Damsel: The Betrayal of Roslyn

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

The Girl At The Whipping Post

Roslyn and Celia rode for miles inside the arms of their captors. They were given no food; there was no time for rest. Their fleet journey sent them though the dangerous woods, through two streams and across a river. Emerging on open land again, to a landscape shrouded in the golden glow of a late summer’s afternoon, Roslyn spotted a curiously familiar site. Though it had been over a year since her eyes had rested on Draydon castle, she recognized its battlements and the small village at its outskirts.

It was only then that Roslyn’s mind began to function.

“Sir, please, I am not properly attired. Is there something…?” She looked back and upwards at her rough guardian’s face, pleadingly. A guardian now, for he seemed more benign than dangerous.

“Indeed,” the man replied, sounding strangely more civilized than she first imagined him to be. That, too, would suggest that he meant her no harm.

“A cloak for the lady!” he called to one of the marauders behind him.

Minutes later, a dark cloak appeared that Roslyn quickly wrapped about her shivering shoulders, covering her thin nightgown. The thought had hardly registered in her mind that all this had happened while an unknown man had hold of her body in ways too familiar for any man, but perhaps a husband or lover. A twinge of undisclosed thrill made her shudder in places deep inside her body.

By the time their small party reached the village, it was clear that something was stirring in the tiny town. A throng of people had gathered in the square, their shouts and cursing leveled toward someone, at present, hidden from Roslyn’s view. Stomping feet. Canes raised in anger. The Lady’s heart beat with trepidation and thrill. Though she’d not been allowed to see such displays at home, instinct told her what was taking place. A few yards more along the stony road, which was now almost impossible to traverse with all the commotion, they halted on a small rise, which gave them a clear view of the terrifying sight.

Clothed only in a dirty shift, a fair-skinned girl was led toward a whipping post. Her cheeks were flushed; her hair a disheveled cloud of gold around her proud but terrified face. Though she aimed at being haughty, her attendants shoved her toward the post with such force, that she snarled back at them angrily, only to have one cuff her and she fell to the ground as if weightless.

“Good lord, what is happening to this world!” Roslyn exclaimed.

“The girl’s a traitor, they say,” the man behind her volunteered.

Indeed. But still Lady Roslyn would wonder what this traitorous female had done to earn such a ghastly sentence.

“Lash her to the post!” the cry rang out.

Hauled up the scaffold, the terrified girl was thrust against the tall stanchion, her arms raised above her head and her hands shackled to the post. So positioned, body squirming uncontrollably, she looked like laundry twisting in the wind. A knife cut through the slip of material that clothed her, freeing her back from any impediment to the bare flesh. Aware of her sorry state of attire, she now planted her body firmly against the post to hold what little was left of her shift in place.

How sad she looked, Roslyn thought, as the poor girl tried to maintain a bit of dignity in the midst of this terrible travail.

The first cut of the lash on the girl’s white skin created such a thundering crackle through the evening air that the watching young woman cringed. As if she felt the blow herself, she let out a scream, a small scream. The poor victim’s scream was boisterously loud. What followed was so brutal that Roslyn twice looked away. But something unknown brought her gaze back each time. Such a savage tremor filled her own tender flesh that she was shaking and nearly in tears, while the man behind her held her fast to his chest, as if knowing how she suffered.

“Let’s get along!” he finally called to the others in their party. He dug his heels into his mount’s flank and the horse moved forward toward the castle gate.

The last Roslyn saw of the girl, she clung to the whipping post, tears streaming down her cheeks. The leather lash, so skillfully placed had ripped such a swath across the delicate skin of her back that it appeared to flame like a scarlet flag.

Entering her uncle’s familiar castle, Roslyn could only hope that the day’s awful business could be put to rest at last.

***

A new day dawned in spectacular fashion, cottony clouds marching across a vivid sky. Blue from horizon to horizon—as if this could wash away the horror of that miserable day.

Roslyn gazed out new windows, hoping to be bolstered by the fine morning, but her heart was pained and heavy that it seemed to spill from her breast across the stones. So much now going on in her besieged brain for which she needed answers, Roslyn dressed in haste, donning the clothes her uncle’s servants had laid out for her. Then she rushed from the room, moving quickly toward her uncle’s chambers; seeing the door ajar, her uncle speaking with his advisors, she hurried in.

“Uncle, uncle!” She dropped to her knees and bowed her head in respect. “Oh, uncle, what a horrible fate!” she cried sobbing, even as she kissed his outstretched hand. She looked up, eyes imploring his understanding, needing answers. “Please tell me, sir, what all this means!”

Lord Draydon looked down on her with some compassion.

“Oh, dear girl, my dear Roslyn.” He stroked her auburn hair with a light hand and gazed into the depths of her sad, chestnut eyes. He was a man of some years, older than her father, with a wise face, a proud bearing, holding his head high at all times. A dreadfully proud man, he could be call reserved; his demeanor was cool, though he’d always been so kind to his only niece that she rarely thought of him in this way. “Life gives us so few rewards and takes from us with a swift and bitter hand. But you’re safe now here with me.” He feigned a smile, one as hollow as her own might be—if she were to smile.

