Page 15 of The Rightful Highland King (The Last Celtic King #4)

Chapter Nine

Ansel walked stiffly into the throne room, trying his best not to let the pain from his shoulder and back show in his stance or on his face.

He would need to get the wounds tended to and soon, or he would risk the chance of infection.

However, his father had summoned him directly to the throne room, and Ansel knew better than to delay.

As he reached the doors, he saw Baldric nearby in the corridor.

He was stooped over in deep, intense conversation with the second cook, Elspeth.

Ansel briefly wondered what they were talking about—his cousin seemed to spend all of his time with that cook these days.

She was about ten or fifteen years older than them, and of course a completely common woman, but could she be Baldric's lover?

It was unlikely, but Ansel couldn't think of any other reason.

He would never ask, though. None of them had much privacy within the castle walls, and he would grant his cousin at least that secret.

Baldric looked up as Ansel passed and gave him a questioning look.

Ansel shook his head, though he appreciated the implicit offer of company.

Whatever it was that his father planned to do to him, he'd face it alone.

The last thing he saw before he entered the throne room was Baldric's face creased in worry.

The doors thudded closed as Ansel entered the room. Edric was lounging on the throne, completely alone, simply waiting for him. He kept his eyes on Ansel, not speaking at all, until Ansel moved close and knelt with his head bowed.

"Yer Majesty," Ansel said. "I assume ye've received the report?"

"I have," Edric replied. "Stand up."

Ansel did, wincing.

Edric glared. "Look at yer weakness," he spat contemptuously. "Would that ye had simply died in yer failure."

Keeping his head bowed, Ansel knew better than to argue. He had failed, regardless of who had been at fault. The Macrae clan had escaped, and Nessa was gone.

The king stood and walked the few paces over to Ansel. He spat his next words with the force of a catapult, and with each point he kicked Ansel hard in the side. "Fallin' for a rebel ambush!" Kick. "Killin' one of me best soldiers!" Kick. " Losin' the O'Sullivan lass!"

Ansel toppled to the side as his father's boot drove into him, first his side and then his stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs. He resisted the urge to curl up on himself defensively, knowing that any further sign of weakness would only make this worse.

After what seemed like an eternity, his father backed off. "Stand," Edric commanded.

It took a few tries, but Ansel was finally able to struggle to his feet. His shoulder ached and his back was on fire, and with the new bruises forming on his side and stomach, his body felt ready to fall apart. Nonetheless, he stood straight, not letting the agony show.

"Yer punishment awaits in the dungeons. Come." Edric abruptly walked toward the door, and Ansel did not hesitate to follow.

His guts churned and, no matter how much he battled it, a spark of fear careened through his body. He knew what was coming. He knew that the pain he was feeling now was nothing compared to what was coming next.

Following his father along the corridor, Ansel passed Baldric again. His cousin now stood alone, the cook nowhere to be seen. Baldric stepped forward despite Ansel shaking his head.

"Uncle," Baldric said. "Perhaps another punishment? Ansel is already clearly injured. Maybe we can?—"

"Out of the way," Edric snarled. "Dinnae question me, lad, lest ye want tae face the same punishment."

Baldric grimaced. "Then let me hold the lash, Uncle. Allow me tae learn the ways of yer strength."

Edric laughed, a cruel, loud guffaw that echoed around the walls. "Oh, very good! Ye think I'm a fool? I ken ye have a soft spot for one another. Ye think I'll allow ye tae go easy on he who has failed me?"

"Uncle—"

Ansel stepped forward. "Father is correct, Baldric. I am tae face me punishment for me failures. Dinnae intervene."

Baldric looked aghast, but met Ansel's eyes, then gave a grim nod. He stepped backward, bowing his head. "Forgive me intervention, Uncle," he muttered.

The king gave Ansel a piercing look. "Hm. Perhaps ye're nae a total loss yet. Come."

Without any further words, Ansel followed Edric past Baldric and down the corridor. They reached the staircase leading to the dungeon and started down, every jolting step sending fresh stabbing pain through Ansel's wounds.

Edric led him through the dungeons in silence.

Usually when Ansel came down here he heard the prisoners crying out for help or mercy, but today they were silent.

No doubt they saw who had come. Edric led him to the darkest part of the dungeons, past the cells where they kept their most valuable prisoners.

