Chapter Nine

Catherin stood looking out the window of the prince's chamber. Was it really only just a few hours since the lazy sunlit morning, when time had seemed suspended for a moment? It felt as if an entire lifetime had passed.

Lord Kevan had already sent word to convene the inhabitants of the castle for that farce of a trial. Father Dain would be punished for what he had not done; ironically, something that Kevan should have done himself. Catherin's hands trembled violently, and she latched onto the deep gray stone of the casement. Her knuckles turned white, and still she hung onto it, unsure whether she quivered with the fear, the shock, or the pure rage that warred in her. Her gut twisted suddenly, and she thought she might vomit.

"What will they do to him?" she asked the prince, turning to face him, hands still locked on the ledge. Tomas' gaze was compassionate, but steady.

"As a priest, he will be spared the usual loss of a hand or foot – he will need these appendages to continue his ministry, although I am certain he would not be retained here in an official capacity." The prince's eyes flickered a little, Catherin noted bleakly, knowing she would not like what she heard, yet knowing she needed to hear it. Her eyes met his, and he cleared his throat imperceptibly before continuing.

"He will … lose his manhood." He would not look her in the eye as he grimly stated the inevitable. Catherin paled and swayed, gripping the window-ledge so tightly that she could feel grains of sand come loose under her fingertips. The ritual castration was generally reserved for the worst of crimes, barring those warranting execution.

It signified that the criminal was deemed less than a man, and henceforth would be treated as such. It hadn't been performed in years, which showed how deeply Kevan felt the affront, though it came by his friend alone.

"Why his manhood?"

Her voice cracked, and she coughed, blinking away the prickle in her eyes. Then the rage flooded back, and she released the stone ledge, her hands balling directly into fists. "Does Lord Kevan," – she spat the honorific as if it burned her tongue – "feel that his only recourse, not being a man himself, is to reward honour with mockery?" She took a shaky breath, hissing it out between her teeth, and looked angrily at her father. "This goes too far, my lord!"

Tomas calmly met her gaze. "He does so at my bidding." Catherin's eyes grew wide, and she opened her mouth, ready to say something, anything, to convince him of his error, but he forestalled the torrent with an upraised hand. "He had planned to behead him."

The room began to spin crazily, and Catherin put one shaking hand to her head, then quietly sank to her knees. "Oh gods!" she breathed disbelievingly. "How dare he?!"

"Technically, the priest's actions could be construed as treasonous," replied Tomas dispassionately. His eyes belied his tone, their cool blue depths expressive with concern. "I convinced him that the gods might not smile upon the execution of a priest, but that this would be an acceptable alternative to the crown."

Catherin sighed deeply, passing her hand across her face, as if to wipe all this from her recollection. "I thank you," she said formally, though her voice shook.

"You care for him?" The prince looked at her sharply, his meaning unmistakable. Catherin blushed faintly.

"As a brother, my lord."

Tomas nodded heavily. "I am glad your feelings are only those of a sister – for I cannot rescue the priest from this punishment by any means, save royal command. Having Lord Martell for an enemy would do neither of us any good, daughter. He needs must have his scapegoat, I am afraid, and it is better that he punish Father Dain than Liam."

Catherin nodded – she knew he was right – and pursed her lips resentfully at the mention of her former father. "I do not want to stay here much longer," she said abruptly, after a long moment of silence. "How long until we may leave?"

"Originally, I had planned to stay a seven-night more; circumstances being what they are, I informed Lord Martell this afternoon that we would leave with the dawn tide. I have had Bertram see your things packed, and tonight we shall sleep aboard ship."

Catherin nodded approvingly; she did not want to stay in this place a moment longer. Then, a thought struck her. "I have one request, my lord..." she hesitated, biting her lip. Prince Tomas' mouth curved in an encouraging smile, and he motioned for her to continue.

"Can we not bring Father Dain with us? I do not like to leave him here." The words tumbled out, and she stopped herself from further abusing Lord Kevan by biting her tongue. All the things I wish to say about him do not bear repeating. Her brow furrowed in concern, and the prince's smile widened slightly.

"I will have him brought aboard tonight – I travel with a healer who will see to his wound."

Catherin heaved a sigh of relief, and crossed to kiss her guardian's hand, tears rising to her eyes in gratitude for even the smallest mercy shown to the priest, after the sentence pronounced. It was not that the punishment itself was particularly repulsive or cruel – a common saying went that hands, feet, and heads were the currency of criminals; and since Rodrick had taken the throne, that was truer than ever. Nor was castration an unheard of practice – Catherin had even heard tale that in certain nations of the east, men would willingly undergo such treatment – rumour had it that a good soldier became a great warrior from such, and the hot-blooded easterners valued their bloodsoaked heroes above all things. No, the worst of the impending punishment was the understanding that the criminal was, until the day he died, lower than the lowest dog – classless and cast out. Humiliation falls a very close second to death, under such circumstances, and Catherin felt it deeply on Father Dain's behalf.

