Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The next day my husband sent for me.
While Harwyn helped me dress, my hands shook so badly I struggled with my garments. Though I fought to maintain a veneer of calm, my beloved maid was not to be fooled. Her soft touch and natural kindness overwhelmed me and I choked back a cry as she took me in her arms.
“Oh, my lady Lisetta,” she soothed. “What troubles you?”
Shame thickening my voice, I related the events of the previous night. As I uttered Sawford’s name, I lowered my gaze. I could not bear the merest thought of her disappointment after she had cautioned me to take care.
But neither disappointment not judgment came, Instead, she held me close and stroked my forehead until my sobs subsided. Then she combed my hair in silence.
I drew comfort from the rhythmic motion of the comb pulling through my scalp. Counting in rhythm with each stroke, I began to control my breathing. By the time she started braiding my hair, my trembling had lessened.
When Harwyn finished I stood, ready to face my husband—the man whom, in the eyes of the law and the church, I had committed a mortal sin against. She took my hand and drew me to her.
“Courage, my lady. Show him no fear.”
“Aye, Harwyn,” I replied. “I’ll not give him the satisfaction of seeing me distressed, and will face my fate as bravely as Maman would have done.”
She gave me a light kiss on the cheek before opening my door and I bade her farewell. I knew not whether I would see her again or whether I was walking to my death.
Lord Mortlock waited for me in the main hall—his body silhouetted against a window, hunched and deformed. I stepped toward him, then hesitated, catching my breath as a tall dark shape appeared.
Vane Sawford.
Without glancing in my direction, Sawford approached my husband to stand at his side.
Despite his size, he made no sound. Shaking, I continued forward until I stood before Lord Mortlock.
Fighting to resist the urge to glance in Sawford’s direction, I focused my gaze on my husband’s booted feet, then dipped into a curtsey.
“W-welcome home, husband.”
The atmosphere thickened and I could almost feel the aura of power shimmering around the tall man in black.
I shifted my gaze across the floor to Sawford’s feet.
Larger than my husband’s, they were clad in thick calfskin boots the colour of midnight.
Then his feet shifted, as if he were aware of my scrutiny.
The compulsion to look up clawed at my senses—the need to look into those intense clue eyes once more.
Would they show the desire that had flared in them last night, which had breached my defenses—or would they be filled with the ice-cold disdain?
But before I could lift my gaze, a claw-like hand took my wrist and thin, bony fingers curled into my flesh.
“Wife.”
My stomach clenched at the low rattle in his voice, and I shifted my gaze to his face—the graying flesh, the lined forehead and the hollow cheeks where the skin sagged at the jowls. He nodded, and greed shimmered in his eyes—his yellowing eyes, shot with blood, and the milky, opaque pupils.
He parted his lips and I caught the odor of sour wine together with another smell, the stench of decay.
“A kiss for your husband.”
His voice rattled in his chest before erupting into a hacking cough, which sent out droplets of spittle.
I flinched, and he grinned, drawing me toward him and crushing his lips against mine.
I stiffened at his touch, holding my breath to stem the swelling tide of nausea.
Then he released me and grinned, revealing crooked, yellowing teeth.
“What say you, Sawford?” my husband said. “Is my wife pleased to see her husband return?”
I suppressed a whimper as I waited for the words that would condemn me. Then, after a pause, Sawford answered, his voice quiet and cold.
“I know not, my Lord.”
My husband chuckled.
“That’s right, Sawford, your tastes run to different livestock do they not? I hear you have little understanding, and no fondness, for thoroughbreds. Come, wife, we shall take the air together.”
He curled his lip in a sneer and stared at Sawford.
“A noblewoman cares not for one who is bastard born. I believe my wife has more discerning tastes.”
Sawford gave no sign that he’d heard my husband, other than a slight tic in his jaw.
My husband, however, I was able to read. His words and demeanor exuded his hatred for anyone he deemed below him in status. He drew me to him, then held out his free arm and nodded toward the servant.
“Sawford.”
Sawford took Mortlock’s arm, supporting his weight, and the three of us shuffled out into the main garden.
