The King's Mistress

Chapter One

(Aya)

THREE YEARS LATER

Darkness surrounds me. My stomach transforms into knots, , a dull ache forming in the center of my stomach. I perch on the edge of my bed. I cannot seem to muster the strength to rise. A single tear rolls down my cheek. The hardwood turns frigid against the soles of my feet. 

I am haunted by the demons of my past. These demons intrude upon my sleep each and every night, though I barely recall said dreams upon awakening. They leave me weakened. No one will speak of the events that had occurred that night, choosing instead to pretend as if I am still whole. 

Everyone knows. I hear them whisper as I pass on the streets. Some mock me without fear, others simply look away in pity. There are many here that believe what I experienced was just, as if anyone would deserve such a fate. I should not have been there is what they claim. I made myself a target by aiming above my station. The idea is laughable.

Sunlight peeks through my window. With a sigh of resignation, I stand. I know there is no avoiding what is to come.. Approaching the modest selection of clothing that I have in my wardrobe, I thunb the various arrays of different fabric. After a moment or two, I settle on an emerald colored fabric. It is simple, without embellishments. 

Gazing into a small mirror that hangs near my door, I manage to pin my locks into a tight bun. My mother says I shouldn’t pin my hair in such a manner ...that I would never attract a suitor if I hid my blossoming beauty. My lips twist into a smile. I will never attract a suitor. I am sullied.

Turning from the mirror, I exit into the main house. Given a choice, I would have gladly spent the day curled beneath the covers. Alas, Father will have none of that.  . Ever since the marriage of my eldest sister, Margaret, the duties of the household have fallen upon me. She married above her station despite the lack of a dowry. This allowed us the comfort of a few servants...which I was placed in charge of managing. It is a tedious duty but, alas, it is something I must do.

The servants are my only comfort beneath Father’s oppressive roof. Many of them share my circumstance, sullied and without other options, they have been forced from their homes. Father says I should consider myself lucky to still have the privilege of remaining in his home. It is a privilege I prayed he would revoke. 

Mother is hosting a tea party that afternoon. Of course, I am expected to attend. I shall be forced to endure the whispers of those that have nothing better to do than gossip about my ill fortune. I am not at fault for what has befalling me but there are those, Father included, that believe I invited the attack that ruined my life. Shaking away the unnerving thoughts, I force myself from my room. The hall is empty. I make quick work of the staircase that leads downstairs. I enter the kitchen.

Mimi, one of the newest servants to join our household, stands with her back to me. She turns, hands currently occupied with a tray of various delights. Her dark eyes glisten with joy at the sight of me. She is, perhaps, the one flicker of light in these dark times. We’d grown closer over the past few weeks, something father did not approve of. If not for the Matron’s lingering presence, I would have embraced my one and only friend. Instead, I am forced to remain rooted in pace. Mimi understands.She offers a silent smile of encouragement, slipping past me to join the rest of the party.

"Mistress Aya, how are we doing this morning?" The Matron inquiries, her fingers kneading a batch of dough with ease.

"Quite well, thank you," I reply, though we both know it is a lie. Her eyes lift from the dough. I know she sees the heavy bags that linger beneath my eyes, the way tiny wisps of hair escape the bun I’ve so precariously pulled my hair into. Her eyes drop to what I am wearing, lips pursing in disapproval.

"Miss Aya, surely that is not what you intend to wear to today's event?" 

"Is it not appropriate?" I run my hands down the front of my dress. I’d hoped to get through that day unnoticed. 

Her frown turns deeper.. "That dress does not suit you, my dear.” Her tongue clicks, “You are far too pretty for such muted colors. How do you ever hope to attract a husband-?” Her words falter. It’s as if, until that very moment, she’d forgotten.

She clears her throat, attention quickly returning to her dough. No other words are spoken. I stand there for a moment, a sudden hunger gnawing at the pit of my stomach. Should I eat something? No. That would not be wise. Father would be quite cross if I were to ruin my appetite. He could not have me making him look bad in front of all his guests. This would ruin any chance of my younger sisters finding suitors...which was what this tea party was really about.

Mother could do her best to hide this from me but I was neither blind or deaf. I had ears. I’d heard the two of them, mother and father, whispering whenever they thought no one was listening. My two sisters were far too young to even be considering marriage. They still played with dolls and hosted pretend tea parties. The very idea was sickening.

The heavy thud of boots clicking against the floor draws me back into reality. My back straightens, a trickle of nervousness coursing down the small of my back. I clutch the front of my gown, my appetite now gone.

