that had left him lying for dead on the battlefield. They caught him swiftly, and they brought him back, and the slave trader said, “Well, we can’t be having any of that. Clip his ear; that ought to discourage further attempts.”
And Esca, who had not cried in front of these people in all his grief - Esca screamed and fought like a dog, and it took two men to hold him down, and a third to hold him in place by the hair and slice off the top of his ear, with a stroke that hurt like lightning along the side of his head.
Then all the fight went out of him, and he lay still and panting like a beaten dog even after they let him go. For there was no point in moving anymore: there was not anywhere to run. No tribe of Brigantes would want him now that he had been so plainly marked by Rome.
His knees will not stop trembling. He cannot wait any longer; if he does not tell Cottia soon, someone will find her at the bottom of the garden, and she will get in trouble, and then Marcus will be vexed with Esca for taking so long.
But he allows himself to release Cub first. The wolf cub, half-grown now, leaps from his confinement with such strength that he nearly knocks Esca down; and Esca catches Cub around the neck, his hands buried in Cub’s thick fur. He buries his face briefly too, and wipes away any trace of tears against Cub’s neck. The wolf will keep his secrets.
Then he stands, and clucks to Cub, and the wolf trots at his side as they walk down to the bottom of the garden to tell Cottia that all is well with Marcus.
17. “Stay with me”. Natasha, Red Room classmate, Miss Underwood.
The comms in Natasha’s ear crackled. “Status report,” Miss Underwood ordered.
“Brown Recluse down,” Natasha reported. She knelt on the landing of a little-used stairwell, pressing her polyester coat hard over the gushing gunshot wound in Galya’s thigh, but the coat barely seemed to stanch the bleeding. “There’s a lot of blood,” Natasha said, a quaver in her voice, and she cleared her throat and added a more professional, “She can’t go any farther. Please advise.”
“Leave her. Report to rendezvous.”
Galya let out a nearly soundless sob. “Stay with me,” she said, her voice weakened almost to a whisper from loss of blood.
Natasha swallowed again. She seemed to taste the coppery blood all the way down her throat. “Request permission to stay with her, ma’am.”
“Permission denied. Report to rendezvous.”
Galya clutched at Natasha’s wrist, though her grip was weak. “Please,” she begged.
The comms crackled again. “Obey your orders.”
Blood spurted from Galya’s thigh when Natasha removed her hands. “Stay with me!” Galya cried, reaching for Natasha’s arm. Her fingers touched Natasha’s wrist, light as a spider’s legs, and then Natasha was running up the stairs, her bruised ribs throbbing with each stride.
A door burst open, far below. Galya screamed, and her scream echoed in the hard stairwell, blending with the heavy beat of boots pounding up the stairs. Then a burst of gunfire - then silence - until Natasha threw open the door to the roof, and then there was a shout and boots pounding on the stairs again, and Natasha hurtled across the roof and leaped off the edge.
A grande jeté. Natasha soared between the two buildings, ten stories above the ground, outlined for a moment against the soft pink dawn: for a moment almost weightless.
The landing jarred her injured ribs so badly that she nearly screamed. But she couldn’t stop. This was supposed to be an untraceable getaway, the gap between the buildings too wide for any ordinary mortal to jump - but now Natasha had left behind her a trial of Galya’s blood.
Galya could not have made that jump with her injured leg. She could not, she could not, Natasha told herself, as she pounded down staircase after staircase. They would have simply died together, if Natasha stayed.
She burst out of the side door and flung herself into the waiting car. Miss Underwood held out her hand. “You’re half an hour late.”
Natasha left bloody fingerprints on the label of the floppy disc as she handed it over. She stared down at her hands. “Galya died.”
“Hmph.” Miss Underwood stowed the blood-smeared disc in her chic Coach purse. “No excuses.”
For the rest of the ride, Natasha watched the blood dry and flake off her hands.
18. Muffled scream. Adora & Catra in the Fright Zone before Adora’s defection.
Adora woke with her heart hammering when she heard the sound of screams.
At least, she thought they were screams. The distance muffled the noise, so it was hard to tell. It might be a broken pipe, letting off steam.
Adora stretched out a foot, just enough to touch Catra, curled up at the foot of her bunk. She let out a slow breath. Catra was still there. And the noise, whatever it was, hadn’t woken her. Surely it would have woken her if it were anything important. Catra’s hearing was better than Adora’s.
