The Knight's Prisoner (Medieval Discipline 1)

Sir Ferrum climbed off and settled next to her. “Hand me my shift,” she said. It was a command, but the fun of it was over for her. She felt only depressed now. He handed her the shift, and she pulled it over her head. “You won't be tying my wrists tonight.”

She was not surprised when Sir Ferrum shook his head. “I'm sorry, my lady, but that command is impossible for me to obey.”

She sighed and held her wrists out to him, and he gently wound the linen around them and then the rope. He pulled his leggings on and bound her wrists to his own as usual, settling against her back.

“Good night, slave,” she said tiredly.

“Good night, my lady.”

The next day she considered trying to humiliate him more in front of the men, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. For one thing, he might refuse her, because weakening his status with the troops might be in violation of serving his prince. And for another thing, it simply wasn't right. Instead, she gave him quiet orders, demanding that he sit at her feet while she sat upon a log, or that he fetch her more wine the moment he got himself comfortable to eat his meal. He followed all of her orders with a seeming devotion that after a while, she found quite humbling. How could he so easily bend to her will? It was impossible to goad the man, though she tried and tried again. And she was finding him less and less attractive. She was frustrated with their interactions—they felt all wrong. She wanted to enjoy dominating Sir Ferrum, but she truly didn't. Finally, desperate for some kind of release of the torturous discomfort she was feeling, she brought a bullwhip into the tent. It was the kind they used to flog soldiers for serious infractions.

She ordered him to strip and lie down on the mat. Her heart was racing already at her daring. She took the whip and swung it with her full might, connecting with his low back. As usual, he did not flinch in the slightest, but in the seconds afterward, blood seeped from the stripe she'd made. Oh, God. What had she done? And why? What was she trying to prove?

She sank to her knees, shocked. She felt tears burning behind her eyes.

Sir Ferrum looked over his shoulder at her. “What?”

She burst into tears.

“Stop that,” Sir Ferrum commanded gently, all of his authority suddenly returning. “Come here.” He sat up and reached for her, pulling her into his lap, cradling her head against him.

“Ferrum,” she choked.

“Shh. It's all right. You can't hurt Ferrum.”

“Why would I even try?” she choked, disgusted with herself.

“It doesn't matter. You just wanted to see how it felt. It's all right.”

She pressed herself in tightly against him, fully aware of the irony of Sir Ferrum comforting her in this moment.

“I don't want to be master anymore,” she sniffed.

Sir Ferrum said nothing.

“I preferred it the other way.”

He still didn't answer.

“Did you?” she asked, pulling her head back to look at his face.

He looked at her and shrugged. “I don't care for you being miserable.”

“I won't be miserable,” she promised, giving her head an emphatic shake. “I won't fight you anymore.”

She lay curled against Sir Ferrum's chest that night, her wrists bound to one of his, waiting for the familiar feeling of resentment at being held against her will to well up in her. It came, as it always did, but it did not seem so strong or right. For the first time, she felt like there might be an alternative to wallowing in that feeling—and that confused her.

* * *

“Ferrum,” she whispered, several nights later, tugging at her wrists which were bound to one of his. She'd woken to a sharp sense of danger.

“What?” he answered in a whisper. He sounded wide awake and alert, as if she hadn't just woken him from gentle snores.

“Something's wrong.”

Ferrum was on his feet instantly, hauling her up with him by her bound wrists.

“What is it?” he whispered so softly it was no more than a breath.

“I don't know.” She couldn't tell, but she was sure there was some threat very close. He unbound them and moved silently about the tent, pulling on his boots and leather armor, sheathing his sword. She pulled on her overdress and laced the bodice tight. As stealthy as a cat, Ferrum moved his big body through the tent flap, pulling her smoothly along beside him.

Completely noiselessly, he woke the prince, then went about rousing the entire camp with the quietest of whispers. She heard the occasional scrape of metal or rustle of movements, but incredibly, the camp remained silent as the men armed themselves and prepared their mounts. Then they waited. At a certain point, she realized if her Sight had been wrong—or if she'd interpreted incorrectly—the men would never forgive her for ruining a good night's sleep. The longer nothing happened, the more her anxiety grew.