Yellow Belly (Romance Fairytale Retellings #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

As the whip met Henry’s bare flesh, Prince Stefano kept his back straight and his jaw clenched, although he couldn’t control the queasiness in his gut or the stinging tears he fought to keep from falling.

The leather cord cracked again, and the fresh bloody welt—even when added to the others from this session—did not hide the scars from previous lashings.

“Thirty,” said Stefano. Perhaps louder than necessary, but at least his voice didn’t crack. He wanted to make sure Henry heard him, that Henry knew Stefano’s entire attention was focused on him. He wanted Henry to understand that Stefano felt the echo of every blow on his own body.

King Cyrus of Thanytsia slowly lifted a hand, and the guard—who’d been drawing back for another lash—paused.

“And what have you to say now?” the king demanded of Stefano. His pale gray eyes—the same precise shade as Stefano’s—held no more warmth than a winter fog.

Stefano swallowed. “I pray, Sire, that you order the punishment to end.”

“Why should I end it?”

There were many correct answers to that question, none of which Stefano could say.

The concept of a whipping boy was barbaric to begin with, and had been even when Stefano and Henry were truly boys.

But they had been men for some years now, and the practice should have been discontinued long ago.

Stefano should receive his own punishments directly, not by proxy.

Also, Stefano loved Henry. But the king wouldn’t care about that.

While Stefano weighed his words, Henry remained tied to one of the decorative pillars in the throne room, the bright wounds stark against his pale skin.

He faced away from Stefano, and although he could have turned his head to look at him, he instead rested his forehead against the carved and gilded wood.

His ragged breathing reverberated against the marble walls as if it were being held captive, and his thick curly hair, which Stefano so loved to play with when they were alone, was dark with sweat.

“Your Grace,” said Stefano, bowing to his father.

Not because he wanted to show respect, but because he needed this torture to end.

“I acknowledge that I erred in speaking publicly against you. A son owes fealty to his father, and a prince owes fealty to his king. I apologize for my actions and I seek your forgiveness.” Every word was bitter on his tongue.

There was a low murmur from the other people in the room—the members of the High Council, Stefano’s two older brothers, perhaps even the servants and guards. But for a long, terrible moment King Cyrus remained silent. Nothing in his gaze thawed; his posture didn’t soften.

Then he lowered his hand. “You will confine yourself to your chambers for one week, and you will refrain from attending council meetings for the remainder of the year.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Stefano spoke softly this time, a chastened child.

As he watched, knees threatening to give out, Cyrus gestured to the guard holding the whip, then turned and swept from the room.

The council members and other princes disappeared almost as quickly, although Philip, the heir, glared briefly at Stefano before taking his leave.

When only a few servants and guards remained, Stefano rushed toward Henry. A guard stopped him short, however, and kept Stefano in place with a firm but not unkind grip. “Let the servants tend to him, sir.”

“But he’s—”

“I’ll have him taken to your chambers. Shall I send for the physician?”

Stefano let out a heavy breath. “Yes. Please.”

The guard whispered close to Stefano’s ear. “Henry will be slow in arriving, but I suspect he would prefer to make the journey with as little assistance as possible. And without you witnessing his progress, sir.”

Although Stefano wanted to carry Henry himself, he understood the wisdom of the guard’s words. If Henry must be beaten on Stefano’s behalf, then Stefano owed him at least some dignity. “All right,” Stefano said. The guard released him and took a half step back.

Stefano stole one more look at Henry. The arms that so often held him were taut and strained, the heavy muscles as hard as if they, like the pillars, had been carved.

Stefano yearned to give Henry a small comforting touch, a compassionate word.

But he knew that Henry wanted neither of those things right now, under the watchful gaze of so many others.

“I will wait in my chambers,” Stefano said, hoping he managed some of his father’s regal tone.

The corridors of the palace felt endless.

Passageways, halls, and stairways with rich carpets underfoot, tapestries on the walls, and pedestals with sculptures staring blindly as he passed.

The servants, guards, and assorted functionaries that he passed turned their eyes away from him in a show of humbleness, but he knew they whispered to one another as soon as he turned a corner.

No matter. Nobody mattered to him now except Henry.

After what felt like centuries, he reached the double doors to the suite of rooms that were often a sanctuary and sometimes a prison.

The doors were flanked by a pair of guards, ostensibly to protect him.

For the next week, however, they would serve as his keepers.

He nodded at them nonetheless because they weren’t bad sorts.

Just men doing their jobs for their king.

Once inside, Stefano hurried through the large sitting room.

He kept his books here, his drawings, his collections of small bones and feathers.

It held comfortable chairs, shelves with pretty stones and bits of colored glass he’d collected at the beach.

There was a desk where he worked and a table where he and Henry often took their meals.

It was a good space. When someone mentioned the word home, this room came to Stefano’s mind.

A door led to his dressing room, where his court clothing dominated one side and more casual wear took up a small but important corner. There was also a bench intended for use while getting dressed, although he and Henry often made more creative use of it.

And finally he was in his bedchamber, with its enormous canopied bed near the glass french doors that opened onto a garden.

Henry’s narrow cot was there too, although he hadn’t slept in it for years.

Now Stefano ignored the cot and instead turned down the coverings of the big bed and rearranged the pillows.

A servant’s job, but he didn’t mind the task.

It gave him something to do besides anxious pacing.

He was moving the cushions for the seventh or eighth time when a heavy knock rattled the main doors to his chambers.

He rushed through to the outer room just as the doors flew open and five people entered: four guards and Henry, who was supported by two of them.

When Henry saw Stefano, however, he took his arms off the guards’ shoulders and slowly, deliberately, walked by himself.

