Catherine - Past
Catherine performed as she was taught.
As expected, This Duke was no different. Her right hand came to rest on her left shoulder, index finger raised. The dried blood caked in her knuckles cracked off at the delicate movement. Then, she revealed her left palm, and extended it outward. Finally, with the most poise she could muster, she stepped back on the ball of her foot and dipped into a curtsy. For a brief moment her legs wobbled, but she held, despite the betrayal in her knees.
Soldiers had their salutes, but this was a Thespan woman’s sign of shame, a gesture reserved for minor social missteps, a dress two seasons out of fashion, a soured banquet. But among the lesser nobility, it was deference disguised as grace. And Catherine knew men liked watching women bend.
The Duke laughed, a rich, velvety sound that filled the high-ceilinged chamber.
“Impeccable manners, Ms. Pergrace.” His voice was controlled and smooth. He bowed, though not very low. “I imagine you’ve worked out who I am by now, but I’ll spare you the full title. Time is limited, after all. I am Gaelin Renault, Duke of Stoneheart Forest.”
He stepped closer, chuckling. Her chest tightened, her pulse lurching forward in protest.
“My poor girl,” The words dripped in something that wore the skin of pity. “You look simply awful. I can surmise you have a great many questions…I give you my word that I will answer them all. But first, come have a seat.”
The Duke guided her across the room with the strangle of his arm. There were bookshelves lining the hearth-side wall full of tomes and beautifully bound ledgers and all manner of important looking scrolls. In front of the massive hearth sat an odd looking high-backed chair. Its legs were made of sturdy, cherry-colored wood, as all the furniture was, but the chair itself was upholstered with unusual leather. This was not the leather of noble homes. It didn’t belong in any home.
“Tell me who did this to you.” The Duke placed a hand in the small of Catherine’s back and motioned for her to relax. “It’s alright. You may be seated.”
Catherine longed to rest her weary body, but something about the moment made her insides turn. The chair waited, expecting her. It did not feel like a seat meant for comfort. Its high back cut a silhouette against the marble, its dark leather gleaming like a predator’s hide, stitched together in pieces. Smooth in some places, uneven in others.
Despite her discomfort, she dared not disobey. Her fingers curled into a fist, touching her split lip, a silent gesture of gratitude, before she lowered herself.
The chair tensed beneath her, leather stretching, exhaling a slow, shuddering breath. As though it had been waiting for her, and only her, for a very long time. She pressed her hands against the armrests. They held her there, and Catherine felt as if she had just agreed to something binding.
“Did you get something to drink, my dear?” The Duke asked, pouring some amber liquid from a crystal decanter sitting atop the mantle.
She had nearly forgotten he was there.
“Yes,” she rasped. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord-Duke.”
“Ah…hospitality.” He mused, watching the amber swirl against crystal. “Yes, I must apologize for the accommodations. A dungeon, I fear, is no place for a lady of Mesica. But then, I don’t often entertain. Stoneheart’s reputation ensures that.”
He watched her, but not her face. His eyes lingered on her bruises, the torn skin, the blood dried in a thin crust along her collarbone.
“But I’m trying to change that.” He grinned, before switching the subject. “A fine young woman of your standing, enduring such violence, though? Appalling.”
Before he next spoke, his face emptied of expression, as though he had peeled it away himself.
“I ask once more. Tell me. Who did this to you?”
Her mind raced. Catherine caught his tone through the punctuation, he was displeased. There was no time for thought, but…
Was it possible that he was unaware? A true mistake?
“M-my Lord-Duke,” she began, choosing her words with care, “may I ask a question?”
“You must be wondering why I brought you here?” His lips curved into a knowing smile, white teeth gleaming in the firelight.
Catherine’s heart sank. Not a mistake.
“I-if it pleases.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have time for that.”
He knelt before her, his hands broad and warm as they settled against her knee. She did not recoil, though every part of her screamed to.
“Rest assured, I never intended for such brutality. My men had very specific orders.”
His expression darted between displeasure, amusement, and anger all in one moment.
“They were not to harm you.”
She remained silent.
His men? The same men who had beaten her raw, who had dragged her from her life? He had them TAKE her.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his chin. “As I said, in time, all will be revealed. But for now, I need the name of the one who did this to you.”