Unbidden, an idea formed in her mind, and her lips curved in a cruel smile as she considered it.

"I refuse to bear witness to the humiliation of my friend," Catherin said coldly when, an hour later, Prince Tomas informed her it was time to appear at the trial. "He would not appreciate my presence, and it would demean me to burden him with it. Should Lord Martell deign to note my absence, you may inform him that I am suffering from a woman's malady."

Her eyes flashed steely fire, and Prince Tomas refrained from making a response, overlooking the familiarity in her tone, knowing from long and bitter experience that "woman's maladies" were never to be taken lightly.

He snapped his fingers sharply. Bertram and Tysen materialised, and he nodded curtly at Bertram. "Stay with her – I do not want her out of your sight for a moment, lest Martell try to further his ill-advised revenge schemes. Tysen, with me!" Muttering in annoyance, the prince was wheeled out by his burly manservant.

Catherin stood, listening silently until Tysen's firm footsteps and the clicking squeaks of the wheeled chair echoed into nothingness. Then her entire being seemed to burst into life, reverberating with nervous energy.

"We have not a moment to lose, Bertram," Catherin told him swiftly, rushing to a chest in the corner of the room. "Put this on," she directed, tossing a large wad of dark material at him. Bertram raised a sceptical eyebrow and shook out the material until it was recognisable as a rather distinctive hooded cloak.

"This is the uniform of the night watch," Bertram observed blandly, surveying the garment, but making no move to obey her.

"How perceptive of you," responded Catherin sarcastically, having donned a smaller version of the same cloak, her fingers tripping hurriedly over the ties.

"What do you intend to do?" asked her manservant, with an air of superficial curiosity, folding his arms and leaning apathetically against the stone wall.

"It doesn't matter," she replied, rummaging more deeply within the chest, emerging with a nasty-looking curved blade in a wrought-silver scabbard. "You don't have to come with me, but Tomas might wonder later why you didn't." She fastened the knife belt around her waist, concealing the scabbard slightly behind her left hip. Experimentally, she whipped the knife out, testing the balance of the burnished steel. Satisfied, she ran the blade lightly along her thumb, sucking in her breath appreciatively as blood burbled up in its wake.

"Or," suggested Bertram in the same even tone, shifting his stance slightly, "I could simply bar your way."

Catherin raised her eyes, fixing him with a hard stare. He did not back down. Then she sighed, shrugged, and sheathed the knife.

"I'm going to pay a little visit to Sir Robert."

Instantly, Bertram donned the cloak.

The last rays of evening sun shone pinkly into the courtyard, sparkling where they caught dancing particles of dust. The sky was a vivid red, and Father Dain closed his eyes, breathing deeply of the cool dusky air. The sweet clean saltiness cleared his head, and brought him a measure of peace.

He knew already what was to come; Catherin's strained foretelling had confirmed what he himself had seen. There was a reason, he knew, and the gods would make of it as they would. He would not question why his path took such a direction; it was not his place.

As his heart lightened, his face relaxed, the worry smoothing away. And when he ascended the creaky stairs to the hastily-erected platform, his steps were light and steady. Two of the castle guard gripped his arms, though it was only an appearance, for they knew he would not resist. And, half-obscured by the shadows at the back of the scaffolding, stood the captain of the guard, clad in the executioner's uniform of long leather gloves and black hood, in perfect readiness to perform his duty of enacting the sentence, should it prove necessary.

In no mind was there a doubt, however, that there would be a punishment. Lord Kevan was not a man to be crossed, and his people knew it well, from the toothless gray-haired woman tottering on the fringe of the crowd, to the lad of four summers, clinging nervously to his mother's weatherstained skirts.

Hushed murmurs from among the milling villagers sounded like the roar of the wind on the sea, and necks craned as curious people questioned the reason for their priest's presence. The priest blocked out the murmurings and strained instead for the shrieks of the circling sea-gulls, pretending he was standing on the sand, looking out into the sea.

What would be, would be. But his heart beat a little faster as Lord Kevan emerged onto the wide, low balcony overlooking the square. The nobleman fairly radiated anger, and those who, anxious not to miss a word or nuance of the astonishing spectacle, had pushed to the front, surged nervously backward at the sight of their wrathful lord.

"Men and women of the Isles, it is with heavy heart that I bring before you a man, who, while he spoke for the gods, plotted treason in his heart..."

The young priest again closed his eyes, seeking the peace he had felt short moments ago. It was hard to see your people – for they were as much his people as they were vassals of Martell – look at you with such mistrust. In accepting his role, he had known that he would be proven guilty, but this was the hardest part for him to bear. They who had been his family stood among the crowd – his father's tanned, weather-beaten face was turned away in shame, and he could see the tears glittering on his mother's cheeks.