His expression was set, and he didn’t look at Stefano as he passed him and entered the dressing room.

“Leave us.” Stefano didn’t wait to see whether the guards obeyed, but he heard the doors shut behind them.

Henry stood midway between the bed and the cot, facing Stefano. His shirt was wadded in one hand, his skin parchment-pale, and he swayed slightly on his feet.

“Get into our bed,” Stefano said softly.

“I’ll stain the bedding.”

“Do you honestly think I give a damn about that?”

After a brief hesitation, Henry let go of the shirt and shuffled to the bed, where he very cautiously settled onto his stomach.

His face was turned away from Stefano—a small mercy, perhaps, because Stefano wasn’t sure he could withstand Henry’s gaze.

It was bad enough to see him sprawled unmoving, his wounds all the more horrifying in what was normally a place of peace and joy.

“Henry, I—”

“Not now. Please.”

Stefano wasn’t sure what he intended to say anyway. Perhaps he might have given an explanation, a plea for forgiveness, a promise for the future… but none of those were sufficient. Nothing he could say would be enough.

He was saved by another knock. Unwilling to leave Henry alone, even for a moment, Stefano called, “In here.”

The court physician entered, a tall, gray-haired woman with an enormous satchel and a frightened-looking young assistant. The healer barely nodded at Stefano before turning her entire attention to Henry.

She took a long time with him, murmuring too quietly for Stefano to hear while she cleaned Henry’s wounds and applied ointments. She did a chant as well, which frightened Stefano because magic like that was used sparingly. And magic in general made him uneasy.

“Is he so badly off?” he asked anxiously as soon as she’d finished the chant.

“It was only to help him sleep. He is young and strong and healthy. He will heal.” While her words were comforting, her face showed nothing but contempt for Stefano.

“Allow him rest for several days. Keep the wounds clean. He will need ample fluids but only very light meals. Once he feels stronger, he will need foods to enrich his blood. Meats, fish, cheeses, beans. Ointment must be applied to his wounds thrice daily until they are completely healed. When he is able, he should stretch often to keep the scars from binding.”

Stefano nodded. “I understand.”

“I doubt that very much.” Perhaps emboldened by this statement, which they both knew a physician ought not make to a prince, she lifted her chin. “No person should be abused for another’s misdeeds.”

“I agree.”

“And yet.” She gestured toward Henry, who was breathing slowly and evenly.

“This was not my choice! I begged my father to have me whipped instead. He refused.”

“Of course he did. Just as he did when you were children, because nobody may raise a hand to His Royal Highness. But you are no longer a child.”

She turned away from him then, waving at her assistant to gather her belongings and stuff them into the satchel.

Stefano watched from a distance, remembering when this same physician had attended to Henry when they were boys.

Her hair had been a pale gold instead of gray, and Henry had been lashed with a willow rod then instead of a leather whip.

The beatings had been less severe as well, although still harsh enough to leave permanent marks, still harsh enough to hurt. Yet Stefano had never seen Henry cry.

Alone with Henry after the physician had gone, Stefano felt restless and at loose ends.

He tried to occupy himself by sitting at a small table in the bedroom and drawing a nest he’d recently found in the garden.

It had apparently been blown out of a tree in a recent storm, and he’d discovered it during a pleasant amble with Henry.

As they’d walked, Henry had enthused about the previous night’s meal, which had been one of the royal chef’s finest masterpieces, and he talked about some new physical exercises he’d been practicing.

The temperature had been exactly warm enough, and everything smelled like green growing things. Stefano had been perfectly content.

The nest was nothing special, only the former home of some sparrows, but he found it interesting nonetheless, as he found most things in nature.

He sat at his little table with pencil in hand and paper before him, and he tried to portray the nest’s simple perfection.

In his estimation, nature’s magic was always superior to the sort his brother Louis and other wizards used.

But Stefano couldn’t apply himself to the task at hand and eventually gave up.

None of his books appealed, and even if he hadn’t been confined to his chambers, he wouldn’t have left Henry alone.

That left him with little to do except gaze out at the garden, which was separated from the rest of the vast estate by high stone walls.

There were two entrances through the wall, but nobody ever used them.

Stefano had banned even the gardeners and groundskeepers from this private space.

The only people who entered the garden were Stefano and Henry, and it was purposely kept quite wild: a copse of trees, thickets of shrubs, and a little meadow that was bright with wildflowers in the spring.

There was also a pond that lacked the crystal clarity of the palace’s ornate fountains but contained ample life and never went completely dry, even during periods of drought.

The garden was home to countless birds, insects, and other small creatures.

Stefano and Henry had built winding paths through the miniature wilderness, and they’d brought in a few benches so that Stefano had spots to sit and observe.

Henry had less interest in nature but enjoyed keeping Stefano company.

Sometimes he brought a book or practiced fighting moves, and sometimes he simply lay with his head in Stefano’s lap and dozed.

Now, of course, Henry’s head was on a bed pillow, not Stefano’s lap, and he was deep in charmed sleep. Although the room was warm, Stefano pulled a blanket over him, but only to his waist. His back remained on display as a vivid reminder of Stefano’s shortcomings.

Unable to hold himself back any longer, Stefano fell to his knees beside the bed and sobbed until, seemingly, his body had no more moisture left to give.

Later that evening, Stefano had a servant bring herbal tea and beef broth, both of which he spooned painstakingly into Henry’s mouth. Henry was wake enough to swallow and afterward use the chamber pot, but then his eyes closed again and his slow breathing returned.

Stefano ate nothing, and that night he slept on the cot.