"Ferda…" a weak voice muttered. "Run…"

Ansel turned to the sound and saw two women in the cell.

He recognized them instantly: the White Sparrows they had captured more than a month before.

They looked in a sorry state. The older woman knelt on the ground, her hair lank and tangled, deep circles under her eyes.

The younger one was a thousand times worse.

Her head lay on the older woman's lap, but she was so thin as to be almost emaciated, twitching and mumbling as the older woman tried to soothe her.

"She's goin' tae die," Ansel breathed, unable to stop himself. "What use will she be as a prisoner then?"

Edric glanced in the cage, contempt in his voice. "They're bein' kept alive until such time as I find the best value from them. If she dies, she dies. I only need the leader—and the spies and traitors dinnae need tae ken they're bargainin' for a corpse. Now, move ."

They moved on, but Ansel locked eyes with the older woman as they did. She did not ask for help, nor did she show any anger. She simply stared with a gaze that he knew would haunt him far longer than his scars.

At last, they reached an empty room with manacles on the wall and floor and a small shelf containing the instruments of the torturer's trade. Ansel looked around, frowning.

"Where is he?" he asked. "Cartwright never misses a chance tae flay the skin from a traitor."

Edric moved to the shelf, pondering the tools there. "I will act alone. Remove yer shirt and go tae the wall. Do I need tae use the manacles?"

Ansel shook his head, his stomach lurching. He removed his shirt as instructed and walked to the wall, leaning his hands against it.

Edric approached after a moment. He prodded first at the wounded shoulder and then at his back, causing Ansel to grit his teeth and fight a scream.

"War wounds," Edric mused. "Poorly placed. This will hurt more." He paused, then added, "Perhaps it will make the lesson stick."

Ansel braced himself, and a second later the first lash slammed against his skin.

The pain was like a hot poker searing him, and as it sliced across the already-open wound, Ansel's vision turned white.

Before he had a chance to collect himself, Edric lashed him again.

This time, Ansel could not stop a cry of pain from bursting from his lips.

Panic flushed through him—a reaction meant an extra lash.

Edric did not wait before the third blow fell, then the fourth, then a fifth.

By the time he was done, Ansel was leaning heavily against the wall, knowing that if he let go he would collapse entirely. He could feel hot blood running down his back, the air stinging wherever it touched. Edric stepped back, surveying him like an artist viewing his work.

"That will do for now," Edric said after a moment. "There's a bucket of water in the corner. Clean the blood, put yer shirt back on, and go tae yer rooms. Dinnae let me see ye again today."

"A… Aye, Father," Ansel managed to force out, every word an effort.

Edric did not leave. "I'm waitin'," he said. "Will ye nae say it?"

Fighting the urge to vomit from the pain, breath so heavy that it hurt, Ansel knew that he had to speak or it would get worse. "Th–thank ye for the lesson, Father," he mumbled. "I will… I willnae forget it."

"Nay," Edric replied. "Ye willnae."

Ansel entered his rooms, his back burning, his body threatening to collapse.

He cursed himself for his own weakness. What was wrong with him?

He had faced lashings before, and much worse than this.

He should not be suffering as much as he was.

Tomorrow, when he was permitted to, he would visit the healers to give him the salves that would protect him from infection, but he had cleaned them for now.

He would be fine overnight if he just managed to gather himself together.

Carefully, he peeled the shirt from his back.

It was stained with blood, and he threw it to the corner of his room.

He'd burn it in the morning. He opened his wardrobe and turned his back, checking himself in the full-length looking glass.

His back was crisscrossed with angry red wounds, and his shoulder wound looked deep but clean.

None of it was concerning, though no doubt his bedsheets would be ruined.

He squinted at the mirror to see the stab wound on his back.

It was hard to see from this angle, especially with the lashes covering it, but there was something strange about it.

It didn't look right. Perhaps infection had already set in—he would need to see the healers in the morning.

He couldn't do it now, though. If he went to them now, his father would punish him all over again.

With a grunt, Ansel blew out his lantern, then stumbled to his bed and lay down. Rest was the only thing he could do for himself now. He could not lie on his back, and so rested on his side. The chess set was there, hidden in the darkness. It seemed to taunt him.

Where was Nessa now? Was she with Neala? Had Neala asked about him?

Did Ansel even want to know the answer?