Dencer opens the iron-bound door and steps into the narrow, stone-walled room.
Wendella looks up from the table, then stands, and inclines her head. “My lord, what wish you?”
“What wish I? What wish I? What sort of fool do you take me for? What wish I?” He lifts the leather quirt in his hand. “Do you see this? See you this?”
“Yes, my lord.” Wendella’s eyes meet Dencer’s.
“The sole good you have done, the sole good is my son! Better I had your tongue ripped out.”
“My lord?”
“You said you made no bargains with the bitch!”
“I said I made none, and I made none.”
“You lie. You lie as rushes on a peasant’s floor.” Dencer reaches out with his left hand and rips off the thin shift that Wendella wears. She stands erect, motionless as his second motion rips away her smallclothes, leaving a red scratch across her hip.
“I told you no lies, my lord. I suffered captivity for you. Never did I agree to anything.”
Smack! Dencer’s hand rocks the brown-haired woman’s head back.
“Will you never stop lying to me?”
“I . . . did . . . not . . . lie.” Her words are evenly spaced.
“You lie as rushes lie.” He slashes the quirt-whip across Wendella’s bare buttocks, leaving a line of red. “You made a bad bargain with the bitch sorceress. Tell me you did!”
“I made no bargains.”
“Then why does Lord Ehara send an overcaptain to proffer friendship to that gray pig Sargol? Why does he spurn me with a stripling captain and a handful of golds? What bargain did you strike with the bitch?”
“My lord, I offered nothing.” Wendella’s jaw remains firm, though tears seep from the corners of her eyes.
“Liar!”
Wendella does not speak.
“Liar!” Thwipp! Thwipp! The quirt strikes again, and again . . . and continues until she lies on the stone tiles.
Then the door shuts.