Page 1 of Yellow Belly

Chapter One

As the whip met Henry’s bare flesh, Prince Stefano kept his back straight and his jaw clenched, although he couldn’t control the queasiness in his gut or the stinging tears he fought to keep from falling. The leather cord cracked again, and the fresh bloody welt—even when added to the others from this session—did not hide the scars from previous lashings.

“Thirty,” said Stefano. Perhaps louder than necessary, but at least his voice didn’t crack. He wanted to make sure Henry heard him, that Henry knew Stefano’s entire attention was focused on him. He wanted Henry to understand that Stefano felt the echo of every blow on his own body.

King Cyrus of Thanytsia slowly lifted a hand, and the guard—who’d been drawing back for another lash—paused.

“And what have you to say now?” the king demanded of Stefano. His pale gray eyes—the same precise shade as Stefano’s—held no more warmth than a winter fog.

Stefano swallowed. “I pray, Sire, that you order the punishment to end.”

“Why should I end it?”

There were many correct answers to that question, none of which Stefano could say. The concept of a whipping boy was barbaric to begin with, and had been even when Stefano and Henry were truly boys. But they had been men for some years now, and the practice should have been discontinued long ago. Stefano should receive his own punishments directly, not by proxy.

Also, Stefano loved Henry. But the king wouldn’t care about that.

While Stefano weighed his words, Henry remained tied to one of the decorative pillars in the throne room, the bright wounds stark against his pale skin. He faced away from Stefano, and although he could have turned his head to look at him, he instead rested his forehead against the carved and gilded wood. His ragged breathing reverberated against the marble walls as if it were being held captive, and his thick curly hair, which Stefano so loved to play with when they were alone, was dark with sweat.

“Your Grace,” said Stefano, bowing to his father. Not because he wanted to show respect, but because he needed this torture to end. “I acknowledge that I erred in speaking publicly against you. A son owes fealty to his father, and a prince owes fealty to his king. I apologize for my actions and I seek your forgiveness.” Every word was bitter on his tongue.

There was a low murmur from the other people in the room—the members of the High Council, Stefano’s two older brothers, perhaps even the servants and guards. But for a long, terrible moment King Cyrus remained silent. Nothing in his gaze thawed; his posture didn’t soften.

Then he lowered his hand. “You will confine yourself to your chambers for one week, and you will refrain from attending council meetings for the remainder of the year.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Stefano spoke softly this time, a chastened child. As he watched, knees threatening to give out, Cyrus gestured to the guard holding the whip, then turned and swept from the room. The council members and other princes disappeared almost as quickly, although Philip, the heir, glared briefly at Stefano before taking his leave.

When only a few servants and guards remained, Stefano rushed toward Henry. A guard stopped him short, however, and kept Stefano in place with a firm but not unkind grip. “Let the servants tend to him, sir.”

“But he’s⁠—”

“I’ll have him taken to your chambers. Shall I send for the physician?”

Stefano let out a heavy breath. “Yes. Please.”

The guard whispered close to Stefano’s ear. “Henry will be slow in arriving, but I suspect he would prefer to make the journey with as little assistance as possible. And without you witnessing his progress, sir.”

Although Stefano wanted to carry Henry himself, he understood the wisdom of the guard’s words. If Henry must be beaten on Stefano’s behalf, then Stefano owed him at least some dignity. “All right,” Stefano said. The guard released him and took a half step back.

Stefano stole one more look at Henry. The arms that so often held him were taut and strained, the heavy muscles as hard as if they, like the pillars, had been carved. Stefano yearned to give Henry a small comforting touch, a compassionate word. But he knew that Henry wanted neither of those things right now, under the watchful gaze of so many others.

“I will wait in my chambers,” Stefano said, hoping he managed some of his father’s regal tone.

The corridors of the palace felt endless. Passageways, halls, and stairways with rich carpets underfoot, tapestries on the walls, and pedestals with sculptures staring blindly as he passed. The servants, guards, and assorted functionaries that he passed turned their eyes away from him in a show of humbleness, but he knew they whispered to one another as soon as he turned a corner. No matter. Nobody mattered to him now except Henry.

After what felt like centuries, he reached the double doors to the suite of rooms that were often a sanctuary and sometimes a prison. The doors were flanked by a pair of guards, ostensibly to protect him. For the next week, however, they would serve as his keepers. He nodded at them nonetheless because they weren’t bad sorts. Just men doing their jobs for their king.

Once inside, Stefano hurried through the large sitting room. He kept his books here, his drawings, his collections of small bones and feathers. It held comfortable chairs, shelves with pretty stones and bits of colored glass he’d collected at the beach. There was a desk where he worked and a table where he and Henry often took their meals. It was a good space. When someone mentioned the word home, this room came to Stefano’s mind.

A door led to his dressing room, where his court clothing dominated one side and more casual wear took up a small but important corner. There was also a bench intended for use while getting dressed, although he and Henry often made more creative use of it.

And finally he was in his bedchamber, with its enormous canopied bed near the glass french doors that opened onto a garden. Henry’s narrow cot was there too, although he hadn’t slept in it for years. Now Stefano ignored the cot and instead turned down the coverings of the big bed and rearranged the pillows. A servant’s job, but he didn’t mind the task. It gave him something to do besides anxious pacing.

He was moving the cushions for the seventh or eighth time when a heavy knock rattled the main doors to his chambers. He rushed through to the outer room just as the doors flew open and five people entered: four guards and Henry, who was supported by two of them. When Henry saw Stefano, however, he took his arms off the guards’ shoulders and slowly, deliberately, walked by himself. His expression was set, and he didn’t look at Stefano as he passed him and entered the dressing room.

“Leave us.” Stefano didn’t wait to see whether the guards obeyed, but he heard the doors shut behind them.

Henry stood midway between the bed and the cot, facing Stefano. His shirt was wadded in one hand, his skin parchment-pale, and he swayed slightly on his feet.