Caribbean Reign Ch 05 06

Chapter 5: Hearing Her Complaints - Rafael's Perspective

Light filters into the courtyard, projecting shadowed archways onto the tile floor. Each ceramic tile has been handcrafted in a spiraling floral pattern. My seat rests upon a platform bearing the family crest. A line of people stretches far beyond the braided rope, extending onto the cobblestone path. A legion of servants, most quite comely, stands behind me. The girls with such privilege anticipate my every need, be it sustenance or relief.

Public audiences are an effective means of both keeping the peace and maintaining our family reputation. The ancestral power of the Navarro family courses through every manicured shrub and hanging trellis. Unfortunately, this does little to subdue the constant bickering of the minor landowners. I find myself increasingly disgusted at the way they peck at each other's necks.

"Don Navarro, this scoundrel has been allowing his cattle to graze further and further onto my land. I simply cannot take it!"

Señor Guevara wags his finger, "I did not! I did not! We had an agreement. You said my cattle could graze at the pond between our land and then, you put up a fence."

"Aha! You've admitted that you let your cattle run free on my land."

"You've admitted to being a man who cannot be taken at his word!"

They draw their swords, waiting for me to interrupt.

I cough, "Gentlemen, please. I will send an impartial inspector out tomorrow morning to investigate both señor Guevara's land deed and señor Diaz's fence."

Both men are pleased by this judgment. They honor me with a low bow before joining opposite sides of the crowd. I hate their smugness. For months, I have heard about their petty slights. Neither is truly injured by a stray cow or fence, but their animosity ensures that their presence will persist on my veranda until one or both of them dies. Taking their grievances into the public eye ensures that everyone sees their influence with the House of Navarro. It is much lesser than either of them presumes and waning by the moment.

Still, I can understand a land dispute.

As the complaints continue, I settle into my woven throne. Sticky heat saturates the wicker seat, despite the efforts of my attendants' fans. With a wave of my hand, the caravan could move inside, but I cannot bear to tarnish my home with this circus.

I lean over to my advisor. "How many more, señor Velazquez?"

"Don't worry, Don Navarro. We are almost finished. The people are quite pleased with your rulings," Sebastián assures.

A page enters and whispers something in my advisor's ear. Sebastián is an unofficial spymaster of sorts. He has an army of informants and couriers. It takes a lot to make him go white.

"What is it, Sebastián?"

Sebastián dismisses the page. "Forgive me, Don Navarro, but an overseer has brought a French penal slave to see you. This is highly inappropriate. I will send her back at once."

"Her?"

I sit up in my seat. "No, I'll see her now."

The page runs to deliver my message. It is not often that a field slave demands an audience with the master, much less a woman. If anyone in my household dares question my authority, they must be set straight in the presence of their betters. Rebellion grows in the vacuum of strength.

The girl is brought in.

A man I recognize as one of my overseers carries her by the crook of her armpit like a doll. The length of her shackles drags over the tile. Her hair hangs loosely overexposed breasts. The overseer deposits her in the center of my courtyard and wipes his hands on his trousers.

The pathetic thing shivers before me. Her body is barely strong enough to support her spine.

"Surely, this can't be the one causing all the trouble?"

The overseer huffs, "You would be surprised."

Her back is pale and scarless. So, not a quarrel over harsh discipline, then. Her head possesses a mop of wild, chestnut hair. It is unkempt, but not yet matted. She is slight of figure and shapely rather than underfed.

Regardless of her appearance, I cannot have a tiny, penal slave disrupting the order of things. Her punishment must prove a deterrent to the others.

"How long has she been in our care?"

"Two days."

"Well, that explains it." I rise from my chair, and the attendees lean in. Everyone likes a good show, and whippings make for public entertainment.

I step off the platform and towards the girl. At full height, I can be quite intimidating.

My voice betrays no amusement. "I've never known a slave foolish enough to insist on an audience. I suppose it's that famous French arrogance."

Several heads in the crowd nod. They enjoy seeing the dragon bare his teeth now and then. Especially when they are out of the range of fire. The girl, however, is silent. She has stopped shaking, even as her head remains bowed.

Am I not making enough of an impression?

As I near her half-naked form, I tower over her in both stature and position. Where did this pitiful thing grow the courage to demand an audience with me?

