A quiet sigh emanated from the lips of High King Peter as made his way down to dinner. His footsteps echoed softly through the stone halls of Cair Paravel, his boot heels clicking with each step. He was not looking forward to this meal. It was a celebratory one, welcoming home Lord Braxton of Blackavar, one of the nobles on the court. He was returning from Archenland, where it was reported he had married a fine young woman. Peter scoffed at the idea- why any woman, especially one fair and young, would want to marry the broad, squat, middle-aged man was beyond his comprehension.
Nevertheless, Peter had dressed in a sumptuously decorated outfit, made from rich fabrics with fine embroidery. Lucy had insisted that he look nice for the occasion, and he had grudgingly agreed to wear what she had picked out after a lengthy argument. At least Rhindon, his ever-faithful sword, was still strapped to his side. The weight felt comforting against his hip. As the king approached the great dining hall, he paused for a moment, centering himself and preparing for what would surely be a long and arduous evening. Thus focused, the doors to the hall swung open and the king made his entrance.
The meal was already in full swing, though the food had yet to appear. Idle, superfluous conversation was ringing through the air, and Peter was able to catch little snippets here and there, overhearing a pair of noblewomen talking about dress fabric, and an overweight, balding lord speaking to several eager young men about how he had hunted a giant stag all the way to Calormene. Exaggerated, surely, but the boys were hanging on to every word with wide eyes. Sighing again, Peter began to move forward, making his way to the table where his brother and sisters were already waiting for him. Susan gave him a disapproving glare as he wove his way through the many tables and chairs set up in the hall, pausing every once and a while to nod his head to someone who called "Your Majesty!" or "Your Highness!" All he wanted to do was eat, and get this dinner over with.
As he approached the table where he was to sit, the High King struggled to keep the displeased expression from his face. He was quite adept at it, a skill gleaned from years of suffering through dull and silly court meetings, but his siblings could always tell when he was covering it up. That was why Susan's eyes held a warning look while her face was smiling and gracious. He'd surely hear from her later. As Peter moved to sit down, he realized that the Lord Braxton had been granted a place at their table for the evening's festivities in his honor. Lovely. But a second glance showed no woman at his side- perhaps the rumors of a wife were just that, rumors.
"Lord Braxton, it's… wonderful to see you again," Peter said with a false smile, extending his hand in the nobleman's direction. The lord of Blackavar stood to his feet, reaching out to take the proffered hand of the High King. As he shook it, Peter was mildly disgusted by the slick palms of the man. His grip was firm, harsh even, but his skin was moist and clammy. Sort of like a dead fish. Pushing the image out of his mind, Peter gestured that the lord should sit down, following suit.
"The same goes for you, Majesty," responded the broad man, dipping his balding head in the direction of the King. "I hadn't realized how much I missed Narnia until I returned here."
"We're glad you have returned safely," added Susan with a gentle smile, "and trust that your stay was excellent, and you were given suitable hospitality." The queen's charming words had quite the effect on Braxton, who turned his gaze to her with a sudden eagerness, and he leaned forward in her direction, his stomach flat against the table's edge.
"Oh yes, of course, but even Archenland's finest women pale in comparison to you, Queen Susan, and to you, Queen Lucy. Your beauty is not of this world, and can be compared to none." You have no idea how 'not of this world' we are, Peter thought, bemusedly. However, at the lord's eager words, he found himself feeling more than a little leery of the man, whose beady eyes he had caught many times raking over his sisters with perverse intent. The man was a rodent, but tonight was all about him, so Peter had to be polite.
"Speaking of women," Edmund interjected for the first time that evening, rubbing his beard, "we heard you were lucky in matrimony on your journey. Is it true?" A smirk spread across Braxton's face, and he leaned forward again, elbows on the table. Peter didn't like the expression he was wearing, but said naught as the man opened his mouth to speak.
"You heard correctly," replied Braxton, his feeling evident in his tone. "A pretty thing, young and pale, and her parents practically paid me to wife her." Peter's eyebrows raised at this, and he wondered how the poor girl felt about her marriage to this pudgy, cruel-faced forty-five year old man. Probably not the way Braxton imagined she felt.
"And where is she this evening?" Lucy asked politely, gesturing to the empty chair and place setting next to the lord. "Is the lady not joining us?" Another smirk, this time almost evil in its expression, turned up the corners of Braxton's thin lips and he placed his hands flat on the wooden table before speaking.
"She felt a little… indisposed. I don't believe she's used to much travel." The glint in his eyes told Peter that the little man had just told a lie, but he dared not question the nobleman while his siblings and the entire court surrounded him. Perhaps later he would confront the lord. It was getting more and more difficult to keep the disgust off of his face with each word that passed the little man's lips, and the glances Susan kept throwing him told him she had not missed it.
