Prisoner of My Desire (3 page)

The day progressed, despite all hope that it would not, and just after Sext, Rowena was married to Lord Godwine Lyons of Kirkburough. Naught had happened to save her. Before witnesses, with man’s blessing—she would like to think God withheld His—she was given over from the control of one man to another, her new husband. Feebleminded as he was, he had slept through the entire mass.

A feast had been prepared to last the rest of the day. Rowena sat beside her husband, watching him gum the slops he was forced to eat because of his lack of teeth. But graciously, or perversely, since he had noted she was not eating, he piled her own gold plate high. If she had tried to swallow anything, she was certain she would vomit.

Gilbert was in highest spirits. He had done
what he had set out to do, so naught could sour him, not even her silence each time he spoke to her.

He sat on her other side, ate with gusto, downed chalices of wine with even more gusto, and bragged endlessly of how he would now run Fulkhurst out of their shire, if he could not actually kill him, which was what he would prefer to do. And Mildred had spoken true. Gilbert was not even allowing Lyons’ men to participate fully in the celebrations, to which there were many outspoken grumbles, but had them leaving the keep in groups of one hundred throughout the day. They were being sent to his own stronghold, to join his army there, which already had orders to march to Tures with the new dawn. He was not even going to wait until he could hire more men. He wanted Fulkhurst besieged at Tures before the warlord could slip away.

Rowena was not the least bit interested in his talk of war. She hated Gilbert enough now that she hoped he could not wrest Tures away from Fulkhurst, even though that would mean it would never be hers again. She no longer cared. Gilbert was as much a warmonger as Fulkhurst was. Heartily, she hoped they killed each other.

When the time came for the ladies to usher her off to the nuptial chamber, Rowena was so beset with dread, she was sure she was going to be sick. Her skin was as pasty white as her husband’s, and her eyes hurt from fighting back tears all day.

There were no bawdy jests or crude advice, as was the custom at weddings. Looks of pity were
all she received, and the women made fast work of preparing her and getting out of there. She was left in her thin shift. No one had suggested she remove it, not that she would have. Godwine was so blind he might not notice, and that would leave at least something between her skin and his.

As soon as she was alone, she slipped her bedrobe on and made haste to put out all the candles except those by the bed, which she could douse without leaving it. Then she headed for the table where she had already noticed the bottle of wine and two chalices, with only one filled. She hesitated in reaching for the drugged wine, however. The potion was to last only a few hours. What if her husband did not come to her for a few hours? Should she wait a while more? What she should have done was ask Mildred how long she must wait for the potion to take effect.

The door flew open without warning and Gilbert came swiftly forward, his dark eyes on the hand reaching for the chalice. “Nay, leave that,” he ordered tersely, ready to stop her if she did not heed him. He carried his own bottle of wine and set it on the table. “’Tis lucky I thought to wonder at your docility.”

“What else can I be, when you hold my mother prisoner?”

He ignored her words, scowling down at the chalice of wine. “Did you mean to poison him?”

“Nay.”

His scowl got darker as it turned on her. “Yourself, then?”

She let out a laugh, near hysterical, wishing
she had the nerve. He grasped her shoulders and shook her.

“Answer!”

She shrugged off his hands. “If I would poison anyone, ’twould be you!” she hissed, angry enough to show him all that she was feeling in the look she gave him.

He looked flustered for a moment. And it occurred to her that he had actually been afraid that she might do herself harm.

He did not meet her eyes when he said, “You make too much of this.” She was aware he referred to her marriage. “The sooner you get yourself with child, the sooner I will get rid of him for you.”

“So you do mean to kill him?”

He did not answer, for he had left the door open, and they could hear the party approaching with the groom.

“Get yourself to the bed to await him.” He gave her a little shove in that direction. “And behave yourself as befits a bride.”

Rowena whirled around. “
You
aught await him there, as this marriage is your doing,” she whispered furiously. “He is so blind, mayhap he will not notice the difference.”

Gilbert actually grinned. “I am pleased to see you still have the spirit I ofttimes noticed. Indeed, ’tis wise of me not to trust you, so I will take these with me.”

“These” were the bottle of wine and the filled chalice that had been standing on the table. Rowena had to bite her lip to keep from begging him to leave her the cup at least. But more deter
mined would he be to take it if he knew how much she wanted it. Either way, ’twas lost to her.