Although a pipe would make a constant noise, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t rise and fall, the way this noise did.
Adora nudged her toes into Catra’s side. Catra woke with a snort. “Do you hear that?” Adora whispered.
But of course at that moment, the sound stopped. Catra rubbed her arm over her bleary eyes.
“Hear what?” Catra asked. But suddenly her pointed ears pricked, and then flattened, cueing to some sound too low for Adora to hear. “I don’t hear anything,” she said, too quickly.
But now Adora could hear it again: distant, muffled screams. She slid off her mat. “Let’s go check it out.”
Catra grabbed her arm. “It’s probably one of Lord Hordak’s experiments,” she announced, and yawned hugely to show how boring she found the whole thing.
“But…”
“Urgh!” Lonnie, two bunks down, let out a frustrated grunt and rolled over, her pillow smushed over her head.
Catra stuck out her tongue in Lonnie’s direction. Then she lay back down herself. “You go if you want,” she said, a little louder, just to let Lonnie know she wasn’t the boss of them. “I’m not losing sleep.”
Adora hesitated. Despite what Catra said, Adora knew that Catra would follow if Adora went.
But the noises, whatever they had been, had stopped. Adora lay down too, and curled up on her side, but she couldn’t fall asleep again. Her eyes wouldn’t even remain closed. She closed them, and then they popped open of their own accord, and she just lay awake staring into the dim constant twilight of the dormitory.
Adora had been noticing more and more things lately that seemed - well, just not quite right. Like these maybe-screams in the night. Little things that niggled at her mind, broken shards that she couldn’t piece together into any coherent whole.
She rubbed Catra’s back with her foot. Catra let out the noise that she always denied was a purr, and Adora smiled, and rolled over, and closed her eyes.
Everything was all right. The noise was probably just a broken steam pipe, after all.
19. Asphyxiation. Natasha. This is a sequel to “Stay with me,” above.
“You! Left! Me! Behind!”
Galya punctuates each word with a punch. Natasha has given up trying to get in a punch herself: she’s just trying to block Galya’s blows.
It’s difficult, because Galya has bionic metal limbs sprouting from either side of her abdomen.
One of those abdominal limbs punches Natasha in the stomach, flinging her against the far wall. Natasha slides to the floor, trying to drag air back into her lungs, but she gets no time to recover: Galya picks her up with her two flesh hands and slams her against the wall. Her bionic pincers pin Natasha’s hands. “Give me one reason not to kill you right now.”
Natasha can’t get enough breath to speak. Blood drips from her nose, hot and coppery on her lips. Galya’s breath smells like onions.
“Well?” Galya demands.
“Oh, just kill me,” Natasha gasps.
She tries to hook her leg around Galya’s knee, to throw her off balance, but Galya just slams her against the wall again. Natasha’s vision spins, black dots flickering at the edges - and that’s before Galya’s hands close around her throat. Not tight enough to crush it, just tight enough to strangle, and if Natasha had any air in her lungs, she’d have some time to think and fight and suffer over her encroaching death -
But her lungs are empty already. In moments, everything goes black.
***
When Natasha wakes, the room is empty. Her throat throbs - her nose aches - her ribs burn - bruises ring her wrists.
Why did Galya leave her alive?
There’s a wrenching sound somewhere far away in the ship, like tearing metal. Natasha sits up, turns her head aside to vomit, tries to stand, and makes it two steps before she falls again.
Not just because she’s unsteady on her feet. Because the ship just lurched to one side.
She’s not sure what’s going on, but she figures that Galya didn’t finish the job because she’s hoping to watch Natasha suffer a slower, more agonizing death.
20. Trembling. Queen of the Sea
I just read Dylan Meconis’s Queen of the Sea and I loved it so much that I couldn’t resist writing a ficlet about Eleanor, the deposed queen. The graphic novel has everything: nuns! on an isolated rocky island! stories about selkies! high politics! true love! a loyal vassal kneeling to his liege lady even though she has been deposed and this declaration of fidelity might get him killed!!!!
***
Eleanor knows they can see her trembling.
It’s the cold - the cold of being rowed across the sea in a longboat in the dark of the night, because her half-sister Kate - her usurper - doesn’t want anyone to see Eleanor brought ashore. She is afraid the people might cheer Eleanor, and so she will not give them the chance. Eleanor tries to warm herself at this cold comfort.
