Royal Outlaw: (Royal Outlaw, Book 1) (10 page)

The healing of her injuries was being sped up dramatically. Mariel watched as the archmagician’s face paled from the strain and energy healing demanded, especially the healing of bruises and broken bones. She was tempted to tell him to stop, that she had had far worse injuries before, but the fact that it was Dreyfuss, whose control over evraïsér was the reason she had unwillingly lost her freedom, made her decide to let him continue healing.

Dreyfuss released his connection to the evraïsér once the last scratch was completely healed. Pale and exhausted, he staggered out of the room.

Before Mariel could contemplate what had just happed or inspect her newly healed body, a large woman jerked her out of the lounge chair and dragged her in the direction of an open door in the side of the bedchamber. Two other well-muscled women stood over a tub filled with hot steaming water. The woman, who was the largest of the three, released her arm and pulled Mariel’s grimy shirt over her head. The other two women attached her sword belt and breeches.

Mariel lashed out, her muscles bunching in preparation for a fight. “Stop!”

The women paid no attention to her command and continued to strip her down. In a matter of seconds, Mariel was completely naked and she wrestled the women as they tossed her into the bathtub. Mariel went under the steaming water and came up coughing. She gripped the sides to heave herself out, but the women shoved her under again, causing water to slosh all over the marble floor of the wash-chamber.

Mariel thrashed, but she had the disadvantage of being outnumbered and trapped in a large slippery tub filled with water. The women began to painfully scrub every inch of Mariel’s body, including places she had never let anyone touch before. She did not think princesses were normally treated like this, but these women had no respect for her: a mere girl who had come from the societal underworld.

When all the dirt, sweat, and blood had been scrubbed clean, the women lifted her from the tub and placed her on the floor. The largest woman held her tightly to be sure she would not escape as the other women drained the tub of the dirty water. Three smaller women entered the now crowded washroom and stared at the princess dripping water on the already flooded floor. These new women carried buckets of steaming water which they dumped into the empty tub. 

The smaller women seemed to be frightened of Mariel who still fought her captors as though her life depended on it. Mariel felt shamed knowing that these women had done nothing to harm her. For their benefit, and because she knew that she had no other choice, she ceased struggling. The large woman dragged Mariel back to the tub. She tried to climb in with at least a little dignity, but the woman shoved her. Mariel quickly held her breath as she was fully submerged beneath the water.

She did not struggle against the three muscular women as they began to scrub her anew, this time with soap that smelled strongly of lavender. The three smaller women who had brought the second round of hot water began to pick up her disgusting, soaked clothes from the wet floor.

“Where are you taking those?” Mariel cried in alarm as one of the women picked up her weapons.

The woman looked up at her with wide eyes like a doe trapped by hunters.

“Don’ list’n. Do as yer tol’!” the large woman barked over her shoulder.

Although the woman holding Mariel’s weapons looked frightened, she glanced at Mariel who was no longer fighting as she was painfully scrubbed with lavender soap. “She is the princess.”

“This ‘ow a pri’cess act?” the large woman demanded looking pointedly at the flooded washroom and her sodden skirt and apron.

“No, ma’am, but she isn’t a sack of laundry either,” The smaller woman said as she left the room carrying Mariel’s weapons, which the girl hoped she would get back.

The large woman—who Mariel now understood to be a laundress, probably called in specially by Dreyfuss to deal with the difficult new princess—muttered under her breath about abominations and disrespect.

Finally the three laundresses hauled a spotless, naked Mariel smelling strongly of lavender out of the tub. They led the girl back into the lavish bedroom where another woman waited with a pile of red and white fabric.

The last time Mariel had been dressed by another person was when she was six, and she did not remember it being so painful or violent. The large laundress pushed Mariel over until she lay on the edge of the bed facing up toward the canopy. A silk loincloth was pulled up over her legs. Mariel was hauled to her feet to have a white silk chemise dragged over her head, followed swiftly by countless layers of skirts. Before one of the laundresses had completely settled the last petticoat on her, another woman wrapped a corset around her middle. The laundress pulled on the strings causing any air that had been in Mariel’s lungs to whoosh out as the animal bone dug into her ribs. Mariel could not even try to draw another breath of air before the world was temporarily thrown into darkness as the red cotton velveteen dress was put on her.

