He jumped down off of his horse and crossed the short distance between us.
“And add ‘failure to bow before me’ to her list of trespasses,” he said.
All eyes turned to me. Even the girls and women lifted their heads ever so slightly to get a look.
I felt the pressure exerted from all directions. Instead of succumbing to it, I stood and glared at the lord as he strode over toward me. He was taller than me. But only just.
Women and girls gasped and the men cried out, appalled. Goncalo moved one leg forward to stand, his whip shaking violently over his head.
“Kneel!” called the lord.
Goncalo instantly slid his leg back into position. I didn’t move.
Still more whispers and gasps. A flash of anger shot across the lord’s face. “Silence!”
All tongues halted. I remembered my muzzle and reached back, my muscles searing in pain with the simple movement. Even as my open flesh smeared against itself and the remnants of the dress I wore, I slid off the muzzle and tossed it on the ground.
The lord straightened his shoulders. He let a flicker of a smile grow on his face.
“Who is she?” he asked, looking straight down at me and not speaking to me at all.
“Was she not at the castle with you tonight, my lord?” asked Goncalo from behind me. “We found her coming out of the woods, holding the stolen blade.”
“No, no,” said the lord casually. “I would remember her. And besides, this blade is unfamiliar to me.”
He pulled a short, glowing blade from a too-large sheath at his side. Elgar. So the men had brought it to him after all. He raised it into the air, turning it this way and that, letting the moonlight bounce off of the violet embers. I wanted to rip it out of his grasp.
“A strange blade,” said the lord. “Smaller than I am used to, but somehow compelling nonetheless.” He shifted his gaze from Elgar to my waist. “Ah. She wears the sheath still.”
The man kneeling next to me grew alarmed and tore the sheath off of my waist. The movement stung against the wounds on my lower back, and I flinched.
The man held the sheath toward the lord with both hands. The lord seemed amused. He grabbed the sheath and slid Elgar into it, belting the sheath to his waist. Although his build was thin, the belt was just a bit too small for him; his face strained at the realization, but affix it in place he did, looping it tightly. He placed both hands on his waist as he finished, his elbows extended.
“Well?” he said. “Does the blade become me, girl?”
My leaking blood boiled over.
“My name is Noll,” I said, my tongue bursting against fresh sores with each movement. “But only my friends call me that.” I thought of the name that had drawn me there. “You will address me as Olivière.”
The women and girls screamed. The men jumped to their feet, drawing their blades, shouting. The lord did not stir.
“Silence!” he said again. The women instantly went mute. The men stood beside me and behind their master. Never before then did they so remind me of the men of my village.
The lord tried to intimidate me with his stare, but I wouldn’t let him. There was no flame within his dark eyes, and that fire that glistened unseen would not have power over me.
The lord broke the stare first and then laughed. He extended a black leather-gloved hand toward me and fingered the tips of my ears. The men relaxed slightly, and the grip on their hilts eased.
The golden bangle slid from his wrist to his forearm as he rubbed my ear tenderly. I shuddered at the touch and tried to draw back, but the lord seized my arm with his free hand and squeezed tightly.
“Olivière,” he said. “I see what he meant about self-mutilation. What have you done to your beautiful ears?” A friendly smile beamed across his stunning features.
My stomach clenched. His face was just the mask of a heartless monster.
“Nothing,” I said. “I was born this way.”
Women and men alike whispered to their neighbors. The lord laughed, but the joy that spread across his face soon turned cold. He shoved me to the ground before remounting his horse.
“Lying to me gets her a day in the stocks.”
He galloped off, leaving the men free to advance on me, their expressions twisted with both joy and fury. These were not the men of my village. They sheathed their swords, and I shut my eyes tight as dozens of hands set out to grab me.
I couldn’t wake from this dream. I was still living it. Hours had passed, and I was still here. I’m home but not home. That lord, so pompous, so haughty. I bit my lip. He was the lord I knew and not the lord I knew. But both versions made my blood boil.
The women wouldn’t look at me. A young girl would sometimes glance as she passed, her face full of both curiosity and terror—Nissa, I’d think in my delirium—and then a woman standing next to her would shield her eyes and push her forward. Not Nissa. Nissa would be comforted by Luuk, not a mother.