Chapter 9 #2
“No, Sawford, you may not. Remain outside the door until I have finished with her.”
As the door clicked shut behind Sawford, my husband rose and slipped his nightshirt over his head.
His form was bent and wizened. A lifetime of evil had ravaged his body from the outside as well as withered his soul from the inside. Yet, I could see that he was aroused.
“I must thank your lover, wife. In delivering his punishment, I find I’m at long last able to enjoy you properly.”
At last Sawford’s warning became clear. My husband’s appetite for me was fueled by cruelty, death, and his relish over Percy’s demise.
Only when in a particular frame of mind, Sawford had said, would my husband wish to force his disease-ridden body onto a woman.
I could do nothing but await my fate as he approached the bed.
When my husband finished with me, I wanted nothing more than to drive my knife into his heart.
At first I’d wondered if all men were the same.
Would my body betray me and take pleasure, as it did when Sawford took me?
But it did not. I felt only revulsion at my husband’s touch, as if maggots were crawling along my skin.
At length, he summoned Sawford to return me to my room.
Though Sawford must have known of my debasement at the hands of my husband, he said nothing.
He pushed me through my doorway but came no further in himself.
He merely ran his fingertips across my forehead before cupping my chin and tilting my face up.
My eyes were wet with the tears I refused to shed, but he showed no sign of seeing them.
Instead, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine, then released my chin and closed the door, leaving me alone.
I ached for a bath to rid myself of my husband’s foul stench. But, if I ordered one, he would find out. Feeling dirty and degraded, I crawled into bed, wanting nothing more than to not wake up in the morning—or any day after.
The sound of crackling flames surrounded me. The smell of fire reached my nostrils and I heard the snapping sound of burning wood igniting, along with the chants of the crowd…
…witch, adulteress, traitor…
My mother’s voice broke through the chanting.
At first she sang a lullaby, then she began to cry.
Her cries sharpened, turning into screams then the crackling of the flames increased and the smell grew stronger.
I wanted her to stop screaming—surely she must be dead by now.
Her beautiful face came into view, smiling at me, but her eyes were no longer there.
They had been replaced by black voids. Huge birds flapped around her, tearing strips of flesh from her face.
The strips morphed into another face; Percy’s.
The crows circled me and their beaks grew large as they reached my eyes, their wings beating at the air.
I lifted my arms to fend them off and opened my mouth.
The screaming grew louder, and the birds tore at my own eyes while I was powerless to stop them…
I sat up, my throat aching while I strained for air, my body shaking with sobs. I was in my bed but it was dark. I opened my mouth to cry out but a gentle hand touched my arm while another covered my mouth.
“Shhh, you’re safe.”
The voice in my ear was a whisper, unrecognizable above the pounding heartbeat in my ears, but it sounded like Maman. Had her ghost risen from the grave to give me comfort?
A hand stroked my forehead.
“Here, drink this.”
The rim of a cup touched my lips. I tried to resist as it was tipped into my mouth, but I could not fight my body’s instinct to swallow and cool liquid ran down the back of my throat.
“Drink it all.”
I complied, not caring whether the cup contained poison, for if that hastened my death it would free me from this life. When I drained the cup, gentle hands pushed me back.
“Sleep now, sweetling.”
I heard the sound of flint being struck and saw a brief flare of light and a pair of clear blue eyes, filled with kindness.
“Maman!”
My voice weakened as the drug began to take effect. She had come to me when I needed her most and would guide me in death. Her eyes were bluer than I remembered but their expression was soft and loving.
“Maman, am I going to die?”
She did not answer, and I closed my eyes, embracing the heavy blackness which draped over me. I was able to whisper a few words before it fully engulfed me.
“I am coming, Maman. Wait for me.”
The next time I opened my eyes, my vision was blurry. My head felt thick and heavy and the glare of the light hurt my head.
A hand brushed my forehead.
“Maman?” I whispered.
“No, dear lady. ’Tis I, Harwyn.”
“Harwyn. Are you dead also?”
I lifted my head. It was morning and, judging by the pain in my head, I was very much alive.
“You must rest. You are ill.”
“I’ve been poisoned.” My voice was hoarse.
Harwyn tut-tutted as one would admonish a child with an overly active imagination.
“Nonsense, lady,” she said. “You’re tired and overwrought after your ordeal. Perhaps you took a little too much wine last night?”
