Chapter 6 #2
Everyone but the guards was asleep. By the light of the half-moon, she watched two of them walking the palisade. They’d be Summerbourne men, but still might call the alarm. She waited until they were as far away as possible, then eased over the sill and quickly down the rope.
The ground was a little firmer, so it wasn’t too hard to pick her way toward the postern gate. She was glad that she knew the place, however, for the moonlight did little to ease the shadows and played tricks on the eyes. She kept imagining de Lisle in his long dark cloak, lurking in dark corners.
She crossed herself. Sweet Virgin protect me from the evils of the night.
The postern lay behind the stables on the opposite side of Summerbourne from the main gate. It was a waist-high hatch, firmly barred on the inside, but providing an emergency escape. She supposed it could be used in attack, too, but not easily since a person had to go through it on hands and knees.
She eased up the bar, opened the door, and crawled through.
After carefully closing it again, she slithered down the muddy side of the ditch, praying that no guard glanced her way. She didn’t expect them to be alert. Armed men were camped outside as extra defense, and if the enemy wanted to get in, they had only to knock.
The smell hit her, and she realized—too late—that the rain would have filled the ditch with foul drainage.
She sank in it up to her knees and had to choke back a cry of disgust. Holding her breath and her nose, she waded through.
By the time she scrambled up the other slippery bank, the stench was part of her.
She collapsed on the grass, realizing then that she hadn’t thought how she was going to approach an armed camp and get into one of the tents.
Impulsive yet again. Tears stung her eyes, and she wasn’t sure if it was misery or just the fumes rising off her.
Resolutely, she pulled herself together.
It was her life at issue here. She was out.
That was an achievement. Now she had to make her way around to the front of the manor enclave to where her aunts were held.
As she pushed to her feet she decided that the most likely thing his men would do with her would be to put her in with her aunts and send for their master.
There, see. It would be easy. By the time he arrived, Felice would be a blushing, eager bride.
She soon found that it wouldn’t be easy.
For a start, she couldn’t just walk. Her father might not have been warlike, but he’d kept Summerbourne secure. No one could sneak up on the manor because the ground all around was kept clear by the sheep that grazed there.
She tried scuttling along bent double, but that only gave her a great deal more sympathy for her grandmother. She settled in the end to crawling over the muddy grass, her skirts dreadfully in the way. She prayed that if the guards saw her, they’d think she was a sheep.
She bit her lip. She’d thought that they were all sheep to de Lisle’s wolf. She’d thought that midnight was his hour. Now she prayed she was entirely wrong and that Summerbourne’s wolf was fast asleep.
She reached the corner of the palisade with only a few encounters with sheep droppings to add to her disastrous state. Just this side to go along and she’d be almost there. Then she heard voices behind her. Someone had found the unbarred postern!
She rose to run, but then realized that would give her away entirely. Already the guards on the palisade were answering faint questions. She went flat on the soggy ground and lay still. Perhaps they didn’t know she’d escaped and would think the gate had been left unbarred.
Then she realized that she’d left the rope hanging down the wall.
Fool!
Impulsive, silly fool.
Silence fell, as if the world held its breath.
What was happening? Had they given up and gone back to bed?
Dare she move yet?
She heard a rustling nearby. Her imagination.
No, there it was again. Sheep.
Or a rabbit from the warren.
Would a rabbit squelch?
Hobgoblin? Or worse …
She couldn’t bear it. Slowly, she eased her head to the side to peer. A huge, dark shape blocked the sky, leaned down—
At the first touch, she tried madly to scramble away. A hand grasped the back of her clothes and stopped her. Before she could scream, she was lifted straight out of the mud and tossed over a massive shoulder like a bundle of old rags.
The wolf!
In terror, she kicked and pounded at his back.
A hard, stinging slap to her behind made her go still, but terror still choked her. What would he do to her?
At the portal gate, he virtually dropped her. “Through.”
This was no time to argue. Claire scuttled through then turned to watch him crawl through after her. The tight squeeze didn’t ease her fear. Two of the castle servants stood nearby bearing torches, but they wouldn’t help her. They were staring at her as if she were a monster at a fair.
His squire—her guard—came through after de Lisle and gave her a disgusted look. Would he be beaten, too?
