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?
He scowled and rolled to his other side, ignoring the scream of protest from his shoulder. It took some time, but eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep. The last thing he saw in his mind's eye before unconsciousness took him were the eyes of the Sparrow leader, still staring into his soul.
"Ye shouldnae just let him hurt ye like that. Ye should fight back," Baldric insisted. "Or I'll fight him for ye."
Ansel shook his head. At twenty-two, Baldric was several years older than Ansel, but it was clear he still had a lot to learn about the way of the world. "Ye ken we cannae do that. He's the king."
"He's supposed tae be yer father!" Baldric argued. "I cannae believe he used the lash on ye. Ye didnae even do anythin' wrong. Ye've succeeded in every mission he's given ye. Ye've shown yer loyalty over and over. Even after he did that tae yer face years ago, ye've done nothin' but be a good son."
Part of Ansel pulsed in furious agreement. He did not deserve the pain his father had inflicted upon him. He was a man now, already seventeen, and he had done nothing wrong by offering his opinion. But the greater part of him knew that there was no point in arguing. He was his father's subject before he was his son, and as the prince, his duty was to obey in all things.
"I contradicted him in front of Laird O'Sullivan," he explained patiently. "When I argued that we shouldnae execute Laird McKinstrie simply for holdin' on tae the capercaillie crest, I undermined the king. That cannae go unpunished."
Baldric scowled. "Now McKinstrie is dead, O'Sullivan has his lands, and ye are in agony. How can ye believe this is right? I cannae stand tae see ye hurt like this."
"It isnae about what's right or wrong," Ansel insisted. "It's all there is."
There was a knock at the door, and a second later, the new cook, Elspeth, entered. She was carrying a tray laden with breakfast food, a small pot of healing salve, and some bandages.
"Thank ye," Baldric told her, taking the tray. "I'll take it from here."
She nodded, giving him a smile before shooting Ansel a concerned look, then left. Ansel did not miss the way his cousin's eyes lingered on the older woman for a few moments before he turned back to him.
"Ye shouldnae accept things just because they are, Ansel," Baldric said. "Turn around. Let me see tae yer back."
"She could get intae trouble for this," Ansel replied, though he did as he was told. "So could ye."
Baldric chuckled. "Elspeth's a smart lass. She and I work well together. I wouldnae worry about such things."
After he was finished tending to Ansel's wounds, Baldric washed his hands, uncharacteristically silent. Ansel pulled his shirt back on and then faced his cousin.
"I dinnae want ye putin' yerself in danger for me, Baldric," he said quietly. "Especially nae for me."
Baldric sighed. He moved closer, then put a comforting hand on Ansel's shoulder, leaning close to rest his forehead against his. Ansel knew that, if his back wasn't in such a state, his cousin would have embraced him. "Listen tae me," Baldric said. "It's very important."