“Let me measure!” The seamstress called out before the laundresses could do anything else to the girl.

Mariel stood perfectly still as the seamstress measured her with gentle hands—a nice contrast compared to the laundresses—and tightened the waist of the dress to better fit the girl’s slender figure.

“I will have to take all of your measurements later, your Highness,” the seamstress told Mariel kindly. “I will send in the magician now.”

The woman curtsied as she left the room, but Mariel did not have time to even wish the woman would stay rather than the three laundresses before she was pushed onto the bed. The laundresses held her facing the wall as someone else entered the room. Soon Mariel felt the water in her hair evaporating. The magician left as quickly as he had come, but two of the laundresses continued to hold her on the bed as the third brushed her tangled mess of dry hair.

Brushing was not the best way to describe what the woman did. It was more like yanking and tearing out large chunks of hair. The moment the last tangle had been conquered, the laundress tugged Mariel’s hair back and up into a bun. The pins pushed into her hair scraped painfully against her scalp.

When her hair was in place—so tightly pinned that Mariel doubted it would ever come loose—a sheer veil was attached over it. Shoes that pinched tightly even before Mariel tried to stand on them were put on her feet and a ruby set into a gold base on a chain was clasped around her neck. The girl began to struggle again when she caught sight of the apple slice and sharp needle in one of the laundresses hands. She became still as a corpse once the apple slice was positioned beneath her earlobe and braced herself as the needle shot toward her ear. A sharp stab of pain bloomed in her earlobe, but Mariel refused to cry out. The other ear was soon pierced and ruby earrings were attached.

Without warning, the laundresses released her and moved quickly toward the door. “Stay ‘ere,” The large woman commanded before slamming the door as she left.

Mariel felt like she had just been struck by a god’s angry bolt of lightning. She stared in amazement at the closed door. She looked down at herself imprisoned in a dress that was probably worth as much money as it would take to feed a village for years. She felt sick with that thought, knowing she was now a part of the upper class who allowed the poverty-stricken lower class to die of starvation and cold from lack of proper clothing and shelter, while they lived in over-done homes wearing lavish, impractical clothes.

The normal breaths that Mariel took were impossible with the tight corset restricting the amount of air allowed into her lungs, so she was forced to take smaller breaths. The gown was heavier than Mariel had expected a noblewoman’s clothing to be, and the skirt flared widely. She pushed herself off the bed and into a standing position. She wobbled precariously on the shoes that painfully pinched her feet while the wide, heavy skirt threatened to pull her down. Mariel did not even try to take a step before she sat back on the bed and tugged off the torturous shoes and threw them at the wall.

Once in the corridor, she retraced the path she had taken as Dreyfuss’s personal prisoner. Servants moved out of her way as they stared at her in astonishment. When she reached the ground floor she spotted a guard patrolling one of the corridors. He watched her warily as she approached him.

“Hello,” Mariel said, “Would you please tell me where the Versati Corps training yard is?”

The guard bowed to her. “I can take you if you like, milady.”

Mariel hated being addressed like that.

“Yes, please. Back corridors too, if you don’t mind.”

Mariel looked straight ahead to avoid seeing the guard glance at her with an amazed expression on his face every few seconds in disbelief that he was walking next to a young noblewoman, although he did not appear to know exactly how high ranked she was in the social hierarchy.

As they walked, Mariel observed the corridors and the people within them. She also consciously thought about taking smaller breaths and moving slower than normal. She remembered watching the queen rise gracefully from her throne without a hint that her clothes were this heavy and impractical.
It’s all about image
, Mariel thought in disgust.
I’ll never fall into that trap.

The guard led her out onto the palace grounds and Mariel was strengthened by the feel of warm sunshine on her skin and the soft grass beneath her feet. She wished for her weapons, or at least one knife. Despite all of the heavy fabric, she felt naked without their familiar weight. She generally did not wear her weapons when she was in Parloipae, but that was different because she felt safe amongst friends. Here she was vulnerable amongst enemies.