Claire straightened her spine and tried to pretend that she wasn’t mud-covered, stinking, and terrified.
De Lisle seized her arm and dragged her toward the hall. She didn’t protest. She was potently aware that he could crush her flesh down to the bone. It was dawning on her, moreover, that she’d failed. She might have to marry this man, the one with midnight in his soul.
He stopped, and they weren’t at the hall yet.
Looking around wildly, Claire saw that they were by the well. Was he going to drown her?
“Josce, pull up some water.”
She stared at him, nearly beyond rational thought. “What are you going to do?”
“Clean you up, you stupid woman.”
“I’ll bathe—”
“You’re too filthy for a bath. And after chasing you, so am I.” He took the bucket from his squire and poured water over her.
She cried out in the icy deluge, but when she tried to run, he grabbed her hair. In moments another bucketful sluiced over her and her teeth started to chatter.
“No more,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t punishment.” He turned her roughly, shaking his head. “Go on, then. Your women should be ready by now. Don’t touch anything until you’re stripped and washed.”
Claire was almost too dazed to make sense of his words, but she grasped that she had a reprieve. She fled for the safety of the hall.
Prissy was waiting for her, still half asleep, but awake enough to shriek at the sight. “Lady Claire! What now?”
She was hustled to the kitchen and a tub. Claire had to accept that stripping off her ruined clothes and sinking into the warm, herb-scented water was not the most terrible thing that had happened to her in her life.
But as she scrubbed she cried.
She cried because she’d failed and she knew he’d never give her another chance to escape.
She also cried from fear because he’d implied that punishment was still to come. In her gentle father’s house, punishment was rare and mild. She’d heard stories, though, and the thought of that blow to her behind combined with his wide leather belt set her to trembling.
It was fear that kept her in the water long after it had cooled. In the end, Prissy held out a towel. “Come on, Lady Claire. You’ll wrinkle like a summer apple if you stay in there much longer!”
Claire had to stand into the large, warm drying cloth. Too soon, she was in a clean shift. “I only need a blanket to wrap round me while I go to my room, Prissy.”
The maid gave her a strange look. “If you want, lady. But he’s waiting to speak to you.”
“Now?” It came out as a squeak, so she cleared her throat and repeated it. “Now?”
“Yes, now. And if you ask me, he’s the patience of a saint. You running out like that. I don’t know what you were thinking of …”
Claire let the lecture wash over her.
Now.
He was waiting for her now, doubtless growing angrier by the moment.
“Hurry up, Prissy!”
The maid had brought some of her best garments—a fine, cream linen kirtle and a pale green tunic worked in cream and pink flowers. Claire was too weary and frightened to protest. And in truth perhaps a bit of prettiness might be wise. It might weaken his rage.
She was seriously regretting her hair.
It took all Claire’s courage to enter the passageway to the hall. She hoped he couldn’t hear her teeth chattering.
He waited in the shadows, mighty arms folded across massive chest, frowning darkly into nothingness. At some sound she made, he straightened, instantly lethal. A squeak of panic escaped and Claire stepped back.
He relaxed and his eyes traveled over her once quickly, then again a great deal more slowly. “I was right. You do improve with cleaning.”
All the tastier for my big, white teeth. She decided silence was safer, especially since she wasn’t sure she could be coherent.
With a slight jerk of his head, he said, “The office,” clearly ordering her to lead the way.
Claire was glad to obey. If she could keep her back straight, he might not know about her fear. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her tremble.
She hadn’t counted, however, on how her father’s special room would affect her. She and he had spent so much time here.
Someone had lit the tall standard candle. Despite the fact that this man had used the room, claimed it as his own, in the warm glow it looked as if her father had just stepped out.
His rabbit fur still lay draped across a bench, waiting for his hand. Claire remembered snuggling under that fur with him on winter days as he taught her to read.
Most of his books were out of sight, locked in the chests which were themselves works of art. One book, however, lay open on his lectern. He’d risen from reading it and ridden off to rebellion, and she’d left it that way, waiting for his return.
The rich hangings stirred under a breeze from the open shutters as if the room sighed.
Claire covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hold back the pain that swelled from her chest, burned around her eyes …
She didn’t want …
She couldn’t …
It burst free.