Tears of Leyden (32 page)

“Not terribly,” my voice sounds distant, and I do not put much thought to the words.

He reaches for my attention. “Lyra?”

I look to him, granting him this much.

He squeezes my hand. “Zenith…has he…?”

I look away.

“Lyra, look at me. It is not appropriate dear.”

I hear the gentleness in his voice, and it is the only thing bringing me back.

“You are my daughter, you can share with me.”

I swallow and think of all the times he had said that. When moeder used to scorn me when I was coming of the age for womanhood, I used to run off and hide if she was yelling. Somehow, in the end that he would always find me. Multiple times he would tell me that nothing should come between us so that we would hold secrets, and then he disappeared on me, leaving me to hold all of my own. I had been frightened without him for so long and now he had come back.
For how long though, and for what other reason than Leyden’s freedom?

I look up into kind eyes, aging and full of secrets of their own. I know he is earnest. “Where is he?”

A moment ticks by between us, and the connection through our adjoined hands is broken for a time. He sees who I mean.

“Vader?”

“He is kept somewhere safe.”

I look at him pleadingly. “No secrets…”

He watches me. “He is not hurt…”

I implore. “I cannot share with you unless you do me…”

“Lyra.”

“Vader, I…”

“Lyra, you are ill.”

I snatch back my hand. “He will become so too!”

His hands lie empty on the bed and he does not move them from their place. “You of all people should know hardships are a part of life.”

I swallow. “It isn’t fair. You can’t just take him like that…he is another human being…”

“It is not in my power to change the ways of the world Lyra.” His eyes are thrashing and stormy, severe. “He is contradicted and loathed by every Dutch in our home. He would most likely be killed as payment and revenge for what happened by the hands of his people. It is better if we make it short for him, not long and painful…It would be a
gift
.”

I stare at him.
If we make it short for him? A gift?
I am too horrified by his words to move. “You haven’t sentenced…”

He stands rigid but upright. “I gave him options and time before it will happen.”

I look at him frightfully. “Options…”

“Not including you.”

The words are like daggers, gently sliding themselves under my skin where they burn. “Tell me what you told him…”

“I said nothing of any kind yet…apart from that he will remain here for longer while we set up the consequences. Regardless of his choice, be it death or labor, he will be punished.”

It stabs deeper. “Zenith is not…”

“Not what? Not Spanish? Your Spaniard is no better than he is…”

“Nadeje.”

He stops. “Beg your pardon?”

“His name is Nadeje Gilch,” I love saying his name, I almost repeat it. I do not however, for I already am in misfortune for interrupting him.

“Mr. Gilch then, is no better than…”

“He is better for me…maybe not for you…but he is for
me
.” It comes out firm and without hesitation.

He looks into my eyes with something like assurance. “You were never so tight with any other topic than marriage…you chose with your moeder that you wished to marry Zenith and now…”

I look away. “Let me be with him,” it is quiet.

“I do not understand you.”

I look up. “Let me be with Nadeje,” it is almost a demand, an order.

He grows firm. “You are not to speak with me as though I am the lesser, Lyra.”

I sit straighter. “You don’t think I know what I say to you?”

He is angered now. “Lyra Orange,” it is warning.

I look away. “Don’t call me that.”

He is heated. “Excuse me?”

I turn on him again, holding my ground. “We could leave…go to Spain where he would be safer.”

He stares at me, seeming distracted now by the change in topic. “Without my consent?”

I look at him without any other diversions now. “If necessary to win the argument then yes, if unnecessary then no.”

He bites down. “Lyra, you are being irrational.”

I keep eye contact, though it is becoming hard. “And you cruel.”

He sounds flustered. “Lyra you are birthed into a heritage…a pure line of births that no one should ever ruin.” It is strong, too strong. “Do not make me have to force you.”

I look away now, the tears blocking my throat as they rise. I am hugging myself slightly, only having myself to hold onto now. “You do not love me then? Not enough to care for who I love?”

He grits his teeth. “I must keep the family within line.”

“My moeder…was she in line?”

It grows silent. I feel I have reached the point of his tenderness. I hear him move away. I look up to see him leaving the room. He does not turn back, and I am afraid that it is possible I have gone too far down the road, that the road may lead to Nadeje, and in a worse manner than before.

Chapter 29

There is a knock on my door.

I do not sit up, not caring to after what has been done between all the people on this boat and me. I do not move. The door closes behind some footsteps and I lie here unobstructed. I stare at the ceiling as there is quiet.

