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The King’s Daughter – Chapter 15
- by John on May 16th, 2010
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“SURPRISED to see me?” the prince asked as he observed Ferrante’s face upon entering the cell. Ferrante seemed distinctly startled. A ray of light from a hole near the ceiling cast itself across his face as he stood in the center of the cell. It was the only light in the room, but it was enough to see.
Ferrante quickly regained his composure. “No…in all ways, no…it is good to see you, my friend.”
There was a moment of brief silence as the prince walked around Ferrante. His eyes scanned the prisoner. He stopped behind Ferrante.
Leaning in, he put his mouth near Ferrante’s ear and whispered, “Who sent you?”
“I do not know of what you are speaking,” Ferrante replied defensively.
“Why would a Roman stranger, a member of your household, attempt to murder my father? What would he gain?” He started circling Ferrante again. “No, a servant does the bidding of his master.”
“Surely, you know that I would never harm your family.”
The prince whispered back into his left ear, “Who do you think I am? He would not so much as relieve himself without your permission.”
He continued to circle Ferrante. “No, I think he was paid to do this. Indeed,” he began raising his voice, “I think only a coward would send him to do the work that only a true man could do.”
Ferrante grew somewhat flustered; his cheeks and ears reddened. He gritted his teeth and let out a deep breath of aggravation through his nostrils.
The prince, shaking his head, continued. “No, he is not that intelligent. Truth be told, this is the work of an imbecile.”
Ferrante’s temper began to flare. “Surely, I should think that it would take a man of great intelligence to mastermind a scheme the likes of which you accuse me.”
The prince paused. “Perhaps,” he mildly concurred. Then he continued. “One question, though. When I came in you were startled because you thought I was dead and yet no one told you so. How can that be?”
“I just thought, the odds being as they were, that you might not come back,” Ferrante started, but the prince interrupted.
“Really? Let me conjecture what else you were thinking. With my father and me out of the way, who would be left to rule this kingdom? Ah, yes, my sister, whom you so adeptly and conveniently wooed. One question remains then. How much did they pay you?”
Ferrante raised his voice, growing increasingly frustrated. “Pay me? Who?”
“How did you really find out that the Normans were going to attack at Southampton? You made a deal with them, did you not? They help you become king, and you give them their choice of land.”
Ferrante was now incensed in his passions against the prince. He knew there was no fooling the prince; he had been discovered. He yelled back, “You do not know the half of it!”
There was a moment of silence as Ferrante calmed himself down. His mind entered a distant world. His eyes at once grew haughty as he laughed through his nose. Softly he said, “You know the man I shot at the tournament? I hired him.” He let out a fiendish laugh, “He had no idea.”
“You made your plans, but you cannot match wits with the Hand of Providence.”
“You believe in your God because you are weak,” Ferrante said, exuding arrogance.
“And you believe in your intellect, which has failed you this time.”
“On the contrary, I possess knowledge that will save me or destroy us all. You will have to decide which you prefer.”
“I do not care for your knowledge. I have your confession. That is enough.”
The prince turned to leave, but as he approached the door Ferrante yelled out, “Tell your sister I never tasted a girl so sweet.”
At once the prince turned and lunged at Ferrante, throwing him against the damp cell wall. He drew his dagger and held it to the devil’s throat.
“Watch your unholy tongue or I will cut it from your mouth,” the prince whispered intensely, his heart pounding with every syllable.
Ferrante smiled a grimy, grotesque smirk. “Ask her,” he whispered, his own heart beating fiercely. Sweat was streaming from his forehead. He hissed a laugh through his teeth.
The prince wanted so much to plunge the dagger through his throat, but his time would come soon. Provoked, he rammed his knee into Ferrante’s stomach. Ferrante fell to the floor in a fetal position. The prince turned and stormed out of the cell. He slammed the door shut with a heavy, metallic thud.
As he hastily made his way down the hallway he could hear the fading, almost maniacal voice from behind the closed door. “They will know!” the voice yelled. “You shall see! The whole world will know!” The prince continued up the stairs until the sound of the voice was no more.
The King’s Daughter by John Albert Thomas is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
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