“Do you have word of my mother and father?” she went on anxiously.

That strange smile did not fade. “Hum, yes, your mother and father—my dear brother Ledo.” He eyed her wistfully, though his jaw seemed hardened, twitching strangely. “I’m sure you know the truth without my having to spell it out.”

At first, she was puzzled, then as the truth he would not speak of dawned on her, Roslyn fell to sobbing, dropping to the floor in a pitiful heap. Her uncle watched her heaving body for several moments then he motioned to his aide. “The maid that came with her, bring her here now.”

“Yes, sir,” the man bowed and removed himself from the room. Celia was summoned to her Lady, and when she arrived, Roslyn was put in her care. Kindly helping Roslyn to her feet, Celia held her tightly and, in time, the two left the room to mourn together. A long day and night awaited both women as they sought to comprehend the unthinkable.

***

With her grief somewhat abated, Lady Roslyn returned to her Uncle’s chambers days later. Unlike that inconsolable retreat of the previous occasion, she was very much collected now, with her emotions carefully knit into the fabric of her solemn demeanor. With a calm, steady and measured gait, she moved toward her uncle.

“I see you’re much revived now,” he said, looking up from his writing table. He was glad for what he saw.

“Yes, Uncle, I have my wits about me now,” she smiled thinly. “I apologize for my terrible scene. My poor mother would be mortified to know that I could not contain my grief.”

“It is understandable, my dear. You had a horrifying shock.”

She nodded. “I appreciate your kindness, sir. In time, I’m sure we will all move beyond this terrible misfortune. I realize that even now you have much on your mind and I do not wish to be a burden to you. Please be sure that I am here to serve your house as you wish.”

“And so you shall,” he returned. He too was much changed from their previous meeting, the sharpness in his mien restored full measure. The brilliant eye, the keen perception, the intensity that was so common to his character—Roslyn knew it well.

“I do have some questions, sir, if you don’t mind?”

“Oh? I thought that yesterday Sir Stephen apprised you on all the details that we know of the terrible incident.”

“Yes, sir, he did a most admirable job. And he was very kind. However, there is one question on the matter that I thought I would ask you.”

“Please,” he said with a deferential nod.

“How did it happen that your hunting party—it was your hunting party that rescued me and my maid, Celia?”

“Yes, Stephen spoke correctly.”

“How did they happen to be so far from your door; how was it that they happened on my father’s castle at that very hour?”

He responded with a somewhat curious expression, but barely missed a beat in replying: “They were on their way with gifts from me, intended for my brother and his household.” He smiled. “Quite a fortuitous moment, don’t you think? Though I regret that they were not soon enough to save your parents.”

Roslyn stared down sadly at the thought of her dead parents, although she appeared to accept his explanation. “I am sad too.”

“We can be thankful that you were removed from harm’s way, that your maid was spared as well. You must know that these are treacherous times. It would not surprise me to learn that those who so efficiently stuck down your father’s house are on their way here. I have had to double our guards, post sentries at the far outposts. I’ve brought men back to shore up our defenses in case of an attack. I will do my best to guard what’s left of my brother’s house—his lovely daughter,” he nodded officiously, “and protect what we hold dear. I can promise you that much.”

“I appreciate your efforts, sir. You can trust me to hold firm.”

“Yes, you are strong, like your father was strong.”

No, she was not strong like her father was strong, but was weak as a foundling child, Roslyn answered silently. She could repeat her uncle’s words to herself again and again, and still not believe them. But she would try; she would have to try, because she understood that men needed strong women at times like these. Her parents would expect it of her; they raised her to understand the treachery of the world. It would have been so easy to sink into the oblivion of her own romantic thoughts, to walk the gardens, pluck the flowers, sing the songs old Tevi taught her, or, perhaps, maybe… make love to the men she harbored in her dreams. Her body ached beyond its understanding of life for such passionate things.

She ached for something she could not identify and, oddly, what seemed irrevocably tied into the knot of her present quandary were the memories of those strange happenings she’d witnessed in the village on her arrival. Again and again, that appalling scene came back to her with such a furious rush of feeling that she had to push it from her thoughts—which proved nearly impossible. For all her attempts to purge her mind of that incident, the picture of the punished girl returned to her feverish thoughts again and again. Oddly enough, she was almost pleased that she could not drive away the image of that screaming, half-clothed victim from her thoughts. Did that make her like the peasants in the square who clamored around the girl, who shouted for the executioner to wound her deeply and make her body bleed? How was that right? How could that be civilized? What did this despicable fascination have to say about her character? Oh, she was not strong; she was weak indeed, in her mind, her emotions and her young, untried body.

Roslyn stood so silently and was so thoughtfully engaged for so long a time that her Uncle grew impatient.

“I should like to speak with you about this more,” he finally broke through her reverie.

His comment made her jerk. “Yes, sir?” She looked directly at him.