Midnight Falls: A Thrilling Retelling of Cinderella (23 page)

Ever since Halsty had been a young boy, he’d despised his religious and rigidly strict parents. His father in particular was terribly severe. When Halsty had been an infant, barely old enough to walk, he once cried out during a mass. His father took him into the churchyard and beat him. Many people saw it; no one stopped him. No one ever prohibited the man from exacting such abuse on a young child, for the man was of noble blood. He was so respected by his social peers, the gawkers convinced themselves that little James Halsty deserved whatever punishment his deeply spiritual father saw fit to bestow upon him.

James Halsty hated his parents. But even more than that, he loathed their presumptuousness. What had the Baron and Baroness Halsty done to deserve such allowance and liberty to force their pietistic beliefs on another person, even their son? They were worthless people. They were nothing and until Captain Thurlow had given Halsty a purpose, a code of honor that he’d never known existed; he was forever crushed beneath the heel of the man and woman who had sired him but never truly loved him. Maybe his parents
had
indeed raised him to be the violent, uncompromising mercenary he was today. Halsty didn’t think much on it. His parents might as well have been dead to him. Now, the blond-haired man with wide shoulders, a large chest, and ironically short body stood proudly at the threshold of a new life for himself. It was a life which depended upon those who resided behind the iron door to the lowest, most concealed prison in the land: the “candidates” that Thurlow had been so thrilled, and palliated, to have at last in his custody.

It took only minutes for Captain Thurlow to meet his most devout soldier at the lair steps and, after a brief salute, both men descended the steps into the depths of Hell on Earth.

The stench was almost unbearable and Thurlow shielded his nostrils with his gloved hand. Halsty did not seem as bothered by the smell; he’d already spent some time in the dungeon already. There were only a dozen cells, as this particular dungeon was not the main prison for those convicted of various crimes in Gwent. The lair was uniquely brutal and one-of-a-kind. Thurlow wondered if even the king himself knew it existed.

But then Thurlow recalled one incident, many years before, of which the king was fully aware. Who could blame the monarch, though; he was dealing with the derelict that had conspired to murder him and possibly even his wife and young son? No mercy, nor even a clean, organized, well-monitored, civilly governed penitentiary could be expended for such a travesty.

Halsty didn’t know what irritated him more: the stench of feces and death or the wailing moans that echoed from behind the iron doors of each individual cell. As he and Thurlow neared one enclosure that was oddly silent, Halsty gestured to his superior that they had reached their destination.

Halsty motioned for the cell guard to open the door and the heavy, middle-aged man quickly complied. Once ajar, the door creaked until it slammed against the cement walls with a horrific bang. The dirty, emaciated man that sat stationary in the corner of the small chamber was no one that Thurlow expected.

The bald man glared at his jailers with possessed, accusatory eyes. Though he was battered and starved, he maintained a pride that Thurlow could not help but be impressed by.

“It’s strange,” Thurlow whispered to Halsty under his breath. “For being of a people so untamed and godless, he has a dignity about him.”

“Yes sir,” Halsty replied.

“Where are my wife and children?!” the man suddenly screamed out, his eyes wild, succumbing to madness. “What have you done with them?”

“I think you may have just found the perfect candidate, corporal,” Thurlow said, patting Halsty’s shoulder, completely obtuse to the prisoner’s plea. “He certainly is feisty and ‘primed for revolution’ wouldn’t you say? Good work.”

Halsty accepted the accolade graciously and both he and Thurlow stepped out, away from the cell’s entryway.

Just as the prisoner leapt from the corner, the horrific bang of the iron door hitting and locking into the metal frame pierced his ears again. He fell against the partition anyway and began slamming his fist into it. He did not stop until his fingers were practically broken and he could lift his arm no longer. The weeping prisoner slumped down to the floor, covered in rat droppings, and closed his eyes. He called to his wife out loud and prayed that the force of his love would somehow carry the message to her, the woman he’d worshipped his whole life, and that instead of it being a broken, desperate cry from a shackled, doomed soul, it would find her in a serenade across the lusciously vibrant trees of Kersley.

Oh my sweet wife, please forgive me for not taking you in my arms that night and proclaiming my undying love… Oh my sweet wife, please forgive me for not taking you in my arms that night and proclaiming my undying love.

Oh my sweet wife, please forgive me…

The years had been kind to Isolda. For a woman in her middle ages, her skin was taut and unblemished with even a touch of bronze to accentuate an exotic mystique. She stood in front of the full-length double mirrors of her wardrobe and grinned. But even with impulse to smile, she still cursed. Isolda felt like battering her fist against the glass, even to the point of lacerating her hand. A little nip of pain would be welcome compared the excruciating torment of not being able to carry on in her concupiscence with Peter. Her body still burned with the sensation of his lips against hers, his hard chest pressed against her body. If it had been allowed to go on even one second longer, they would have been propelled by their appetites to escape to the nearest secluded hideaway and succumb to the lust in its wholeness.

But instead Isolda cursed out loud.

“Damn it, Bethany! Why did you have to be there? Why!?”

Of course there had been the slightest inkling of resistance on Peter’s part, but Isolda refused to linger on it. She had put him in a terrible position and that was incredibly unfair. Peter was a man shackled to a scandalous part. He was doing all he could, taking every specific action to cleanse himself of any and all disrepute, even carrying with him a gravitas that proved to be quite an encumbrance to Isolda. To have been spotted engaging in such salacious activity would have been detrimental to the revitalization of his image.

