Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Spring turned to summer and my life fell into a routine.
I was left largely to myself during the day then, each night after the evening meal, my husband would summon me to the solar, after which Sawford would return me to my chamber to take me for himself.
Pleasure still eluded me, though Sawford’s touch ignited a yearning I could not conquer.
My only comfort was the company of my beloved Harwyn, together with the sense of purpose I drew from treating the various ailments and injuries of the household.
My favorite part of the day was early afternoon when I could sit alone and embrace the peace and stillness of the wild garden.
There, I could close my eyes, listening both to the wind in the trees and the nearby stream, and let my mind wander, imagining that I lived somewhere else.
Had I never married, I would have retired to the convent near Shoreton and as I had grown into adulthood, I had begun to prepare myself for such a life.
The abbess, a relative of Maman’s, would have gladly given me sanctuary.
I could have taken Harwyn with me to live a life of duty and contemplation.
But it was not to be. Lord Mortlock’s petition to my father had sealed my fate and there was no prospect of escape.
Unless…
I received another poem from my anonymous correspondent, together with a note urging me to be strong and promising that author would keep me safe. Might he take me away if I asked—hide me among the hundreds of peasants who noblemen and women such as myself had been brought up to ignore?
What would it be like to live the life of a nobody—as the wife of a villager? She would have little to concern herself with, except the welfare of her husband and children, and the mundane activities of village life. She would neither be surrounded by evil nor be under constant scrutiny.
I let my gaze wander across the landscape, following a path toward the copse.
In my mind’s eye I pictured myself as a young maiden, waiting by the line of the trees to meet her sweetheart.
I had yet to visit the village surrounding the Fort.
I dared not ask permission for fear my husband would insist Wyatt accompany me.
But I often saw the villagers from my window, going about their business, tending to cattle in a field, trading at the market.
Their lives seemed so perfect, unencumbered as they were by intrigue or treachery.
Once, I saw a young couple stealing a precious moment together.
The boy placed a tender kiss on the girl’s hand before they ran out of sight, hand in hand. How I envied them!
I rarely saw Sawford during the day. Whenever I did he inclined his head slightly to acknowledge me before continuing on his way.
I maintained a mask of cold disdain though my heart tumbled inside my chest. I was not alone in my reaction—I saw how the female servants acted around him.
My hatred rose every time one of them approached him, exaggerating a loose-hipped gait to attract his attention, touching his arm or leaning against him in the manner of a mare in season declaring her availability for the stallion.
At night, when he claimed my body, I saw glimpses of the man beneath—a sigh as he entered me, a tender touch on my forehead afterward.
His kisses were mostly savage and demanding, but occasionally his lips brushed mine softly, reminding me of the young lovers I had seen.
But though I yearned for those tender moments, my weak soul could better withstand his cold brutality.
While I finished bandaging the finger of a young lad who’s cut his hand on a broken pot, the door to the treatment room opened and a deep voice growled.
“Leave us, boy.”
The lad scrambled to his feet at Sawford’s command. Murmuring his thanks he ran out of the room.
I rose as Sawford approached. My stomach flipped as he bent his head toward me, bringing his face close. I gripped the table for support, but could not stop myself from tipping my face up to receive his kiss. Then he sat down, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“So eager for me, but I am not here for your pleasure.”
“You have no business here,” I replied, as steadily as I could. “Leave me to get on with my work. No doubt you have duties of your own to attend to.”
“As you well know, cherie, I undertake all my duties thoroughly.”
“What do you want of me?” I said.
For a moment his eyes widened, as if he understood what I was really asking. I yearned to know whether he viewed me as nothing but a body intended to both quench his lust and serve as a means to his reward. Or whether I stirred in him the same unfathomable sensations that he stirred in me.
But perhaps it was best if he refrained from telling me, lest the answer give rise to despair.
Unwilling to hear his response, I waved my hand at the scraps of bandages on the table.
“In this room you can only find succor for injuries and ailments of the flesh, Monsieur Sawford. For sicknesses of the mind and soul, I suggest you try the chapel.”
