Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next day, de Tourrard claimed my body by force. At first light, he led me to the chapel where a priest conducted the betrothal ceremony. He silenced my protests with a blow to the face while Papa looked on, his face impassive.
Afterward he took me to the solar. Though I struggled and pleaded for mercy, I found none. Resistance only increased his relish. I saw Maman, telling me to be strong, but when I reached out to her she disappeared, and blackness overcame me.
When I regained consciousness I was still in the solar. My throat burned as if I had consumed liquid fire. I crawled toward the door, my body aching, and fumbled for the handle, but it was locked.
De Tourrard found me curled on the floor.
“’Tis not a seemly place for my lady wife to be, groveling in the dirt like a common peasant.”
He carried me to the bed and pulled at the front of my dress, torn from his earlier exertions. Frustration flashed in his eyes as I stared back, not reacting to his touch.
“Lie with me again,” he said. “I have much to teach you.”
I lay still, closed my eyes, and began to count slowly, detaching myself from the weight of his body and the sound of his breath, coming in hot, hard puffs.
At length I heard him sigh in frustration, but I did not open my eyes until he left the solar.
A woman screamed from outside the door, followed by de Tourrard’s voice, raised at first in anger, before turning to lust.
His entire family was perverted and depraved.
Mortlock had taken his pleasure at his own hand while leering at my naked body. His cousin de Tourrard took pleasure in inflicting pain on a struggling, unwilling woman.
I lost count of the days which all merged into one another. De Tourrard kept me confined in the solar, spending the night beside me in the bed, after binding my wrists to prevent my attacking him in his sleep.
I now understood what my life would have been like at Mortlock Fort had Sawford handed me to others rather than take me for himself. My unwilling body had responded to Sawford’s ministrations but with de Tourrard I felt nothing but revulsion.
My passivity was my salvation which preserved me from his violence. But the echoes of women crying in the passageway reminded me that my salvation came at a price.
What made me different from a whore? A whore sold her body for her own purpose, usually a coin to feed hungry mouths.
I had sold my body to de Tourrard for relief from the pain he inflicted on other women.
It was not my own hand striking them, but it may as well have been.
Due to my own cowardice, I had turned his perversions on others.
I was worse than a whore.
I was followed everywhere, more closely than at Mortlock Fort.
Every door, every archway was guarded by either one of Papa’s men or de Tourrard’s.
But even if I could escape, where would I go?
I would be hunted down like the stags in the forests and with as much relish.
But another means of release existed—to join Maman in death.
At Shoreton I felt close to her again, could almost hear her calling to me.
She was the only person who had truly loved me, and death would reunite us.
About a month after we arrived at Shoreton, de Tourrard announced he was leaving. Guy intercepted me in the garden to take me to Papa’s study. De Tourrard had begun to trust me enough to let me walk freely within the bailey walls, provided I was within sight and earshot of his men.
In the gardens I had found a plant I recalled from my childhood—a plant Maman had warned me never to touch, identifiable by small purple flowers and dark berries from which an infusion would produce a deadly poison.
I had begun to collect them and conceal them within Maman’s room, careful to only touch them through a piece of muslin rather than with my fingers.
Guy knocked on the study door and announced my presence. De Tourrard sat at Papa’s desk. Papa stood behind his left shoulder.
“Sit down, Lisetta.”
A maidservant approached with a flagon of wine and I waved her away.
She flinched at the movement, and I pressed my lips together, trying to ignore her bruised face.
One eye was so swollen it was almost closed.
De Tourrard may have dealt the blows but the burden of responsibility lay on my shoulders.
I turned to de Tourrard, my voice toneless.
“What does my lord wish of me?”
He smiled, and addressed my father.
“You see, Shoreton, with the right degree of instruction, your daughter has greatly improved.”
Papa nodded. The deference he accorded de Tourrard confirmed who the real leader was behind the plots to overthrow the king.
“I leave at sundown, my dear,” de Tourrard continued, “and I shall be away for several days. I trust you’ll continue to show good behavior for your father’s sake.