Mainly, though, she is very cold. She stands on the beach in the moonlight, her chin held high as befits a queen - but it is hard to look haughty and regal when she is shivering all over.
A whole line of guards stand in the shadow of the cliffs, faceless shadowy shapes. She wonders if Kate (Eleanor bitterly omits the title Queen) has ordered them to shoot Eleanor on the beach.
A shiver ripples through her body. She clenches her hands at her sides. She will not wrap her arms around herself like a peasant woman.
The cold is making her nose run.
One of the shadow figures steps forward into the moonlight. It is Sir John Pennyworth, one of Kate’s toadies, wearing a fine plumed hat and a sealskin coat that shimmers like quicksilver in the moonlight.
Eleanor sniffs.
Sir John adjusts his coat, briefly exposing a red silk doublet as he removes an edict from an inner pocket. Last time Eleanor saw him, he wore mere worsted.
He unrolls the edict, but he doesn’t look at it. Instead, he looks at Eleanor, his pale eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “The Queen in her mercy,” he says, “has decided not to have you executed.”
Eleanor allows herself a regal nod.
Sir John lowers the edict. “Do you not wish to go down on your knees and praise your sister for her royal mercy?” he demands.
If Eleanor speaks, her teeth will begin to chatter. She gives a single slow shake of her head instead, and is pleased when Sir John’s face darkens. He will not enjoy reporting this exchange to Kate.
He rustles the edict. “You will be taken to Highgate Keep,” he says, “and locked in the dungeon there until further thought has been given to your future fate.”
Eleanor nods again. There is a certain dignity in refusing to speak.
Sir John rolls up the edict. “Really, Ellie,” he says, reviving a hated childhood nickname, “there’s no need to tremble like a beaten dog.”
Eleanor flinches. “I’m cold,” she snaps, and sure enough, her teeth begin to chatter. She clenches her jaw, but she cannot make it stop.
Sir John stands and watches her. There is a soft creaking noise behind him, as if some of the men-at-arms are shifting in their armor. Cold too, perhaps, or sorry to see a woman treated thus.
Sorry perhaps to see their rightful queen treated thus.
Even if her nose runs and her teeth chatter, she will behave in a manner befitting of a queen. Eleanor lifts her chin, straightens her back, and walks slowly toward Sir John. The trembling lessens slightly as she moves. “A carriage is waiting?” she says.
“Her Majesty wishes for her sister to travel in the style befitting her rank,” Sir John replies.
Eleanor grinds her teeth. She will not be surprised if Kate sent a drover’s cart. After all, she thinks Eleanor is the mere bastard child of a king.
But Kate’s prudence has won out over her spite. There is a coach waiting at the top of the cliffs: a black coach with thick black curtains nailed tight, so no one will be able to see the passenger inside.
More proof that Kate fears allowing the populace to see Eleanor. This thought warms Eleanor even more than the brazier tucked in the corner.
Sir John taps the roof of the coach with the jeweled hilt of his sword. “Walk on,” he tells the coachman, and the coach lurches to a start. “Her Majesty,” Sir John tells her, “has ordered that you shall have no visitors.”
“Of course,” says Eleanor. Her teeth are no longer chattering. “She’s afraid that if I had but the help of a single friend, I might prove too dangerous to her.” She thinks of Sir Francis, her faithful friend, though far from her now, serving Eleanor by pretending loyalty to Kate; and the thought of him makes it easy to ignore Sir John’s bluster as he insists that Kate’s orders are the just and merciful edict of a fearless queen.
The brazier has warmed the whole inside of the coach. Eleanor is no longer trembling.
16. Pinned down. The Eagle of the Ninth, Esca.
It was not only the ugliness of holding Marcus down so Galarius can cut his thigh open like raw meat and remove the splinters from the old wound that leaves Esca with a sickish feeling to his stomach, although that was bad enough in all conscience. “Was it as bad as all that?” Marcus asks, already drifting a little on the bitter soothing draught - even laughing a little, as he asks.
Esca manages a smile, because two years as a slave have taught him to put all his feelings aside as needed. “Go to sleep,” he says, and mercifully Marcus does; and Esca staggers out on shaking legs.