Isolda got it. She understood image.

And yes, there was still
that
question. Isolda knew less the answer that night than she had when she’d first set eyes on Peter weeks before. Did it matter? Whoever he was, he was still the man she’d fallen in love with.

Isolda sighed and began removing the pins from her deeply dark, brown hair. She closed her eyes as she did and imagined it was Peter who was kneading his hands through her hair, sneaking kisses at her face and neck. She inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. Henry was watching her from across the room. Isolda gasped.

“What do you want, Henry?!” she snapped at him. He said nothing, nor did he move. Isolda turned back curtly, desiring to make it clear to him she was turning
her
back to him and not the other way around. Still, Henry watched his wife of more than twenty years intensely, catching her eyes through the mirror’s reflection.

Isolda wondered if he knew about her kiss with Peter that evening. Had Bethany told her father? That little brat! But Isolda then reminded herself of two things: Bethany had no respect or admiration for her father and would not have troubled herself to tattle on her mother when Henry was guilty of the same sin and far worse. Furthermore, Henry too had no respect or admiration neither for the institution of marriage nor in the duties of spouses to honor archaic, idiotic vows of fidelity. Why would he even care about Isolda and Peter? Isolda pondered as she watched her husband stare at her for several more seconds and then silently depart from her dormitory as hauntingly as he had appeared.

Chapter Nineteen

An eerie silence loomed over Kersley; a stark contrast from the colorful, lively atmosphere that used to welcome Ella whenever she visited. As she made her way slowly across the cold, undisturbed pathway that normally was beaten down with hundreds of child-sized, rambunctious feet, she tried to shake the overwhelming premonition that she was too late. But to what, she was not sure. She called out for Gonla, Luca, and every other person she recall. There was no reply. Ella scanned the surrounding as far as her eyes could see, but she could discern nothing. The caravans had all but vanished and Ella wished more than ever before that she could locate at least one barrel-shaped wagon with jovial voices emanating from within.

“Ella!”

She jumped and turned eastward toward the familiar voice, her gloved hand across her heart to stem its panic. There sat a grove of large trees that dwarfed a small reservoir in which Ella had waded on more than one occasion. It was Luca. When Ella made eye contact with him, he began running toward her. As he neared, Ella observed that he was thinner and paler than usual. His hair was long, ratty, and his clothing was covered with dirt stains, old and new. But he smiled merrily upon seeing his friend and first crush.

“Ella,” he said, out of breath, “what are you doing here?”

“Luca,” Ella replied anxiously, “where is everyone?”

“They left,” Luca replied, oddly surprised that Ella didn’t already know.

“Everyone?”

“Well, mostly everyone. They went east, toward the mountains. Terrible time of year to go east, but that was their only option.”

“Luca,” Ella said, her confusion bordering on pain, “what are you talking about? What do you mean their only option? Where is Gonla? Did she and Ante’ leave, too?”

Luca didn’t answer but motioned for Ella to follow him back along the shallow, newborn trail toward the reservoir, from whence he’d come.

After a long while of walking, Ella heard the noise, the blissful commotion that she’d come to associate with her friends. She quickened her step as she crossed the grove and emerged along the rocky reservoir beach. There were fifty or so mud and stick huts that lined the beach about ten feet from the water. Countless people of all ages milled around the makeshift homes and in the surrounding wooded area, doing everything from the most mundane of chores to chopping down trees. Like nothing had ever happened
.
But Ella knew her hope was in vain when it tried to reassure her. The sullenness in the eyes of each man, woman, and child that Ella watched got caught up in the passing wind and made its way over leaves, rocks, saplings, and water to find Ella and constricted her sanguinity. It was like a passing infection of gloom. There were several people among the crowd she didn’t recognize, but the ones who were familiar grinned when they saw her. There was one woman in particular whose face lit up upon seeing Ella. The beautiful, well-bundled woman called out and Ella felt herself collapsing in happiness.

“Gonla!” Ella shouted, waving her arm from side to side. Gonla waved back and began running toward Ella and Luca. She was hobbling a bit. Ella saw this and felt a pang of guilt, like it had somehow been her fault that Gonla was struggling. Ella sprinted forward, as fast as she could, to reach Gonla before she had to hobble any farther. When they met, the friends embraced tightly, ecstatically. The voices of Gonla’s children soon accompanied the two women and Ella allowed her tears to flow freely.

“What happened here, Gonla?” Ella asked somberly from a flat boulder inside Gonla’s hut that doubled as a table and a chair. Gonla instructed her children to depart before she answered.

“Most of my people left,” Gonla began, “hoping that traveling east toward the mountains would take them safely from Kersley and out of harm’s way.”

“Harm’s way?”

“Thurlow’s army came, Ella. Not all of them, but enough. They said we had to leave or they would issue arrests.

“It wasn’t just us; they told everyone in Kersley to go away. There must have been thousands of us running for our lives. They said something about military barracks or camps needing to occupy the territory. I don’t know for certain. Many refused to leave their homes. When they did, they were detained.” Gonla looked away to hide her tears. “Even Ante’,” she said wearily.