"Well, perhaps we shall meet her tomorrow, then," Lucy said innocently, flashing a good-humored smile at the man as the first course of the evening began to be served. The rest of the evening passed for Peter in a dull, monotonous blur of food and wine and toasts to Braxton. He remained focused on the lord, watching his every move, every miniscule expression that crossed his cruel features. He didn't like the way the man was acting, and it made him suspicious. Then again, everything Braxton ever did made him suspicious. Maybe he was being unreasonable.
By the end of the meal, Peter was more confused and intrigued than anything. He wanted to meet this bride of Braxton's, the mysterious Lady of Blackavar. Perhaps then he would get a better feel for the situation. Braxton was gone now, having left with a wink to go 'take care of his new bride.' Peter shuddered to think of what that meant. He had trouble with the image of a hot, sweaty Braxton heaving and straining over some poor little waif of a girl. She was probably quite young, sixteen or seventeen, and a small, tender thing. He felt pity for the poor girl, but she was a Blackavar now, and that was the end of it.
As he rose to leave, Susan grabbed his arm. Great. "We need to talk," she murmured, her dark blue eyes boring holes into his. "In the study, now." Peter could never say no to Su, she was just too frightening. Sure, Peter was the High King of Narnia, but the one thing he was truly afraid of was Queen Susan the Gentle. For gentle or not, she was capable of making him wish he had never been born. It was just a gift she had, he supposed. She could make all of them feel that way. Peter, Edmund, and Lucy. Make them feel like they were little children again, acting out and being disciplined by a parent. It was really not a pleasant experience, and Peter was anxious to get it out of the way.
Following his eldest sister to the study, he was surprised to find that she was in a hurry, moving quickly down the stone halls without stopping or slowing down. He was able to keep up with her easily, but he was a little surprised that she felt the need to arrive that fast. When they reached the large gilded doors of the study, she pushed them open without hesitation, the groaning and creaking loud in the otherwise silent hall.
Once inside, Susan closed the doors carefully and turned around, eyes blazing with fury. Peter knew he was about to get it.
"Peter Pevensie, what the hell was that?" Uh-oh. She only called him Peter Pevensie and swore at him when he was in big trouble. "You were like a bump on a log the entire evening. A suspicious bump on a log. Do you think he didn't notice you watching him? We all did, Peter."
"Look, Su," began Peter, eager to get his two cents in before she started ranting at him again. "You know there's something wrong with the whole picture. You saw his face, and you heard the way he was talking. He was making two-faced comments the whole evening. I'm really starting to suspect that-"
"Peter!" Susan cut him off with a glare. "It doesn't matter what you suspect. He was our honored guest at dinner tonight, and you need to give the man the benefit of the doubt before you start with this nonsense. I know you don't care for him, and none of us do, but that was no reason for you to act the way you did. You have shamed us, Peter. Watch yourself, and don't do it again."
Without waiting for another word from him, she stormed off in a tizzy, leaving a confused and slightly amused Peter in the study by himself. What in the world? In his opinion, she had just blown everything completely out of proportion. Surely the squat man hadn't paid that much attention to where Peter's gaze was fixed for the entire evening, he was probably too busy soaking up all the attention. Peter was just curious about what went on behind the closed doors of the Blackavars' rooms. Surely that wasn't a crime?
Lady Amelie of Blackavar anxiously awaited the arrival of her new husband. The tall blonde suppressed a shudder at the thought of him. Her husband. It disgusted her that her parents had married her off to the man, basically sold her to him. She'd known it was coming, of course. For the past few months her parents had been talking about the best way to marry her to some noble or lord, one that would pay a handsome bride price. And when Lord Braxton of Blackavar had come along, a Narnian nobleman, asking for her hand, her parents were pleased. No, pleased was the wrong word- they were ecstatic.
At twenty-two years of age, Amelie was considered nearly an old maid in Archenland. All of her childhood playmates were wed with many children already, married to gentlemen many years their senior, and they all seemed placidly content with their drab lives. Amelie had avoided that as long as she could, dismissing every suitor without a second look, but she couldn't outrun her parents' determination any longer. Within a day, she was betrothed to a nobleman she had never met, and was wed to him before the week was out. The first time she had seen him, Amelie had nearly laughed out loud. He was short, nearly a foot shorter than she, and he was almost as broad as he was tall. Far too much of his forehead was visible, glistening with sweat, and his features were bulbous and cruel. Tiny, deep-set, beady eyes were dark in his face, raking over every inch of her body with callous appreciation. He was ridiculous, but he made Amelie nervous. Something about the way he looked at her made her uneasy.
