His Captive Queen

The Duke of Arles was explaining the intricacies of crop rotation. His lands, he said, produced the hardiest strain of wheat on the continent. His voice was a low, monotonous hum, a sound that was easily lost beneath the clatter of silver on porcelain and the polite, meaningless laughter that echoed in the vaulted dining hall. I watched his mouth move. His lips were thin and pale. I imagined kissing them and felt nothing at all, a complete and perfect void.

I nodded, a gesture I had perfected. It was a princess’s nod: agreeable, attentive, and entirely vacant. “Fascinating,” I said. The word tasted like dust.

To my left, the Baroness de Courville was smiling at the ambassador from the Northern Isles. Her smile did not reach her eyes. The ambassador wanted fishing rights in the Azure Strait; the Baroness wanted her youngest son fostered at the northern court, away from the influence of his degenerate uncle. A simple, if delicate, trade. I traced the lines of the transaction in my mind, a familiar mental exercise. It was how I stayed sane. I mapped the alliances, the debts, the quiet resentments. It was a game of strategy, and I was a very expensive playing piece. My marriage to the Duke would secure our southern border and give my father’s fleet preferential access to his ports. A princess for a port. That was the math of it.

Across the long, candle-lit table, my father caught my gaze. His eyes, the same shade of cool grey as my own, held a silent command. Engage. Please him. It was not a request. It was an inventory check. He was ensuring his asset was performing as expected. I turned back to the Duke and placed my hand near his on the white linen tablecloth, not quite touching. A calculated display of warmth.

“Your father tells me you enjoy falconry,” the Duke said, his attention finally shifting from agriculture.

“I do,” I lied. I hated the way the birds’ hoods made them look like tiny, feathered prisoners.

Later, as the guests began to drift from the hall toward the ballroom, my father’s hand landed on my arm. His grip was firm, proprietary. He steered me into a small alcove, shielded from view by a heavy tapestry depicting a bloody, triumphant battle from our family’s history.

“The Duke seems taken with you,” he said. His voice was low, stripped of the public warmth he wore like a crown.

“He finds my interest in his wheat production compelling.”

My father’s fingers tightened for a second. A warning. “Do not be clever, Giovanna. You are to be his wife. It is your duty to this kingdom, to this family, to see that he is pleased with his arrangement.”

Arrangement. That was what this was. Not a marriage. Not a life. It was an arrangement, a contract for which I was the consideration. He looked at me, his face impassive, and I felt the suffocating weight of the castle, of the title, of the years stretching out ahead of me beside a man who spoke of soil and dogs.

“I understand my duty, Father,” I said. The words were correct. They were what he needed to hear. He gave a curt nod, his part in the transaction complete, and released my arm. He turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the shadow of the violent, victorious dead.

I didn't return to the ballroom. I walked in the opposite direction, my hand trailing along the cold stone of the corridor until I found the small, unmarked door that led to the sea-facing gardens. The air that met me was cool and sharp, tasting of salt and damp earth. It was a relief.

I walked down the gravel path, the sound of my own footsteps a quiet crunching in the night. The orchestra was a faint, muffled pulse from the castle behind me, almost entirely consumed by the rhythmic wash of the waves against the cliffs below. The garden was dark, the moon hidden by a thin veil of cloud. I could smell the night-blooming jasmine, a sweet, heavy perfume that mingled with the brine. I stopped at the stone balustrade and looked down toward the royal docks. A few lanterns swayed on their posts, their light shifting on the black water. For a moment, there was only the sound of the sea.

Then a different sound carried up from the docks. A man’s shout, abruptly cut off. It was followed by a wet, percussive thud. I froze, my fingers tightening on the rough stone of the balustrade. The dock guards were supposed to be vigilant. It could have been anything. A dropped crate, a drunken fight between sailors.

I remained still, listening. Another noise. A low grunt, and the scrape of a boot on wood. It was the sound of effort, of strain. My strategic mind, the one that charted political marriages and trade routes, told me to retreat. To go inside and alert the guard. But my feet stayed planted. I leaned forward, trying to peer through the gloom.

Heavy, hurried footsteps pounded on the stone stairs that cut up the cliff face from the docks to the garden. They were coming this way. They were not the synchronized, leather-shod steps of the King’s guard. This was something else, something frantic and heavy.