Images flashed before my eyes—a blurred shape, Maman’s face and gentle fingers clasping my own as they lifted a cup to my lips.
Yet, there was nothing in my room. The table beside my cot, where I usually kept a flagon of wine and a goblet, was empty.
I must have imagined it, unless the ghost of my mother had visited me. Was I going mad?
“Lady?” Harwyn’s face and voice were full of concern. Though I longed to tell her of Maman’s visit, I feared she would think I was losing my sanity. I shook my head.
“’Twas only a dream.” I said. I swung my legs over the edge of the cot and stood, but I lost my balance and fell against Harwyn. She held me steady.
“Come, you must stay abed today. You’re unwell.”
“Nay, Harwyn, I need fresh air.”
And solitude.
I longed for the wild garden. I wanted to be free from the fog of evil that had soaked into the walls of Mortlock Fort.
I shook my head again, trying to expel the drowsiness, while Harwyn helped me dress.
The day was dull, the sun unable to penetrate through the leaden clouds.
Thick, cold moisture hung in the air, penetrating my cloak despite its dense, woolen material.
The building seemed to loom higher the further I walked from it.
I could make out the silhouette of poor Percy’s head.
One of my husband’s men must have replaced it on the pike for all to see.
I drew my cloak around me, shivering, and sat on the bench beside my tree.
Driving out all thoughts other than the lull of the wind in the trees and the babbling of the stream, I was able to relax enough to cherish the stolen moment of peace.
A part of me hoped my unseen lover might come to me here and reveal himself.
Perhaps he might carry me away and protect me.
But I knew that, unlike the legend of King Arthur’s knights, I did not live in a world of honor and chivalry.
So I clung to the dream and imagined a different life, where I would be free—free to live and to love as I chose.
A wave of nausea overcame me, and I bent forward, drawing in a lungful of air until it subsided. The memory of the cup at my lips grew stronger. Perhaps someone had drugged me, though I did not understand why. Had they meant to kill me?
Perhaps the poison worked slowly, and I would sicken gradually before dying. I took in a deep breath, and the nausea subsided as the fresh air filled and cleaned my lungs.
The nausea returned the next day but did not worsen.
The poison had not done its job properly, unless the intent was to disable rather than kill me.
Nonetheless, I was careful of what I ate, and I avoided wine.
My husband did not seem to notice, but Sawford’s eyes stayed focused on me in the dining hall as I shared a trencher with my husband and pretended to sip at my wine.
After that terrible night in the solar, my husband did not touch me again.
He resumed the previous routine of commanding me to strip and stand naked before him while he took pleasure at his own hand.
Then, Sawford would return me to my room and take me for himself.
Though I tried desperately to keep my passions at bay, my body betrayed me.
To my shame, I willingly opened myself to Sawford, relishing the pleasure he wrought from my body.
One night, after Sawford had finished with me, I turned my back, expecting him to dress and leave as usual, but his hand touched the back of my neck. My skin tightened at his touch, sending a jolt of longing to my center, which still pulsed faintly from the pleasures he’d given me.
“Who is Tarvin?”
My stomach tightened, but I kept my back to him.
“I know not what you say,” I said, forcing calmness into my voice. “I’ve never heard that name before.”
The bed ropes creaked as he stood up.
“You called out his name.”
“You must have imagined it,” I said coldly.
“Must I?” he mocked. “Or, perhaps you have another lover. I should be affronted if you do not wish for exclusivity with me, for I have not yet left any of my women unsatisfied.”
Any of my women…
Sawford was goading me. But I refused to take the bait.
“You know well enough, Monsieur, that you are the only man forcing his attentions on me. Given my husband’s desire for a stallion—any stallion—to service his prize mare, I hardly think a servant such as yourself should have cause for complaint.
We’re both livestock in Mortlock’s eyes, though I am the one with the bloodline. ”
I turned and looked him in the eye.
“Perhaps, in time, Lord Mortlock might prefer a destrier to service his mare than a mere carthorse.”
A flare of rage illuminated his eyes and the muscles of his jaw tensed. My arrow had found its target.
“Ever the cold-hearted creature,” he said, “though you relish having that cart horse between your thighs.”
To hide the hurt in my eyes, I turned away. I cared not for his opinion, and it was safer for me if they all thought me devoid of feeling. But I still ached for a kind word or a gentle touch. Eventually, I heard him sigh before the door closed after him.