He will go to Cottia and Cub soon, to let them know that all is well. Once his legs have steadied.
It is not only seeing Marcus in pain that has cut Esca like a knife. He is remembering the time he was held down himself, after he tried to run away, and they caught him and clipped his ear.
He had not been a slave for very long, then. He thought the make his way to one of the tribes of the Brigantes who do not yet bow to Rome; or, if they had all been defeated, at least to find some who live far from a Roman fort, and live out his days in peace among his own people.
But he did not make it very far. The escape was not well planned, for he was still sick with grief for his family, and also from the blow to his head that had left him lying for dead on the battlefield. They caught him swiftly, and they brought him back, and the slave trader said, “Well, we can’t be having any of that. Clip his ear; that ought to discourage further attempts.”
And Esca, who had not cried in front of these people in all his grief - Esca screamed and fought like a dog, and it took two men to hold him down, and a third to hold him in place by the hair and slice off the top of his ear, with a stroke that hurt like lightning along the side of his head.
Then all the fight went out of him, and he lay still and panting like a beaten dog even after they let him go. For there was no point in moving anymore: there was not anywhere to run. No tribe of Brigantes would want him now that he had been so plainly marked by Rome.
His knees will not stop trembling. He cannot wait any longer; if he does not tell Cottia soon, someone will find her at the bottom of the garden, and she will get in trouble, and then Marcus will be vexed with Esca for taking so long.
But he allows himself to release Cub first. The wolf cub, half-grown now, leaps from his confinement with such strength that he nearly knocks Esca down; and Esca catches Cub around the neck, his hands buried in Cub’s thick fur. He buries his face briefly too, and wipes away any trace of tears against Cub’s neck. The wolf will keep his secrets.
Then he stands, and clucks to Cub, and the wolf trots at his side as they walk down to the bottom of the garden to tell Cottia that all is well with Marcus.
17. “Stay with me”. Natasha, Red Room classmate, Miss Underwood.
The comms in Natasha’s ear crackled. “Status report,” Miss Underwood ordered.
“Brown Recluse down,” Natasha reported. She knelt on the landing of a little-used stairwell, pressing her polyester coat hard over the gushing gunshot wound in Galya’s thigh, but the coat barely seemed to stanch the bleeding. “There’s a lot of blood,” Natasha said, a quaver in her voice, and she cleared her throat and added a more professional, “She can’t go any farther. Please advise.”
“Leave her. Report to rendezvous.”
Galya let out a nearly soundless sob. “Stay with me,” she said, her voice weakened almost to a whisper from loss of blood.
Natasha swallowed again. She seemed to taste the coppery blood all the way down her throat. “Request permission to stay with her, ma’am.”
“Permission denied. Report to rendezvous.”
Galya clutched at Natasha’s wrist, though her grip was weak. “Please,” she begged.
The comms crackled again. “Obey your orders.”
Blood spurted from Galya’s thigh when Natasha removed her hands. “Stay with me!” Galya cried, reaching for Natasha’s arm. Her fingers touched Natasha’s wrist, light as a spider’s legs, and then Natasha was running up the stairs, her bruised ribs throbbing with each stride.
A door burst open, far below. Galya screamed, and her scream echoed in the hard stairwell, blending with the heavy beat of boots pounding up the stairs. Then a burst of gunfire - then silence - until Natasha threw open the door to the roof, and then there was a shout and boots pounding on the stairs again, and Natasha hurtled across the roof and leaped off the edge.
A grande jeté. Natasha soared between the two buildings, ten stories above the ground, outlined for a moment against the soft pink dawn: for a moment almost weightless.
The landing jarred her injured ribs so badly that she nearly screamed. But she couldn’t stop. This was supposed to be an untraceable getaway, the gap between the buildings too wide for any ordinary mortal to jump - but now Natasha had left behind her a trial of Galya’s blood.
Galya could not have made that jump with her injured leg. She could not, she could not, Natasha told herself, as she pounded down staircase after staircase. They would have simply died together, if Natasha stayed.
She burst out of the side door and flung herself into the waiting car. Miss Underwood held out her hand. “You’re half an hour late.”
Natasha left bloody fingerprints on the label of the floppy disc as she handed it over. She stared down at her hands. “Galya died.”