With a dry sob, she ran for the bed, and had just covered herself when the groom arrived, carried in by the few remaining household knights who had yet to depart. Their crude laughter and jests ended at the sight of Rowena in the bed, and it was Gilbert who curtly ushered them out when he noticed them ogling her. In less than a minute, she was left alone with her husband.

He had been prepared for her. He wore a black bedrobe that made his skin look even whiter. The tie had come loose on the way to the bedchamber, and he did not bother to tighten it, but let it part completely with his first step forward. Rowena had closed her eyes briefly, but that image of his body would not leave her inner mind—legs whittled down to mere bone, ribs protruding, sunken belly, and that tiny thing between his legs. She had heard it called many things, all denoting some monstrous weapon, but that was no weapon to strike fear into her.

She almost laughed, but she was too close to tears. She began to pray silently, that she could bear this, that it would be over with quickly, that she would not be rendered mad when he was done with her.

“Well, where are you, my pretty?” he asked peevishly. “I am too old to go a’hunting.”

“Here, my lord.”

That he was still squinting off to the left told her he had not heard her, and she repeated herself in a near shout. That started him toward her, stumbling up the steps to reach the bed.

“Well? Well? What do you wait for?” he demanded in that same peevish tone, standing there on the top step, but making no effort to get into the bed. “Can you not see my warrior requires assistance ere he will stand at attention for you? Come and play with him, wife.”

That tiny thing was supposed to be a warrior? Rowena made a sound of negation in her throat that he did not hear. He was chuckling to himself, his eyes not really on her, but staring beyond the bed with a dazed look in them.

“I would not take it amiss were you to kiss him, my pretty,” he suggested, still chuckling.

Her hand flew to her mouth as the mere thought made her gag, the bile rising to her throat. Just barely she swallowed it back down. If he could have seen her expression, he would not be laughing. But he really was near blind as well as deaf. And she really was going to kill Gilbert for this.

“Well? Well?” he was demanding again. His eyes began searching the bed, but even standing right there, he still could not find her in it. “Where
are
you, you silly child? Must I needs call my man, John, to find you? You will meet him soon enough. If I do not have you breeding within the month, I will give you to John to have it done. I am too old to go through this again. You are the last, and I will have a son from you one way or another. What say you to that?”

Was he trying to shock her? Had she even heard him aright?

“What I say, my lord, is that you sound like a desperate man, unless—Do I understand you
correctly? You would give me to this man John to get me with child if you cannot?”

“Aye, I would. I have a fondness for John. I would not mind calling his son my own. Better that than have my brother get what is mine, a man I despise more than any other.”

“Why do you not just claim John as your own?”

“Do not be stupid, girl. No one would believe he is mine. But it will not be doubted that your child is mine.”

Would it not? The man was worse than she had thought. She was his wife, yet he meant to breed her just like his cows and pigs. If he could not see it done, he would let another, nay,
insist
another do it. Gilbert would not protest either, she realized, for he wanted the same end, a child.

God’s mercy, did she really have to go through with this? He was so feeble and fleshless, she knew she could fight him off without half trying. But what would happen to her mother if she did? And he was her husband now. A husband was all-powerful. Her very life was now hers by his whim alone, for if he chose to take it, no one would bring him to task for it.

“Have I made a bad bargain here?” His voice rose with the possibility. “Come you here and ready me, wife, and do it now!”

That was a direct order, not to be gainsaid, but Rowena was positive she would faint if she had to touch him. “I cannot,” she said, loud enough so she would not have to repeat it. “If you mean to take me, do so. I will not help you.”

His face turned so furiously red, she was cer
tain not one of his ten other wives had ever dared to refuse him. Would he have her beaten for doing so? ’Twas obvious he was not strong enough to beat her himself.

“You—you—”

He got no further than that. And it looked as if his eyes were about to pop out of his head. His color darkened still more. He swayed on the step, one of his hands pressed so hard to his chest, she thought his ribs might cave in. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something conciliatory, merely to calm him down, but before she could, he swayed backward, right off the steps without a sound.

She scrambled to the edge of the bed to look over the side. He was not moving. He lay there in the rushes, his hand still clutching his chest, his eyes still bulging. No breath moved his chest.

