CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Winter is fast approaching, Laoghaire noted with a shiver as she descended the staircase that led from the keep to the bailey below.
Pulling up the hood of her mantle, she peered skyward.
It was a cold day, the afternoon sun muted by a thick curtain of clouds, the sky draped in a depressing gray shroud.
To add to the dismal picture, there was a chill breeze in the air, which brought with it the scents of peat smoke and decaying vegetation.
In a hurry, Laoghaire sidestepped around a villein who was busy unloading sacks of grain from a handcart.
Seconds later, she passed a trio of laundresses.
Their arms laden with folded tablecloths, they were undoubtedly bound for the great hall.
The women gave Laoghaire a shy greeting, to which she forced herself to smile pleasantly while she wished them a good day.
Gossip was the lifeblood of any castle, and she did not want to give the inhabitants of Castle Airlie more fodder than they already had.
That was the reason why, for the three days just passed, she’d forced herself to sit beside Galen at the high table; an act which had taken all of the inner fortitude she could muster.
Like a pair of mummers, they had become quite adept at eating and drinking, nodding at vassals, and feigning interest in the evening’s entertainment, never once exchanging a word with the other.
At the meal’s conclusion, Laoghaire always made haste to leave the hall, entrenching herself behind the closed door of their bedchamber.
Mercifully, Galen made no attempt to seek her out.
Nor did he retire to the chamber at day’s end.
In truth, she had no idea where Galen laid his head at night, as it was of no concern to her.
No! ’Tisn’t true! I care greatly, she silently admitted to herself, heartsick to think that Galen had spent the last three nights in another woman’s arms.
That she would even entertain such a treacherous thought unnerved her, making her fear that her heart was in grave peril.
But from what manner of danger she could not even begin to speculate, the feelings too new, too fragile.
Since that tempestuous day in the grotto, it was as if a riot had commenced in her heart, refusing to abate.
And I like it not.
“I do not want the ruin of heartache,” she murmured. “Not when I can have passion’s rapture.”
As had happened so often over the course of the last three days, images of Galen began to play in her mind’s eyes, vivid flashes that evoked that rain-sodden afternoon. The shape of his lips. The breadth of his shoulders. The dark waves of his hair. His fully erect manhood.
She did not want to remember any of those things, and yet she found herself haunted by them, as though Galen’s very spirit had somehow been imprinted onto her soul.
Indeed, the exquisite pleasure that he’d given her that day had changed her in a subtle but profound way.
There had been a deeply powerful moment, in the instant before her climax, in which they’d been so closely bound to one another that she’d been unable to discern where she ended and he began, their two bodies having merged into one.
And I am now a different woman because of it.
Not that Galen would even care. He’d already chosen Melisande Jardin long before she was thrust upon him by the king’s command. And now that he had performed his marital duty, he was free to enjoy the company of the fair-haired siren.
But if that were true, why did Galen implore her to take his hand so they could “begin again”?
There’d been no reason for him to woo her with gentle words.
Even when she desired an annulment, she never refused Galen outright.
Moreover, the delay in consummating the marriage had been at his instigation, not hers.
Did I misconstrue the words he spoke in the grotto? Or, worse yet, was Galen an artful liar who derived some sort of deranged pleasure from tempting her with a piece of delicious fruit that he never intended to give to her.
Does he prefer the petite Melisande because she has golden, sun-kissed hair and can embroider a fine hand?
“Obviously, he does,” Laoghaire murmured dejectedly, powerless to change the length of her limbs or the color of her hair.
As she continued to make her way across the bailey, she was suddenly put in mind of the unrequited love of the passionate Skatha, the warrior queen of Skye, for the heroic Cúchulainn, who preferred the affections of his docile mate, Emer.
And though it was naught but an ancient myth, Laoghaire felt a kindred connection to Skatha, longing for a man she could never have.
Desperate to shut out the heartbreaking images from that day in the grotto, Laoghaire now sought safe haven in the one place where such thoughts were strictly forbidden, the chapel.
Heavyhearted, she opened the massive, iron-banded door and stepped inside the holy sanctuary.
Upon entering the dimly-lit chapel, Laoghaire felt a sense of eerie foreboding hovering over the entire chamber.