"Tell me, convict, what is of such great importance that you would risk your life - and your back?" I run a finger down her spine to make my intentions clear.

She remains silent.

Rebellious in her own way. I certainly cannot have that.

"When your master speaks to you, you will respond." I signal the overseer to prod a response.

The overseer jabs her in the side with his boot. She falls to the floor and finally looks up. A dirty rag has been stuffed in her mouth like a bit. Her eyes spew venom even as she lays prostrate before me. Lucky for her, I do not believe in sparring unarmed opponents. I shall give the girl her voice even if is only to beg for my mercy.

I indicate to the overseer to remove the gag. He struggles with the knot in the fabric, shoving my slave's head back and forth. Eventually, he runs a short blade through the gag. A solid clump of the girl's hair falls to the floor. She looks at it mournfully.

A strange reaction for someone of her station. Underneath the wild mane, the girl has fair features. Distinctly French, but I suppose charming in a different setting. Unlike most field slaves, her nose is set high upon her face, her complexion closer to a lady's maid than a street urchin. What is she doing here? She does not strike me as the type to steal in order to survive. No, she's much too proud for that. Prostitution is the only crime that comes to mind. Those breasts would certainly be an enticing target.

"I ask you again, what have you to say for yourself?"

Just as the girl opens her lips, another messenger comes scrambling into the courtyard.

"Make way, make way!"

He slows his pace as he becomes aware of the scene around him. After a moment of reckoning, he continues. "Pardon my interruption, Don Navarro, but the Guînes family is calling for your head."

My shoulders relax, "Of course, they are. I would not have it any other way."

My courtiers nod their approval. The French are a plague, shoving their stuffy morals down everyone's throats while bludgeoning the entire island's trading capacity with their hostile naval policy. Our quarrel reaches well past the confines of my ancestors.

"No, Don Navarro, this is a bit different. Their daughter, Catherine, has gone missing and they insist that you've kidnapped her."

Half of my audience leans in, wondering if, in fact, I did have something to do with it.

I raise my right hand. "Give them my word as a Spaniard that I haven't touched their daughter."

I pause, "Because if I had their daughter, I would have flipped her over the arm of this chair, skirt up to the little slut's ears. And after I was done with her, all of my loyal advisors would get a turn."

I gesture first toward señor Velazquez and then, toward the rest of the gentlemen. Though out of all my advisers, I suspect he most needs the release.

The slave girl cringes.

Excellent. A little fear would do her good. The prideful thing brings a reckoning upon herself. And now, she shall learn the cost of her wild demands. By the end of her sentence, this girl will be begging to share the proposed fate of Catherine de Guînes.

Two birds. One stone.

I continue, "Anyone who finds that trollop on our side of the island will be first in line."

Gleeful looks cross the faces of my gentlemen. Capturing the brat would be a pleasure in itself. Bedding her with my blessing would be an honor most delicious.

The messenger nods nervously. "Of course, Your Excellency. I will deliver your message."

I understand the messenger's hesitation, but I need my words delivered verbatim. This campaign against the French is, at times, ambitious. My threats must be accepted with certainty.

"My father would not stand to be accused of such treasons," I say for the audience's benefit. Señor Velasquez nods solemnly. The truth depends on which era one associates with my father.

I turn back toward the field slave. "Now, little French girl, will you accuse us of malfeasance too?"

The girl's throat catches. Whatever lies she had concocted have been quelled by the threat of conquest.

"I plead innocent to the charges of which I am accused."

The deferential tone has a false whine and a nasty French accent. I correct her, "Not accused. Convicted."

"Falsely," she retorts. All traces of respect have fled her sharp cheekbones.

"The slave accuses us of treachery?"

She lowers her gaze. I suspect to hide a disdainful expression.

"I could hardly accuse His Excellency from these chains."

While her impertinence alone is enough to earn a few days without slave rations, her confidence intrigues me.

"What is her name?" I ask the overseer.

The girl shifts uncomfortably. It clearly irks her to be discussed as if she were not there.

"Annalise Roberts," the overseer answers. He pulls out a wadded piece of parchment. "We picked her up for petty theft."

