His father emerged from the empty stall where Joseph’s groom
bedded down. Joseph schooled his features to nonchalance
while his guts churned and his heart thumped fit to burst.
“Have you come to wish me happy Birthing Day, Father?”
Lord Godwin bent to dust chaff from his boots with his
kerchief, and discarded the filthy linen square as he
straightened. Only once satisfied that his gloves were clean
did he approach Joseph. “You know why I am here, boy.”
“Oh?” Joseph feigned ignorance. His father couldn’t possibly
have discovered—
Lord Godwin spat with unerring accuracy. His self-satisfied,
expectant expression, that same expression he assumed whilst
awaiting the accolades he considered his due, made Joseph
follow his father’s gaze downward. Thus he spied the fat
globule of phlegm that had landed atop one of his boots. He
glanced up again, paled at the pure disgust twisting his
father’s face. It was an expression he had often seen on
Lord Godwin’s face but never before directed at him.
It was too late to dissemble, Joseph knew it the moment that
Mallothi emerged from the shadows to stand beside his
father’s side. He knew it, too, when three of his father’s
most trusted footmen appeared, one of them hauling Bashima
along with his hand clamped firmly over her mouth.
He recognized the instant she scented him, for she ceased
struggling and stilled, quivering like a captured bird. Her
panic faded as she breathed him in, her eyelids drifting
down to half-close over slumberous eyes.
He wrenched his gaze from hers and squeezed his eyes tightly
shut. Divine Spirit, I beg you, please do not subject this
innocent to my corrupting influence. Is it not enough for
you that I am to be punished for my sins? Let that be
enough, please!
He opened his eyes just as the man holding Bashima relaxed
his grip. She wrenched herself away, lunging for Joseph,
prostrating herself at his feet and wrapping her arms around
his legs. It took two men to drag her back from him and
subdue her.
“Joseph,” she said, eyes and body entreating, conveying to
everyone present how desperate she was to touch him.
Lord Godwin stepped forward. “Silence, trollop!” He drew
back his gloved hand and slapped her face. “You will not
sully yourself by touching such filth.” And a second time.
“Lay your hands upon this abomination again and I will have
them both severed from your arms.” And a third. “Do you hear
me, girl?”
Bashima dangled helplessly between the two men. Her head
lolled toward Joseph. He recognized lust—how could he not,
when he had so recently been ensnared in its insidious web?
But there, etched on her face for him, and him alone, to
see, was guilt and misery. Forgive me, she mouthed.
And the fragile hope that he might bluff his way out of this
dire mess died.
Oh yes, his father knew what had transpired in his chamber
that morning. Lord Godwin might not have witnessed Joseph’s
struggle to suppress his base desires, but he would condemn
him just the same. Joseph was a Scentinel. One of Satan’s
get. Evil personified. And Lord Godwin would do whatever
needed to be done to wipe such evil from the face of the earth.
Joseph’s gaze lit on his groom, a man he had considered a
friend. The hatred and fear etching Mallothi’s
weather-beaten face cut him to the quick. And the man’s
switch of allegiance, his betrayal, was still more devastating.
At a nod from his new master, Mallothi grabbed Joseph’s
arms, twisting them painfully behind his back. One of his
father’s thugs clenched a meaty fist and smashed it into
Joseph’s nose. Blood gushed and agony bloomed. Mallothi
released him, and Joseph sank to his knees, his head bowed.
He sensed rather than saw Mallothi’s hands clenching into
fists, descending towards the vulnerable nape of his neck.
It was sheer relief to give himself to the pain and let it
carry him away. His final thought before he lost
consciousness was that he deserved to be treated thus. It
was the Divine Spirit’s punishment for the wicked deeds he’d
been prepared to undertake in order to save himself.