The Baker's Secret

From the day he first saw her, Foster had often wondered what in him she saw fit to wed. Prisillas was royalty after all, Duchess of Morglenn, niece of King Albor the Fourth. Whenever she entered the bakery, elbows were nudged into the sides of his workers and they would watch his cheeks fluster a rosy hue and he would struggle with his words. She enjoyed it though, as she would smirk at his fumbles and her eyes would flirt with him.

Foster was a tall man, lean and attractive and he kept his brown hair short at all times. He owned his own bakery in the center of town, a ways down in the valley from the King's palace where Prisillas called home. Foster's goods were in high demand and he established a respectable name for himself. Through the festive months he employed up to eight helpers to maintain the orders for his exquisite delicacies. He loved his work. It went beyond skill and talent, it was a part of him. A part he liked to share.

It was at his bakery where he met Prisillas. She had come to Morglenn's marketplace in search of gowns and jewellery but she found him when she noticed a commotion. His establishment was busy and the baker was taking and filling orders until everything halted as his eyes rested on the smiling face of the Duchess. She was a well-figured woman with soft features, green eyes and she kept her auburn hair in braided loops up under a delicate, veiled hat. A quiet blanketed the crowd and a path was parted directly to him. When asked, he could never recall what words were spoken, only that she was kind, she was delightful and she was beautiful.

The wedding was grand, he allowed her everything Prisillas had ever wanted in a ceremony. Over the next months, the new couple's popularity had increased so much the bakery had tripled in business and he had to employ a steady fifteen helpers to keep up with demand. Prisillas was frequenting town more often, riding high on her red carriage and nodding at her adoring townsfolk. Knowing when she would pass, Foster would gaze out the window and offer a wanting smile.

"I see you missed the eyes of your wife today," one of his helpers said on a particularly busy day. They had dealt with a host of mothers and daughters vying for the baker's attention.

He slapped his hand to his forehead, "I did, didn't I?"

"Yes. She stretched her neck to seek you but she could not gain your attention. She looked none to pleased about it."

He feared the worst when he went home that night but to his surprise, she said nothing of his ignorance. Within a month, however, Prisillas had erected a new bakery on the palace grounds. "For you husband, a token of my love."

"But it is such a distance for my customers to walk for their bread."

"Yours is the best in all of Morglenn. They will still come for it," Prisillas said.

He sighed, "It is a great gift, but what of my bakers to come to work?"

"Husband, such petty details that you need not be concerned," She strolled to him, "If they wish to work, they will find a way to get here." His eyes followed her fingers move up to unravel the laces in the front of her gown. His breathing increased as she slid it off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. "This is best for us. You are closer to me this way and I need not travel so far to see you, my love. And it is not as though you need to work, I have ample resources to maintain our livelihood." Recapturing her gaze, she lowered herself before him and proved a point of some benefits to her decision. Foster's mind was unsure that moving his business was ideal but his current motivation clouded his judgement. Later, he would deal with it later.

When later came, his mind was overburdened with regret he could not express to his wife. Her gift was extravagant but he was unsure how to discuss of ill-fated business decisions. Within two weeks, more than half of his hired workers had left for work closer to home. Foster put in extra hours to compensate but it was only a brief necessity as the demand for his baking had not changed but the wish to travel to the palace had dropped significantly. As he had feared, his customers had dwindled down to those who could afford to send servants to pick up their orders.

There was one such servant girl who was sent daily to pick up her lord's order. She was young, attractive and always arrived early to patiently wait for the goods to come fresh from the oven. Foster wrapped the round loaf of peppercorn bread neatly, brought it to her and thanked her warmly for her master's continued patronage.

The girl turned and almost stepped into Prisillas as she turned to go. He had not heard her enter and he became unsure of the glare of cynicism his wife imparted on the smaller woman. She would not acknowledge the courteous bow the servant presented as an excuse. The Duchess turned her glaring focus to him as the woman left the bakery.

