“Thank you. And if he doesn’t come willingly and immediately, arrest him and bring him anyway.”
He smiles. “With pleasure.”
Mara steps toward me, and her face is bright and fierce. “I didn’t understand any of that, and I don’t care.” She brandishes my brush at me. “All I know is that I am going to make breakfast for you tomorrow, and you will eat every bite.”
The next morning, after eating Mara’s goat-cheese omelet with diced scallions and red peppers, I must face the punishment I ordered. It’s a small consolation that with everyone on the green, Hector may be able to slip the Invierno into the tower unnoticed.
With my entourage of guards and ladies, I parade through the inner courtyard to the beat of a slow marching drum. A huge crowd has assembled, and they part to make way for me. I wear a gown with wine-red brocade and gold embroidery, and I regret the choice as sweat pools under my arms and between my breasts. I hold my head high, in spite of the weight of my crown.
It’s the same place where Martín was killed, the same dais, the same large crowd. But this time, I am a willing participant.
The kitchen staff are already in place. They face inward in a circle, their hands tied above their heads to a thick pillory made from the massive trunk of a banyan tree. All twelve fit around it easily. They are naked from the waist up, even the maids.
I clench my jaw to keep it from trembling as I mount the dais and sit in its makeshift wooden throne. Ximena and Mara stand at either shoulder. From here, I have a perfect view of the accused and the sea of spectators beyond. Some jostle for a better look. A young boy sits on his father’s shoulders. Everyone is wide-eyed with fear, or maybe excitement.
A man approaches, carrying a long red cushion, and kneels at my feet. Is he the same man who beheaded Martín?
Like the prisoners, he’s naked from the waist up. A black shawl covers his head and sweeps around to shield his mouth and nose. Ridged white scars slash across his tautly muscled torso and shoulders. He holds out the cushion. On it are various flogging instruments: a rod, a willow switch, a cat-o’-nine-tails, and a leather whip coiled like a snake except for the jagged bit of steel tied to the end.
Tears prick at the back of my throat.
The executioner whispers, in a voice as scarred and used-up as his skin, “Your Majesty, you must choose the instrument of punishment.”
It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and when they do, despair settles over me like a hot heavy blanket. Of course I must.
They are arranged in order of potential damage. I don’t want these people harmed. But I also cannot choose the mildest punishment.
I say, in my best queen voice, “Use the switch.”
The scarred man faces the audience and lifts the switch high; it bends slightly under its own weight. The crowd roars approval.
And then I force myself to watch unflinchingly as, slowly and methodically, he flogs my kitchen staff. The switch slaps wetly against bare skin, sending tears stinging to my eyes. Welts rise up on their backs, and they arch away from the blows, but the pillory leaves them nowhere to go. The scarred man is very thorough, his aim precise. He varies the switch’s landing so that every part of their flesh suffers its brutality.
A few refuse to cry out, but not most, and their raw, anguished voices arrow straight into my heart. One boy, the youngest by far, weeps openly, his cheek pressed against the pillory.
I am a stone. I am ice. I feel nothing.
Only the kitchen master remains standing after the tenth lash. The others sag on their feet, held in place by the manacles at their wrists.
The scarred man returns to me and bows. The switch in his huge hand drips blood. “It is done, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you,” I choke out.
“Do you wish to address the people?” he asks.
No, of course not. I can’t wait to get away, to toss off my crown and bury my head in my pillows.
But then the small boy at the edge of the crowd, the one on his father’s shoulders, spits on the maid who prepared the scones with Felipe. A viscous wad slips down her sweaty cheek and plops onto her bared breast.
I launch to my feet and stride to the edge of the dais. The crowd hushes.
“We consider their crime of negligence to be paid in full,” I call out. “There will be no more recriminations. Anyone who seeks to do them physical harm, or harass them, or even”—I look pointedly at the little boy—“spit on them, will be dealt with severely.”
I whirl away from the crowd and move toward Ximena, whispering, “I am shaking quite a lot and could use your arm to aid my dramatic exit.” I suddenly wish Hector were here. I always feel so much safer, stronger, when he is at my side.