The guard stopped. “The training yard is over there.”

Mariel realized the guard was afraid he might get in trouble for taking her to a place that few—if any—noblewomen ever visited. “Thank you. I can go alone from here.”

The guard bowed gratefully and retreated back into the palace. Mariel looked toward the training yard, not really sure why she was going there to torture herself some more. Perhaps she just wanted to see her papa again, a familiar face among all the hostile or astonished ones she had been seeing. Maybe it was because she wanted to feel the weight of steel in her hands. She could also not disregard the idea that she might be going there to remember who she was and to anger the king and queen more. In the end, Mariel decided it was a mixture of all of these things before she set off toward the training yard.

Mariel heard her papa’s voice before she walked out from behind the barracks and into the training yard. She paused to listen to him instructing the Versati Corps trainees. He actually sounded happy. Mariel knew that should make her happy too, but it did not. Not when she was the reason he could not be part of the Versati Corps. Of course, Darren had willingly chosen to leave the corps, but the reason stemmed from Mariel. Had Mariel’s mother never seduced naïve, young Sergeant Darren Haroldsson, he never would have come to understand how corrupt the king was, and his life would not now be in danger because Their Majesties wanted his daughter as their heir. If Mariel had never been born, Darren would still be a part of the elite Versati Corps that he loved, proudly serving a kingdom he admired and respected.

Mariel took a deep breath, which turned into a bunch of small, gasping breaths thanks to the extremely tight corset. She threw her shoulders back and stepped out from behind the barracks and into view of the training yard.

Surprise ran through her when she saw how many men were present. All of them wore Versati Corps uniforms, but less than thirty were trainees. The other twenty or so men were full-fledged members of the corps with a variety of ranks. Mariel automatically searched for Captain Clemens, head of the Versati Corps, who had argued with the king to allow Darren to remain in the Versati Corps after they discovered his part in Princess Carolina’s pregnancy. Captain Clemens had also visited Mariel several times at Remel where she had lived prior to whatever events had taken place during the hole in her memory. She was disappointed to see that his face was not among those in the crowd.

As she entered the training yard, every eye turned toward her except Darren’s, since he faced the opposite direction. They stared at her in amazement, not because they knew who she was—not even Art and the twelve trainees who had rescued her and Darren from the ogres recognized her now—but because she was a noblewoman standing in the training grounds of the Versati Corps.

Mariel fought a blush as she caught several of the men’s eyes rake her down her body like James’s eyes often did.

Darren realized that his audience’s attention had shifted and turned to see the cause. Color did flame in Mariel’s cheeks as she saw her papa’s astonished expression, which soon turned to anger. “You clean up well,” he said, obviously trying to be polite.

Mariel regretted her decision to come to the training yard.

A crafty grin began to spread across Darren’s face as he looked at her outfit. “You’re just in time. I was asking for a volunteer to challenge me to swordplay to demonstrate some of the new techniques I showed these men, and in you walk. It’s like Valmir himself set it up.”

Mariel’s squished stomach contracted.
This is cruel
, she thought angrily, but she knew why he was doing it and it just hurt more. Darren wanted to show Mariel that the free life she had led with him would not mix with the lavish, but enslaved life, she was now accepting. He was trying to show her what she was sacrificing to become princess, but he did not realize that she was already hurting more than he could ever know.

“Papa—”

“That’s your daughter?” exclaimed the large trainee Mariel had met earlier. “It can’t be, she was all dirty and wearing men’s clothing and had black eyes and a broken nose and she was fighting ogres with you! This girl looks like a real lady. That ain’t the same girl.”

“It is. A little water and healing magic can go a long way.” Darren leaned close and sniffed. “Lavender. Your mother wore that when I first met her.”

If her papa had driven a dagger in her gut it could not have hurt more. His words meant that she was like all the other nobles, that she was a real princess.

“I don’t understand,” Art said. “I get why you were pardoned, but this,” he pointed to Mariel, “doesn’t make sense.”