"Who is she?" Prisillas commanded.

"A servant girl of the Dorishe house. She comes for the same order everyday."

"Everyday? She comes to see you everyday?"

"No, she comes for her order everyday."

"What do you think of her?" Prisillas pryed.

"I don't. I thank her for her master's loyalty and she leaves."

She stared at him failing to see any sign of betrayal, "Very well. I came to tell you that Uncle will be hosting a ball tonight. I will set out clothing for you for when you are done here. Do not be late I shall not be embarrassed in front of Uncle's guests."

"As you wish," he dropped his eyes from her cold stare. She moved closer to him.

"Now, husband, there is no need to be so sorrowful. You will come to like this arrangement. I like being closer to you." She ran a hand down his cheek, "It lets me keep a closer eye on you when pretty servant girls come about."

Foster watched her leave. She turned once more to show him the smile that first captured his heart but the beauty he saw her flourish earlier was feigning before the truer side of her personality.

The merry music or the generous feast spread on the long tables behind the guests held no interest for the simple baker, nor did the grand decorations in the gold and white marble ballroom. He watched his wife mingle about the room and charm the guests with warm hospitality and flirting deliberation. His blood boiled and he gulped his wine offering only the slightest of nods each time his wife looked for him.

Two more goblets of wine in short order and he began to see the woman in her true form. He had to lean on the table to keep his swaggering posture from over tipping. His brows curved downward sharply and his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. Those poor people who surrounded her, they who had to endure in their ignorance of the performance she entertained them with. The false face she employed to acquire what she wanted. He had seen it in its full effect but only now chose to believe it. She was luring them, tantalizing them with promises of more. But they were fooled for she had nothing of substance to give. She had only a pretty face with which to entice them and for some perhaps that was enough for their needs were only a temporary fixation - as was her beauty.

His wine was refreshing. It offered refuge from the torment in his revelation. These people were alike to Prisillas, the more the baker stared, the more masks he saw floating about the room and he himself had none to wear.

He scooped a flask of wine and stormed from the room and its parade of actors. He had no appeal to sit inside a room where he felt so outside the social order. He smiled at his rebellion, his defiance in knowing Prisillas would soon look for him again and he would not be there.

Foster needed the stability of the walls to help him trek the distance to their room in the palace. He threw open the door, fell inside then slammed the door shut again. Staggering to the window, he loosened his collar to allow the refreshing breeze caress him. He looked down at the clothing Prisillas had picked for him and he tore at them, pulling laces and belts and buttons to rid himself of her control. When he heard the door open, he turned and she was there, his disrobed body silhouetted in the moonlight behind him. He watched with amassed pleasure as her faced contorted with the shock of seeing his torn clothes sprawled on the floor at his feet.

"It was very rude of you to leave in the manner that you did. I was entertaining Uncle's guests and you just up and left," she fired.

He answered with an arrogant burp and took another gulp.

"You're drunk!"

"Yes, I am drunk, a condition that will wear off by morning, unlike your personality," his heart raced but he enjoyed his new sense of daring.

She sucked in a gulp of air as her jaw dropped, "How dare you! Who are you to insult me in my own home?"

"I thought I was your husband - but I see now you have no need for one, you only want another servant," he drained the last of the wine and threw the bottle to the carpet.

"You disrespectful baker!" she hissed. "This is about that servant girl isn't it? You desire her, a servant girl over me!"

"No, Prisillas. I married you. I spoke the vows of love, honour, les death intervenes. I have never broken my vows."

"LIAR! You want her! You deceive me with talk of vows in hope that I will send you to her!"

"NO!" he crossed the room toward her, his rage climaxing. The primitive parts of his thoughts began to take over when the words failed to come to him. Instead, his instinct needed to show her his devotion the only way less restrained minds knew how, partly from the wine that enraged his passion and partly from his subconscious urge to control her, to show her how it felt to be controlled.