The gods never promised an easy road, he reminded himself again, steeling himself against the surge of bile rising in his throat at what he knew was to come.

Catherin's stomach knotted painfully as they descended into the bowels of the castle. If, above the ground, the passageways were maze-like, beneath the castle they resembled nothing so much as a spider's web – turns were sharp and unmarked, each passage spawning half a dozen others.

It was dark and cool down there, water trickling down the walls with a sticky frigid sound, and echoing loudly as it dripped from jutting protrusions on the uneven walls to the floor. The two sets of footsteps, though light, sounded loudly through the passage, and Catherin absorbed herself in trying to glide over the patches of wet flagstone.

Bertram put his hand on her arm, and she found it oddly soothing, despite being rather at odds with the stony silence he had maintained since they left the prince's quarters.

She tried to distract herself from what she had planned by composing speeches of explanation to her newly acquired father, but got no further than: 'It was justice!' before abandoning the plan.

Instead, she tried to clear her mind as Father Gilbert had taught her to do before prayer, but she was distracted by the oozing wet sounds of water seeping through the limestone, and the pattering of tiny feet down untrodden hallways that echoed eerily, and made shudders crawl up her spine.

Torches were few and far between; the shadows were gray, not black, but they were thick as the dust that swirled up in gray clouds around her boots and the hem of her cloak where the floor was dry.

She fought the urge to sneeze.

Then, abruptly, the door at the end of the long passageway – the one she knew to be the solitary cell in which Robert had been incarcerated – swelled from the floor like a black silent wraith separating itself from the nearly-tangible shadows.

The hand on her arm tightened, and Catherin, who had forgotten it was there, looked questioningly into the eyes of her companion.

"You don't have to go in," he said, as if he had read her thoughts. "I will see to it."

For a moment, Catherin considered his offer. She did not like the idea of what she would do – not in cold blood. But Father Gilbert had taught her that the truest form of justice was carried out by the judge. If he could not stomach performing his sentence, then it was not his place to pronounce judgement.

She had made herself judge – thie sentence was not only for her friend, but for herself. Some battles had to be fought for oneself. She shook her head. "I have to do this," she replied, her voice wavering only slightly.

Bertram looked searchingly into her face, the gloom casting shadows that obscured his eyes, and transforming his gaze into the hollow unbroken stare of a sun-bleached skull. Then he nodded, as if satisfied with what he saw, and stepped aside, pulling the keys from his belt and handing them to her in one smooth motion. Catherin fumbled with the heavy keyring and selected a key at random. It didn't fit. Beseechingly, she looked to Bertram, who reached out, unerringly choosing the correct key, and fitting it to the door.

He waited, looking to her for a signal. Catherin breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the dank air once, twice, and three times, then nodded at her manservant. She was as ready as she was likely to be.

He turned the key, and the door swung inward.

"Father Dain, how do you answer the charges laid before you?" came the nasal bleat of the herald standing beside Lord Kevan. "Do you deny that you gave payment to see unlawful punishment carried out in the name of Lord Martell, ruler of the Isles?"

"I do not deny it," replied Dain steadily. Four, forgive me for my deceit.

Again a scandalised hum rose from the crowd, who apparently thought he had been wrongfully accused. The priest tried to avoid the eyes of the woman who had been his mother; the sorrowful accusation eloquent in her gaze was more than he could handle.

As his eyes roamed the crowds, he noted, with immense relief, that Catherin was not in attendance.

Thank you, Four, that she was able to avoid this spectacle, he thought gratefully. Prince Tomas inclined his head respectfully when their gazes met, where other faces turned away.

"Then, by the power vested in me as the hand of King Rodrick in these lands, I hereby sentence you to immediate castration and banishment from the Sapphire Islands."

The hum from the crowd steadily increased in volume, and Dain forced it out of his head.

"I accept my punishment as is fitting I should do," he replied formally, and inclined his head toward Lord Kevan, in humble acceptance.

Four, forgive me for the sin of false humility. Forgive me for the loss of faith these will suffer in seeing one they counted as Your servant a traitor and debased accordingly.

He took a deep breath, and turned toward the approaching captain.

A single flickering torch lit the small cell, hardly relieving the gloom that seemed to flood in with the two who entered. Sir Robert's form was visible, lying supine on the narrow cot along the far wall. The door screeched in protest as Catherin pushed it further open, and the knight's head lolled lazily toward his visitors, his eyes shut.

"Am I to be released yet?" came the laconic query. Catherin cringed at the sound of his voice.

"I suppose it would depend on your definition of the word," she replied. His eyes jerked open at her words.