Despite the fact that the interior was illuminated by torches set in evenly–spaced cressets, she began to experience a palpable dread.
And though she told herself that there was nothing lurking in the dark shadows, it nevertheless seemed as though some sort of villainy had taken root therein.
Unnerved by the sinister atmosphere, she tentatively walked down the side aisle toward the altar. She’d taken no more than a few steps when she heard what sounded like the muffled braying of a donkey.
What manner of man or beast would make such a noise in a holy place?
In the next instant she heard a pitiful whimper, and what sounded like a muted cry of protest.
Heedless of the danger, Laoghaire unsheathed the small jeweled eating knife that hung from her girdle and rushed forward.
The scene that met her eyes brought her to a skidding halt, Laoghaire utterly horrified to find Father Giroldus, his meaty hand wrapped around young Aveline’s wrist, forcing the child to fondle him through his habit.
God’s heart! The man is naught but a degenerate fiend!
Although the priest was oblivious to her presence, his eyes closed as he continued to bray and jerk his hips, Aveline immediately caught sight of her.
Quickly putting a finger to her lips to caution the child to silence, Laoghaire stealthily approached the priest from behind.
Outraged that any man would treat a child in such a cruel and base manner, she curbed her natural instinct to take the knife to the priest’s privy parts.
Instead, she put the blade to his throat and pressed firmly enough to garner his attention, but not so forcibly that she drew blood.
“Release yer hold on Aveline or there will be blood,” she threatened. “And if ye discharge yer seed, I’ll kill ye where ye stand.”
At the sound of her voice, Father Giroldus’s head instantly swung in her direction. The priest’s thick lips parted with shock and his eyes went owl-like as he openly gaped at her. “What are you doing here?” he rasped, clearly stunned to find her standing there, knife in hand.
Laoghaire removed the knife from his throat, although she still maintained a firm grip on the handle, ready to use the blade if need be.
“I think the better question is: What in the name of all that is holy are ye doing with this child?” As she spoke, Laoghaire used her free hand to take hold of Aveline by the arm and pull the young girl behind her, shielding her from the brute as best she could.
Quickly collecting himself, the priest’s heavy jowls shuddered with indignation. “I am schooling this child in her Christian catechism.”
“Ye are abusing her innocent nature and forcing her to perform an abomination!”
In the wake of her blunt and damning accusation, Father Giroldus’s face contorted into a mask of naked fury.
“You are gravely mistaken, milady. The chapel is dimly lit and thus your eyes have deceived you.” While his reply was issued in a modulated voice, the portly cleric nevertheless glared belligerently at her, managing to display a surprising amount of gumption.
“I know what I saw,” Laoghaire retorted, refusing to retract her accusation.
“He made me touch him,” Aveline said, her young voice quavering as she spoke.
“The child lies!”
Laoghaire thrust her knife at the priest, coming within a hairsbreadth of his throat. “Ye may wear the cowl, but that won’t stop me from running ye through.” Then, turning toward Aveline, she put a comforting hand on the child’s narrow shoulder. “Has he done this before?”
When Aveline shook her head, Laoghaire released a heartfelt sigh of relief.
“Ye have nothing to fear, Aveline. I will deal with the priest,” Laoghaire assured her. “Now, I want ye to run to the keep and find yer mother.”
Tears in her eyes, Aveline wordlessly turned and ran down the aisle toward the wooden doors at the other end of the chapel.
Once the child had taken her leave, Laoghaire turned to the priest and said, “Remove yer habit.”
Father Giroldus cackled, refusing to comply with the order. “And you dare to accuse me of wantonness.”
“Aye, I do accuse ye,” Laoghaire replied, punctuating the avowal with a forceful nod.
“And because ye have committed this terrible crime, I intend to geld ye.” Cocking her head to one side, she eyed the priest’s voluminous robe.
“As ye can imagine, my job will be made easier if ye aren’t swathed in so much cloth. ”
Father Giroldus’s lips thinned, and he stared at her with obvious disdain.
“You are naught but a lowly female,” he snarled.
“You are the daughter of Eve, that wanton temptress who sinned so grievously that our Savior had to spill His own blood to atone for the damnation she forced upon the whole of mankind. And like the first woman, you have—”
“What is the meaning of this?” an unseen person demanded to know in a booming voice.