Her suspicions weren't proved to be correct right away. Their wedding night was something that Amelie wished every day to forget. When Braxton disrobed, Amelie had almost gagged from revulsion. The swell of his hairy stomach, the way his clammy hands felt upon her skin, the noises he made while he used her body, all of it disgusted her, and she said nothing. She was unresponsive for the entire experience, but her husband seemed satisfied with the encounter, promptly rolling over and beginning to snore as soon as he had finished. She lay awake for many hours that night, unable to shut her mind off. This was not what she had imagined it would be. Marriage, sex, all of it seemed twisted and perverted with Braxton, and she had known him naught but a day.
They left for Narnia in the morning, Braxton's official business in Archenland having been completed a few days earlier. The trip was long and arduous, but nothing Amelie couldn't handle. Riding was like second nature to her- she took her stallion Nocturne out every day for a few hours, and she had been allowed to bring the strong horse with her on the journey. More difficult than the travel was the nights spent in her husband's private tent. He had summoned her there every evening of their journey, and had used her each night before turning over and sleeping soundly.
The first night she had said no was a week after their journey began. He summoned her to his tent, as per the usual, but when he bade her to remove her silken robe, she declined. A strange calm had settled over her husband, and the look that began to form in his eyes frightened her as nothing else he had done. "What did you say?" he had asked her, moving closer with a grave face, already unclothed. When she refused to answer, a resounding slap sounded, contained by the thick fabric walls of the tent. Amelie was shocked when she felt the sting of his moist hand across her cheek. No one had ever hit her before.
When he forced himself on her, she fought back, hard. However, as soft and fat-ridden as his body appeared, Braxton held her down with surprising strength, leaving bold purple bruises scattered across her porcelain-pale skin. He was rough with her, rougher than he ought to have been, and Amelie could tell that he felt no remorse when he finished. He merely flashed her a cruel smile, kissed her fully on the mouth, and went to sleep. She did not cry, did not pity herself. Instead, Amelie was furious. Had he not overpowered her, it never would have happened. She became determined to win the war that had just begun between the two of them. In the days that followed, the tension between them was barely tangible. Amelie played the role of the submissive wife in public, covering up the bruises as best she could, but she knew some of them were still visible. At night, in private, Braxton was the abusive husband, forcing himself on her each evening while Amelie tried new ways to keep him from using her, always earning more bruises. Her fury only grew with each strike, but she could never break free of him.
Now that they had reached Narnia, Braxton had to be careful. He had stopped putting his bruises in such obvious places a few nights before, and had insisted that she remain out of sight this evening until the last of the visible bruises was healed. So she sat, alone in their rooms, waiting for him to return. And return he did, with the smell of wine heavy on his breath.
"My Lord," Amelie said bitterly, rising to her feet when he stumbled in. Her eyes widened slightly when she absorbed the drunken state he was clearly in, but beyond that she showed no emotion at his current condition. Turning his balding head, Braxton's eyes fell on Amelie, and his beady gaze flickered as it dropped from her face to her breasts, down her body and back up again. He smiled, a cold, malicious smile that frightened the woman more than usual. His drunkenness would make him bold, of that she was sure.
"My Lady," responded Braxton, mock-bowing in her direction. "My Whore, my Escort." Amelie sighed, anger rising in her at the derogatory nicknames. He was the only man she'd ever slept with, as was the norm in Archenland for high-brown families. He didn't know what he was talking about. "Since you like it so much, why don't you come to bed?" Braxton was sneering at her now, his hands reaching out for her, fingers grasping.
"No," she said firmly, about to step back, but his hand locked around her wrist with such force that she could not pull it away. His grip was so strong that Amelie fought to keep from crying out in pain. As he pulled her along with him to their bed, she pulled and tugged, trying to free herself, but it was no use. For a drunken fool, he had good control over his strength.
He pushed her down onto the bed, not bothering to undress her, nor himself. He gagged her this time, with a piece of cloth that she had used to dry her hands after the meal one of their servants had brought her. Her cries were barely audible past the thick cloth, and without wasting any time Braxton began to have sex with her, being more rough than usual. Each thrust was accompanied with a smack, a fist, another bruise. When he kissed her, forcing his tongue past the barrier of her lips, Amelie could taste the wine on his breath, heavy and disgustingly sweet. The fat paunch of his belly was barely contained by the tunic and vest he wore, and Amelie could see it jiggling with every thrust of his thick hips.
By the time he had finished, Amelie was exhausted and sore. Her slender body, pale and patchworked with bruises of purples, greens, yellows, and blues, lay limp beneath the sweaty body of Braxton as he simply collapsed on top of her after grunting his way to a climax. Amelie could barely breath beneath his largeness, and after some pushing and shoving, managed to roll the drunken man off of her. She didn't sleep that night, not a wink..