Traitors Vengeance - Part Five



"My hands are already ruined," Marguerite whined as she fell onto her bed. She winced. The bed was hard like rocks. She was too used to the plush chambers she had enjoyed at the Manor. She was going to have to forget all of that. "I hate this room. And why must they all share. Surely the palace has enough rooms for them to have one each."



"Us," Rodmilla corrected her daughter. "There must be enough rooms for us not them. Remember dear we are no better than them anymore." As much as she hated her new situation she knew that she had to accept it and keep quiet until such time that she could hatch a plan.



"I'm going to get that pig and her lowlife husband someday. What kind of man would do that? He made us all believe that he would marry me. Well he got what he deserved. One day he'll find out what a mistake he made."



Rodmilla sighed. As much as Marguerite had always been her favourite, a day in close contact with her had made her realise what a spoiled brat she was. She had begged to be placed in a room with someone else, but apparently the madam in charge of this den had been given her orders from Princess Danielle directly.



"I thought that horrid little page was going to bring us some of our things from the manor," Marguerite whinged. "I really cannot carry on like this. We have nothing."



"Yes, DEAR, I know this. Now do shut up I'm trying to think." Marguerite turned her back to her mother. Rodmilla had learned very quickly when her daughter was sulking from the way she hunched her shoulders. "Oh really do stop acting like a child. If you expect us to get out of here you're going to have to grow up."



Rodmilla looked away from her daughter towards the door. Sometimes she cursed that manor. For being too small, too poor, too common, but now she would do anything for the freedom it gave her. Just being able to walk out of a door at will was now a luxury.



"Marguerite," Rodmilla said in a more conciliatory tone. Marguerite rolled over and shot a piercing look at her mother. She was obviously still moping about Rodmilla being harsh.



"What mother?"



"What is that piece of paper on the floor?" Marguerite looked towards the bottom of the door and sure enough there was a folded up piece of paper. Rodmilla picked it up and opened it. Marguerite joined her.



"Well it cannot have been sent by one of the servants. It's real writing."



"Hush Marguerite, this might just be our ticket out of here." She proceeded to read aloud the note.

"Baroness, please let it be known that I and many of our class grieve for your situation. But do not be downhearted for the first steps have been taken. I shall come and speak to you after your keeper has checked on your room. Do not be alarmed at my arrival."



"Who is it from? What does it mean?" Marguerite happily said as she did a little dance. She too could tell that it was promising for their plight.



"It is not signed," Rodmilla replied. She did not want her daughter to know just yet but she knew exactly who it was from, she could recognise the fine hand of a Belgian anywhere. The elegant script and powerfully arrogant wording could only be written by one person other than herself.



Rodmilla and Marguerite sat in their room in silence or hours dreaming of the delights implicated in that note. Rodmilla could taste their freedom, but Marguerite could only fantasise about revenge.



Eventually, a good hour after the mistress had left, there was a gentle tap at the door before it quietly swung open. A tall figure in a cloak was stood outside.



She was obviously anxious not to be seen as she quickly walked into the room. She surveyed her surroundings before facing her hosts and revealing her face. Marguerite gasped, but Rodmilla already knew who it was hiding beneath the yards of fabric.



"Aunt Rodmilla, cousin Marguerite, It is my pleasure to see you again. I have been sent to tell you not to worry. It has already started without you."



"What has already started?" Marguerite asked, still failing to fully understand what was happening. The answer was simple, chilling and wonderfully musical to all ears listening.



"Why my dear cousin what I speak of is something I know you crave. Vengeance."