I pushed myself back from the balustrade, melting into the deep shadow of a cypress hedge. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. Three figures emerged from the stairwell, large, dark shapes moving with a predatory swiftness. They were dressed in rough, practical clothing that seemed to absorb the dim light. They smelled of the deep sea, of sweat and iron and something acrid, like old tar.

I held my breath, trying to will myself invisible. But one of them stopped. His head turned in my direction. I didn’t know how he could have seen me.

Before I could process the thought, before I could even command my legs to run, he was there. He crossed the ten feet between us in two silent strides. A hand, enormous and rough, slammed over my mouth, stifling my scream before it could form. The smell of him was overwhelming—salt, sweat, and the faint, metallic scent of blood. An arm, corded with muscle and solid as an anchor chain, wrapped around my torso, hoisting me off the ground. My feet left the path. The air rushed out of my lungs in a choked gasp.

I fought. It was a pure, animal instinct. I twisted and kicked, my nails scraping at the arm around my waist. My fists beat against a back that was a wall of solid muscle. It was useless. He held me fast, his grip brutally efficient. Another man grabbed my flailing legs, his grip like a vise around my ankles. The fine silk of my gown tore with a soft, ripping sound. They didn't speak. There was only the sound of my own muffled struggling and their heavy, controlled breathing. The world narrowed to the pressure on my mouth, the unyielding strength pinning me, the terrifying, simple fact of my own powerlessness.

They moved with a brutal economy of motion, carrying me back down the stone steps I had just ascended. The man holding my torso had one arm locked beneath my ribs, and I could feel the hard ridges of his knuckles pressed into my side. The sky was a swatch of dark grey, and the castle, my home, receded above the cliff edge, its familiar silhouette becoming a jagged line against the clouds. My mind, strangely detached, noted the efficiency of it all. No wasted energy, no unnecessary cruelty. Just a job being done.

We reached the docks. The air grew thick with the smell of fish and brine and damp, rotting wood. They carried me along the wharf, past tethered fishing boats that bobbed gently in the black water. At the end of the longest pier, a ship was moored. It was larger than the others, a dark hulk with a single mast that clawed at the sky. There were no royal colors, no livery. It was stark and black, built for speed and nothing else. The name painted on the stern in faded white letters was Sea Serpent.

A rope ladder was slung over the side. One of the men climbed it with unnerving ease. The man holding me passed me upwards, an undignified transfer from one set of strong arms to another. For a moment, I was suspended over the dark, churning water between the pier and the hull. Then I was on the deck.

The wood was rough and damp beneath my thin slippers. The deck was a clutter of ropes, barrels, and coiled chains. Men moved in the shadows, their faces lit intermittently by the swinging lanterns. They were hard-looking men, their expressions ranging from mild curiosity to open appraisal. They looked at my torn silk gown, at my bare arms, at my face. I felt my skin prickle, but I forced my chin up. I would not be livestock for their inspection.

A man stepped out from behind the mast, moving from shadow into the weak lantern light. He was taller than the others, broader. The word ‘large’ was insufficient. He was built on the scale of a landmark, a feature of the landscape. He wore no shirt, only dark, stained trousers. His entire torso, his arms, his neck, were covered in a dense network of black tattoos. Swirling lines that mimicked waves and sea creatures twisted over the hard planes of his muscles.

He stopped a few feet from me. The man who had carried me onto the ship still had a firm grip on my upper arm. The captain—he had to be the captain—looked at me. His eyes were dark, and they held no warmth at all. They assessed me the way my father had assessed the Duke, as a piece in a transaction. His hair was black and thick, tied back from a face that was all harsh angles and weathered skin. A thick, dark beard covered his jaw.

He looked at the man holding my arm. "Leave her."

His voice was low and gravelly, the sound of stones grinding together underwater. The hand on my arm fell away. I stood alone on the deck of his ship, surrounded by his men. I did not move. I met the captain's gaze and held it. Fear was a cold, solid weight in my stomach, but I would not let it show on my face. I had been trained my whole life to mask my feelings behind a veneer of placid royalty. It was the only weapon I had.

He took a step closer. The smell of him was the smell of the ship itself: salt, woodsmoke, and the clean, sharp scent of the open ocean.