He turned her where she stood and pushed her against the wall. She resisted but it did not deter him as he fumbled with the laces on her gown. She tried to twist and push off the wall but his determination held her fast. He was driven by desire now, he needed to do this, to prove to her she no longer owned him. In one swift effort he freed her upper body and groped her bared flesh as he drove his hips into hers. She wailed in defiance and pushed again forcing him to catch his balance, giving her the opening to smash her elbow into his cheek. He staggered backwards and collapsed to the floor.

"What are you doing?" Her eyes reflected her astonishment.

Foster slowly regained a morsel of wit. "I... I wanted... you needed..."

He stood and stepped toward her again but Prisillas swung hard and caught him across the face with her open palm. He staggered back again and they stared at each other.

His mind swirled. He pulled his breeches back on, scooped his shirt and found his way out the door. Anger boiled in him, mingled with remorse and shame. The wine poisoned his thoughts but his wife had poisoned his character. He was not the type to attempt the actions he wanted to commit on her. He stumbled outside and soon found himself in the bakery she had built him. His heart pulsed with a new rage at both himself and her as the primitive mind took control again and he lashed out at the little shop. He hated it and he openly expressed the fact on everything that could be moved. Shelves of bread pans were toppled over, racks of utensils were dispersed and a half bag of flour was sent across the room. When his energy was finally spent, he crumpled onto the floor and wept.

Perhaps and hour passed, perhaps more for he could not tell how long he sat in thought. He was aware the evening was late and he thought of how wrong it was of him to treat Prisillas in such a forceful manner. He felt she was equally wrong for treating him less like a husband and more like a servant that needed constant supervision. He needed to go back and talk to her, perhaps there was something they could resolve through open discussion and not open violence. His knew his loyalty to be unquestionable and he would not face the dishonour of breaking the vows he swore to uphold.

It was dark and the air was brisk. It helped clear his mind somewhat as he breathed it in on the way back to the palace. His fury and frustration were replaced with regret and remorse and he hoped that Prisillas was in a forgiving mood.

When he reached the door to the bedroom, he opened it slowly in forethought his wife may have gone to sleep after the fight. The door opened silently and he peered in but his efforts were met with the deepest shock a husband could bear witness to.

She was not in bed. Instead, she stood naked in front of the large wardrobe with her arms stretched above her head while a younger man paid his tribute to her body. His hands and his mouth explored with the eagerness of a boy discovering manhood. Prisillas watched him with a smug pleasure of playing with a new toy.

Foster closed the door as quietly as he opened it. His face was expressionless and his eyes stared with the emptiness of a fresh corpse. Images swirled about his head. Memories flashed and burned his very soul. His skull rang like a tower bell where the vows of marriage echoed inside.

Only one of the sacred vows stood out above the rest.

Slowly and silently he opened the door again and crept inside. She cooed in her ecstasy, head tilted back and eyes closed as her husband approached. When she did open them, the heat of her pleasure had not the time to subside before the metal statue of a pair of doves cracked her skull. As she fell limp to the floor, he used it again on the man who didn't have a chance to wonder what was taking place. The statue was a wedding gift from King Albor himself and after the bodies ceased their final spasms, he stared at it with its new crimson tarnish.

A half hour later Foster stood over the bodies of his wife and her unfortunate lover. Even in death she looked a vision of exquisite beauty. Her features remained flawless and she looked peaceful on the floor of the bakery. He almost broke into a fit of laughter at the sight; her mask now permanent, unable to be tarnished by the ugliness that lurked beneath the flesh. To destroy the demon he married, he had to become a demon himself.

He was free now. His vows were not completely violated for he loved her still when death intervened.

He set fire to the bakery and let it burn and disappeared that very night to live far away where none would think him capable of murderous revenge against a monster. Through stories spread in taverns and inns along his travels, he learned King Albor declared the two charred skeletons found in the ashes as Prisillas and Foster, who died in an accidental fire while in the thralls of passion. None would be the wiser.

Foster was, by then, well on his way to a new life and he would take his secret with him.