Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The next morning, after we broke our fast, my husband lined up the men of his household to swear fealty to me, Lady Mortlock.
I had never met the previous Lady Mortlock, yet her death had sealed my fate.
With no mother to prepare me for my role as a wife, I had listened to Papa’s instructions on how to be dutiful to my husband and show due reverence and gratitude for the honor of being Lady Mortlock.
Papa had been a close friend and ally of the old King Stephen and an active participant in Stephen’s campaigns to thwart his sister, the Empress Matilda, when she attempted to claim the throne of England.
He’d strongly objected to any suitor who fell outside his circle of close associates and fellow supporters of Stephen.
Though Stephen had been dead three years, his successor, the current King Henry, still faced much objection.
I had long suspected Papa of being a traitor to Henry. Might my new husband be one also? He had a small army of men now lined up to swear fealty to me.
But what of their loyalty to the king?
Each man approached me in turn, bowed and kissed my hand. The knights were first and I kept my face impassive as they swore to protect me, only inclining my head slightly to the left and nodding in response.
Then came Sawford. Clad in black, he wore the clothes of a clerk rather than a knight’s hauberk. But he walked toward me with a casual, easy grace of a trained warrior.
My hand trembled as I held it out.
He bowed and took my hand, his grip a little tighter than that of those who had gone before him, his lips lingering on my hand a little longer. Before straightening, he tipped his head and met my eyes with his piercing gaze, a curl of dry amusement on his lips.
The squires came after him, followed by the steward and, finally, the senior servants.
The last squire was a young man by the name of Percy.
He smiled after kissing my hand, a gentle blush spreading over his face.
He was a mere boy—perhaps six and ten, if not younger—and clearly nervous.
For a moment, the mask slipped and I squeezed his hand in reassurance, returning his smile.
Then a cough brought me to my senses. Sawford watched me with narrowed eyes. I pulled my hand away from Percy’s.
“I fear my wife finds our gallantry tedious. Come.”
My husband dismissed his men before holding his arm out to Sawford for support. My heart sank when Percy turned to smile at me before following the rest of the squires out.
For the next few days, I saw little of my husband during the day, but after the evening meal he would send Sawford to escort me to the solar where, each night, my husband ordered me to remove my nightshift and stand before him.
As he pleasured himself, I stared straight ahead, focusing my gaze on a spot on the wall above the bed, and let my mind drift.
Harwyn had taught me to concentrate on counting each heartbeat: one, two, three, all the way to one hundred, before starting again.
It was a technique I used to disassociate myself from the horrors around me.
Afterward, Sawford helped me back into my nightshift before returning me to my room.
Other than his hand on my arm, he barely touched me.
On my second night at Mortlock Fort, after Sawford returned me to my chamber, I tipped my head toward him, in anticipation of a kiss like that he gave the first night. But he merely curled his mouth into a smile and pushed me across the threshold before closing the door in my face.
The servants at Mortlock Fort were wary, unfriendly even, yet efficient in their duties, and I had little to do.
The chatelaine, a woman of perhaps forty summers, had run the household for many years.
My husband’s previous wives had not interfered with her activities, and she made it clear that she didn’t expect my arrival to change that.
I should have been disappointed. Having been schooled by Maman in the customs and traditions of a lady, I had a right to expect to fulfill that role here.
The atmosphere in the building, however, was so oppressive that I was glad to remove myself from it and chose instead to spend much of my time outdoors in the grounds.
But in one aspect I was able to establish some authority over the chatelaine, when I discovered that there was nobody to tend to healing in the household.
The injured or sick either had to travel to an apothecary, or make do—the latter, in all likelihood, leading to suffering and death.
I had some skill at healing and had often helped Maman at Shoreton when she’d tended to our servants.
Of all the duties of the mistress of the castle, this was the one I took most fulfillment from, and Maman had encouraged me.
She’d pointed out the different herbs, flowers and berries, explaining their healing properties and showing me which ones could be used to sustain life and warning me of the dangers of those which invited death.
A similar occupation here at Mortlock would give me a much-needed purpose.
That same morning, I told the chatelaine what I wanted, and, despite her initial reluctance, at length, she relented and arranged for a room to be cleaned and prepared for me and began to accumulate the list of supplies I had given her.
She stiffened her body in dislike at my haughty demeanor but obeyed my instructions flawlessly.
A maidservant was cleaning the room when I arrived to inspect it. I nodded unsmilingly when she curtsied, then immediately dismissed her. She was an old woman and looked harmless enough, but I knew not who to trust and had no desire to form any attachments here, however slight.
The only soul I could trust was Harwyn. Papa had permitted me to bring her with me, not out of compassion, but for the benefit of having one less mouth to feed at Shoreton.
Nevertheless, I was grateful. The winter mornings were dark at Shoreton and I rose before daybreak, but each morning, Harwyn lit a candle in my room before I woke so I would not be confronted with the darkness.
Often she woke me herself. Aware of the nightmares that plagued me, she would take me in her arms, stroking my head as she had done ever since my mother died.
She alone knew the feelings running deep within me and understood my fears.
Each day, as I wandered about the building, my skin would tighten with apprehension.
At first I’d dismissed it as the effect of my nightmares and the constant shroud of fear that enveloped me.
But, occasionally, I’d hear an echo of a step in a corridor, or catch the twitch of a wall-hanging as I walked past. Only outdoors did I feel safe from prying eyes.
Away from the ostentatious main garden, a wilder, unkempt garden ran along the outer edge of the bailey wall.
Unconstrained by the dominance of men, the trees and shrubs formed natural shapes, stretching their limbs as if in a homage to beauty.
The land sloping down toward a copse, through which a small stream ran into a lake.
