Bound by the Hinterlands

By Bree M. Lewandowski

"Against her will. Torn by her heart. Bound by the Hinterlands." 

 

Burdened by a controlling and abusive father, Cressida has only ever had one dream: to make her own way in the world and forge a new life on her own merit. But her life in Bolingbay was never hers to rule. And the moment she felt the sweet whisper of freedom, it was just as swiftly ripped away.

Having not been blessed with talent or beauty, Cressida is caught off-guard by her abrupt and shocking arranged marriage to the handsome, silver-haired Baron Caravahl Alzeid.

 

Frustrated at being bartered like an object, Cressida begrudgingly accepts her fate as she journeys toward the Hinterlands, the land of the outcasts – and her new home.

 

Upon her arrival, things begin to feel amiss. Unexpected guests cause panic and turmoil; and there is a darkness to the nearby forest that never seems to wane – a sinister mystery shrouded in secrecy and silence. 

 

Still, she can't help but fall in love with the land and the people despite the threats lurking around every corner. And the more time she spends with her infuriating new husband, the more difficult it is to resist the pull of temptation.  

 

But when everything begins spiraling out of control, Cressida finds herself in more danger than ever. 

 

And to save her from darkness, Caravahl will have to risk it all… his life, his kingdom, and his heart. 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bree M. Lewandowski
• Release date: May 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223613343

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Her father was not a kind man. Long had she known it but there were times it struck her anew, as if by the back of his hand. Every time she believed herself strong enough not to feel the hurt sting. Yet, her mother passed from the land of the living before memories were strong enough to root themselves in her mind. There had been no one, beside her father, through the early years of schooling, the strangeness of adolescence, and the march of adulthood.

Now, nearing her twenty-fifth year, no marriage proposals to speak of, and no definable talents to pave her way in the world, her father was dying, and she loved him and hated him fiercely.

Cressida cinched the sheep gut string tighter around the twig besom fronds of the broom before she took it against the rug once more. The Rainy Seasons were approaching, and she must have both rugs ready to alternate when the late year weather pounded the country of Lurrack. Oceans she would never behold would rear up, shoved by strong winds, and pound the coast, driving the cost of fish beyond their means. Any thatching not well done on the roof would reveal itself, and she had already stored away dried pollock for payment of that repair. The streets of their town would sink in mud and dry wood for fires would become precious.

Last season, they had been near burning the broom. Her father stated his fellow councilmen would not let him sink to such lows and they had not. However, Cressida’s hands shook so aggressively, she’d barely been able to knead barley dough.

There was, although, another reason she decided to beat the large throw rug at midday, when most women her age were inside, preparing supper or a late pottage. The letter carrier was due within the hour and not only did Cressida not want him to bang on the door and throw her father into a coughing fit his lungs did not have the strength for, but she also did not want her father to see any correspondence post-marked to her.

His death was no longer what-if but when. Three different doctors, even the family doctor of one of his colleagues from the royal court, all diagnosed him the same. The lungs were filling with water and certain signs that chased her through nightmares would alert when there were only hours left. To stave off the frightening image of her father’s eyes bulging, gurgling low in his throat with every labored breath, and swollen waxy lips, she had sent five letters of inquiry.

The instant after his soul left the living world, she became nothing. The name her father earned during decades of court debate would not serve her. Even at her age, had she been a man, she could have enlisted in the armed sea-faring defenses of Lurrack, or bent her back to the sheep herders high in the mountains. Had she been a man, she could have entered the service of the Prince Regent. Had she been a man, even her father’s name was hers to make anew.

She knew her physical attributes were plain and flat. Her talents did not extend beyond the scant requisite painting, needlepoint, and playing of the gittern. Yet, a childhood accident had made plucking the four-stringed instrument labored, because the thumb, middle, and fourth finger of her right hand were misshapen. 

She’d grown deaf to the whispers that her hand was reason enough for her to be Caste house fodder. Women of her nearing age, without money or family to care for them, were left to the country’s system of cheap hired labor. Women of the Caste traveled where they were sent to work for an agreed sum they would see little of—their names remembered only by the companions they formed living in the narrow walls of the country funded institutions.

She hurled a final wallop at the rug.

Late afternoon clouds had rolled over a far and high pale sun. Their few chickens and ducks might roost early, and she could only pretend to hunt for eggs for so long.

The letterman had to pass their knobby fence if he wanted to catch the last ferry of the day and get back to the larger town of Glough. Even if he did not have post for her, she wanted to know before the rest of her waking hours were spent indoors.