The sun cast its heat into the spring air. I inhaled deeply, wanting to erase the stench of my husband’s breath. Then he spoke.
“Sawford has been telling me of your behavior during my absence.”
My stomach lurched, and I bit my lip to suppress a cry. Were we, even now, on our way to the dungeons, or worse, the courtyard? I strained my senses, trying to detect the smell of oil and wood in the air.
“Husband?” I croaked, my throat constricting.
“Aye,” he replied. “I am pleased with you, but I expect you to continue to behave in a manner befitting of my wife.”
I bowed my head in a gesture of subservience which seemed to satisfy him.
We took a silent turn about the garden. The only sounds were the rushing of the wind through the trees, the voices of the men training in the courtyard, and the occasional bellow of an animal carried over the air from the farms surrounding the estate.
At length, my husband spoke.
“Wulfric tells me that devil spawn of Matilda who would call himself king…”
“My Lord,” Sawford interrupted, his voice tight. I glanced up and was assaulted by his blue gaze as he stared directly at me.
My husband nodded and let out a sigh.
“Ay yes. How foolish of me, Sawford. Witless creatures they may be, but one must always be careful.”
Let go of my hand then made a dismissive gesture.
“Leave us, my dear. I shall send for you tonight after I have retired.”
Suppressing the urge to run from his foul presence, I returned to the building at a measured pace in an attempt to feign nonchalance.
When I reached the door, I curled my hand around the handle, drawing comfort from its solidity.
I glanced over my shoulder to see my husband and Sawford deep in conversation.
Then, for a brief moment, Sawford turned his head in my direction before resuming his attention on his master.
Harwyn had been right. Something was afoot and my husband was involved. ‘That devil spawn of Matilda’ could only mean King Henry and Wulfric, my husband’s cousin—a man I recalled from my childhood when he visited my father. Were the two cousins plotting treason? Was Papa involved?
I thought of my poor Maman, having to conceal her loyalty to Henry.
My love for her would always ensure that my loyalties were aligned with hers.
My chest constricted with grief for her.
I missed her so much. She had taught me to read and write, encouraging my inquisitiveness.
She’d also warned me never to reveal my inner thoughts to anyone.
As women, our lives were not our own. Our lives belonged to Papa, and if he was revealed to be a traitor to the crown, then by association, so would we.
Papa would regularly hold meetings with his associates who opposed Henry. At one such meeting, shortly after Maman died, I’d hidden myself in the solar at Shoreton. The loss of my beloved Maman had driven my recklessness and my childish belief that I might unearth a plot against King Henry.
Papa spotted me hiding under the bed and gave me a beating in front of his guests.
Among them was Wulfric. A strikingly handsome man about ten years older than I, he’d watched while I howled and struggled, a smile playing on his lips.
At one time, Papa had thought him a suitable match for Wulfric, but he married another woman before I reached a marriageable age.
Heaven help me. I was in enough danger merely living in this hideous castle.
If my husband were plotting treason, then as his wife, I would also be branded a traitor.
I shivered at the thought of Sawford’s eyes on me, watching as I went back inside the building.
He was silent and observant, taking note of my reactions to my husband’s careless words.
How might Sawford react if he were aware of my suspicions? I had grown used to Papa’s discipline and could withstand physical beatings. However, Sawford would be an expert in infinitely subtler forms of torture.
The air hummed with the power he exuded. I could still feel the thrill my body had felt with his hands on me, even though his touch had given me pain.
There existed a bone-deep need in me which I could not conquer when he was near—the need to surrender myself completely to him. My fear was not of the man himself, but of my body’s reaction to him and what he had the power to make me do. Yet, I was drawn to him.
Something dark, nestling at the very core of my being, whispered to me that nothing mattered except him.
Safe in my chamber, I read the anonymous notes again.
Did the author know of a conspiracy against the king?
Was he as loyal to Henry as I? Perhaps that was why he wrote to me in secret.
I yearned to discover his identity so that I might answer his letters.
But I dared not speak of my wishes to Harwyn.
She would dismiss them as the foolish fancy of a woman desperate for an ally.
But that little flash of hope, which began upon reading that first note, continued to grow.