Chapter 4
Chapter Four
As I dressed for dinner that evening, I told Harwyn about the poem.
“Oh, dear lady, please take care!” she cried. “You cannot trust the author, whomever they might be.”
“But the words, Harwyn,” I replied. “They’re so full of feeling. I cannot believe it’s a trap. I would be surprised if any of the men in my husband’s employ can read or write, let alone compose this.”
“Please, lady Lisetta, I know you wish for an ally but eloquent though the words may be, Mortlock may have employed a bard to write them.”
I shook my head, unwilling to believe her but she persisted.
“Remember your Maman. Trust none but yourself.”
Maman’s counsel had always been to take precaution.
The day she died she gave me one last warning.
I would be watched—every action and word noted, to be used against me, however my husband deemed appropriate.
Papa had married Maman, despite her lineage, for her dowry.
As a distant cousin of the Empress Matilda’s husband, Geoffrey D’Anjou, Maman was an enemy in Papa’s eyes.
Before Stephen named Henry his successor to the throne, the civil war between Stephen’s and Matilda’s supporters had divided the country, pitching Englishmen against each other in bloody battles.
Though Maman openly supported Papa, her true loyalty, and thus my own, lay with Matilda and with King Henry.
Even after Stephen publicly named Henry his heir, thus effectively ending the war, there were many barons who remained opposed to Henry taking the throne.
They argued that he had poisoned Stephen’s oldest son, Eustace, and was not fit to rule.
My own father was one such baron, as was my husband’s cousin, Wulfric Baron de Tourrard.
Might my husband also be in opposition to the king?
Was that why Papa had accepted his offer for me? To ally himself with another traitor?
On returning with Papa from the coronation of Henry and his wife Eleanor of Aquitaine at Westminster, Maman had been confined to her chamber, her face darkened with bruising.
In less than a year, she was dead. A word, or look, out of place, was enough to secure Papa’s anger and punishment.
If my husband knew of my loyalties then Harwyn was right.
I was in as much danger here as Maman had been at Shoreton.
I remained silent, wishing that Harwyn was wrong. I dismissed her with a wave when she finished dressing my hair.
“Oh no—not again.”
I looked up to see her picking up a note from under the doorframe. She handed it to me and I read it in silence.
Your friend will be waiting for you tonight as the moon rises over the lake.
“What does it say, lady?”
I crushed the note in my hand and threw it on the fire.
“Nothing of importance.”
During the evening meal, I watched the other diners for signs of recognition but saw none.
Careful to avoid arousing suspicion, I hid my observations behind the haughty expression a lady would bestow on her subjects.
After the meal, I excused myself quickly, eager to retire for the night, giving thanks that, at least, my husband was absent.
Watching the flickering light of the candle, I lay in my bed, reminding myself of the folly in heeding the note.
But, though my eyelids grew heavy, I could not sleep.
When all sounds of activity ceased, except for the footsteps of the night guard, I finally admitted to myself that I was going to the lake.
I pulled on the rough woolen gown that I wore when tending to the herb garden, together with my cloak.
After the night guard’s footsteps faded, I opened my door a little and checked to see if the passage was clear before slipping out and making my way to the gate that led through the bailey wall.
I unbolted it, then followed the path leading to the wild garden and, beyond it, the lake.
The night was clear and cold, the moon almost full, casting sharp shadows across the path. The moon’s reflection was perfectly mirrored in the still waters of the lake, reminding me of the poem.
I waited, hidden in the shadows, until my hands and feet were numb. A sharp cry made me jump, but it was merely the sound of an animal—a mouse or some other creature caught by an owl. Poor thing—trapped in the talons of a predator.
Trapped…
The folly of my actions struck me and a wall of panic rose in my chest. Had I lost my mind?
Not only was I wandering about at night on my own, surrounded by all manner of predators, human and animal, but the bailey gate bolted from the inside.
If the night guard discovered the bolt was not drawn and secured it, I would be trapped in the talons of darkness outside the bailey wall.
