But strange to say, the fearless disdain she showed him was not without reward. In truth it was the one emotion he still respected. It at once cut through his predisposition toward women as weak and spineless manipulators, and gave her a separate identity. She was his daughter, and she was not afraid.
There could be, for the moment, no thought of killing her.
“Well, girl,” he said, settling back in his chair as the servant closed the polished doors behind them. “If you have hard words to say to me, say them.”
“I hate you,” she hissed.
“And why is that?” His face remained immobile, whatever the underlying emotions.
“You raped my mother.”
“Yes, though she did not ask me to stop. And if I hadn’t, you would not exist.” The thought staggered her, but she pressed on.
“You burned her body! You denied her Christian burial.”
“Your mother was not a Christian. By the look of her hut, I’d say she fancied herself a Daughter of the Trees. Such as she are not buried, as you must know.”
“If not for your countrymen, and their accursed King, my cousins.....” She struggled. “They would not have been killed in the war.”