The Traitor's Daughter (Complete)

Part 1-The Namecalling

 Zorbia, Europe. Early Eighteenth Century.

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"Haar...." the coachman shouted as the horses galloped through the middle of the road.

The thin girl who was trudging through the road jumped out of the way in the nick of time. She was dressed in a worn-out gingham dress, a bonnet on her head, from which, hair the color of spun gold, peeked out. She bent her head a little, pulling the bonnet over her hair as if to make herself invisible.

A man glanced out of the passing carriage, saw her, and spat on the ground.

"The traitor's daughter," he called out, loud enough for the other passers-by to hear.

The girl froze in her tracks. A few people stopped, then gathered around her. A rotund woman with a fat belly, clearly big with child, poked her with a finger.

"Shameless hussy," the woman bit out meanly. Those gathered around laughed, heaping insults at the girl.

She cringed, unwilling to let these heartless men and women see her tears.

"Call the guards," someone suggested, and the others readily agreed.

Zena felt the blood freeze in her veins. She couldn't wait there to be arrested by the guards. Turning, she ran the way she had come, her errand forgotten. Her heart pounded sickeningly as she passed the crowds on the street. A couple of men chased after her, but she was quick on her feet. Fear had lent her wings. Men and women stared at her, judgment in every glance. They really hated her, she thought, a frisson of fear passing through her. It wouldn't take much for that hate to turn to physical violence.

She saw a back alley and darted into it, out of sight of the glaring eyes. It was dark and smelled of stale smoke and refuse. She held her breath, avoiding muddy puddles with care. Traversing through several such alleyways, she stopped in front of an inconspicuous door, its blue paint peeling and patches of discoloration marking it. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it after her and leaning against it, gasping for breath.

"Zena, what happened, girl?" Mrs. Josef asked, emerging from the shadows. She was a tall, thin woman with a hooked nose and frizzy hair.

Startled at first, Zena shook her head, too out of breath to speak.

"Did you go to the shops?" Mrs. Josef asked, her pale eyes shining with disapproval.

"Yes," Zena croaked, taking a step forward and sinking down onto the lone chair in the room.

"I told you to stay put for some days," she admonished, then pointed to the bag kept on the roughly hewed wooden table.

"Here, I brought you some bread and cheese."

"You shouldn't have," Zena uttered, then getting up, hugged the woman. "Thank you, Wilma. What would I do without you?"

"You will do just fine, my girl. Now, secure the door after me, and don't you open it for anybody," Wilma said, before stepping into the darkening gloom.

Zena bolted the door after her and then opened the bag with an eagerness excused only by the loud rumbling in her stomach. She took out the warm loaf, cut a piece for herself, and bit into the softness. Savoring the sweetness as she chewed, she considered her options. There weren't many. The ruling Prince had refused to hear her pleas. The guards were looking for her. How long could she stay in hiding?

When the pangs of hunger had subsided a little, her mind went back to the time when she had a home and a father who doted on her. Her father, a general in the army of Zorbia, a small principality, had been highly respected. They had lived in a beautifully grand townhouse, with a retinue of servants.

Zena looked at her worn clothes and the frugal meal on the table. She hadn't always lived in penury. Having lost her mother in her early childhood, her father had raised his only daughter with all the love and tenderness possible, to make up for her loss. She had an armoire full of pretty clothes and every kind of frippery to gladden the heart of a young girl. She had been taught to read and write, could ride a horse, and was learning to play the harpsichord.

Zena remembered her last birthday. She had awoken to a bright, sunny day, a rarity in winter. Bathed and dressed in her favorite dress, the color of Damask roses, she had run down the stairway, eager to greet the day.

"Why, Miss Zena, you are up early today," the cook, Vera, commented, as she entered the kitchen, following the delicious aroma of freshly baked cookies.

"Are those ginger cookies?" she asked, excited, and picking up a couple from the baking tray. Vera nodded, taking a tray out of the wood oven.

"Ooh...they're hot," she exclaimed, as the heat almost burned her fingers.

"Of course, they are hot. They're straight out of the oven. Be careful not to burn your tongue, Missy...." Vera cautioned with an indulgent smile. She knew that Zena especially loved them, that is why she had been up before sunrise, baking batch after batch of the little delicacy.

Her father kissed her cheek and handed her a small box, tied with a red ribbon, as she sat at the breakfast table.

"Happy eighteenth birthday, love. I hope that you enjoy your day."

"When are we going to stay in the country, father?" Zena asked.

Her father, Lord Martin, had a country estate with vast lands attached to it. Zena loved their manor and the freedom that rural life afforded. She could ride there like the wind and go boating on the river which flowed near the estate.

"We will, soon, I promise you, dear," her father said, buttering a slice of bread generously.

They had been having their breakfast when the butler came to tell her father about a stranger whom he had shown into the living room. A look of anxiety flitted across her father's face, as he heard his name. Wiping his mouth with the napkin, he rose from the table.

"You continue, dear," he said offhandedly, before walking into the living room.

He was back moments later. He bent down and placed a kiss on her head.

"The Prince has summoned me," he said, a frown marring his handsome face.

Zena nodded, wondering why he appeared to be disturbed by that. Her father had been called to the royal palace hundreds of times, before, but this time something was definitely worrying him.

"You take care, my child, and enjoy your day," he wished her before leaving.

That day had marked the beginning of all her troubles. Soon, word had reached her that Zorbia had gone to war with Valeria. Her father had to leave for the front immediately, and she hadn't heard from him for days on end. Then, one fine day, one of the Prince's men had come storming to their house with a group of guards. They had said horrible things about her father, serious allegations, which called for the death penalty. She was branded the traitor's daughter and everything that they had was confiscated by the state.

Zena sighed, as she glanced around the tiny room, not better than a hovel. How could she possibly live like this for any length of time? She had to find a way out. If only the Prince would give her an audience. But that was out of the question now. She had prayed for it and had been refused. Only a few people, a couple of loyal servants, knew where she was hiding, Wilma, being one of them. How long could she last there, she wondered, as the walls of the tiny room seemed to close in around her. She would have to act, and soon. But where could she go, that was the question.