Rowena continued to stare at him. Dead? Could she be that lucky? A laugh bubbled up in her throat, but it came out in a soft wail. What would Gilbert do now? This was not her fault. Was it? If she had not refused…If it was her fault, she exonerated herself, feeling no guilt. How could she know a little defiance would kill the man?

But was he truly dead? She would not touch him to find out. Even now the thought of touching him was repugnant to her. But someone had to find out.

She leaped off the bed and ran for the door, then out into the hall—and right into Gilbert’s arms.

“Aye, ’tis as I thought,” he said with marked
displeasure. “You intended all along to run away. But there will be none of that. You will go back in there and—”

“He is dead, Gilbert!” she blurted out.

His hands squeezed her arms painfully before he released one and dragged her back into the chamber with the other. He went right to the old man and bent to put his head to his chest. When he looked up at her, his expression was dark with fury.

“How did you do it?”

She stepped back from the blast of that accusation. “Nay, I touched him not, and there was only your wine in the room, which he did not drink. He was not even in the bed yet. He clutched his chest and fell off the bed steps.”

Gilbert looked back at her husband, and must have believed her. He drew the black robe over Lord Godwine’s body before he stood up and faced her.

After a moment’s thought, he said, “Do not leave this room. Do not let anyone inside.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find you a suitable substitute. ’Tis imperative now that you start breeding this very night. Damn this black hair of mine, or I would do it.”

Her eyes flared wide at the meaning of his last words as much as of his first. “Nay. I will not—”

“You will,” he snarled, “if you wish ever to see your mother again—alive!”

Now it was stated plainly, what she had only suspected before, and she blanched, not doubt
ing at all that he meant it. But the horror of what he intended…a substitute!

Desperately, she asked, “How can you even hope to perpetuate such a deception? The man is dead.”

“No one need know that until a sufficient time has passed to see you breeding. When you are not directly attending to that, you will stay in this chamber—”

“With his corpse?” she gasped, taking still another step back.

“Nay, I will get rid of the body,” he said impatiently. “When ’tis time to bury him, I will find another body to pass off as his. At any rate, he will be officially buried before his brother learns he is dead, and you will be for certain with child before the man arrives to try and wrest his due. But he will have naught. Godwine would have wanted it so.”

That was likely true, but did that justify what Gilbert meant to do? And he sounded so confident in his new plan. But why not? Again, he had to do naught but sit back and wait while her body was sacrificed on this altar of deception. And this time her mother’s life truly depended on her compliance.

They set upon him on his way out of the common bathing room at the inn. Five of them there were, dressed in the leather jerkins of men-at-arms, yet he doubted they were that. Thieves, more like. Lawlessness was prevalent in most towns that had a weak or absent overlord, or corrupt aldermen. And he did not know the town of Kirkburough, had never passed through it before. For all he knew, this could be another pocket of high villainy where all travelers and strangers were set upon and robbed, or tortured if they could not promise fat ransoms. To travel in Stephen’s England alone or with a small escort was to risk penury as well as your life.

Truly, this had been an act of stupidity and conceit on his part, to come here with no more than his squire just because he wanted to beautify his appearance before he met his betrothed
on the morrow. A bit of vanity, and look what it had wrought. Too long had he been confident in his reputation of swift retribution for any wrong done him, to keep offenders at bay. It had stood him in good stead for a goodly number of years, ever since he had turned his life toward vengeance. But for a reputation to do any good, it had to be known, and as he did not know this area, neither was he known here.

Warrick de Chaville could be forgiven his carelessness, though he would not forgive himself, for he was not a forgiving man. The town had looked peaceful and well ordered. He had a lot on his mind. He would soon be marrying for the third time, and he did not want this new wife to fear him as the other two had. He had much hope in the Lady Isabella. For nearly a year he had courted her when he could find the time, though that was not his way. Her father had given her to him at first asking, greatly desiring the match, yet Warrick had wanted Isabella’s consent, and would not make contract for her until he had it. Now he had it, and he was eager to make her his.

Lady Isabella Malduit was not only a great beauty and much sought after, she was also soft-spoken, sweetly tempered, and had a charming sense of humor. Warrick wanted humor in his life. He wanted love and laughter, which had been absent since his family had been destroyed and naught but hate and bitterness had filled him. He had two daughters, but they were frivolous and self-centered creatures. He loved them, but he could not abide them for very long
with their bickering and pettishness. He wanted a home life like the one he had known as a child, that would draw him home, rather than send him eagerly into war. And he wanted a son.

