Brooke sat inside the tub of cool water taking a relaxing bath.
She sat there on the rough surface and her gaze, usually full of joy and life, was full of sadness.
She looked almost depressed.
She kept her legs crossed, one on top of the other and slowly made them undulate, move in circles, always back and forth inside the transparent water.
All around her was illuminated by the strong sunlight, which through the transparent arched windows shone on her dark skin, thus making it take a magnificent golden hue.
She thought on what had happened in the last few days, complete chaos had descended on the town of Warwick.
She felt bad about what had happened in those long, hard-fought hours.
On the other hand, it was not their fault, they would never have waited for the guards to decide to take up arms.
In addition, this was not only what made her sad at that moment, but also the letter which had been sent to her mother, to her older brothers.
In that letter Brooke explicitly specified to renounce the marriage organised by the two families and to definitively break away from any contractual agreement that her family had planned.
She knew that way she would completely leave her family to perish in economic collapse, but she couldn't marry a man she didn't love.
Which family then?
The family should be made up of understanding, good people, who in any case do not treat a person as a useless object that they can use and then throw away at will.
On the other hand, weren't they the ones who abandoned her for years inside a monastery without ever visiting her?
What was the use of helping people who had turned their backs on her?
Her father had promised her freedom and so it would finally be.
She rubbed her body with the white and perfumed form of slippery soap, dipped her black curls into the cool water.
She closed her eyes, sighed, she felt all the warmth of that day on her skin and with it the pleasant coolness that the water brought her.
She was afraid, afraid of the unknown, of what might happen to her, for the first time Brooke was afraid of death.
And it was precisely in that moment of her frailty that she felt a further, unpleasant and almost iron cold rising up her throat.
What could it be, why was it so annoying?
She sensed someone forcefully squeezing her curly hair, pulling it, hurting her, so much that it left her with her plump lips parted and not the possibility of a word.
She wanted to scream for help but she wasn't able to, she was there undergoing what she had to undergo.
Resting against her throat was a sharp, small, iron dagger.
-Be still, my lady, I do not want to hurt you more than I am forced to- it came out of the murderer's lips almost like a whisper in the young woman's ears.
Brooklyn was breathing heavily, letting air in and out of her lips, who was that man? Who sent him and above all what could he want from her?
The man, now taken by his supreme feeling of extreme power over her body had no problem placing his hands where he should never have.
Brooke was blocked, he was holding her so tightly and strongly that she could do nothing to wriggle or free herself.
The murderer went from placing his hands on her, squeezing the young woman's breasts, then touching her intimate parts, inside her.
Obviously she did not like this, she hated it, it was traumatising, tremendous, she found it humiliating and almost repugnant that her body was being subjected to such violence.
Her eyes were filled with tears as she felt the blade of the knife getting closer to her neck.
She wanted to cry, but she certainly wouldn't have given that man the satisfaction of seeing her defeated.
Brooke never lost, she was strong.
She would have fought, even to the end if it were needed and as the man further touched her body, Brooklyn took the opportunity to grab his arm and pull it down towards the water of the tub.
She took a strong bite on the attacker's arm, stabbed and broke his skin with her teeth.
The man naturally ached and as soon as possible he tried in vain to free his arm from that strong bite.
In a few seconds as she felt her death closer, Brooke seemed to have turned into a beast, she could no longer reason, think, she just felt the need to protect herself.
That scene didn't last much as the rustling sound of another knife was soon heard.
That sound was better it was smoother and more precisely pulled.
She heard the sound of the knife opening his flesh and within seconds fresh red blood began to spurt out of her murderer's throat, flooding half of her face as well.
The blood that oozed was red, warm, almost as sweet as it landed on her lips.
The killer's body fell backwards, hitting his head on the white and marble floor, he was dead.
Brooklyn got up from the bathtub, looked at the killer's body, he was in his middle age and had the uniform of a royal guard in his body.
But he couldn't be a royal guard, since Brooke knew how steadfast their loyalty and justice was, he couldn't be.
She then looked at Francis, her savior, who in time of need was willing to help her.
He was handsome, pale with fear, a pallor that almost faded even the thousand freckles that covered his face.
He watched Brooke with his large, caramel-brown eyes with warm honey-coloured gilding.
Francis was worried about her, but worried like a friend, Brooke understood this by observing no redness in the face of her companion in the sight of her naked body.
He was panting, having rushed to her aid must have made him very tired.
Brooke furiously observed the murderer's body, which had dared to harm her in that short time.
She didn't know her face or who he worked for, but she was sure that if Francis didn't come to help her the situation would soon degenerate into something much worse.
-Who is this man?- she asked curiously and angry looking at the dead body of the murderer who was lying on the ground in a fresh patch of red blood -who sent him?-.
Francis in response shook his head, still panting, he did not know who he was and for some time he had observed the cautious and suspicious movements the man made.
In fact, his intuition had once again been right, as he had revealed himself shortly thereafter by harassing and slowly killing Brooklyn.
Francis removed the dead man's red royal guardian jacket, pushed it away from his chest, revealing a prized white shirt, now stained with blood.
Inside a lower pocket of the man's shirt there was a small sketch, which the marquis set out to explore.
It was something small, with a metallic, almost iron texture.
He took that object out of his pocket, turned it over several times in his hands.
It was a brooch, gilded, representing a deer head, they both knew what it was.
The pin with the family banner was only given to the highest ministers and representatives of the Stanley household.
Brooke knew it, she suspected it, she had also left her brothers in a total economic crisis, refusing the help of the rich Dustin house.
-That letter, the one you sent to your family...- Francis ventured almost stammering, turning that pin between his fingers for a long time -you are in danger Brooklyn, your brothers will not give you respite for long, I guess...-.
She was afraid, she knew that her brothers, especially Walter, could be so desperate but not to that point.
To the point of killing their own sister.
She was afraid, so much so that the young woman's mulatto face turned completely pale.
Brooke didn't want to die, she was only seventeen, she would still have had a whole life ahead of her, if everything went well.
-Did he hurt you?- Francis whispered worrying about her health.
That disgusting pork had touched her deep inside and squeezed her breasts, but she did not want to confess it, her friend had come before he could do worse, in a certain sense he had protected her.
Brooke slowly shook her head, she was fine, apart from a few small cuts and wounds but she was fine for now, she was grateful to be alive.
The young woman jumped on the marquis' body, she didn't care she didn't have any dress on or that she still was wet from the bath and his blood.
She just did it.
Strange to think how that friendship between the two of them was born of a duel and it was strange to see that the son of a slaver and a woman who fought for her people could actually be friends.
Francis was a marquis, Brooklyn was a viscountess.
-I wanted to repay you, in a certain sense- admitted the young man with the friend's naked body still hugging him -thank you for all you have done for me and still do for England, Brooke-.
At those words she was perplexed, it was true, she had never thought about it, she had come to England with the aim of avenge the death of her brother, but that young man, that Francis, strangely enough, had convinced her of something even greater .
He had convinced her to fight for her rights, for everyone's rights, for her land, not just for her brother.
She knew if Gilbert was still alive, she was sure he would be proud of her, of them.
Brooke squeezed her friend's body tighter.