Princess and Maid - Chapter 12: Royal Physician

Adrastia ran her hand along Midnight’s neck, admiring how sunlight played across his coal-black coat. The enormous warhorse dipped his head, intelligent eyes tracking her movements.

“Magnificent beast,” she murmured, scratching behind his ears. “Worth every gold piece I spent on you.”

Midnight nickered softly, nudging her shoulder with his velvety muzzle. Around the pond’s edge, twenty riders tended to their mounts. The afternoon exercise had pushed them hard—six hours of formation drills, combat maneuvers, and endurance training along the roads inside the imperial forest’s hunting grounds.

Adrastia pulled a small red apple from her saddlebag. “Don’t tell the others,” she whispered, offering it on her flattened palm. “They’ll think I’ve gone soft.”

Midnight’s lips tickled her hand as he took the apple, crunching between powerful teeth. A rare smile crossed her face—one reserved for moments away from court and the crushing weight of imperial politics.

Lieutenant Castor approached, standing at attention. “The unit stands ready, Captain.”

Adrastia nodded, giving Midnight a final pat before gathering his reins. “Mount up!” Her voice carried across the clearing.

In practiced unison, the cavalry soldiers swung into their saddles. Leather creaked, metal clinked, and horses shifted beneath their riders. Adrastia pulled herself onto Midnight with fluid grace, settling into the familiar saddle.

“Back to the palace,” she commanded, turning toward the winding road. “Standard formation.”

The unit fell in behind her in perfect order. Her thoughts drifted toward the evening ahead—reports to review, strategy to discuss with Commander Valorian, perhaps time to check on Roselle.

Midnight’s rhythmic gait soothed her nerves. The palace gleamed in the distance, white towers catching the late afternoon sun. The few precious moments between duty and intrigue allowed her to breathe.

Adrastia guided Midnight toward the outer palace wall, avoiding the crowded main thoroughfare into Cassia. The sprawling wooden structures of the outer town spread outward as the patrol approached Whitehaven Gate. Tightly packed buildings with thatched roofs and narrow alleyways stretched farther each year, spilling beyond their planned boundaries.

“The city grows again,” she noted to Castor, who rode at her right flank.

“Fourth expansion in twenty years,” he replied. “The treasury minister projects we’ll need another extension to the outer wall within a decade.”

Merchants’ stalls crowded against the existing walls, selling everything from fresh bread to foreign linens. Children darted between market carts, shouting and playing while their parents haggled over prices. Life continued regardless of palace schemes.

Two guards snapped to attention from inside the portculis as the patrol approached the gate that lead directly into the palace compound. “Captain!” one called out, recognizing her immediately. He signaled to his partner, who cranked the mechanism to swing the heavy doors open.

The patrol rode through in formation, hooves clattering against the stone pathway leading to the western palace compound. They reached the training yard as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Stable hands rushed forward to take their mounts.

“Midnight needs a full wash,” Adrastia instructed the head groom, dismounting with a smooth motion. “Check his right front hoof—he favored it slightly on the return.”

“Yes, Captain,” the man replied with a respectful nod.

Castor dismissed the patrol with crisp orders to report at dawn for morning drills. The soldiers dispersed toward the barracks.

As Adrastia crossed the training yard toward the central palace, a flash of servant’s gray caught her eye. A maid rushed toward them, face flushed and hair escaping its neat bun. For a moment, Adrastia thought it was Roselle—then recognized the stranger’s rounder face.

The girl skidded to a halt before them, chest heaving. Castor stepped forward, arm extending to block her approach. “State your business with the princess.”

“Lieutenant,” Adrastia said, raising her hand. Something in the maid’s desperate expression stopped her. “What is it?”

The girl dropped into a hasty curtsy. “Your Highness, please—it’s Roselle. She’s hurt badly.”

A cold weight settled in Adrastia’s stomach. “Explain.”

“We found her in the old service corridor—beaten and—” The maid’s voice cracked. “The Madam wouldn’t send for a physician. Said it wasn’t serious enough to disturb the medical staff. We’ve done what we could, but—”

“Castor,” Adrastia interrupted, her tone razor-sharp. “Find Doctor Meritas and bring him to the servants’ quarters immediately. Tell him it’s a direct order.”

“At once.” Castor spun on his heel, striding toward the medical wing without further question.

Adrastia turned back to the maid. “Your name?”

“Helen, Your Highness.” The girl twisted her apron between nervous fingers. “I work with Roselle. We share quarters.”

“Take me to her.” Adrastia gestured for Helen to lead the way. The timing—while she was away with the Guard—suggested deliberate planning.

Helen nodded rapidly and turned toward the eastern palace’s domestic wing, walking quickly enough that Adrastia had to lengthen her stride to keep pace.

She followed through the narrow service corridors, the maid practically jogging ahead. Her light riding armor clanked against doorframes never designed for armored nobility. The cape at her shoulders caught on a wooden hook, tearing slightly before she yanked it free.

“What condition is she in?” Adrastia demanded.