“Ms. Orange.”

I sit up, hearing an unfamiliar voice from what I had expected. It is one of my vader’s men, one of the hands on deck in his formal clothes and black slender boots. I wait for him to speak again, not wanting to use my throat for more than necessary.

“I have come to announce the period of time tomorrow when activities will take place.” He bows stiffly, and avoids my gaze. “There is to be breakfast at eight o’clock, and afterwards there is to be a whipping assemblage on deck. Then we will move to the city for the rest of this week. You are entitled to be at all events, and are invited to a whole house dinner with your vader and his conference.”

He spoke so swiftly that I could not catch everything.

I got the basics, but could not understand. “Elaborate on the whipping assemblage,” I order softly.

He bows his head. “Thirty lashes to the punished, Ms. Orange. I know not how else to explain the gathering.”

My heart has stopped. Everything has stopped. My whole life has stopped with those words.
Thirty lashes.
I go hollow inside. I feel winded and brain dead, as well as nauseous.
It could kill him.
I feel the bed around me for the first time in the past thirty seconds of silence. I can’t move.

“Will that be all?”

His voice slices into me, and though meant as respect, I feel it as reverse.

“No.”

He waits for me to instruct him but I hadn’t spoken in response to his inquire, it had been from my own shock, my own bewilderment at what was actually happening.

I make myself look at him. “Go,” it is soft.

He bows and I look away, not watching him as he closes the door. The moment he is gone, I feel empty. The room is silent, and my soul is quieted. I have nothing.
Nothing.
Not even tears can deliver me release or pain now. I have nothing, want nothing, and see nothing. The core of me has shifted, and all I can feel is empty. I lie back down and let myself be still.

Chapter 30

The next morning I do not wake up. I didn’t sleep and I didn’t eat the food brought to me or go to the dinner to which I was invited. I just stared at objects; furniture, the ceiling, my hands, my bandage. I saw everything as it was, apart from the internal anguish ready to be unleashed into madness as it is the last thing in my empty vessel.

A knock on my door serves as an order for me to begin to get ready. I don’t know why I do but I oblige to the command. I wipe down with a hot wetted washcloth and wait for assistance to change my dress. When it comes, I choose a silver dress, one of charcoal grey and silver, soft and with folds about the skirt, easily fitted and elegant. I wear it not to celebrate, but to have the air of misery and solitude, to show my desolation and make others see the stone surrounding my heart with every step I take. I place my hair back from my face for the first time in months and tie it in a loose bun, some strands softening my face by falling down beside the curve of my jaw. I do not wear a headdress, or a Dutch cap. I don’t want to. I want to rebel in that way against my birthright if nothing else. I slip on shoes and they pinch my feet with the first steps I take. I look around me at the papers still spread out. I choose not to move them, but I am certain that someone will soon throw them away, just as they have chosen to throw away my heart.

When I am ready, I wait only shortly before there is a knock on the door and a man in his formal attire bows to me in greeting. I step behind him as he leads me and soon find myself in the breakfast hall, where light from two circular holes in the ship (I suppose to be windows) illuminates the room to brightness, a tone I feel will never be found inside me. I sit at the table opposite from my vader, who is speaking aggressively with his fellow men. They seem untouched by the event taking place in less than a few hours, untouched by my arrival or relinquished appetite, and untouched by the presence of my odium.

I manage half a glass of water, unable to stomach more to fill the hollowness inside me.

“Time of breakfast is past ten o’clock,” the announcement is what wakes me to reality again.

The men start to rise. I follow as I feel the color in my skin begin to return. I suddenly feel very hot. My vader glances my way, but is led out too soon for me to return his gaze with my own. I follow last, the couple of men who were slower than the rest I let go before me, insisting with silence. I step over the wood boards and the colors of the lanterns seem to glow especially orange. The darkness around me is unnerving and I am almost grateful to be going up to the deck where I can breathe fresh air. As I reach the halfway mark, my resentment returns.

I emerge. The moment I am on deck, the flutters in my stomach return. At the same moment, I am mixed in with the crowd of my vader’s crew. They are disorienting, and it does nothing for the flutters and wooziness starting in my head. I am afraid for a moment that I won’t find my way, won’t be there for Nadeje, and will be lost in this crowd of men. There is a firm press to the small of my back and I turn my head and see who it is. Zenith gently guides me around the crowd, winding me through safely, the heat of his hand seeping through my dress. I would have pulled away, but I feel obliged to him. Also, the moment I am at a level where I can see the horizon of the ship, I am also level with the event about to take place. I see the drawn figure before me and everything stops. My legs go rigid and my body shakes.