Petty theft? I almost pity the girl. Poverty does not suit her. With those dainty limbs, I doubt she'll be able to meet our daily quotas. The overseers will fail to train her. They'll just beat her until her body is beyond use. No, this girl needs a strong, steady hand. There's no sense in mismanaging an asset, no matter how small.

"How many years does she have on her sentence?"

"Five years, Your Excellency. Three for stealing, another two for public disturbance."

At that, I almost laugh. This girl attracts trouble wherever she goes.

I cross my arms. "Five years is a long time, Ana. Do you truly wish to spend that time in the hot sun, blaming others for your mistakes?"

"No, Your Excellency." She adds the form of address as if it were ripping the very breath from her lungs.

"No, I don't imagine so. That pale skin would probably burn to a crisp and from the look of you, I doubt you are of much help in the fields." I turn back toward the overseer. "That is your complaint, correct?"

"Yes, Your Excellency. A couple of hours in and she only filled one measly basket."

I rub my chin. "While I despise incompetence, I wouldn't wish to be a poor steward of my property."

The girl bites her lip at the mention of property.

I do not plan to make this easy for her. If rumors started that I've gone soft for a pretty face, I would be putting myself on the path of my father. Inundated with ridiculous requests. Sabotaged by his bedmates at every turn.

"I will make you a deal, Ana. I will allow you to serve your sentence inside the house. An envious position for a creature of your station. In return, you will not only admit your guilt to this court but accept an additional five years for your treasonous claims."

Her fuming glare only adds to my confusion. Despite the graciousness of my offer, I can tell she finds the idea scarcely more tolerable than the fields. She was raised with money. Of this I am certain. Perhaps she was disowned for insolence.

I continue, "And if you refuse my generosity, then I will have the overseer double your production quota."

"Then, I accept your verdict," she says plainly. A double quota is a death sentence, especially for her. The deal is hardly something she can afford to refuse. Her eyes still sparkle with silent rebellion.

I will not have my generosity rebuffed.

"Girl, I am saving you from a life of misery. I expect you to throw yourself my feet. Actually, I think you should kiss them."

Her nose twitches, but she lowers herself to my feet.

I hold up my hand. "No, no. You will crawl."

The additional command draws howls from my gentlemen. If they cannot see a whipping, they shall at least have a public humiliation.

Sebastián steps forward. "Not to interrupt a well-deserved disciplining, but are you sure this is the best course of action?"

"Yes, Sebastián. I am certain."

"Do we really wish to reward blatant disobedience with house privileges? Word might travel to the other slaves, and it doesn't bode well for - "

"My decision is final, señor Velazquez."

As etiquette dictates, Sebastián bows his head and backs down. This girl's brashness must have gotten under his skin. While I cannot allow myself to be questioned in public, I understand my steward's concerns. I, myself, half-expected to meet the girl's complaints with a sound thrashing. But this is the most fun I've had in a while.

The girl crawls toward me, shoulders hunched. I stand only a few paces from her, but Ana behaves as if it is the longest journey in the world.

"Thank you." She unlaces my shoes and plants a chaste kiss on the top of my right foot.

"Is that how the French show gratitude? I expect a little more than that."

I shove my toe between her lips. "No biting."

She sucks the toe as gently as she can muster. The illusion of choice has been broken. Silly as it may be, she must understand that she is subject to my every whim. The soft tongue flickering between my toes increases my desire for an alternate usage. The girl looks delightful with something in her mouth.

All in good time.

"That's enough, girl."

"Of course, Your Excellency." She rakes her tongue over her teeth as if trying to rid herself of poison. Even my feet should be holy to the little mudlark. I believe that she still needs to be taken down a few pegs.

"Someone fetch the branding iron! Let us remind the slave of her new loyalties."

"No, please! I'll accept another five years on my sentence." She falls to the floor, for once with sincerity.

I raise my eyebrows. "Interesting that freedom is not as valuable to you as comfort."

She whimpers.

I have her restrained. The branding iron is a terrible two-pronged contraption bearing the family crest, two lions brawling on their hindquarters. The situation before me is more akin to a lion tearing apart a gazelle.

Ana kneels, half-expecting that I will relent at any moment. She cannot weasel her way out of everything. Her new station in the house will offer plenty of false hope for escape. If I do not convey the permanence of her situation, I am liable to wind up chasing her across the estate.