“Bad, Your Highness.” Helen’s voice trembled. “Found her curled up on the floor in the old east service passage. Couldn’t even walk on her own. Bess and I carried her back.” She swallowed. “She… stank of human waste. Someone dumped it all over her.”

Adrastia’s jaw clenched. “And she said nothing about who did this?”

“Nothing clear, Your Highness. Just that there were several of them, and she didn’t recognize any faces.”

At least Roselle was conscious and able to speak. That was a good sign.

They descended a cramped stairwell. The space felt suffocating after the open road—low ceilings, narrow passages, barely enough light from scattered oil lamps.

A realization struck her. Helen had abandoned her post, waited at the training grounds, then approached a member of the imperial family without permission or summons. Enough to earn a few lashes under normal circumstances.

“You risked significant punishment coming to me directly,” Adrastia observed.

Helen didn’t slow her pace. “Roselle needs help more than I needed safety.”

The servants’ quarters came into view, a sturdy structure with its entrance just ahead. Through the open doorway, the common room flickered with lamplight, the faint scent of soap and damp linen drifting out from the nearby laundry rooms.

Madam Giselle stood at the entrance, her severe black dress and crisp white cap untouched by the long day’s work, her sharp gaze sweeping over them. The woman’s eyes widened at Adrastia’s approach, mouth opening in shock before she recovered her composure and dropped into a deep curtsy.

“Your Imperial Highness, what an unexpected—”

“Giselle, where is she?” Adrastia cut her off.

Madam Giselle straightened, lips pressed thin. “Second floor, third room on the right, Your Highness, but I assure you the situation is well in hand. No need to trouble yourself with—”

“Continue,” Adrastia ordered Helen, totally ignoring the Madam. She had only met the head domestic of the lower-servants a few times in passing, but she was already not liking the older woman.

Helen led her upstairs to a curtained alcove where a sickening stench permeated the air. A wooden bucket in the corner contained wadded filthy cloth saturated with dark, fetid matter. Roselle’s uniform, Adrastia realized.

A small, mousy-haired maid dabbed at Roselle’s face with a damp cloth. Another servant girl stood back, arms crossed, watching with an unreadable expression.

Roselle lay on the narrow bed, her face barely recognizable beneath a mask of purple-black bruising. Her right eye had swollen completely shut, the skin split above the eyebrow where dried blood caked in a jagged line. Her lower lip was split in three places, teeth marks visible where she’d bitten through it.

Adrastia stepped closer, cataloging injuries with military precision. Roselle’s arms bore defensive wounds—finger-shaped bruises encircled both wrists where she’d been restrained. Ugly red-purple splotches covered her collarbone, visible above her nightdress. Each labored breath came with a pained hitch suggesting broken or cracked ribs.

“You,” Adrastia pointed at the standing girl. “Take that filth out of here and burn it. Keeping waste near an injured person invites infection.”

The girl hesitated only a second before grabbing the bucket, holding it at arm’s length as she hurried away.

Adrastia circled the bed, noting how Roselle’s left ankle had swollen to twice its normal size. She sat carefully on the edge opposite the quiet maid, taking Roselle’s battered hand in hers. The knuckles were raw and bloody—she’d fought back.

Roselle’s one functioning eye fluttered open at the touch. Recognition dawned slowly through the haze of pain.

“Your… Highness,” she whispered through cracked lips. “Sorry… for the trouble.”

“Who did this to you?” Adrastia asked, her voice deadly calm.

Roselle’s eye closed again. “Didn’t… recognize them. Five… maybe six. Used… laundry sacks. Called me… ‘tavern rat’… said to remember my place.”

A muscle twitched in Adrastia’s jaw. “A message, then.”

Roselle attempted a nod, wincing at the movement. “Not very… subtle.”

Somewhere behind them, Madam Giselle cleared her throat. “Your Highness, if I might suggest, perhaps allowing the girl to rest would be—”

“I’ve sent for Doctor Meritas,” Adrastia interrupted without turning. “He’ll assess the full extent of her injuries.” She kept her gaze on Roselle’s face. “The physician will determine if you can be moved to better quarters.”

Roselle’s fingers twitched against hers. “Not safe… anywhere.”

“You think the same people might try again?” Adrastia asked quietly.

A weak nod. “Meant it… as a warning. Next time… worse.”

Adrastia leaned closer, her voice pitched for Roselle’s ears alone. “There will be no next time. I promise you that.”

Adrastia maintained her position at Roselle’s bedside, still in her riding armor. The narrow servant’s bed barely accommodated Roselle, much less visitors, forcing her to perch awkwardly on its edge.

Outside the room, Madam Giselle hovered like an anxious shadow. The domestic matron cleared her throat twice but wisely said nothing.

The maid continued her gentle ministrations, carefully washing dried blood from Roselle’s face.

“I’m okay Bess,” Roselle whispered, though her labored breathing and grimaces contradicted her words.