He rolled up his sleeve and I caught my breath. A long gash ran along his forearm. The flesh surrounding it was red, swollen and seeping an ugly, yellow liquid. I wrinkled my nose at the faint sickly sweet odor. For such an extensive infection this could not be a recent wound.
The horror in my face must have shown.
“Is it too much for my mistress’ delicate eyes?”
“Not at all.” I composed myself. “I was merely wondering how you sustained such an injury.”
“The night of my lord’s wedding.”
I remembered. It had been two months, yet I saw it as if it were yesterday: Sawford’s eyes trained on me as he’d drawn the knife along his arm, to produce evidence of my virgin’s blood. His look had turned to irritation when he’d cut deeper than intended.
I reached for his wrist, ignoring the sensation I felt down my spine at the touch of his skin against mine.
“The wound has festered,” I said. “I’ll need to remove the infection and bind it, but it will hurt.”
“Then get on with it.”
I gathered what I needed, checking the pot of water I always had suspended over the fireplace.
Satisfied it was hot enough, I brought it to the table along with the healing herbs I would need.
His gaze was on me all the time, but I tried my best to ignore him.
I picked up cloths and bandages then lit a candle.
As I drew out a knife and held it in the flame, I heard him sigh.
“Do you need something to bite down on?” I asked, meeting his gaze. His eyes narrowed, then he shook his head.
“Very well. Hold out your arm, Monsieur.”
He did so, laying it on the table with the wound facing upward. I took his hand and curled my fingers between his.
“I’ll be as quick as I can.”
I held the tip of the knife against his wound and paused.
He moved his head in a nod—an almost imperceptible gesture, but one of consent, nonetheless.
Making a swift, deep cut along his forearm I traced the wound to re-open it.
His arm muscles tensed, and he curled his fingers round my own, but he made no sound.
Using the edge of the blade, I scraped away the infected flesh and the thick, yellow liquid.
Then I dropped the knife and dipped a cloth into the hot water and pressed it against the wound to let the heat draw out the infection.
Unlike most of my sex, I had no fear of injury or the sight of blood.
Maman had taught me well, and I was able to work calmly and efficiently, taking satisfaction in my abilities.
Sawford’s earlier comment about my delicate tastes had pricked my pride, and I was determined to show him I was no fainthearted creature.
Then I paused as my train of thought caught up with me.
Why should I care for the opinion of a soulless creature like Sawford?
Sawford tilted his head to one side. “Is it too much for you?”
His tone was devoid of any emotion. How could he act with such detachment? The pain must be unendurable.
“Not at all. I’ve treated worse. Keep still,” I admonished him as he moved his arm. “I need to dress the wound. You’re a fool for not coming to me earlier.”
“Surely you would not have wanted the wound—or its purpose—to become widely known.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I care not, Monsieur. ’Tis your own pride that prevented you from seeking help. The pride of men is the bane of society and of the lives of women. But, I would expect nothing else from a base born servant.”
My arrow hit home. He tightened his grip on my hand and I winced.
“Better to be base born and earn your means than to languish in wealth and inherit it,” he said. “Or indeed, better to marry wealth by taking a wife you despise, merely for her dowry.”
“A man is able to do that,” I retorted, “but what of women? We are nothing more than chattel to be treated as our owners see fit—forced to marry men we despise to further the causes of others, regardless of whether we support or oppose those causes. ’Tis little wonder we think only of ourselves.
Do you think I care what happens in the world outside?
I have no control over my own destiny, let alone that of others.
What I think or feel is irrelevant to anybody but myself.
I am merely a possession, a tool to be used for others’ personal gain—as you have done, for your own personal gain. I trust you are satisfied, sir.”
“Do not condemn me for seeking an honest wage,” he replied. “I have worked and fought hard for it all my life.”
“I know nothing of your history, Monsieur, but for the past few sennights, your ‘honest wage’ was earned by brokering my sale to Lord Mortlock, whoring me out, and acting as a stud to produce an heir for your master to claim.”
He did not reply, and I picked up a bandage, giving him a look of hatred. “I believe my definition of honesty differs from yours.”