I grab her by the scalp. "Make no mistake. You are a slave, and you will not forget it."

A new gag is forced between her teeth. I wouldn't want her damaging that lovely tongue.

I pull up the edge of her smock with two fingers. The slave dress is removed. She has a lovely, frownless backside. I plan to enjoy it further.

One of my men pulls the red-hot iron from the fireplace and skillfully lays it on her left buttocks. The moment that metal meets flesh, Ana's eyes go wide. She emits a terrible, heart-wrenching scream and collapses. If it were not so necessary, I might regret making the little flower pass out.

I snap my fingers, and the servants haul her away. Our lions burn red on her pale flesh. I do enjoy seeing her marked with my symbol. Even if I decide to let her go after ten years, she will always be mine.

After a few more uneventful meetings, I dismiss the crowd.

I crave entertainment. Perhaps I should send someone to check on my new house slave. The servants will need to apply a salve to her burn. Ana laid up in bed with an infection does me no good.

***

As always, my sister is waiting with a swift rebuke. She follows me into my private quarters in the West Wing.

"Oh, it's just awful what you did to that poor girl."

I cannot fathom how Isabel manages to be so concerned about everything and everyone.

"Isa, I haven't the time nor the patience for your moralizing. I saved that girl's life. She wouldn't have lasted a day in the fields."

I push past her to get through the doorway.

She turns around, arms crossed. "Did you have to humiliate her? To mutilate her? Do tell me how that part was borne of kindness."

"Ana is mine to do as I please. If you wish to help her, inform Alma of her arrival. I don't imagine she'll be happy at having to train a new one."

Isabel throws up her hands in frustration. I have other things to worry about than all of these intractable women.

Chapter 6: Learning One's Place - Catherine's Perspective

A torrent of water drenches my scalp and runs down my spine. The cold forces my body to contort.

My eyes flash open. A windowless room of cots surrounds me. An attic, most likely. No possessions are in sight, save a simple trunk here and there. After passing out, I must have been dragged to the servants' quarters.

A bundle of clothing is pushed into my sopping arms.

"You've slept long enough, girl. Put these on."

The woman watches as I sort through the items. A homespun gown the color of mustard. A set of used undergarments and ragged stays. A stained apron. Nevertheless, it is an improvement to the current state of affairs. I attempt to rise to my feet without irritating my wound. Even the slightest movement causes fire to race across my skin. The bite of the branding iron has not yet abandoned me.

The woman slams her heel against the water bucket. The resounding clang hastens my pace, though my fingers still fumble with the laces. I do not recall learning to dress myself, and I've never taken much of an interest in it.

"Alright, I'll help you this once because of that nasty burn on your arse."

The woman bats my hands away. "My name is Alma. I'm the head housekeeper here. This is where you sleep," she says, gesturing to the soaked gap between the cots. Water runs freely across the wood grain. "Hopefully, it'll be dry by the time you return."

"Thank you for your help, señora. I shall need it to survive this wretched place."

I am met with a swift cuff to the ear. Any pretense of kindness has drained from the woman's face.

"Serving in the house is a great honor. If the master wants to play with a new toy, that's his business, but I won't have you disgracing us. Get downstairs to the foyer. Take what's left in this bucket and start scrubbing the floors."

Alma turns and descends the attic stairs.

I sigh and pick up the bucket.

A few days ago, I was mistress to over half the island, and now, I am just a mouthy slave. The only piece of information that could vindicate me would either get me killed or defiled on that ridiculous chair.

I hobble down the steps into the hallway, as best as I can manage. The rattle of shackles alerts the others to my presence. They turn away in disgust.

Regardless of color, they all dust with their noses in the air. Ana, the girl they see, is a troublemaker and a social climber - as if scrubbing the floors could count as social climbing. I don't foresee any help learning my new duties.

***

The foyer is grand and ostentatious. Tall columns line its outer edges. Fine crystal chandeliers dangle from the ceiling. A Persian carpet spills down the staircase, and another meets it below. There are three other girls already at work on the exposed flooring. They crouch like mice, disappearing into the corners. The metal pail leans against my calf. My place is now amongst the mice.