Heir

Chapter 3, Scene 8

When Fayne came to, she was in Lloyd’s arms. He had sunk to the floor with his back against a leg of the table, and he cradled her gently. She sat up immediately, trying to push the fog from her mind.

“How long have I been out?” She asked.

“Longer than usual.” Lloyd frowned. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Fayne answered after taking a moment to assess how she felt physically and mentally.

“Did you learn anything useful?”

“I don’t know.” Fayne answered honestly. She had always assumed that her husband must have fathered at least a dozen illegitimate children over the years. None of those children’s mothers had ever sought him out later, though. She wasn’t quite sure what this turn of events might mean for her, and the security of her position.

Before she could ponder the situation any further, there was a loud knock on the door. Both Fayne and Lloyd jumped just a little at the intrusion. Fayne’s eyes went immediately to the open trapdoor in the floor, with its strange and incriminating contents. There was another louder, more insistent knock at the door.

“Just a moment!” Fayne called out, then gave Lloyd a meaningful look, and nodded towards the trapdoor. They both scrambled to their feet and quickly went to work. Lloyd snuffed out the candles and helped Fayne place her items back into the small storage space. She closed the trapdoor and locked it. Lloyd pulled the rug back over it while Fayne returned the key to her secret pocket. There was another loud knock at the door.

“I said, just a moment!” Fayne yelled at the door. She hesitated a second while she studied Lloyd. Then, seizing his shirt, she yanked it up, pulling its tails free of his trousers. She reached up and began running her hands wildly through his hair, tousling it this way and that. Lloyd looked panicked.

“You could be hanged if they think we–”

“I’ll be burned if they suspect the truth.” Fayne cut him off.

It only took him a moment to grasp her meaning, and immediately he pulled a pin from her own hair, letting her thick, dark tresses fall loose around her shoulders. He tugged on the sleeve of her dress, pulling it off her shoulder to reveal soft, smooth skin the color of mocha. Fayne gently pushed him toward the back of the studio while she went to answer the door.

Geraint, the Steward of Rockisle stood waiting, looking agitated. He had dark hair and cruel, dark eyes. He didn’t wait for her to greet him, but just forced his way in as soon as she’d opened the door. Fayne had to step back and let him enter, or be trampled underneath his boots.

“What is so urgent, Geraint?” Fayne asked as she made a show of nervously pulling her dress back up over her shoulder. The steward glanced around suspiciously until his eyes settled on Lloyd. He glared at the peasant man whom was anxiously tucking his shirt into his pants again.

“What’s going on here?” Geraint demanded.

“Begging your pardon, Milord, w-we—” Lloyd began to stutter abashedly.

“You may go, Young Man.” Fayne interrupted, sounding genuinely annoyed with him.

“Y-yes, Milady.” Lloyd hurried out of the room, pausing only briefly to give a slight bow to Geraint as he passed him.

Fayne watched Lloyd go, then suddenly Geraint’s hand was around her arm like a vise.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He snarled.

“What I do is none of your business.” Fayne said defiantly.

“It is my business to look after the interests of Prince Neirin. He has a lot riding on his alliance with you.”

“Is that so?” Fayne spat. “Because he seems to form new alliances every week.”

“He is a prince. He’s entitled.”

“Oh? And what makes you entitled?” Fayne challenged. “I’ve seen you pick through his leftovers.”

Geraint tightened his grip until it felt like he would break Fayne’s arm. Fayne subtly shifted her weight to her left leg, so that she could bring her right knee straight up into his crotch if she needed to.

“If you were my woman, I’d—”

“If I were your woman, I’d slit your throat.” Fayne cut him off.

They both stood glaring at each other, Geraint looming over her while Fayne made herself as tall as she could without going up on the balls of her feet. Finally, Geraint twisted her arm just as much as he thought he could without breaking it before finally releasing her. It was all Fayne could do not to cry out, but she was determined not to show even a hint of fear or pain. Growling in the back of his throat, Geraint finally turned and left, slamming the door closed behind him. Fayne immediately leaned back against the table, letting out a long breath while she cradled her bruised arm.

*****