Captain Omar sheathes his sword with a ringing slap. “Where. Have. You. Been?”
I flinch. The angles in the captain’s face are drawn tight. He passes Leif, taking long, purposeful strides to reach me. It was a mistake to leave Tomas. A massive one.
The captain’s eyes widen, showing too much whites. “You were told to stay with Tomas.” He draws in a breath through his nose and expels it with a puff. “If you’re unable to fulfill the bargain made with Lord Jamis, you forfeit your life. Do. You. Understand?”
I can barely get it out: “Yes, sir.”
“You directly defied me. There are consequences for disobedience.”
Leif works the manacles and rope around a nearby trunk and takes my bow and quiver. I’m too unnerved to tell him about the dagger in my boot as he gently pulls my hands in front of me and fixes the iron cuffs on my wrists.
He squeezes my arm and gives me a mixed look—alarm, regret, distress. Then he mouths, “Be strong,” reminding me of Papa’s advice.
“Ten lashes,” the captain says. My only warning.
The whip strikes.
I cry out, unable to hold it in, and stumble against the trunk. The pain and fire and stinging are merciless. Strong as the trees, Papa’s voice echoes over shallow breaths. I imagine he’s with me when I lock my knees, shut my eyes, drag air between clenched teeth. I imagine I’m stronger than the crumbling girl tied to the tree.
The second lash hits.
CHAPTER 6
AFTER THE FOURTH LASH, I FALL TO MY KNEES, nearly unconscious from the agony. After the fifth, the captain stops. “You deserve more, but you have a job to do,” Captain Omar says. “Step out of line again, and you’ll get your just due.”
The throbbing in my back is consuming, the pain too raw to think of anything else.
“It needs cleaning.” Leif’s voice pulls me back to where we sit beside a stream. He’s holding a wet rag in one hand and an herbal balm in the other. I extend my hand, even though the small movement has me wincing and gasping for breath.
“You won’t be able to reach,” he says. “I can help.”
I blink. Surely he’s not suggesting I lift my top and let him wash my bare skin. I may not know much about social interaction or friendships, but exposing myself seems inappropriate.
“I won’t look. You don’t have to worry about me.” The tips of his ears are redder than autumn leaves. Well, then, I was wrong. I try to grasp my ripped tunic and end up hissing while spots burst in my vision.
“Let me,” Leif urges. “I know you must feel alone right now. But I’m here and—and you can trust me. No one’s strong alone. We need each other—”
“Don’t . . . Y-you don’t know me—” I cut him off, letting rage distract from the pain. What does he know about being alone? He’s a king’s guard. He doesn’t need to worry that he’ll never marry. That his home will be taken. That he’ll die alone.
“Perhaps not as well as I’d like.” His voice turns shy. “But I’ve seen your strength and cunning and determination. You’re loyal. And I know life hasn’t been very fair to you.”
I let out a snort. But he has my attention.
“My father died when I was nine,” Leif continues. “When my ma caught the ague, I was thrown off my horse on my way to fetch a healer. My leg was hurt badly. I couldn’t do much for my family. Then someone made me a crutch.” He pauses, looks up. “It was your father.”
I stare at Leif. Warmth from his words blossoms and spreads through me.
“My ma always used to say, ‘It’s a good thing to need others.’ It’s okay to need my help, Britta. I’m not gonna make you pay for it later.”
The leaves of a sapling beyond the stream flutter as a dove emerges and flits away. The sight of the gray puff reminds me of Cohen. You don’t need a lot of friends, just a good one, Papa said. Back then Cohen was my “good one.”
“Go on, then,” I whisper.
Leif slowly lifts my shirt upward until my backbone is exposed. He huffs out a breath. I’m about to ask what he sees when the cool press of the rag forces every nerve in my body to hiss. I fist my hands and slam my eyes shut—it’s all I can do not to scream.
“You shouldn’t waste the grain on the birds.” I twisted my hand until my satchel’s straps bit into my skin. We had drawn the attention of a few marketgoers milling near the cathedral. Cooing doves pecked the stones just beyond Cohen’s reach.
“Give me a couple more minutes.” His pleading gaze swung to mine. He jiggled a handful of grain, palm outstretched to lure in the chestnut-colored speckled fowl. None were daring enough to eat from his hand.
A nobleman cut through the crowd, scowling at me. His fur-trimmed overcoat skimmed the cobblestones. My grip on the satchel tightened, even though my fingers were already numb.
“Let’s go,” I urged. “We’ve been here too long. Papa will worry.”
Cohen sighed. His golden-brown eyes searched mine. Then he tossed the bits to the birds.
On the road that led to my cottage, Cohen looked at the bag of grain in his left arm and then turned to me. “Usually they’ve gone by now, but this year’s been warmer.”
“The birds?” I wrinkled my nose.
“They’re doves.” He shrugged. “They’re interesting. Compassionate and loyal.”