Page 2 of Yellow Belly

“Get into our bed,” Stefano said softly.

“I’ll stain the bedding.”

“Do you honestly think I give a damn about that?”

After a brief hesitation, Henry let go of the shirt and shuffled to the bed, where he very cautiously settled onto his stomach. His face was turned away from Stefano—a small mercy, perhaps, because Stefano wasn’t sure he could withstand Henry’s gaze. It was bad enough to see him sprawled unmoving, his wounds all the more horrifying in what was normally a place of peace and joy.

“Henry, I⁠—”

“Not now. Please.”

Stefano wasn’t sure what he intended to say anyway. Perhaps he might have given an explanation, a plea for forgiveness, a promise for the future… but none of those were sufficient. Nothing he could say would be enough.

He was saved by another knock. Unwilling to leave Henry alone, even for a moment, Stefano called, “In here.”

The court physician entered, a tall, gray-haired woman with an enormous satchel and a frightened-looking young assistant. The healer barely nodded at Stefano before turning her entire attention to Henry.

She took a long time with him, murmuring too quietly for Stefano to hear while she cleaned Henry’s wounds and applied ointments. She did a chant as well, which frightened Stefano because magic like that was used sparingly. And magic in general made him uneasy.

“Is he so badly off?” he asked anxiously as soon as she’d finished the chant.

“It was only to help him sleep. He is young and strong and healthy. He will heal.” While her words were comforting, her face showed nothing but contempt for Stefano. “Allow him rest for several days. Keep the wounds clean. He will need ample fluids but only very light meals. Once he feels stronger, he will need foods to enrich his blood. Meats, fish, cheeses, beans. Ointment must be applied to his wounds thrice daily until they are completely healed. When he is able, he should stretch often to keep the scars from binding.”

Stefano nodded. “I understand.”

“I doubt that very much.” Perhaps emboldened by this statement, which they both knew a physician ought not make to a prince, she lifted her chin. “No person should be abused for another’s misdeeds.”

“I agree.”

“And yet.” She gestured toward Henry, who was breathing slowly and evenly.

“This was not my choice! I begged my father to have me whipped instead. He refused.”

“Of course he did. Just as he did when you were children, because nobody may raise a hand to His Royal Highness. But you are no longer a child.”

She turned away from him then, waving at her assistant to gather her belongings and stuff them into the satchel. Stefano watched from a distance, remembering when this same physician had attended to Henry when they were boys. Her hair had been a pale gold instead of gray, and Henry had been lashed with a willow rod then instead of a leather whip. The beatings had been less severe as well, although still harsh enough to leave permanent marks, still harsh enough to hurt. Yet Stefano had never seen Henry cry.

Alone with Henry after the physician had gone, Stefano felt restless and at loose ends. He tried to occupy himself by sitting at a small table in the bedroom and drawing a nest he’d recently found in the garden. It had apparently been blown out of a tree in a recent storm, and he’d discovered it during a pleasant amble with Henry. As they’d walked, Henry had enthused about the previous night’s meal, which had been one of the royal chef’s finest masterpieces, and he talked about some new physical exercises he’d been practicing. The temperature had been exactly warm enough, and everything smelled like green growing things. Stefano had been perfectly content.

The nest was nothing special, only the former home of some sparrows, but he found it interesting nonetheless, as he found most things in nature. He sat at his little table with pencil in hand and paper before him, and he tried to portray the nest’s simple perfection. In his estimation, nature’s magic was always superior to the sort his brother Louis and other wizards used. But Stefano couldn’t apply himself to the task at hand and eventually gave up. None of his books appealed, and even if he hadn’t been confined to his chambers, he wouldn’t have left Henry alone.

That left him with little to do except gaze out at the garden, which was separated from the rest of the vast estate by high stone walls. There were two entrances through the wall, but nobody ever used them. Stefano had banned even the gardeners and groundskeepers from this private space. The only people who entered the garden were Stefano and Henry, and it was purposely kept quite wild: a copse of trees, thickets of shrubs, and a little meadow that was bright with wildflowers in the spring. There was also a pond that lacked the crystal clarity of the palace’s ornate fountains but contained ample life and never went completely dry, even during periods of drought.

The garden was home to countless birds, insects, and other small creatures. Stefano and Henry had built winding paths through the miniature wilderness, and they’d brought in a few benches so that Stefano had spots to sit and observe. Henry had less interest in nature but enjoyed keeping Stefano company. Sometimes he brought a book or practiced fighting moves, and sometimes he simply lay with his head in Stefano’s lap and dozed.

Now, of course, Henry’s head was on a bed pillow, not Stefano’s lap, and he was deep in charmed sleep. Although the room was warm, Stefano pulled a blanket over him, but only to his waist. His back remained on display as a vivid reminder of Stefano’s shortcomings.

Unable to hold himself back any longer, Stefano fell to his knees beside the bed and sobbed until, seemingly, his body had no more moisture left to give.

Later that evening, Stefano had a servant bring herbal tea and beef broth, both of which he spooned painstakingly into Henry’s mouth. Henry was wake enough to swallow and afterward use the chamber pot, but then his eyes closed again and his slow breathing returned.

Stefano ate nothing, and that night he slept on the cot.

Chapter Two

Three days had passed since the whipping. Henry had slept a lot, and he’d dutifully eaten and drunk whatever Stefano gave him. He’d never so much as groaned or whimpered when Stefano tended to the wounds. Not even a wince. He’d listened peacefully when Stefano read aloud. And he’d refused to speak about anything of substance.

“In the morning I wish to walk around more. And wear proper clothing.” The corners of Henry’s mouth curled and he pulled at his loose nightshirt.