Chapter Thirteen #3
Gaston looked at it a moment. “No matter,” wrapping his hands around the thick wooden bolt, he pulled and worked at it until it weakened. Grunting with effort, he continued to tug and twist until the old wooden bolt popped free of the door with a great snap of rotted splinters.
The bolt hung loose, swinging on the wall as it was still attached to the lock, and Gaston opened the door. Arik shook his head at the display of strength; the man was beyond believing.
The cell was dark except for the dim flicker of the torch. Gaston could see the figure of his wife huddled against the wall and put out his hand to stop Arik from following any further.
Arik understood and stepped back into the hall as Gaston proceeded in, looming over his wife. He called her name once, twice, and then finally knelt down beside the slumped form.
“Mari-Elle,” he said firmly, putting out his hand to yank her to her feet.
He gave a tug but she was dead weight. Angered, he grasped both her arms and hauled her to her feet and was astonished to see a great pool of blood on the floor underneath her.
“Arik,” he snapped.
Arik rushed to his side, his blue eyes widening at the blood. It was everywhere, soaking her skirt, the dirty straw. Gaston tried to rouse her as Arik searched for the wound.
“Where is this coming from?” Gaston demanded.
Arik was fumbling with the folds of the surcoat. “I do not see a weapon, or a tear in the surcoat, nothing,” he looked around the floor. “Lay her down, Gaston. Mayhap we can discover where she has injured herself.”
Gaston laid Mari-Elle on her back. Her pulse was extremely weak and the two men scrutinized her closely for damage.
The blood was saturating her from the waist down, it seemed, and finally Gaston tossed up her skirts to get a better look.
He was shocked to see that she was bleeding from her privates, gushing bright red and black clots.
“My God,” he hissed. “What in the hell happened?”
Arik, having seen his share of blood and gore throughout his career, was nearly sickened by the sight. A distasteful expression creased his face.
“Mayhap you should send for her physician,” he suggested. He certainly did not want to deal with it.
“There is nothing he can do,” Gaston replied. “She’s already dead.”
Gaston had blood on his hands as he checked her pulse again. It was virtually non-existent, but it was still there. He shook his head. “Send for her physician.”
Arik left the dank, dark cell. Gaston crouched beside Mari-Elle, watching her life’s blood drain away, knowing there was nothing he could do and not particularly sorry.
In a sense, he was relieved; as cruel as the thought was, he was glad that some strange ailment had claimed her life. It had saved him the trouble.
Furthermore, when he told Trenton that his mother had passed on, he wanted to be able to tell him that it was of natural causes. Not because his father had wrung the life from her.
She died as he sat and watched. When the physician arrived twenty minutes later, the man did not look at all surprised. In fact, when he saw the state of his mistress, he slowed his movements considerably and seemed to take his time drawing forth his instruments and potions.
Gaston watched the thin healer, rising as the man ducked beside the body and examined her quite thoroughly. Arik and Nicolas had accompanied the physician and stood crowded in the doorway as the careful investigation was completed.
The moments passed slowly and the smell of urine was sharp to the nose as the knights waited for the healer to complete his task. Finally, the aged man stood up and began to replace his instruments.
“Well?” Gaston asked. “What killed her?”
The physician looked at the Dark Knight, the man of whom stories had been told and retold. He was incredibly massive and fierce-looking, and the physician did not blame his wife for taking smaller, less-threatening lovers. Surely a man this size had a voracious, violent appetite.
Dooley was also very aware that the child that had killed Lady de Russe was not her husband’s. However, the woman had paid for her sins and there was naught her betrayed husband could do to her now.
“A rupture in her womb, I believe,” Dooley said evenly. “Your wife was pregnant, my lord, and sometimes when the child roots itself too high in the womb, it will rupture the organ and bring almost immediate death.”
Gaston was astonished but held his even expression. “She was pregnant?” he repeated slowly. “How far along was she?”
“Two, possibly three months,” the physician replied. He could see the shock in the knight’s eyes and suddenly had no desire to take the blame for the woman’s indiscretions. “My lord, she swore me to secrecy. I was ordered to keep my mouth shut, and I did.”
Gaston stared at the man a moment longer. “You are sure this is what killed her?”
The healer nodded. “As positive as I can be,” he replied.
“I have seen mishaps such as this before, and bleeding to death is always inevitable. I tried to forewarn your wife when I realized this pregnancy was not normal, but she would not listen. When I indicated something was wrong, she ignored me.”
Gaston was stunned, angered, relieved. Yet he expected no less from Mari-Elle.
True to the woman’s character, the sport that she had so loved eventually killed her and he was not sorry in the least. In fact he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
After 13 years of shame and humiliation, it was finally over.
Without a hind glance, he marched from the cell.