Nadeje stands in the center of the ship, directly before me, not even 30 feet away, his stance drooped and tired. For the first time ever, he looks delicate to me. I can’t keep from staring at him, willing him to look at me, willing him to see me, willing him to move for me, to show me he has some drive left in his body. He does nothing; tied to the wooden stake at the wrists before him, he does not look like he would fight it even if he were untied.

My body trembles. I don’t feel Zenith’s hand resting on my back. I do not feel my own heart’s faint rhythm.

Then, he looks up. His eyes meet mine. The moment they do, I feel slapped. Everything inside me, core to skin, I feel dissipate at his sight. Those deep blue eyes, once abysmal, stormy, grounded, soft, full of calm…are exhausted, hazed over, dull, and tempestuous almost to a point of brutality and recklessness. I feel my heart crack in my chest. It does not change as he watches me. They are hollow, same as me. He looks away, his posture unchanged from its hunch over the stake. I can’t feel the pain it gives me.

I feel an urge to run to him, to hold him, to tell him comforts and release him from his bounds, but I remain frozen to the spot. My heart goes wild.
Run.
I hear the word in my head and wish to follow it, to meet it halfway or rush past it to get to him.
Run to him.
I wish to.
Run and set him free.
That is the part I fear keeps me back
. If I let him go, would he still love me? Would he leave me immediately? Would he run or would he be killed on the spot?
The way he looked at me, the carelessness and loss of expression in his eyes convinces me only more that we would not be in sync, that something would go wrong.

“To William of Orange, October 5
th
, in revenge of the Siege. Thirty lashes on this offending Spanish man! Long live liberty of religion!”

The voice is an announcement. It tells us that in minutes it will begin. I feel paralyzed to my spot.

A man walks to Nadeje and draws a knife. I suddenly feel very faint. I am going to pass out. I am going to pass out right here and now. I won’t see it finish. It’s too real to be true. I realize the speed it is going at. I watch and choke back a scream.
I thought they were going to whip him.
He grabs the back of Nadeje’s collar.
How would they whip him if he was dead? Oh God…they wouldn’t let him bleed as they…

There is a flash of movement and the man tears the blade down the back of Nadeje’s shirt. I feel my body tense as the fabric splits in two, leaving his back partly exposed but unmarked. Even as I know what is coming next, I can’t help but feel relieved, and though I feel shame at it, my eyes catch on the beauty of his frame, the curves and angles in the arch of his back. I feel a small tug inside and regret it.
That could have been mine. Mine to touch, mine to feel, mine to see, mine to love.
Now it was to be ruined, beaten to weakness, bruised to a different color than the soft olive pigment of his skin.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man approaching Nadeje slowly. I look to him and see the whip in his hand, trailing the floor at his side. I can tell he intends to put his strength into it, I can tell he feels pride for being the one to do it, and I can tell that he thinks Nadeje is the one to feel the city’s revenge. I can’t feel anything. He stops and I feel Zenith’s hand on my back again. The man adjusts his hand on the whip and lifts it up as though weighing its heft. I feel my adrenaline rush. He stances himself. The hand on my back turns to knives, the murmur from a crew member turns to screams, and the urge to die becomes my new dream. He lifts the whip, ready. There is a snap in the air as he flips it back.

It is still mine.

I bolt forward.

Mine to save.

“No!” I scream it as I race forward. Zenith does not react fast enough to grab me in time. I trip over my skirts as the whip comes down. Then I throw myself against him, grabbing his shirt and shielding him from the world. For a second it is silent, and then there is a hard smack.

The impact is so fast, so deep, so hard, all I feel is a burning numbness along my turned cheek and back. The pain takes my breath away, and is unbearable. I feel my consciousness fade and I see spots. I feel my grip on his shirt give, and slowly I feel my body crumple against him. I know not how, but I feel Nadeje move.

When I come back, he is holding me. I depend on him entirely to keep me upright; his arm clutching my waist below where the pain surges, his other holding the back of my head as I look up. His eyes are shattered, stormy like a tempest, soft and yet hard all at once. The calm is not yet returned to his being. They are questioning me why. I cannot answer.