“Hmph.” Miss Underwood stowed the blood-smeared disc in her chic Coach purse. “No excuses.”
For the rest of the ride, Natasha watched the blood dry and flake off her hands.
18. Muffled scream. Adora & Catra in the Fright Zone before Adora’s defection.
Adora woke with her heart hammering when she heard the sound of screams.
At least, she thought they were screams. The distance muffled the noise, so it was hard to tell. It might be a broken pipe, letting off steam.
Adora stretched out a foot, just enough to touch Catra, curled up at the foot of her bunk. She let out a slow breath. Catra was still there. And the noise, whatever it was, hadn’t woken her. Surely it would have woken her if it were anything important. Catra’s hearing was better than Adora’s.
Although a pipe would make a constant noise, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t rise and fall, the way this noise did.
Adora nudged her toes into Catra’s side. Catra woke with a snort. “Do you hear that?” Adora whispered.
But of course at that moment, the sound stopped. Catra rubbed her arm over her bleary eyes.
“Hear what?” Catra asked. But suddenly her pointed ears pricked, and then flattened, cueing to some sound too low for Adora to hear. “I don’t hear anything,” she said, too quickly.
But now Adora could hear it again: distant, muffled screams. She slid off her mat. “Let’s go check it out.”
Catra grabbed her arm. “It’s probably one of Lord Hordak’s experiments,” she announced, and yawned hugely to show how boring she found the whole thing.
“But…”
“Urgh!” Lonnie, two bunks down, let out a frustrated grunt and rolled over, her pillow smushed over her head.
Catra stuck out her tongue in Lonnie’s direction. Then she lay back down herself. “You go if you want,” she said, a little louder, just to let Lonnie know she wasn’t the boss of them. “I’m not losing sleep.”
Adora hesitated. Despite what Catra said, Adora knew that Catra would follow if Adora went.
But the noises, whatever they had been, had stopped. Adora lay down too, and curled up on her side, but she couldn’t fall asleep again. Her eyes wouldn’t even remain closed. She closed them, and then they popped open of their own accord, and she just lay awake staring into the dim constant twilight of the dormitory.
Adora had been noticing more and more things lately that seemed - well, just not quite right. Like these maybe-screams in the night. Little things that niggled at her mind, broken shards that she couldn’t piece together into any coherent whole.
She rubbed Catra’s back with her foot. Catra let out the noise that she always denied was a purr, and Adora smiled, and rolled over, and closed her eyes.
Everything was all right. The noise was probably just a broken steam pipe, after all.
19. Asphyxiation. Natasha. This is a sequel to “Stay with me,” above.
“You! Left! Me! Behind!”
Galya punctuates each word with a punch. Natasha has given up trying to get in a punch herself: she’s just trying to block Galya’s blows.
It’s difficult, because Galya has bionic metal limbs sprouting from either side of her abdomen.
One of those abdominal limbs punches Natasha in the stomach, flinging her against the far wall. Natasha slides to the floor, trying to drag air back into her lungs, but she gets no time to recover: Galya picks her up with her two flesh hands and slams her against the wall. Her bionic pincers pin Natasha’s hands. “Give me one reason not to kill you right now.”
Natasha can’t get enough breath to speak. Blood drips from her nose, hot and coppery on her lips. Galya’s breath smells like onions.
“Well?” Galya demands.
“Oh, just kill me,” Natasha gasps.
She tries to hook her leg around Galya’s knee, to throw her off balance, but Galya just slams her against the wall again. Natasha’s vision spins, black dots flickering at the edges - and that’s before Galya’s hands close around her throat. Not tight enough to crush it, just tight enough to strangle, and if Natasha had any air in her lungs, she’d have some time to think and fight and suffer over her encroaching death -
But her lungs are empty already. In moments, everything goes black.
***
When Natasha wakes, the room is empty. Her throat throbs - her nose aches - her ribs burn - bruises ring her wrists.
Why did Galya leave her alive?
There’s a wrenching sound somewhere far away in the ship, like tearing metal. Natasha sits up, turns her head aside to vomit, tries to stand, and makes it two steps before she falls again.
Not just because she’s unsteady on her feet. Because the ship just lurched to one side.
She’s not sure what’s going on, but she figures that Galya didn’t finish the job because she’s hoping to watch Natasha suffer a slower, more agonizing death.