When he responded, however, his tone was deceptively warm. "What a surprise, Lady Catherin – I would have thought you would want to watch the proceedings outside."

"I have my own proceedings to enact here," she informed him, the icy rage pulsing through her veins again. The front of her head throbbed with it, and she could feel the colour draining from her face.

"Do you wish then to present me with what had been my right to take?" he drawled venomously, struggling to sit up. She started at the sheer hate in his voice, and could not find the words with which to silence him, but could only listen, tongue-tied.

"My dear, I would not take you now," he snarled, "if I were paid to do so. You are tainted goods, you see. Your darling priest confirms it by his willingness to suffer unwarranted punishment. You, sweet bastard, are no better than your mother, playing the whore for the young priest and the old prince. Your favours seem to extend even to your brother, if I am to judge by his misguided devotion to his baseborn half-sister."

His eyes sparkled as the malicious words left his mouth, and the barricades suppressing her wrath were swept swiftly away by the flood welling within her, leaving her shaking like a leaf.

Again, Sir Robert jeered at her. "You have naught to say in your defence, whore? I had expected better from a daughter of your mother. If you came to taste a real cock, as your priestly lover loses his, I might have to change my mind and oblige you. A real man does not need hands, even. Or a tongue, if your silent slave is anything to judge by."

Bertram moved forward with the lethal grace of a cat stalking its prey, and Catherin's hand shot out to restrain him. Imperceptibly, she shook her head, never taking her eyes from the insolent knight before her, and Bertram melted back into the shadows by the doorway.

"My, my," sneered Sir Robert, "The dog can be insulted. I am shocked!" As he continued his vulgar insults, it seemed like time slowed for a moment, and her entire being all Catherin's anger seemed to coalesce into painful numbness, and her mind was clear. Strangely, she felt soothed, and it was possible for her to speak.

"You have said your piece, dog!" Her words lashed out like the striking of a whip, effectively stunning Robert into silence, his mouth half-open. "Now it is my turn to speak, and, like any cowardly animal, you will listen in silently, or, I swear by the Four, I will cut out your tongue." Her blade flashed from her hip, and hovered at his mouth, as though it were about to prise apart his lips. Robert swallowed convulsively, and Catherin moved the notched steel in a steady arc down toward his left stump. "Do you understand, cur?"

Hastily, Robert nodded, his eyes glued in horrified fascination to the weapon, and Catherin nudged the unhealed flesh on his wrist with the tip of the knife, cold grey eyes taking in his suppressed groan with something very like approval. "Good."

His stumps, which had evidently not been seen to, oozed blood and yellowish fluid. Catherin's lips curved slightly in a sense of profound satisfaction at the undeniable proof of the steady onset of infection. She felt a vicious triumph that, while Lord Kevan busied himself with rectifying imaginary slights, his friend risked losing his arms, if not his life, to fever.

"A man is about to lose a piece of himself in punishment for the part he played in defending me from you, swine," she said, clearly enunciating each word, her voice even. "You have lost merely your hands, and I would gladly have seen an end at that, had you not returned. Now, I will see to it that you suffer the same loss as him."

Robert's face blanched, the vivid red of the welts her nails had left on his face, and the darker hue of the dried streaks of blood seeping through his hair to his forehead, presenting a striking contrast to his pallor. Catherin's mouth contorted in a merciless grin.

Then, as if realising the scene he presented, Robert attempted to pull together the remaining shreds of his bravado.

"You intend to castrate me, little girl?" he laughed derisively. "You don't have the stomach."

"Your opinion matters little," Catherin responded coolly. "I will carry out my own sentencing."

"And what makes you think I will keep silent?" queried Robert, looking for all the world as if he were an indulgent uncle listening to the demands of his child. Catherin blinked in confusion at the abrupt change in persona, then smiled, catlike. She held the tip of her dagger at his jugular.

"I could extort a promise from you – but a promise made on the shit of my horse is worth more to me than a promise made on your so-called honour. No..." she said reflectively, "I will not demand such a promise. Rather, I will make to you a promise. If I hear that so much as a word of this passes your lips – and doubt you not that I will know – I will find you, and I will cut your tongue out and force you to eat it – you will drink your own blood until you drown in it, you filthy bastard!"

Catherin's hand was the only part of her shaking after her impassioned speech, but that was enough – the sharp point of her blade quivered madly at Sir Robert's throat. "I am in earnest," she said evenly. "Believe it."

Again, Robert's face blanched, and his eyes glassed over. He made as if to flee, and with a sharp gesture, Catherin summoned Bertram from the shadows. "Restrain him," she instructed coldly.

An unearthly scream echoed from the dungeons.

Father Dain did not make a sound.

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A/N: A bit different as far as style goes. And I do think it was a bit gross, but hopefully you still like it.