I feel his hand trade places with his other arm, wrapping about my waist to support me. His other hand moves up and slowly, he carefully lifts his fingertips to my jaw, slightly turning my cheek to see what the lash left. Whatever he must see, he does not like it. He protectively bows his head closer, growling and looking past me at whoever he may feel responsible. The light trace of my cheek makes tears rise, but I don’t mind. He looks to me and the concern in his appearance is evident. The warmth of his shirt meets my face and I feel his arm shift around my back as he cradles me down. When I see again, I am in his lap, his arm bracing me to him, his hand laced fingers with mine in my lap. His face is a blur for a moment, and I can’t seem to lose the cloud blocking my vision. My back and cheek sear but I don’t care. As long as I am close to him I don’t care.

“Why did you do it?” It is a whisper, soft and lightly spoken to me.

I feel my cheek sear and know it must be a harsh mark. His eyes are all question now, that and soft tempesting truth to me. I feel a tear accidentally leak down my cheek.

“I love you.”

It is weak and timid. The moment the words are out though, I see his eyes fill. He does nothing, just continues to cradle me, or maybe he just didn’t have time to do anything more.
The crowd is on us.

“She is hurt…” I hear it from my vader. He sounds breathless and lost, scared even.

“Her back must be dressed…”

Nadeje brings me closer, possessively.

“She must be moved to her chamber,” it is Zenith. There is a pause. “Get her away and to her chamber!”

The bark sends out a resonance that applies force. I hear feet shuffle and glimpse a few men stepping toward us, or Nadeje. I can’t fight them now, not after losing consciousness, not after being beaten, not if I will only lose him yet again. I close my eyes and rest, praying for the allowance to rest here against him in peace.

“Stop.” The order overrides the other and is firm. It also happens to be my vader.

There is a moment of uncertainty.

“Move to your positions and stay in attendance until I say otherwise.”

There are the sounds of boots on the deck, and somehow the air around us feels less suffocating;
freer.

“Zenith,” it is firm and almost cold. I cannot pay attention to the questions it brings me. “Send the doctor down to her chamber. Then wait in my office where I can find you.”

It is blunt and obviously not what Zenith is used to, for there is a long pause before I hear his footsteps fade over the deck.

“Follow me,” it is a command, but almost sounds like an offer.

There are the clunks of my vader’s shoes becoming farther off over the deck. Nadeje lifts me, holding me in his arms, my body limp. I keep my eyes closed and don’t move my head. Nadeje carries me the whole way, his deportment constantly occupied with the transition to calm. Before he can make it to my room, I blackout for a second time.

I waken to the cold tingles of something being smeared across the fine line of burning fire along my back. It stings and I grimace as it feels like knives being dragged across my flesh. I feel cold but hot all at once, and there is a strange sense of my back being naked and exposed, vulnerable to the hands that nurse me. I can’t remember anything. All I can remember is that Nadeje is free. It is what gives me reconciliation. I drift off again, ignoring the pain as the cool jell spreads along my cheek.

I woke up hours ago on my stomach. I can’t move. I feel dull and still hot headed. I am sweating in some spots, but frozen in others. I feel that my back is bare, and that the sheets and bed below are all that is keeping me hidden in front and from my lower back down.

I decided it was worth it.
All of it.
Even as my agony worsened that night I held this decision close to me to prove myself that it was right to intervene. I feel slightly ashamed to have done so, in the middle of an activity dedicated to my vader, but I couldn’t have let it finish. It would have been nothing to gain on his part but blood, and it would have been everything to lose on my own.

There is the light tread of feet on my floor, and I know I am no longer alone. There is a soft trail of skin along my shoulder blade, and my eyes flutter awake. I feel a gentle dab and heat flickers across not just the surface of where the whip hit me, but where the contact leaves behind. I don’t need to ask because I know who it is, but just since I love saying his name, I inquire him.

“Nadeje?”

I hear a soft grunt in response, and then he kneels before me, so that I can see him.

When I remain quiet and only look at him, he gradually comes closer and kisses my exposed shoulder. I watch him back as he observes me, his eyes loving and playful in a way that is also serious.

“They didn’t hurt you?”

He looks at me, and his face softens further. He shakes his head, and then leans forward and kisses me once, twice, three times, repeatedly. When he stops he comes back so that I can see the twisted emotions of love in his face.

“I missed you.”

He kisses me once on the arm in response.

“Are we alone?” It is small and weak, almost babyish.