20. Trembling. Queen of the Sea
I just read Dylan Meconis’s Queen of the Sea and I loved it so much that I couldn’t resist writing a ficlet about Eleanor, the deposed queen. The graphic novel has everything: nuns! on an isolated rocky island! stories about selkies! high politics! true love! a loyal vassal kneeling to his liege lady even though she has been deposed and this declaration of fidelity might get him killed!!!!
***
Eleanor knows they can see her trembling.
It’s the cold - the cold of being rowed across the sea in a longboat in the dark of the night, because her half-sister Kate - her usurper - doesn’t want anyone to see Eleanor brought ashore. She is afraid the people might cheer Eleanor, and so she will not give them the chance. Eleanor tries to warm herself at this cold comfort.
Mainly, though, she is very cold. She stands on the beach in the moonlight, her chin held high as befits a queen - but it is hard to look haughty and regal when she is shivering all over.
A whole line of guards stand in the shadow of the cliffs, faceless shadowy shapes. She wonders if Kate (Eleanor bitterly omits the title Queen) has ordered them to shoot Eleanor on the beach.
A shiver ripples through her body. She clenches her hands at her sides. She will not wrap her arms around herself like a peasant woman.
The cold is making her nose run.
One of the shadow figures steps forward into the moonlight. It is Sir John Pennyworth, one of Kate’s toadies, wearing a fine plumed hat and a sealskin coat that shimmers like quicksilver in the moonlight.
Eleanor sniffs.
Sir John adjusts his coat, briefly exposing a red silk doublet as he removes an edict from an inner pocket. Last time Eleanor saw him, he wore mere worsted.
He unrolls the edict, but he doesn’t look at it. Instead, he looks at Eleanor, his pale eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “The Queen in her mercy,” he says, “has decided not to have you executed.”
Eleanor allows herself a regal nod.
Sir John lowers the edict. “Do you not wish to go down on your knees and praise your sister for her royal mercy?” he demands.
If Eleanor speaks, her teeth will begin to chatter. She gives a single slow shake of her head instead, and is pleased when Sir John’s face darkens. He will not enjoy reporting this exchange to Kate.
He rustles the edict. “You will be taken to Highgate Keep,” he says, “and locked in the dungeon there until further thought has been given to your future fate.”
Eleanor nods again. There is a certain dignity in refusing to speak.
Sir John rolls up the edict. “Really, Ellie,” he says, reviving a hated childhood nickname, “there’s no need to tremble like a beaten dog.”
Eleanor flinches. “I’m cold,” she snaps, and sure enough, her teeth begin to chatter. She clenches her jaw, but she cannot make it stop.
Sir John stands and watches her. There is a soft creaking noise behind him, as if some of the men-at-arms are shifting in their armor. Cold too, perhaps, or sorry to see a woman treated thus.
Sorry perhaps to see their rightful queen treated thus.
Even if her nose runs and her teeth chatter, she will behave in a manner befitting of a queen. Eleanor lifts her chin, straightens her back, and walks slowly toward Sir John. The trembling lessens slightly as she moves. “A carriage is waiting?” she says.
“Her Majesty wishes for her sister to travel in the style befitting her rank,” Sir John replies.
Eleanor grinds her teeth. She will not be surprised if Kate sent a drover’s cart. After all, she thinks Eleanor is the mere bastard child of a king.
But Kate’s prudence has won out over her spite. There is a coach waiting at the top of the cliffs: a black coach with thick black curtains nailed tight, so no one will be able to see the passenger inside.
More proof that Kate fears allowing the populace to see Eleanor. This thought warms Eleanor even more than the brazier tucked in the corner.
Sir John taps the roof of the coach with the jeweled hilt of his sword. “Walk on,” he tells the coachman, and the coach lurches to a start. “Her Majesty,” Sir John tells her, “has ordered that you shall have no visitors.”
“Of course,” says Eleanor. Her teeth are no longer chattering. “She’s afraid that if I had but the help of a single friend, I might prove too dangerous to her.” She thinks of Sir Francis, her faithful friend, though far from her now, serving Eleanor by pretending loyalty to Kate; and the thought of him makes it easy to ignore Sir John’s bluster as he insists that Kate’s orders are the just and merciful edict of a fearless queen.
The brazier has warmed the whole inside of the coach. Eleanor is no longer trembling.