Darren smiled broadly, but behind that smile Mariel could see his angry mind working at her expense. He wanted her to be humiliated so she would give up the foolish notion that she should be princess, not understanding she could not.

“I never properly introduced her. This is my daughter, Mariel.”

The effect this simple statement had on the group of gathered soldiers was almost instantaneous. With the addition of the name, the last puzzle piece was put in place and the men could now see the whole picture.

“As in
Mariel de Sharec
? The
princess?
”

Mariel winced at her new name and title, but refused to acknowledge it.

“Good gods!” Art swore, staring at Darren. “No wonder you were pardoned of all crimes: you don’t just know the princess, you fathered her!”

The large trainee jumped to his feet. “You said you
knew
the princess, you didn’t say you
were
her.”

Mariel found her voice. “It’s not something I like to boast about.”

“I think we’ve done enough chatting, for now,” Darren interrupted. “Arms-Master Malen, if you would loan my daughter your sword, I can continue the demonstration.”

A tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair stepped out of the crowd. “Wouldn’t you prefer practice swords?”

Mariel, imprisoned in the cumbersome dress, did not want to fight at all, but she was not about to tell her papa that. She hoped he would at least agree to the suggestion of practice swords. Her hope went unfounded.

“Mariel is perfectly capable of using a sharp-edged sword, aren’t you?”

Arms-Master Malen handed her his sword and Mariel relaxed slightly as her hand closed around the familiar feeling of steel. This sword was much heavier than her zreshlan made one, but it did not make much of a difference to Mariel. Darren had taught her that there would be times when she would be separated from her sword and when that happened she needed to be able to use any sword or weapon at hand. The weight of the sword was not what Mariel was concerned about; it was the unfamiliar weight of the dress and the tightness of the corset that worried her. 

She was tempted to tell her papa she could not duel him, but a little voice in her mind asked,
Am I afraid?
Mariel was not about to admit to fear, so she gripped the sword tightly in her hand and lifted it into the starting position as best she could given her handicaps.  

Darren chuckled and moved his feet into the ready position. Mariel watched his familiar graceful move as he attacked. Her well-trained body reacted. She shook with the force of blocking his heavy blow. Darren pulled back his sword and moved with light, skilled steps. He began to circle her and Mariel’s feet moved in the normal pattern, which was quickly obstructed by layers of skirts. Her bare foot caught the bottom of the innermost petticoat and the whole weight of the dress shifted. She moved quickly to regain her balance and Darren took the opening.

He thrust at her, but Mariel brought up her sword to fend him off. She knew he would never actually hurt her and had enough control over the sword to stop it a hair’s breadth from her skin if she failed to block in time, but she hated feeling so weak and vulnerable with a sharp sword flying toward her. With the blasted corset keeping her middle section board-straight, she lost the normal flexibility she had, which proved an impediment to her movements.

Darren launched into a series of brutal attacks that Mariel could normally fight off with ease, but with the hindrance of the gown, she barely managed to stop each successive blow. Mariel’s compressed lungs strained against the corset for oxygen. She began to feel slightly dizzy as sweat poured down her temple.

When she almost failed to parry in time, Darren backed away. Mariel knew that in a normal duel of swordplay Darren would have taken advantage of her weakening state and finished her off, but he was trying to teach her a lesson. Her chest heaved up and down as she watched her papa circle her again. She saw an opening and lunged, but her skirts got in the way again and she stumbled forward trying not to fall flat on her face.

“I taught you how to use footwork, not stumble around like some drunk.”

Mariel felt the sting and humiliation of her papa’s words, and anger pulsed through her veins. Switching her sword to her left hand, she grabbed a fistful of skirts in her tired right hand and lifted them out of the way. She attacked again, this time managing to engage him. Darren shrugged off each blow she struck, dancing out of the way like the swordmaster he was. The dizziness from lack of air made Mariel’s head swim dangerously and the sword began to feel heavier and heavier in her tiring arm.

