Royal Sentence (Steamy Historical)

Chapter 8: Preparation

"Sabine! Wake-up!"

Roland's hand was whacked away, and the young lady whose shoulder it was shaking rolled on her other side. "It's too early, Mathieu, let me sleep!"

A resounding slap on her bottom prompted her to a sitting position, eyes narrowed and mouth wide open in protest. "How dare you! I..." She shook her head, confused by her surroundings, until her mind cleared and she recalled where she was. And with whom. "Oh, it's you. Back already, are you? I was hoping you would fall in a deep hole but it seems that even the Devil wouldn't have you..."

Roland struggled to keep a straight face. She was adorable in her sleep-addled feistiness, cute as a moody kitten. "What can I say? I'm a saint... Now, while I would love further debating theology with you, the King is on his way and you need to wiggle your prickly self into this garb."

Said garb dangled from his fingers and she appraised it with a frown. "I'm perfectly happy with my current clothes, thank you." Did he really believe she would fall for another of his plot to divest her of her clothing? Skirts could be easily lifted, whereas breeches were harder to remove. Not that it seemed to bother this particular ruffian. And should she get an opportunity, breeches were far better for running and riding, with the added advantage that she could pass as a man. No, decidedly, she would remain as she was.

Shrugging, Roland dumped the bunched fabric on her head. While she fumbled her way out, he chided: "I wasn't asking for your opinion. Either you put this on, or my servants and I will force you in it. The King expects to see a remorseful woman and this is what he shall have. You will kneel at his feet and behave as a paragon of female virtues, or you will regret it."

Sabine's full lips twisted in derision "Finally, you show your true colors! What will you do if I refuse? Beat me? Throw me to the troops? Your so-called honor was really short lived!"

What was God thinking when he created women! Such headstrong and unreasonable creatures! Roland huffed in annoyance. "If you don't comply, there is a good chance that you will be sent to the closest town to be jailed, tortured and publicly executed like a common criminal. I pleaded in your favor, presented you as a misled victim, but you need to play the part and demonstrate some level of contrition or Louis will not be moved. If you do as I say, you might escape the worst and be locked for a few years in a convent. Whatever you prefer is your choice, but choose you must and do it now. Time is of the essence."

He turned around and sat at his desk, determined to ignore her. If the little chit couldn't see reason, she would bear the consequence. But if Louis was displeased by his handling of the case, Roland's career could become collateral damage. Not that it would ruin him. Unlike most of the King's gentlemen, he served by choice, upholding a long family tradition of loyalty to the Crown. The wages, while generous, held no candle to his income from two trading ships, a glass manufacture and placements with a Jewish bank. The stain of royal disgrace on his pristine blazon, however short lived, was another thing altogether...

Well, he would give the girl the time for a tankard of water to soothe his parched throat before making true on his threat. Roland was determined that, should she persist in acting like a harpy, she would at least look feminine, for both their sake.

His page poured the water with a scrunched up face, picked Sabine's blanket and held it stiffly in front of her as a screen, in silent disapproval of his master's brusquerie. Roland rolled his eyes and turned away, sipping slowly and listening to the ruffling of fabric. She seemed to have come to her senses. Maybe there was hope after all.

Shielded from sight, Sabine shimmied out of her attire, bar her undergarment.  The added layer reminisced her of her childhood and made her feel somewhat safer. She would never  admit it out loud, but  he courtier had made a rather convincing point. 'Convent' rang far better than 'jail' in terms of comfort and prospects of evasion that it was worth rescinding her sharp words. So she slipped on the rough linen chemise with its scratchy border of crochet lace, the lone petticoat, the blue wool bodice closed at the front by a saffron ribbon, and the assorted skirt embroidered at the hem with daffodils to match her top. A Sunday peasant's garb, or some servant girl's best clothes. At least they were fitting. The bodice did not have the rigidity of her own –those she wore in her previous life-, and there was no padding around her hips, which would be more comfortable in her position. With her waist strangled, the restraining belt felt looser, but it was a lure. She still couldn't get out of it.

Sabine waved over the blanket to signal she was decent and thanked the page for his courtesy. When the boy flustered, Roland sent him a warning glance; he didn't want the clever minx to break the youth's heart. Fortunately, they would soon both be able to forget her.

Roland stood and approached her, his trained eye searching for any detail she might have missed. He pinched his lips to refrain a laugh; she looked like a wench on her day off. No doubt the daughter of the wealthy Baron de Veaulmes would have once been outraged at the mere idea of wearing such rags. How the mighty had fallen! Yet the outfit suited her beauty, giving it an ethereal quality that might appeal to Louis' feelings.

Untying Sabine's hair, Roland twisted two strands, tied them at the back of her head and arranged the rest on her shoulders, all the while lecturing her on court etiquette. His fingers were still lingering on the sides of her neck, when the door opened and the captain of the Royal Guard marched in.

"Monsieur le Comte," the newcomer said with a curt bow, his mustache twisting in amusement.

"Monsieur le Capitaine," Roland answered with a nod. He stepped away from Sabine and pointed at her. "This is the prisoner the King wants to meet, Mademoiselle de Brissard."

"Très honoré, Mademoiselle. Monsieur, I must commend you for taking your duties at heart, you are watching this young lady... very closely." The man grinned widely. "I hope you won't mind if I take a tour of the place, as my duty is to ensure of my King's safety."

"Of course, the room is yours."

The inspection was brief, as the house consisted of one room. In the meantime, Roland's valet arrived with wine, sweets and cakes -Louis was renowned for his formidable appetite, to the despair of his physician-, and the page buffed the unique chair and covered the seat with a thick cushion.

He set it down in the middle of the small space, just in time. The King was at the door.