“Sure you are,” Bess murmured, wringing out the cloth. A faint red tinge colored the water in her basin.

Helen stepped closer to the bed then looked toward the maid who had dealt with the bucket. “Mira, fetch a clean uniform for Roselle. She’ll need it later.”

Mira nodded and slipped away, her quick glance at Adrastia betraying her curiosity.

“Your friends take good care of you,” Adrastia observed quietly.

Roselle’s unswollen eye flickered toward the other maids. “Bess and Helen. Good people. And Mira… she’s complicated.”

Adrastia committed the names to memory. A tense silence descended on the room until heavy footsteps echoed from the entrance. Doctor Meritas entered with Lieutenant Castor at his heels.

The imperial physician carried his worn leather medical case, his wire spectacles perched precisely on his nose. His salt-and-pepper hair remained impeccably combed despite the urgency of the summons.

His professional demeanor faltered momentarily at the sight of Adrastia perched on the side of the bed. His eyebrows rose sharply over his spectacles.

“Your Highness,” he said, approaching with measured steps. “I must remind you of the imperial decree regarding my services. I am appointed specifically for—”

“I’m aware of the decree, Doctor,” Adrastia cut him off. “This woman requires your attention. Proceed.”

Meritas nodded. “As you wish.” He set his case on the small table beside the bed and opened it, revealing neatly arranged instruments and vials.

He gestured for Adrastia to step aside. “I must examine the patient properly.”

Adrastia moved but remained close enough to observe. She’d summoned Meritas rather than a military healer on instinct. Looking at the extent of Roselle’s injuries, she felt justified in that choice. The doctor’s university training and experience made him uniquely qualified.

Meritas bent over Roselle, his professional detachment returning as he shifted into his medical role. He examined her eyes, checking pupil response with practiced efficiency.

“Follow my finger,” he instructed, moving it slowly before Roselle’s functioning eye. “Good. Now tell me your name and where you are.”

“Roselle Varian. Palace servants’ quarters.” Her voice sounded stronger, as if Meritas’s clinical approach gave her something to focus on beyond the pain.

“What day is it?”

A brief pause. “Wednesday… I think.”

Meritas nodded. “Mild confusion, possible concussion.” His fingers probed gently along her scalp, finding tender spots that made Roselle wince. “Multiple contusions to the cranium, but I detect no depression or fracture.”

He continued his methodical examination, asking Roselle to breathe deeply—which she couldn’t accomplish without gasping in pain—and carefully palpating her ribcage.

“Two ribs fractured on the left side, possibly a third. Not broken clean through, fortunately.” He unwrapped Roselle’s swollen ankle, examining it with gentle pressure that nonetheless drew a hiss of pain from her. “Severe sprain. The ligaments are torn but the bones appear intact.”

Meritas opened a small leather pouch and extracted several packets of dried herbs and powders. “Willow bark for pain and inflammation. Steep one packet in hot water, three times daily.” He set them on the table.

“Arnica tincture for the bruising,” he continued, placing a small amber bottle beside the herbs. “Apply externally only, never internally.”

Meritas examined the bruising along Roselle’s ribcage with practiced hands. “Two ribs cracked, but not displaced. You’re fortunate.”

Bess stepped forward. “My father worked the quarries. Should I prepare bandages for wrapping her ribs?”

“No,” Meritas replied. “That’s an old method. Tight wrapping restricts breathing, which often leads to poor healing. It’s only needed in a severe break that needs support.”

He produced a jar of yellowish salve. “This is comfrey and plantain. Apply to the open cuts after cleaning them thoroughly with boiled water and salt. It will prevent festering.”

Roselle shifted uncomfortably. “The cost of all this—”

“There is no cost,” Adrastia stated firmly.

The expense of explaining to her father why she’d summoned the imperial physician for a servant was irrelevant. She’d weather that storm when it came. More troubling was what this attack represented—a direct challenge to her authority and a warning that those under her protection weren’t safe.

Meritas stood and looked between the maids, Madam Giselle, and finally to Adrastia. “She needs complete bed rest for at least five days. The ankle should be elevated and cool compresses applied for the first two days, then warm compresses thereafter. No weight-bearing for ten days.”

He turned to Adrastia. “Her ribs will take at least four weeks to heal fully. During that time, any strenuous activity risks displacing the fractures.”

“I understand,” Adrastia replied. What she understood beyond the medical advice was that Roselle couldn’t remain in the servants’ quarters.

Meritas packed his case, giving final instructions on signs of worsening infection or complications that would require his return. Throughout it all, Madam Giselle stood silently in the background, her rigid posture and tight lips betraying her displeasure.

Adrastia fought down her desire to admonish the matron.

When Meritas finished, he addressed Adrastia directly. “Your Highness, I’ve done what I can here.”

Adrastia nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.” She turned to stare cooly at Madam Giselle. “I will personally ensure she receives proper care.”

The deeper meaning beneath her words was clear to everyone in the room. The princess had claimed responsibility for Roselle’s recovery—and by extension, for Roselle herself.