She would not be a woman of the Caste. She had applied to an orphanage, an apothecary, a school, and two traveling doctors surely in need of a nurse. She would not walk shackled to mandated indentured life. Her burdens would be her own. She did not see shame in seeking employment and would wear fatigue and calloused hands as a badge of honor.

Reaching upwards, Cressida pulled the thin, woven rug off the clothesline and rolled it tight.

Hallo, Pontmerry maid!

She lugged the fabric under her arm and shook back the brown hair that had fallen free in front of her face. You pass this way every day and still you refuse to call me by my given name?

The letterman doffed his cap in mock surprise. And risk the ire of your father, the great statesman, Geoffrey Pontmerry? I think not!

’Tis better to risk my disappointment, then, that we are not friendly enough to dispense with formalities?

He smiled and rummaged in the large, stuffed, leather sack strung across his shoulder. Yes, because I do have something for you today.

She nearly dropped the rug, hurrying to the ragged fence separating them. You’re forgiven.

With both hands, he pulled a burlap wrapped parcel, securely tied over and across with red yarn. You must have written to a fair-off household to receive this response.

Under her touch, the burlap gave. Fabric wrapped in fabric though that made no sense in her mind. Perhaps one of the doctors was an eccentric and sent his answer to hire in the form of a uniform? She doubted that.

Turning over the parcel, noting its heft, Cressida asked where it had been sent from, but the letterman did not know. The address of the sender was not required in rural areas. Glancing up at the sky, he offered that it might be a pleasant surprise for the end of the day, with the late afternoon winds promising a chill night. Looking for meaning in the knots on the yarn, Cressida nodded and thanked him, saying she hoped the ferryman was quick and he found his own hearth by sunset.

Excitement was an ephemeral thing. If held close, it was quickly broken. Her fingers itched to unravel the yarn but worry prickled gooseflesh across her arms. One does not barter honey cakes and receive spun sugar. Eggs do not bring silk. Churned butter is not returned by chocolate.

While she supposed it was not out of the realm of possibility for one of her perspective employers to simply send her the mode of dress that would be expected from her, the supposition did not settle her. And while most horror stories of young un-wed women lured into compromising situations began differently, heavy cloth bore expectation. The time taken to weave and stitch it, the respect it commanded once on the body—these things were rarely given freely.

Certainly not in these times. 

An aged queen mother, too frail to appear before her people, but not absent-minded enough, still wore the crown. Her illegitimate son sat on the throne that should have supported his older sister, born within the confines of wedlock. However, Queen Marjorie had an affair and horrified her daughter into taking her own life, leaving not-yet twenty years of age Laury to ascend as the visible head of country. Physical appearance was all he inherited from his mother, and many feared the flighty, selfish Prince Regent would tempt surrounding kingdoms to take advantage of the country.

Few were in the mood to be generous nowadays.

With the rug under one arm and the package under the other, Cressida walked back towards the house once a gatehouse for a manor long crumbled in ruin. Shriveling plants and bushes in the split garden needed trimming and she must ensure the walls of their small barn stood in good repair before the season changed. Their few chickens, ducks, and sheep must be dry, if not warm. However, her father’s tolerance for foods had narrowed significantly and what she needed to prepare for his dinner took too long for other chores to occur before nightfall.

Inside and near the hearth that heated the small dwelling, Cressida stirred embers and lit a fresh faggot to encourage burning until she could stoke the flames in earnest when she returned with sheep’s milk for her father’s supper.

Onto a wicker chair, she set the package and then stood the rug against the wall. After she took her meal, she would switch out the rugs and take her time opening the burlap while a full stomach and sickness sunk her father into deep slumber. 

However, from the top of the lone, narrow, spiral staircase, her father’s voice choked out her name.

Coming!

In the room they no longer shared, his illness making it impossible for her to sleep through the night and his sensitivities to her stirring or sighing tenfold to what they used to be, his frail form waited beneath all the blankets in the house, save the one she slept under.

He gripped the coverings tightly, blinking with effort, this illness increasing the mucus on his eyes daily. 

Did the post come?

Yes, Father.

And there was a package?

Yes, Father.

Fetch it.

Excitement was transitory.

So, it wasn’t for her. She was not selfish for thinking otherwise; perhaps naïve, though. So long as her father had control, there was no room for her to step away from his side.

Cressida moved briskly and returned with the package. Aged, trembling hands reached forward, and she placed it carefully in his grasp. Expectation clogged his breathing, and she offered his spit bowl, so he could dislodge phlegm. With a chin jerk and pursed lips, he bid her to hold the receptacle close to his mouth.

Discarding the submitted substance out the window, she then neared the bed again, hands lightly clasped behind her back, content to let her father struggle with his task.

