Elaine Barbieri (17 page)

Those thoughts were heavy on her mind when two knights approached her. Rosamund stilled when an armed, bearded fellow with eyes cold as ice addressed her. “The baron summons you.”

With no other recourse, she accompanied them without a reply.

Hyacinthe watched as Ross entered the kitchen with two knights at her side. He was silent, his skin colorless as they ushered him up the stairs toward the baron’s quarters. Hyacinthe’s gaze narrowed when both knights
descended the stairs moments later and disappeared from sight.

“You do well to observe closely.” Obviously desiring to teach the French whore a lesson, Edythe approached. “The baron ordered a repast to be delivered to his quarters before he ordered us all out of the keep this morning. Why do you suppose that was? When his friend obviously did not appear for their assignation as he expected, he sent two of his knights to bring him forcibly to his quarters.”

“You are wrong, old woman! The baron but needed to question the fellow, who obviously protested.”

“Oh, he protested.”

“Witch! You are wrong in your assumptions.” Ignoring the frightened expression of Winifred, who cowered in the corner of the kitchen, Hyacinthe stood adamant and warned, “I will speak to Guilbert about your behavior and you will suffer for it.”

“
Guilbert
, is it?” Strands of graying hair escaped confinement to sway against her rounded shoulders as Edythe laughed heartily. “Use the baron’s given name in his presence and he will flay you within an inch of your life.”

“Again you are wrong! I use the baron’s given name openly when I share his bed.”

“Which you have not done for a longer period than you wish to admit. You are nothing more to him than a French trollop who followed him from his precious Normandy, and who is allowed into his bed only when he is desperate for company—which he will not be now that his new playmate is firmly established in his quarters.”

“You lie! You wish it to be so.”

“I know it to be so, and so does everyone else who knows the baron as well as I. Everyone else…except you, that is.”

“I will prove to you that Guilbert has no desire for the young man who was escorted to his quarters. I will prove to you that he but hopes for…for information that only that young man may provide to him.”

“Balderdash!”

“Is it? I will demonstrate to you and to everyone else who doubts the baron’s affection for me that he prefers me, especially to that young man. I will be the one to remain with the baron long after that other is removed this morning!”

Enraged, Hyacinthe started toward the stairs, her dark eyes flashing. She laughed aloud at Edythe’s gasp and Winifred’s low moan of disquiet as she ascended toward the baron’s quarters. Guilbert would want her again. Guilbert would prefer her to the thin, poorly muscled, effeminate male who had entered his rooms.

He had to.

Her throat tight, Hyacinthe climbed the stairs with tearful determination.

“You have no choice but to submit, my dear.”

“But I do have a choice.” Rosamund faced the baron boldly as she continued, “And it will never be you.”

His smile fading, de Silva advanced toward Rosamund slowly. Standing only a hairsbreadth away, he said softly, “You will regret those words.”

“I will not.”

“You will…Rosamund.”

Her color fading at the use of her true name, Rosamund maintained her silence, and de Silva’s smile returned. “You are wondering how I became aware of your charade while I am wondering why I did not see through it sooner. I can only think that the aura you projected drew me in, my love, and that I desired you intensely in spite of your pretended sex.”

“
My love
.” Rosamund sneered. “You do not know the meaning of the word
love
. Nor will you ever have me—not willingly.”

“You err.” Ignoring Champlain’s presence in the room, de Silva continued softly, “You see, I have the key to your acceptance.”

“There is no key!”

“Yea, there is. His name is Dagan.”

“Dagan!” Rosamund’s eyes widened. “Where is he?”

“You do not know?” De Silva laughed again. “I wager that no one else knows either. You see, I have discovered his true identity. I know William sent him here. I dismissed my knights and servants for a few hours and then sent a loyal servant to surreptitiously deliver a note to him. Dagan came here wondering what I had in mind because I indicated that I had found him out and hoped to work with him. He came, but he did not expect the reception he received.”

Rosamund despised the trembling in her voice as she inquired, “What reception was that?”

“What do you suppose it was?”

“You dared to attack William’s envoy?”

