Three (History Plays, Book 2)

2: now doth mount with golden wings of fame

Catherine

I didn't really expect to be killed here like this. My husband isn't strictly a kind man, and I wouldn't say he loves anything more than himself. However if he did I think he loves me. And so I did expect him to rescue me.
I'm not fond of being rescued. Nor of needing things. Nor of needing people. But I think I can manage it in order to live. Because I do want to live. I'm stubborn like that.
So when the door kicks in I do expect a rescue party. I just was genuinely hoping it would be my husband. William is tall, he feels safe. That's basically why I have him. He wanted a wife and children, to keep the house, manage his vast estate, a clever woman who was pretty enough to be on his arm. I'm all those things. And I don't believe in romance nor safety nor real love, and so I was happy to have him and do all those things. A good enough occupation for a woman like me. A tall, strong man, diamonds tattooed on his upper left arm, gold hair and a smooth grin, I don't mind looking at him and I less mind the idea that he would come for me if I needed him. Like I do now.
But he doesn't come. He sends his best friend. Which ought to be good enough, but it's not at all who I wanted to see.
"I'm Luke Skywalker. I'm here to rescue you," then he laughs at his own joke, strolling in, coated in other men's deaths and blood, scarred face ever smiling. Edward Windsor. Possibly the cruelest man on this continent, definitely the most powerful. A very terrible combination.
"I appreciate your entrance, not a moment too soon," I say, holding up my cuffed hands. They had me in an empty room, probably large closet actually. They had a chair but I'm stubborn. I'm standing there, hands cuffed, waiting for the door. "Don't suppose you have a key?"
"One better," he walks up and takes a bobby pin from my hair, a grin on his face as always. I'm taller than he, but he's short. I'm sure the last person to call him that met an end at the tip of one of his beloved blades. He's small, but built like a fighting dog, all muscles and meanness. There are curving lions tattooed on his knuckles. There's a wavy line around his left ring finger, a wedding band tattoo, before I've always seen him wearing a thick black band over it.
He tugged off his leather gloves to draw the pin from my hair, stepping smoothly close to me in a way that makes me shiver. He puts a hand over the lock, inserting the pin into the mechanism. His back is to the door, calmly. That means everyone in this building is dead and he knows it.
"Is my husband all right?"
"No, but he never was," as usual smiling at his own humor, "He's still working. I told him I'd take care of you."
"Thank you," I say, watching as his quick hands fiddle with the lock. I just want to be out of here. And his hands are, despite the discarded gloves, stained with blood. I have heard screaming for the past ten minutes at least.
"Don't look so concerned, when I was a child I thought it was a game to do this with pins and padlocks, I wanted to be a spy," he laughs, finishing and releasing the cuffs.
"Thank you," I say, stepping back from him to rub my wrists.
"Of course," he says, looking at my face again. Then he steps forward and smoothly tucks the hairpin back in place.
"It was fine."
"I have five daughters," he says, tugging back on the gloves and then holding out a hand, "Come. Let's get you home to your boys then."
"Yes," I don't want to take the sticky glove but I do. It's still damp with blood, and I can see blood caked in his short dark hair. Immediately upon stepping out of the room we are met with a human body. One of my captors. He's cut limb from limb, head askew and near torn off. The walls are all splattered with blood.
I choke, covering my mouth, to keep from vomiting. The smell of ruptured bowels, along with the sickly metallic smell of split blood, is nearly too much for me.
He laughs at my response, "Not accustomed to bodies, Mrs. Sailsbury? That's a good thing for you I suppose."
"I appreciate the rescue, Windsor," I say, diplomatically. He is my husband's friend.
"Edward," he says, not moving because I'm not. I really need to walk past this body, though. "I've known you what—seven years now? Yes, your Lizzie and my Blanche are just the same age, aren't they?"
"Yes," I am not talking to you about the age of my children while we're standing next to a body you dismembered. I force myself to keep walking, though he barely does, lazy now, "I just want to go home."
"Yes, I expect you would. I hope they didn't treat you ill," he says, nodding the proper direction and holding his hand out like he expects me to take it. I do not.
"Or you'd do what? I think you took you're revenge a bit early," I say, looking around at the carnage. His men move past us, swiftly, to go clean up the mess.
"Or I'd make sure you were properly comforted?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. He has dark brown hair, as usual shaved short, and dark eye brows, with surprisingly long and soft eyelashes. Right now he has a five-o-clock shadow. The black fatigues he's wearing don't cover a snake tattoo that curves up his neck. A long scar runs over one eye, cutting the eyebrow and miraculously not blinding him, and then he has another thick scar on his left check. They're slices, like knife slices, William has similar ones as well and has never explained how he got them, avoiding the question when I asked. For this reason I'm assuming the two of them gave them to each other throwing knives at each other's faces. That's about the impulse control level both of them have so I'm assuming I'm right.
"I'm well. I want to be home with my children," and never to speak to you again. I don't say the last bit. I feel it, but I can't say it when he is rescuing me and it's extremely obvious this man kills for sport. I realize that's something men do, hunt things for sport. This one just so happens to enjoy hunting people and there is nothing in this world that can stop him.