Another shriek, this time much closer. Gripped by panic, I ran, each breath sending clouds of terror into the night air. On reaching the gate, I almost sobbed with relief to find it unlocked. I had to stop to catch my breath, to ease both the ache in my side and the pounding in my ears.
What a fool I’d been! Barely a month into my marriage and I was already betraying my mother’s memory by letting emotion rule my actions.
I took a few deep breaths, counting each one until I reached ten. The exercise worked and the claws of panic loosened their grip. With a lighter heart and a resolve to act more rationally in future, I picked my way back toward the main building.
A sound from behind made me freeze. My skin tightened, and the hair prickled on the back of my neck.
Lord save me, I was being followed.
I stopped, straining to hear, but there was nothing. I took a few tentative paces forward, stopping after each one to listen. Rationality over rashness again. My imagination must be playing tricks on me. With these words in my mind I slipped back inside the building.
After a minute, I once again had that uneasy feeling of being followed. A breathy sound came from behind, but I dismissed it. With luck, I would soon be warm and in my own bed.
But as I approached the passageway to my room, my luck ran out.
The night guard was walking toward me. I turned back down the staircase, careful to keep to the outside of the spiral, painfully aware of my slippers slapping against the stone steps.
The passage on the floor below gave an alternative route to my room.
It ran past the men’s quarters, but I had to take the risk.
Each gust of wind sent the candles flickering, casting menacing shadows across the floor. A door ahead of me was flung open with a crash and I almost screamed. Loud, raucous laughter erupted. Retreat was impossible; discovery was certain.
Behind me, I heard that sound again, like a soft whisper of a sigh. Then, before I could move, a large hand clamped over my mouth, and a voice whispered in my ear.
“Make no sound if you wish to live.”
An arm coiled round my waist, pulled me back against a large body and dragged me to one side into an alcove. My captor’s body was unyielding and my struggles only made his grip tighten.
“Do as I say, you fool. What do you think the men will do to you? They have little regard for a woman wandering about at night on her own, be she servant, whore, or Mortlock’s latest wife. If you continue to resist, I shall hand you over to them. Do I make myself clear?”
I nodded. The authority of the lady of the castle had little weight against drunken, lust-fueled men. Upon my marriage, I had ceased to exist in the eyes of the world as anything other than the replaceable property of Lord Mortlock.
We waited until the footsteps passed by. The shouts of laughter increased. Had they discovered me, I would not have been escorted back to my room. My husband’s men were a murderous and crude lot and would have taken what they wanted.
The door slammed shut, muffling the voices. My assailant let me go, and turned me to face him.
It was Vane Sawford.
He held a finger to his lips, but I needed no instruction.
Muffled laughter and cheering came from behind one of the doors, mingled with the excited shrieks of a woman.
A man, giddy with lust after the services of a whore, would not stop to question whether the next woman in his path were willing or not.
Sawford took my arm and led me back to the staircase, turning not up, to my chamber, but down, until we reached a small room on the floor below.
He pushed me inside, then released my arm and closed the door behind him.
The light of a single candle revealed sparse furnishings—a small cot in the corner, two chairs and a desk.
I was in Sawford’s bedchamber.
He turned to face me, his expression cold and dispassionate. I lifted my head and stared back, feigning defiance.
His expression shifted, and a spark of fire flashed in the depths of his pupils, radiating outward.
He drew nearer, his gaze fixed on me. I backed away until I felt the stone wall against my back, but he matched me step for step until his body touched mine.
A slight smile curled on his lips as he placed his hands on the wall either side of my shoulders, pinning me in place.
Then he dipped his head toward mine.
His warm breath caressed my mouth, and I inhaled the aroma of spices and masculinity. I had only to lift my head a fraction to meet his lips. He brushed his mouth against mine, and my skin tightened in response. He drew back, and I whimpered in frustration.
I was a woman starved, my tormentor denying me what my body craved. I tipped my head up, unable to think of anything save those lips.
Triumph flickered in his eyes and he let out a low growl.
“I will only kiss you if you ask.”
His voice was thick and intoxicating. I shook my head but, as he drew closer again, I parted my lips to receive him. In the battle between my mind and body, the balance of power was shifting.
“Ask.”