The words were spoken with shreds of patience, but the demand beneath them was unyielding.
Her fingers pressed into the chair’s arms. The leather would not let her rise, even if she willed it.
“Lord-Duke, I—I do not know his name.”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He studied her, his face unreadable.
“That’s alright. Perhaps you saw his face? I know my men very intimately.”
Her lips parted, her mind scrambling for an answer.
Did he already know? Was he waiting for something else?
Her stomach twisted. She could not refuse him.
“W-well, I did not see much of his face, but the man had…A snake. On his forearm. And—”
The Duke stood abruptly. His expression remained neutral, but a flicker of something passed through his features, the barest tightening of his jaw.
“That’s quite enough, my dear.”
The words landed like a cell door snapping shut.
“LUCIA!”
The door creaked open. The Manor-Mother was already waiting.
“Yes, your eminence?” The matron spoke like molasses, slow and sweet.
“Send for Remy. Now.”
Lucia bowed, offering a polite farewell—“Ms. Pergrace”—before vanishing from sight.
The Duke sighed, rolling the tension from his shoulders.
“I fear I am simply full of apologies this evening, Ms. Pergrace. And your manners have been an absolute pleasure. But I must attend to this business, if you would grant me one final pardon. A lady of
Mesica deserves far more than the brutish handling of an underling.”
Catherine nodded. The chair held her steady, though she had not asked it to. Noble houses had their secrets, it was known. Blood on the floors, washed clean before dawn. But the acts were not known. It wasn’t polite conversation in any circle Catherine frequented.
The Duke started to pace across the base of the hearth. Catherine sat there motionless, wondering what was to come, trying not to tempt fate any more than she already had. In those moments, she realized that the room had no windows. She remained still, willing herself smaller, the chair embracing her. The warmth of the fire no longer felt comforting; it clung to her skin, suffocating, dampening her clothes with sweat.
The door swung open once more, but not for Lucia.
The man they dragged in was bound in chains, his feet lifeless behind him. His arms were lashed behind his back, a gag pulled tight between his teeth. He writhed, muffled noises leaking from his throat as he struggled in vain against his captors.
Immediately, the Duke’s demeanor changed again, “Ah! Gentlemen, thank you so very much, I can take it from here. Lucia, I ask that you remain in the room for this.”
She knew him. A brute of a man, now reduced to this, quivering like a beaten dog. The Duke exhaled, his shoulders loosening as he stepped forward, arms spread in mock disappointment.
“My friend,” he said, his voice thick with insincerity, “you seem to be in quite the predicament.”
Remy thrashed, his muffled voice high and desperate beneath the gag. He was trying to speak. To beg.
The Duke crouched before him, almost affectionate. “I am sorry, Master Hunter, I seem to be unable to understand you.”
His boot connected with Remy’s ribs, the steel in its toe grinding deep.
The man collapsed, a ragged wheeze escaping his lips.
“Yes, shh, yes. I know, I know. It’s alright now, the nasty bit of business is done. Let us have a chat, shall we?”
With a single pull, he brought Remy closer, the chains clattering like an afterthought. A sickness welled in Catherine’s nails pressed into the arms of the chair, the leather slithering under them. The Duke knelt, unfastening the gag.
“When I take this off, you will not speak. You will not make a sound. Not until I allow it.”
Remy nodded furiously.
“Good, then.”
The cloth came out of his mouth and the Duke tossed it aside. He patted Remy on the back and pulled him onto his knees before Catherine.
“Now, Catherine, is this the man that caused your pain?”
She looked the man in his hazel eyes, they were soft and wide, his brow quivered, and his lashes shook. A long bead of sweat formed across his upper lip and she could hardly believe it was the same person that had ripped the very hair from her head. A child’s fear in a monster’s face. Never had she seen such fear. All she could do was nod.
“I see, well, Remy, I believe you owe our guest an apology, yes?”
“Of c-course, Lord-duke.”
“Get on with it, then.” He said firmly.
“I a-am—”
“Address her properly, she is a lady of Mesica. You will show respect.”