"You know who I am," I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected.

A corner of his mouth lifted, a motion that was not a smile. "I know you're the king's daughter."

He looked me up and down, a slow, deliberate inventory. His gaze lingered for a moment on the tear in my dress, then moved back to my face.

"You are on my ship now," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Your father will pay a great deal of money to have you returned. Until he does, you are my prisoner."

His words hung in the damp air. He turned his head slightly and gestured with his chin toward a hatch at the stern. “Take her below.”

The man who had held my arm before stepped forward again. This time, he didn't grab me. He waited. I looked from his impassive face to the captain’s. Leuan’s dark eyes were unreadable. Waiting for me to resist, perhaps. To scream or fight so he could demonstrate his power again. I did not give him the satisfaction. I turned and walked toward the hatch, my torn dress whispering against the rough planks. The pirate followed a step behind me.

The stairs were steep, more like a ladder. I descended into the narrow, dimly lit passageway below deck. The air was close, thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and bilge water. He led me to a door at the end of the passage, the only one that looked solid and well-maintained. He pulled a heavy iron key from his belt, unlocked it, and pushed it open. He gestured for me to enter.

I stepped over the threshold, and he pulled the door shut behind me. The sound of the key turning in the lock was loud and final. I was alone.

I stood still for a full minute, listening. I could hear the muffled sounds of the crew on the deck above, the creak and groan of the ship’s timbers, the gentle slap of water against the hull. I was in the captain’s cabin. It was nothing like I would have imagined. There was no chaotic sprawl of treasure, no silks or furs looted from other ships. It was starkly, surprisingly, orderly.

A narrow cot was built into the hull on one side, its single wool blanket folded with military precision. A small, sturdy table of dark wood was bolted to the floor, a single chair tucked neatly beneath it. On the table, a nautical chart was rolled and tied with a piece of twine, placed next to a brass lantern and a tin cup. Against the far wall sat a heavy, iron-banded sea chest. The floor was scrubbed clean. The room smelled of beeswax and salt, not stale rum. This was the room of a man who valued discipline.

My heart was still a frantic, frightened thing in my chest, but my mind felt cold and clear. Tears were a luxury, and an entirely useless one. I started with the door. I ran my fingers over the heavy oak planks, testing their strength. Solid. The lock was a large, formidable iron mechanism. I pressed my ear against it, but I didn't know what I was listening for. I examined the hinges; they were thick and well-oiled, the bolts driven deep into the frame. There would be no forcing it.

I moved to the single, small porthole. The glass was thick and distorted, showing only a dark, wavering smear of the water outside. The brass frame was sealed shut, the latches rusted tight. Even if I could open it, it was barely wide enough to fit my head through, let alone my shoulders.

My eyes scanned the room again, this time for a weapon. The tin cup was too light. The chair was too heavy to wield effectively in the small space, and bolted down besides. I walked to the table and picked up the rolled chart. It was heavy, the parchment thick and expensive. I slid the twine off and unrolled it. A map of the southern archipelago, detailed with currents and shoals. No use to me now. I put it back.

I knelt by the sea chest. I ran my hands over its surface, feeling the grain of the wood, the cold, rough texture of the iron bands. The lock was smaller than the one on the door, but just as sturdy. I tugged at the lid. It didn't budge. My gaze swept the floor, searching for a loose nail, a splinter of wood I could use to probe the lock. The floorboards were tight and even.

My hands smoothed down the silk of my ruined gown, my mind working. The fabric was fine, but the thread was strong. I thought of the embroidery needles in my chambers at the castle. A hairpin. I had nothing. My hands went to my hair, but the maids had styled it loosely, with only a few simple pins that were long gone, lost in the struggle in the garden.

I stood up and paced the length of the small cabin. Three steps one way, three steps back. The ship gave a sudden, deep lurch, and I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the table. The movement was different now. Not the gentle rocking of a moored vessel, but the purposeful roll of a ship cutting through open water. We were moving. We were leaving.

I stood there, my hand flat on the cool wood of the table, and felt the vibration of the sea through the soles of my slippers. My kingdom, my father, my old life—it was all falling away behind me with every rise and fall of the waves. I was a prisoner. I was a commodity. But I was alive. And my mind, the only part of me they couldn't put in chains, was already searching for a way out.