She continued to trip and stumble over her skirts because there was far too much fabric for her to hold up to keep it from hampering her footwork. Darren moved with elegance, like a graceful dancer. His sword work was swift and nimble.

Mariel did not feel like the swordmaster she normally was, but a girl who had never held a sword before. She began to worry that she no longer had the control to stop the momentum of her weapon if Darren failed to block one of her blows. Although she doubted that would happen, she knew even swordmasters made mistakes, especially if they became arrogant in a fight, like Darren was now. It would be no good to kill her papa when the reason she wore the atrocious outfit was to prevent that very thing.

Mariel ceased her fumbled attack, but refused to surrender, knowing that would be more humiliating than losing. Darren attacked with vicious intensity. Mariel clumsily blocked each blow until their blades met and slid hilt to hilt. Darren skillfully caught his cross-guard on hers before she could disengage and tore the sword from her grip. Mariel’s center of gravity was thrown backward and she could not hurry her feet back beneath her in time. Skirts and dust flared up around her as she fell on her rear. Her chest heaved up and down, and she hoped it would not burst out of the bodice, not when so many eyes were watching.

“I’m disappointed in you,” Darren said and Mariel knew he meant more than her bad swordplay.

She did not look up, not daring to see the anger flaming in his eyes. She also was not certain she could get up from the ground.

“What in the name of all the gods in the heavens is going on here?”

King Vincent II had entered the training yard accompanied by four guards. His entire face was an angry, blotchy red color as he marched right over to Mariel who sat on the ground in an unladylike fashion.

Unlike in the throne hall, the king had no trouble finding words. “You ungrateful little wench. You were supposed to wait in your apartments, not run down to a practice yard. You are a princess now, not a moronic commoner.”

With a great deal of pushing and heaving, Mariel managed to get herself into a standing position. She thrust out her chin and faced the king squarely. “Commoners aren’t stupid.”

“They are beneath us. Filthy garbage the gods placed here only to do our bidding.”

“You disgusting pig! You are a self-centered nincompoop whose only loves are food and power!”

The king’s hand hit her flat across the cheek, causing a startling smack to split the air. “You will obey me!”

Mariel swung her head back to face him, her cheek stinging painfully where he had slapped her, but the slap only served to anger her more rather than cow her. She began to laugh, almost insanely like she had when Dreyfuss had first caught her at the river. “You actually think that a slap will make me bow to your will?”

He lifted his hand again, but Mariel reached out and twisted it. The king’s face grew taunt with pain and two of his guards stepped forward, unsure of what to do.

“I have agreed to be your precious little princess, do not ask me to scrape the floor in wake of your passage, also.” She released her hold on him and stepped back.

King Vincent rubbed his wrist, glaring at her with intense hatred. “I will break you yet. Tomorrow morning you leave for finishing school, you will not return here until you have proven yourself a proper lady.”

“
Finishing school?
” Finishing school was common for noble girls, but uncommon for royalty.

The king seemed to have realized he had found a hole in her defenses, and smirked. “Yes, the arrangements have all been made. I thought it best for you to train to be a princess away from the prying eyes of important people. Thank Valmir this little stunt you pulled of swordplay was in front of the Versati Corps and not knights.”

Mariel’s anger flared anew. “Why? Because they’re
commoners
, so you don’t have to worry about me humiliating you in front of prospective suitors?”

He laughed shortly. “See, it’s not so hard to think like the nobility.”

“I will
never
truly be one of you.”

He sneered. “We’ll see.” He began to circle her like a predator. His eyes carefully observed her. “Too skinny, but that is easily fixed. White, straight teeth—impressive having lived more than half your life on the streets. Chin . . . too strong and defined for a lady. Nose . . . passable. Freckles damage what might be a pretty face otherwise. Your hips are of nice size, good for bearing sons. And your green eyes are unearthly, speaking of your royal heritage.”

“I am not a brood mare to be bought at auction.”

“No, a horse would have a better temperament, but I can get a higher price for you, Valmir willing. At the moment, you are more of a mongrel who has been recently brushed so that its coat shines, but with the right training you will learn to obey me and whoever I choose as your future husband.”