“I dare much, which is how I achieve much. In any case, Champlain, here, and the loyal servant I referred
to earlier, carried your friend down to the dungeon below the castle keep before the servants returned.”

Rosamund whitened.

“That is correct, Rosamund…the dungeon. My jailors tend to him even now. Their ways are a well-kept secret in this shire, and I need not tell you how few manage to live through their attentions.”

“William will rise up against you for this!”

“It is strange to hear you speak up in William’s behalf, since I assume you are his enemy. William will never discover how his favored knight disappeared or where he is. DuPree recognized Dagan, I am sure of that now, but his report will be inconclusive except to say that Dagan pretended to be a peasant in order to complete the mission William assigned him. I will be most sincere when explaining that I know nothing about what happened to him because I did not know of his identity. Because of my superior previous service and loyalty to him, and with no one to refute my fidelity, William will eventually assume Dagan was found out and executed by angry Saxons, who resented his duplicity. Perhaps when I mention his name, William might even suspect…Hadley.”

“Nay!”

“Does that bother you, Rosamund? How does it feel to be trapped by someone wilier than you?”

Her composure barely maintained, Rosamund asked, “What do you wish?”

“Need you even ask?”

“My compliance with your demand.”

“That is all that will allow Dagan to continue drawing breath.”

Rosamund shook her head bitterly. “Surely my compliance is not necessary. It was not necessary with others who came before me.”

“But you are different, Rosamund.” De Silva stroked her cheek as he whispered, “I prefer complete surrender from you so that my possession will be complete.”

“So you may then toss me aside as you have done with others!”

“Perhaps.” De Silva shrugged. “My position is such that I need not make any promises to anyone.”

“That is where you are wrong.”

De Silva’s smile was triumphant. “Am I?”

Rosamund raised her chin higher. “You say you hold the key to my compliance, but it is I who hold the key to all you desire here.”

“You? You hold yourself in too high esteem, my love.”

“Does the daughter of the Saxon Lord of Hendsmille—the Saxon heir to this shire, where you will never be recognized as the true lord without her acceptance—hold herself in too high esteem? As the true Saxon heir, is not my approval of your position here the solution to all the problems that beset you?”

“You are Hadley Wedge’s daughter!”

“Hadley’s daughter was killed in the invasion. He raised me in her stead while I awaited the right moment to declare myself.”

“No one will believe your claim!”

“Saxons have long memories. They respect Hadley and will recall that he was my father’s friend when he stands beside me in affirmation of all I claim. They
will also remember the ring my father wore that bore the family crest. It was passed down from father to son, but he gave it to his only living heir before going into battle. I have kept that ring and cherished it these many years, knowing it would identify me when I chose to declare myself.”

“I wish to see this ring!”

“Do you think me a complete fool? Nay, it is well hidden and will remain so until I choose to bring it to light. You may ask Hadley if you wish. He will confirm its existence.”

“You wish to bargain with this ring, perhaps?” Ignoring Champlain’s presence, de Silva whispered, “You know my desire for you, but you do not realize that with your revelation, you have provided me with yet another means of accomplishing my plans. You see, once we are married, my position here will be sealed forever—the old with the new, Saxon and Norman united forever!”

“Married! I will never marry you!”

“Will you not?”

“Unless—”

De Silva’s gaze grew cold. “And so the bargaining begins.”

“Unless I may see for myself that Dagan lives, that he is well cared for wherever he is being held.”

“I guarantee nothing about the future!”

“Nor do I!”

De Silva grew wary. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, if I may see for myself that Dagan is alive and well, if I may ascertain that you do not allow the ghouls in your dungeons to torture him, I will agree to
a union between us. If you do not grant my condition, I will find a way to escape you, even if it causes my death.”

“Your death, eh? Nay, that would be a waste.” De Silva paused. “If I agree, you will agree to a union between us and all it entails?”

Rosamund swallowed her revulsion and nodded.

