The Conqueror's Royal Slave

Eithne could no longer stand by and watch the children starve when there was plenty of stew in the pot. It was tempting to pick up the ladle and serve them herself but she wasn’t that stupid. Instead she made her way across to the helmeted guard and knelt at his feet.

“Yes?” he rasped. “Out with it and make it quick.”

“Surely my brother doesn’t want this?”

She gestured behind her at the two seven year old twins, Morgan and Maisie. The latter was pale and fading fast while the boy’s eyes were dull and lacking in hope.

“Your point, my lady?”

The new deference surprised her and perhaps explained her unbound hands and feet.

Then she became aware that someone was standing behind her and it wasn’t Ephron.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a tall, cloaked figure and smelled blood. It was in the newcomer’s hair and beard and still dripping from his sword.

“Clean it.” Eithne remained on her knees, unaware the command was directed at her. “Are you deaf, woman?”

She eyed the pail in the corner. But what to do for a cloth?

Removing her headdress she rose once more and turned to face the intruder. His gaze seemed to scorch her soul.

“If I do this, my lord, will you at least permit the children to share a bowl of food?”

He rested his booted foot on a low bench.

“If you do this? Know your place, girl.”

Though it went against all her instincts, Eithne raised her chin. She regarded him solemnly with the eyes her father had likened to violets.

“This is my land, messire,” she said, “and you are trespassing.”

The laughter was unexpected, long and humiliating.

“What have we here?” he mused. “A Queen? Where’s your crown, little one? Are you having it polished?”

“You mock me without knowing who I am.”

“Enlighten me.”

The stranger advanced towards her and she took a step back. Though she knew the truth would not save her, King Stephen hadn’t raised his daughter to lie.

“Princess Eithne of Ormond.”

She gave a little curtsey, all too aware that her gown was an old one and stained near the hem.

“Nice try, blondie, but I happen to know she’s a dumpling.” He looked her up and down. “From where I’m standing there’s no way you fit that description.”

Hot colour stained her cheeks.

“You know Prince Ephron? How is he? Is he well?”

“I’ll do the asking, girl.” He held out his sword, the hilt of which was decorated with jewels, and it was all she could do not to throw up at the stench. “Pinch your nose,” he advised. “My last slave did.”

“What happened to him?” she asked, perhaps unwisely.

“Her,” he corrected, taking a seat on the bench and arranging his purple cloak around him as if it were his most prized possession. “I tired of the woman. Always demanding my cock.”

Eithne stood her ground, attempting to ignore his deliberate crudeness, and pointed to the stewpot. “Yes, or no?”

“Afterwards,” he said, adding, “if you consent to sit on my lap.”

“Am I permitted to know your name, my lord?”

“Forgive me,” he said, springing up and performing a courtly bow. “Xander of the Franks, deposed King of Beeveland, warrior of some repute and now, your master, my sweet.” She wished she’d curbed her tongue. “Do we have a bargain, girl?”

She nodded. “Aye, my lord. Seeing as I have no choice in the matter.”

Xander tutted. “That’s not quite true. You could let these poor wretches starve.”

“I could not in all conscience do that,” Eithne told him, bending to her task. The loss of the linen shawl vexed her but it was now stained beyond belief and tainted by association.

Her tormentor sniffed the air.

“Very appetising,” he said. “When you’re done with my sword, serve me first, wench.”

Eithne stiffened on hearing the word which, to her, was an insult not to be borne.

“Can your henchman not make himself useful?”

“Alain isn’t a servant.”

“Neither am I,” she flared, the sudden temper her undoing.

Because then he spelled it out to her, what her immediate future held in just one telling sentence: “No,” he agreed, “you’re my slave until I decide otherwise.”

“I’m not even restrained,” she scoffed, unwisely.

“You will be,” Xander vowed. “Are you done yet? My belly’s growling.”

“Not quite, my lord. I can’t rid the metal of the smell.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said. “You get used to it.”

Finishing the first task quickly, mindful of the twins, she went to restore the weapon to its owner and tripped over a raised nail in the wooden floor. Eithne went flying, but only as far as Xander’s knees, the hilt of his sword still clutched in her fingers.

His green eyes flashed fire, until he realised she hadn’t attempted to attack him. Making a show of inspecting his blade, he gestured to her to stand only when he had satisfied himself it was without dent or scratch.

“I forgot it was there,” she said, “even though I’ve been stepping around it this past hour.”

“Don’t you live here?”

He was back to taunting her again and she didn’t care for it.

“Hardly,” she said. “Their mother succumbed to the fever a sennight ago and I came to see what I could do.”

“Very noble of you,” he sneered. “I take it you made the stew?”

“Yes, my lord. I only wish I had known sooner how ill-nourished they were.”

“And you expect me to believe that? Ephron said his sister was selfish and greedy.”

“Ephron says and you believe. More fool you. My father could tell you a thing or two about him.”

“Mebbe so, if he still had his head.”

Eithne’s stunned gasp had no noticeable effect on him, though the way she almost collapsed and had to hold onto the wooden table for support elicited a different response.

“Please tell me that’s not true,” she begged, as he came up behind her and guided her to a chair.

“If it’s any consolation, Princess, I didn’t kill him.”

“And Ephron. Does he still live?”

Xander shrugged. “As far as I know.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your brother fell foul of an ancient law in the kingdom of Eponia. He’s still sleeping it off in their cells.”

“Typical,” she said. “So, who led the invaders to Ormond?”

“You’re looking at him,” he told her.

“Am I your captive?”

“Yes, but there will be no ransom,” Xander said. “I’ve always wanted to take a high born slave. Isn’t it about time you sat on my lap?”