“Oh, m-my lady, please f-forgive me!” The man started to sob, “I-I beg of ya! Please. I didn’ r-realize you was—”
“Yes. Very good, that’s quite enough. Such heart-wrenching remorse!”
Catherine thought she would feel differently about the punishment of this man, but as he knelt before her, crying like a babe, she pitied him.
“Well, my lady, Pergrace, do you accept his blathering display as recompense for his heinous and detestable actions against you? I would not, but it is a choice you must make yourself.”
Again, all she could do was nod. It didn’t matter if she forgave him or not, she just wanted it to end.
“Remarkable!” he beamed, “does your grace and elegance know no bounds, my dear Catherine!?”
To Catherine’s surprise the Duke began removing his plum robes, rambling about honor and respect. She could not focus on his words. Across his muscular back were lashes and deep scars. Souvenirs from years spent defending the western river with his own hands. It was easy to forget that the Duke had been a soldier underneath all this. Now, she never would.
“Just one more thing Remy and you can go.” He stepped carefully behind his underling, “My apology. Where is MY apology? After all, you disobeyed my orders and caused harm to a treasured guest, a LADY no less.” A strong hand wrapped around the underside of Remy’s chin. “Look at her. Look at what you’ve done. LOOK!”
Catherine twitched as the Duke raised his voice. Her knuckles kneaded against the chair’s arms. She could not let go, it would not let her go.
“How could you?” His lips brushed close, words lost between them, meant for Remy alone.
“No! LORD GAEL—”
Before Remy could finish, a thin, silver blade flashed across his throat. Catherine jerked back, but there was nowhere to go. Lucia’s talon-like hands nailed her shoulders to the back of the chair.
Remy’s blood poured onto her, pumped in bursts by his failing heart. The Duke gripped him by the hair and hoisted him higher above her.
The chair drank and squelched under her resistance.
“Blood for blood.” He hissed darkly.
She barely had time to scream and then the blood came, filling her mouth. Instinctively, she spat it out, the repulsive metallic tang coating her tongue. Her eyes fell upon Remy’s twisted, gasping face. It accused her. Hated her. And then Remy wasn’t in it anymore.
For the first time in Catherine’s short life, she experienced a feeling unlike any other. This feeling did not have a name, but it was old, very old. Once it settled within the mind, and then the body, there was no being rid of it.
A vastness ripped and tore somewhere in her depths, reeking of rot and carrion and filth from all the darkest places of the world. It constricted the soul with an immovable weight. There it would sit for all her time, a reminder of the terrible, horrifying realization that she was going to die.
The room spun like a whirlpool as the Duke tossed Remy’s lifeless body to the wayside. Catherine’s stomach turned and tried to expel vomit, but nothing would come out. Dry heave after dry heave, her stomach cramped and convulsed. Her throat felt lined with velvet. The blood that covered her began to cool into a thick, lukewarm film. Her head felt heavy, like it might snap off her neck altogether. Nothing stirred inside her except sickness. The base of her skull filled with pressure and her spine went rigid.
“I must say, you continue to impress. The constitution you must possess, the sheer fortitude to remain conscious. You would have made a great soldier. You are a credit to all your young peers.” The
Duke smeared the blood of the silver with Remy’s gag, before turning his sights back to Catherine. “Lucia, how much did she drink?”
“Nearly the entire pail, my lord.”
“Gods be—Are you certain?!” He nearly laughed as he traced the blade against her cheek, lifting away strands of blood-streaked hair.
Her body no longer moved on command.
“Incredible. A fucking lady of Mesica! I’m so sorry, my dear, you were not meant to still be awake. You see, the trees of this estate produce a unique oil, as I am sure you know, which is the key to all the grand wealth around you. But what you may not know, is that when properly prepared with some other compounds, the oil produces a unique poison. One soluble in water. Odorless, tasteless, and utterly paralytic.”
Every sound was now muffled. It became more and more difficult for her to understand what was being said. Her eyes drooped as if being pulled closed by some small wicked thing.
“Rest now, as I have promised, I will explain everything later.” He waved for Lucia, “Take her and—”
One by one, the world shut its doors and Catherine was gone.
?? Want More? Support the Cause
Special Offer:
$5/month
buy me a coffee if you want to keep the bad things flowing.