Forcing her unexpectedly tight against him, de Silva ground his mouth into hers, dissatisfied until the taste of her blood filled his mouth. Obviously enjoying the pain he caused, he drew back breathlessly, wiped his mouth, and sneered. “Our pact is sealed in blood, then. I will take you personally to the dungeon to see Dagan and confirm all I have said, and I will then announce your true identity to the shire—confirmed by Hadley—and tell them that you have consented to become my wife.”

Rosamund’s skin blanched. Aware that Dagan’s life was at stake, she nodded her acquiescence. The baron smiled in triumph and crushed his mouth against hers. Yet none within were prepared for the gasping exclamation that echoed from the doorway where Hyacinthe suddenly appeared. “Stop!”

De Silva’s face turned hot with anger as Hyacinthe stood boldly in the doorway of his quarters. He ordered, “Leave! I did not invite kitchen help here.”

“Kitchen help? Is that what I am to you now?” Hyacinthe advanced into the room. Her skin colorless and her ample breasts heaving, she said incredulously, “That is not what you said when you took me as a child and told me that you could not resist my beauty…or when you returned to Normandy
and me
after each incursion
with William and proved your manhood through long days and nights in your bed. That is not what you whispered when you again held me tight on your silken sheets here, where I pleasured you, fulfilling your every whim while anticipating more. That is not what you sighed when I used every technique I knew to titillate your senses and did not cease until you were sated at last.”

“You are a whore, and I treated you as one.”

“You said you loved me!”

“Did I? I loved what you did for me at the time, but I am no longer interested in your practiced wiles.”

“Wiles that I practiced to maintain your interest!”

“That is as good an excuse as any for your wonton behavior with any male who would have you.”

“That is not true!”

“It is true. Get out!”

“I…I have been your lover since I was a child. You cannot throw me away.”

“What did you expect of me?” De Silva walked toward Hyacinthe with a heavy step. “A permanent relationship?”

“I expected you to marry to me!”

“You!” De Silva was convulsed with laughter. “I would never have soiled my name by joining it with a woman of your caliber. You are an unworthy commoner and a dreamer if you entertained that thought for even a moment.”

“Nay, do not say that.” Throwing herself against him in desperation, Hyacinthe begged as she raised her tear-streaked face to his. “Tell me again that you love me…that you want me.”

“Let me go.” When Hyacinthe still clung to him, de Silva raised his closed fist and struck her mightily. Thrust backward by the strength of his blow, Hyacinthe staggered to the floor. Blood streamed from her nose as she slowly drew herself to her feet, and de Silva ordered, “Get out now, and leave this keep! I do not wish to set eyes on you again.”

“But—”

Hyacinthe drew back instinctively when de Silva advanced toward her again. Without another word, she fled down the stairs.

Turning back toward Rosamund, de Silva shook off his rage with disturbing ease as he said, “Come, my love. It is time for our rendezvous.”

The smell of mold and decay grew stronger as Rosamund descended the stairs to the dungeons established below the castle keep. The baron walked beside her as she looked at the pitch torches that hung in a haphazard fashion from walls dripping with moisture and other suspicious substances. The torches cast wavering shadows that confused the eye and emitted a thick smoke that added to the overwhelming stench of the place.

When de Silva stopped, she stood silently, awaiting his direction through the dank tunnels. A jailor emerged unexpectedly from the semidarkness. The man smelled of human waste and death, and wore an unholy smile as he motioned them forward. Unable to do else, Rosamund followed stiffly when he led them to a door bearing a single window to illuminate the
darkness of the cell beyond. The jailor unlocked the cell with a key he took from his belt.

“Are you ready for what you will find on the other side, Rosamund?” De Silva’s question broke the silence with its gleeful tone. “I expect that it will not be what you hoped for, but I suspect it will suffice.”

Refusing to respond, Rosamund waited until the jailor pulled the door open wide for them to enter. The stench of urine and feces struck her like a blow when she walked inside and took a moment to acclimate to the almost lightless interior. She swallowed tightly as a tall figure stood up from the bench against the wall and walked unsteadily toward her.

“Stop there or I will direct the jailor to stop you!” De Silva’s command rang in the silence when Dagan came into view.