“Of course,” I replied. “Might I inquire as to where my lord is going?”
He could not resist the temptation to impress, and he straightened his stance, almost puffing out his chest.
“To France,” he replied, “to overthrow that whoreson Henry and replace him with Stephen’s rightful heir.”
“And that is?”
“William de Blois.”
I had heard of William; the old King Stephen’s third son. Rumors existed of his involvement in a previous plot on Henry’s life. He was a similar age to me—old enough to lead a country. But he was not a warrior. With him on the throne, the real ruler would be de Tourrard.
“Is it wise to divulge…” Papa began, but de Tourrard silenced him by raising his hand.
“Of course, Shoreton. I should wait until we have accomplished our victory.”
He continued to instruct me on my behavior.
Most of his men, including Guy, were leaving with him.
I was to be confined indoors and assigned one of Papa’s men-at-arms for my protection.
Finally he stood and told Guy to escort me to the solar where he would ‘take his leave’ of me.
I lowered my gaze in shame at his words and ignored Guy’s lewd gaze as he accompanied me to my chamber.
He said nothing, and I shut the door on him to wait for de Tourrard to violate me once more.
During de Tourrard’s absence Papa kept himself in his study, sending and receiving messages.
For the first few days my escort remained constantly by my side, but at length, he grew weary of wasting his time with a woman and sent one of the maidservants to remain with me while he visited the privy and busied himself with a whore who visited the castle.
I recognized the maidservant, Elspeth, from my childhood.
She had often slipped me a sweetmeat when she’d found me hiding in the kitchen listening to servants’ gossip, returning me to Harwyn before Papa discovered me.
With Elspeth’s help I used those precious minutes in Maman’s old treatment room to begin work on the poison, crushing the berries into a small pot and letting it simmer over the fire.
So as not to arouse suspicion we brewed other herbal infusions as well—genuine healing lotions to administer to members of the household who needed it.
The poison I kept for myself, to be used when the time was fitting.
Soon after de Tourrard left, I dreamed of Vane, of his touch.
It was so realistic. His soft fingertips caressed my skin, making my body tighten with need.
He brushed his mouth lightly against my own.
I opened my lips with a sigh of longing and his tongue sought entrance, teasing, probing, and sending a pulse of heat through my body.
I shifted position on the bed and felt his hands and lips on my ankles, his touch so gentle, leading a trail of warmth between my legs until he reached my thighs.
I parted them willingly, my breath catching as I waited for him to free me, to give me the pleasure which only he could give.
He whispered my name, the heat of his voice rumbling against my core until I could bear it no longer.
Vane!
I drew my hands into fists, grasping the sheets tightly and pushed my hips up toward his voice, my body open and ready, pleading for him to take that which I gladly offered.
I cared not that I begged him. Neither did I care he might reject me, so overcome was I by the need to have him inside me, to have him purge all trace of de Tourrard from my body.
A loud crash made me sit up with a scream. My heart thudded against my chest. Then the pounding turned into a loud hammering at the door.
Bang, bang, bang.
“Lady!”
“What is it?” I called out, my voice shaking.
The door opened, and one of Papa’s men walked in, holding a candle. I blinked at the light, shielding my eyes.
“You cried out,” he said. “Are you unwell?”
“I am well,” I whispered. “It was just a bad dream.”
He nodded and closed the door, turning the lock.
The image of Vane’s vividly blue eyes was so strong I looked about, hoping he was with me, but I was alone in the room. It had been a dream. I sank back, defeated. Vane may be dead but my love for him had only strengthened.
He visited me in my dreams several times after that, each more vivid than the last, my need for him increasing. But each time I woke, the bed was empty, and I rolled onto my side, my body shaking as I cried in silence.
I had no hope. The man I loved was dead, and I was a traitor’s whore.
If de Tourrard was successful in his campaign I would remain his whore until he tired of me and threw me to Guy.
Were he to fail, I would be branded a traitor to be publicly condemned by the king and executed—or worse.
Henry was not known for an even temper, neither was he known for his fidelity.
He, too, might use me as his whore or hand me over to his men to be torn apart.