In the early weeks of his illness, she quickly learned what help her father accepted. She was allowed to feed him, bathe his face, and supply ointments doctors promised would offer ease. Letter writing, mobility, and companionship were things she need not concern herself with.

It was several minutes before he undid the first knot and several more before he bade her fetch a knife. Across the cream and butter yellow of the patchwork blankets, the cut, red yarn shriveled in length, like crippled veins.

She averted her gaze. Her father unfurled what the burlap revealed with a snap to direct her attention. A dress. A brushed wool dress with sparce stitchwork along the lengthy drape of the sleeves in muted blue. Plain and unassuming in style and color, it was, however, by far the finest piece of clothing she’d owned since her entrance into society some nine years prior.

Cressida dug her fingernails into the tops of her hands. Excitement to see such a fine thing, knowing all the clothing she owned had been mended and darned countless times over, she admitted she was still pleased by seeing the richness of newly dyed fabric. Underneath, though, hurt simmered.

Truthfully, this dress was not for her. The one she had worn at the Spring Market Ball her fifteenth year, pale gray stitched with creamy yellow flowers and bright green vines, had not been for her either but for others to see her in, a young lady of courting age, gently bred and raised by a respected member of the Royal Court.

It’s lovely, she said, behind a swallow.

Tomorrow, you will wear it.

Tomorrow, Father, I must tend the front garden and ensure the barn is ready for the rains. Where would I— 

Have you forgotten what day tomorrow is? The twitching in his lips pulsed his nostrils to jerking and flaring.

Tomorrow is the twelfth, she answered with caution.

Don’t be simple, Cressida. Who am I and what duty have I?

Father! she gasped.

Without thinking, she reached for him, but he smacked the air in front of her hands. Checked, she folded her hands but argued still.

You can’t truly mean to attend the royal council? It’s folly! Every councilman knows the state of your health.

And I do not? he bellowed, quickly silenced by fearsome coughing, spittle hanging from his lips.

’Tis not what I meant. She placed a small jar of camphor in front of him. Those men know you well and will not question your loyalty to the crown if you remain home.

He doubled over the cream, sucking its coolness in like a thirsty man drinks water. Well I know myself, he choked in answer. Well I know what I am capable of and what happens when I die.

Many things would happen, the least of which would be a cataclysm of emotions trounced upon her, guilty relief among them. 

Maybe, he continued, laboring to steady his breathing, You think life shall continue on in this simple, easy way.

Cressida crossed her arms across her chest, hoping it would restrain a tart reply about where the easy life he spoke of existed for she did not know it. I have never thought such. I am aware what a woman of my—

Lack of prospects! No talent. No great beauty and no connections. While I draw breath, it is also my duty to see to your care.

Meaning?

Do you expect some benevolent man to fall from the sky? You will wear this dress tomorrow and attend Court with me. 

Her mouth quivered now, and she feared to speak, lest rage pour forth. There had never been tenderness between them, but Cressida believed her father respected her for the flesh and blood daughter she was to him, set to carry their name throughout life and bear it well. Perhaps he even acknowledged that while he worked diligently at Court, she attended all the needs of the home, assuring his comfort when he returned.

Incorrect. Her bearing his name and blood meant only that she might fetch a respectable pair of eyes, content to have a hard-working wife at his side and in his bed. Strong back and hips to bear him children. Accustomed to work but raised by a nobleman, should the musings of the court roll in their favor and they find themselves living in the royal city of Euclid. 

Was she not human, too? More than a burden her father sought to relieve his conscious of? Mumbled words of kindness or a hand held from a desire for companionship would make the ugly words she wanted to hurl at him dissipate. Otherwise, he was a humanoid shell, with no blood to bleed for he had no heart, only a strange mechanical pump forcing ice water through his veins.

Perhaps a man would want a wife paraded before him like livestock and she might find more peace beside him than she had hitherto known. Or this charade would fail, Geoffrey Pontmerry would die, and Cressida would be free to make her own way in the world.

Well?

Well, what? What would you have me say?

Ungrateful chit. Go to the lavatory and bathe. Take money from the coffer. We have no credit left for soap flakes. The carriage will be here one hour after dawn.

Father, I still must make supper and bring more wood in for the night’s fire. There isn’t time to go to town and—

Obey me.

Her arms fell to her side. And leave you cold and hungry this night?

I would rather die knowing my daughter is—

Spare me!

She spun and fled down the stairs.

AS ARRANGED, ONE HOUR after the sun crested the horizon, an uncovered carriage drew up in front of the house. Leaning heavily on his cane, her father stepped onto the narrow path leading to the gate, the strain on the muscles of his legs