Wildflowers and grasses grew all over and, on exploring it, I discovered a seat, carved from wood, beside a tree.
In this garden, I was able to steal a few moments of peace.
The wild garden brought back memories of my home at Shoreton—distant memories of another life, a small child, happy in the loving care of her Maman, who would walk with her in the sunshine and relate tales of knights and chivalry.
Maman would speak of her hopes for my future—the joy of having a home of my own to manage, the love I would have from my children and the comfort I would take from the occupation and duties of a lady.
I had heard her words but never truly listened, missing the undertones of her voice.
The unspoken notes of despair in her voice were brought about by her marriage to a cruel man and her unfulfilled yearning for love.
That yearning had taken her from me. Now, I had none to care for me except Harwyn.
Shortly after I arrived at Mortlock Fort, I asked my husband for permission to explore the estate on horseback. By making such a direct request, I wanted to show that I was not afraid of him.
I found him in the solar, deep in conversation with Sawford, bent over a desk covered in papers. At my request, he cocked his head to one side, blinking to clear the film over his eyes.
His mannerisms were easy to read, unlike the body language of the taller man who stood silently beside him. His yellowed eyes showed surprise at my boldness, followed by mild irritation. Before he blinked again, a twitch in his lips implied he would grant my request.
“Very well,” he said. “Your behavior has been exemplary to date; but you must take an escort.”
“My lord, if I might—” the manservant said.
“No, Sawford. I need you here. Take her ladyship to the stables and send for Wyatt to accompany her.”
I recognized Wyatt as he approached the stables.
Thick set and gap-toothed, he had little to recommend him other than being the youngest son of a baron.
He had been recently knighted, and his golden spurs glinted in the sunlight as he mounted his horse.
Like all men, he desired power. The lust for it exuded from his voice, his arrogant stance in the saddle and the curl of his lip as he dismissed Sawford.
Ignoring him, Sawford held his hand out to help me to mount. As he lifted me onto the saddle, he leaned over me and issued a whispered warning.
“Do nothing foolish, woman.”
Were it not for the dark expression in his eyes, I would have believed I’d imagined his words. He cast a quick glance in Wyatt’s direction before he gave me a slight nod and returned to the main building. I followed him with my gaze before Wyatt’s voice pulled me back.
“I hear you are eager for company, Lady Mortlock.”
“I merely wish to ride,” I snapped. “I’ve no wish to engage in conversation with you.”
Spurring the mare on, I rode out of the stable yard, ignoring the servants bowing before their mistress.
Winter had turned into spring and the air, with the aroma of freshness and new growth, almost banished my melancholy.
New leaf buds were beginning to form, dotting the forest with flecks of bright green.
As I rode, I could almost believe that I was living the blessed life of a noblewoman—one with a purpose and a loving family.
A life rich with fulfillment from tending to the people who depended on me.
Urging my horse into a gallop, I closed my eyes and tipped my head skyward, relishing the warmth of the sun on my face, safe in the knowledge that my horse and I rode together as one.
The soft rush of the breeze danced in a melodic rhythm with the mare’s hoof beats, though they were soon drowned out by the staccato footfall of another horse.
A glanced over my shoulder and spotted Wyatt approaching. Though I slowed to a canter, he continued to bear down on me at a gallop until he drew level and steered his horse against my own, forcing me to stop.
“You are not to leave my side, lady,” he snarled.
“For what purpose?”
“For your safety. Come, ’tis time we returned. Your husband has never taken kindly to any of his wives running about unfettered.”
“How dare you speak to me so!” I cried.
Grinning, he reached out, his hand moving too quickly for me to pull back, and he took my wrist, squeezing it with his thick, fleshy fingers.
“Let me go,” I said.
His smile widened, showing the gaps between his teeth as he thrust his face close. I wrinkled my nostrils at his sour breath, and he chuckled.
“Who is it? Has he been chosen yet?”
“I-I do not understand.”
“Come, come, my lady. You’ve been here long enough. Are you telling me that the deed has not yet been done?”
I shook my head and tried to pull free, but his grip only tightened.
“My bloodline should suffice,” he said, the stench of his breath intensifying. “My lord Mortlock values me highly. Mayhap he’ll reward me now I have earned my spurs—and what a tasty reward it would be.”
I swallowed my fear and smiled back at him.
“What the…” he began, then he lowered his gaze to his hand.
His eyes widened as he saw my knife against his wrist. My free hand trembling only slightly, I increased the pressure, indenting his flesh where the vein lay.
Too often, I had fended off unwelcome advances from Papa’s men.
From an early age I’d concealed a small knife about my person for defense.
“Perhaps we should ask my husband who he values more,” I said, “a baron’s younger son, a landless lackey who lives in servitude, or his wife—the only child of a baron, with all the estates and titles bestowed on her.”
His fingers twitched, and I increased the pressure on the knife.
“I keep the sharp, Monsieur Wyatt. I would advise you to loosen your hold.”
“I could snap your neck, woman, whether your blade cuts me or no.”
I gripped the knife tighter, steadying my hand.
“How might you explain a dead wife to your master when he placed her in your care?” I challenged. “Try it—if you dare.”
He withdrew his hand. Tucking my knife into my kirtle, I reined my horse, turning her in a tight circle, and spurred her into a canter, Wyatt in pursuit.
As soon as I spotted the outbuildings surrounding Mortlock Fort, I called out to the stable hands to assist me, my voice almost breaking with relief as they came into view.
Dismounting, I turned my back on Wyatt and crossed the yard, but not before he called out to me.
“You’ll soon learn your true value, woman. Then I shall take my due and make you pay for your insult today.”