He did not ask for too much, no more than any man could expect. And the right wife could give it all to him. He had found her in Isabella. Already he was very fond of her. He hoped it would soon be more than that, though truthfully, he was not sure he was still capable of that kind of love after so many years of hate. But ’twas not necessary that he love his wife, only that she love him. None of which mattered if he was to die here this night.

He was not even properly armed. He had left his sword and armor in the room he had rented, where even now Geoffrey would be cleaning it. He had come down to the bathing room with no more than a dagger tucked in his belt. Now he did not even have his clothes, for he had left them with the attending servant to be washed. He wore only a large bath sheet, wrapped and tucked in at the waist, with the short dagger stuck under the edge of it at his belly.

Even though he was so defenseless, the five men surrounding him were hesitant at first to draw their swords, for Warrick de Chaville was no ordinary-sized man. At six feet and three, he stood a half head taller than the largest assailant, and more still than the other four. With his arms and chest bare, there was no doubt at the strength contained in his large body. But more than that, he looked mean. There was a hard ruthlessness in his face, as if he would enjoy
killing for the mere sport of it. And the gray eyes that had marked him as their target were so coldly chilling, at least one man wanted to cross himself before he drew his sword.

But they did draw their swords. And the leader would have spoken, mayhap to make a demand instead of fighting, except Warrick was not a passive knight. He was aggressive in all things, and this was no exception. He clasped his dagger in hand and let out a war cry that very nearly shook the timbers. At the same instant he charged forward, slashing the man nearest him across his face. He had aimed for the throat, but the man’s scream did him more good in putting fear into the others.

It became quickly apparent that either they were clumsy with their weapons or they were not trying to kill him. Well and good, that was their mistake. He wounded another, but then his blade began striking the steel of theirs. They had not meant to hurt him, but they did not intend to die either.

And then Geoffrey joined the fray with a less thunderous battle cry, having heard Warrick’s. The lad was only ten and five, and not the squire Warrick would have taken into any battle, for he deemed him not yet ready for that. He was skilled with a sword, yet his body was not fully developed, giving him not much weight behind his blows. He had more heart and will than anything else, but also the mistaken assumption that he could do exactly as his lord did. He charged, but without the powerful body behind it, no one stepped fearfully out of his way, and without his
armor to protect him, he was gutted before he could even get in a full swing.

Warrick saw the look of disbelief and then horror that appeared on Geoffrey’s young face as he bent over the sword buried in his middle and knew he would be dead in moments. The lad had been fostered in his household since he was seven. Only last year Warrick had taken him under his own wing, even though he already had several squires and did not need another. He had developed a fondness for this boy who had always been so eager to please, and now he let out a bellow of grief-filled rage just before he threw his dagger at the man who had killed Geoffrey. It struck true, buried to the hilt in his throat, and no sooner thrown than Warrick had snatched the sword right out of the hand of the man nearest him.

He did not get to use this better weapon, however. Another sword hilt smashed into his skull, and he fell slowly to the floor.

The two men who had been fortunate enough to stay out of his reach now stood over him panting. A full minute passed before they thought to sheathe their swords. One nudged Warrick with his boot, just to be sure he would not be rising. Blood appeared in the dark blond hair that was still wet from his bath, but he breathed. He was not dead and so was still of use.

“This man is no serf, as we were told to find,” the one man said to the other. “The way he fought, he can only be a knight. Could you not tell the difference when you saw him enter the bathing room?”

“Nay, he was coated in travel dust. I merely noted he wore no armor, and he had the right color eyes as well as the blond hair Lord Gilbert insisted on. I considered it fortunate that I happened to see him at all.”

“Gag him, then, and hope Lord Gilbert does not decide to speak to him.”

“What difference? Half of Lord Godwine’s knights are naught but churls. And we have found no other with both the right hair and the right eyes. What is he wanted for anyway?”

“That is not our concern, merely do we do as told. But did you have to hit him so hard? Now we must carry him.”

The other snorted. “Better that than to deal with him awake again. When I first saw him, he did not seem so big as this. That boy, think you he was his son?”

“Mayhap, which means he will awake fighting again. Best to bind those hands and feet as well. Even Lord Gilbert might have trouble subduing this one.”