 "Aya." His voice freezes like ice, sending shivers down my spine. I inhale, turning to face the demon that haunts me. His dark eyes appraise me, the stench of cheap booze and stale cigar coming off him in waves. 

“Father.” I offer in response.

He rubs a calloused hand over his stubbled face, taking a sip from the glass in his hand. I can see the disgust that flashes in his dark eyes, something he does not even bother to hide. He does not hold me in the same regard as he once did. Ever since that night, the night I became sullied, he has never look upon me as his daughter. Now, I am a thorn in his side; a worthless pebble in his shoe that he cannot be rid of. He blames me; both for the assault and for my outright refusal to marry the man responsible.

Victor. Even thinking his name left a bitter taste on my tongue. Once childhood friends, I no longer looked to him with any kindness. He could never know just what it was he had taken from me. To make matters worse, he dared offer his hand in marriage only hours after forcing himself upon me. I’d refused. Even at fourteen, I knew marrying such a man would have been a mistake.

We watch each other in silence. He moves to my left. I cannot help but flinch. If he sees this, he makes no mention of it. Instead, he has a word with the Matron. Their hushed whispers echo towards me thought I cannot quite make out what is being said. After a moment or two, his attention shifts back to me. 

“Come. There is something that begs discussion.” He motions for me to follow. Knowing I had no other choice, I find myself following him from the kitchen. His office is not far from the kitchen. It takes us no longer than a minute or so to reach it. We step inside. He allows me to pass by him, shutting the door behind us. 

“Let’s get right to it then,” He sighs, brushing past me. "Word has spread. The King is without an heir," he announces, placing himself in his chair.

My lungs deflate. Despite my denial, somehow, I know where this is headed. The King prefers not to bed those that remain pure. His former mistress’s have all included women of ill repute, young women now widowed from war or illness, or those that share my circumstances. I fidget, nails digging into the front of my dress. 

“Please, God, no.” I thought, no, pleaded with myself.

“You will become his next mistress.” His words show no hint of emotion, no remorse for the life he has just condemned me to. My legs turn into pools of jelly and, for a moment, I fear I might faint. Father continues to speak, oblivious to my growing fear.

“-the King prefers women that have been tainted by a man’s touch.” His words are almost a sneer, callous and without any love for me, “You should fit right in.”

“And if I refuse?” My voice quivers, finally finding the courage to speak.

He lifts an eyebrow, “I do not remember asking your opinion on the matter.”

“Father, please, I-”

He slams the palm of his hand onto the desk, silencing me before I could finish objecting to his ludicrous demand.  I flinch, jaw snapping shut. His jaw clenched, he rose from his chair. Eyes never leaving my face, he comes round the desk, moving towards me until I am cornered against the door.

“You will do as you are told.”

“Papa, please” I haven’t called him Papa since before the incident that had forever plucked me from his heart.

A sharp crack echoes through the room. I cradle my injured cheek, tasting blood. Tears streaming down my cheek, I stare at him in horror. Though I knew him to be cruel, never before had he dared lay a hand on me.

“You forget your place, Aya. I could just as easily toss you into the gutter.” His fingers grip my chin, forcing my head upwards. “Never forget what you are, Aya. As far as I am concerned, you are a w***e. And, by God, it is time you use that to this family's advantage.”

“You're-you’re hurting me!” I manage to choke out.

His hand lowers, fingers gripping the bit of flesh just about my collarbone. He squeezes. Dots swim before my eyes, my lips floundering as I struggle for air. Digging at his hand, my nails prove useless.

“You will lie with the King, Aya.”

I bring my knee up, hard. He groans, staggering backwards. I fumble for the knob, sobbing uncontrollably. The door finally opens. I bolt from the small office, his voice echoing behind me. I can hear the pounding of his feet as I ascend the stairs. The servants are in the courtyard, preparing for the days events. No one is in the house, no one will help me.

I know they hear me. If I were to rush into the garden, they would all be there. But, even if I did, I know they would do nothing to help me. Most of those in attendance were women. These were women who, long ago, had learned their place in life. They would not help me.

My heart races, eyes searching for a corner to hide myself away in. I settle for Mother's abandoned room. Papa never ventures in here. The lock clicks into place. 

“Aya!” he screams, voice laced with rage. “If I have to find you, it will be worse,” he promises.

I back away, clutching myself. His boots pound past the door, the sound of wood splintering reaching my ears. A whimper slips out. My hands fly to cover the sound but it's too late. 

The next door forced open is the one before me. Wood splinters, the door shattering into a million pieces as he forces himself into the room.  Face flushed, he rushes for me. His hand grips the back of my neck. “I warned you. “