Captive Heart (45 page)

Unable to foresee what the future would hold, Celiese sat up slowly, being careful not to bring back the intense pain to her head by too sudden a move. From her place on the edge of the cot she could see the whole room. There was a small table, one low stool, a pail in the far corner, but nothing else. Hardly fit quarters for a woman, even one being held prisoner, and she wondered how long she’d have to endure the discomforts of such humble surroundings. Using her right thumbnail she made a light scratch beside the bed, marking the wall for day one as she wondered how she was expected to survive with neither food nor water. She had no idea how many days a person could exist with neither and had no desire to find out from experience. When Raktor had first taken her from her home she’d gone hungry many a night, spent days with a thirst so great she could think of nothing but the cool, refreshing trickle of the stream upon the rocks near her home, but even in those dire times she’d known food and drink would not be withheld indefinitely. Now, she was not at all certain Hrolf hadn’t decided just to let her starve. He might do it, he was ruthless enough; but if she had to avenge the wrongs he’d done her countrymen as a ghost, then her spirit would haunt him till the last of his days. Determined to outlast the villain regardless of what cruelty he’d chosen to inflict, Celiese lay down again and went back to sleep, deciding she would need all the rest she could get to give her strength to face whatever lay ahead.

Marcela carried the tray through the door and placed it upon the table, but rather than leaving immediately as she’d been told to do she went to the cot and after a moment’s hesitation reached out to touch Celiese’s shoulder. “Madame, please awaken. I have brought your supper and it will grow cold.”

Celiese sat up slowly, then smiled as she recognized the petite maid as one who’d frequently been assigned to her quarters. There was no harm in responding to her in French now, and she did so.
“Merci,
thank you. Do you know how long I have been here? I have lost all track of the time.”

Marcela looked toward the door and seeing they were not being observed by the guard spoke rapidly. “Since yesterday. I am to bring your supper each evening beginning today. I know nothing more, my lady.”

“I am grateful for the food as well as for your company. What is your name?” Celiese smiled warmly, delighted to see a friendly face.

“Marcela, but all here now know who you really are, Lady d’Loganville, and there is talk of little else among us.”

Certain she had failed in the purpose that had brought her to Rouen, Celiese shook her head sadly. “I have no wish to be an object of gossip, but is there no word of how long I am to be kept here?”
 

“I have said too much!” Marcela hurried to the door, but stopped to whisper farewell. “Until tomorrow, dear lady, until then do not despair, for we will see you do not suffer!”

The young woman was gone before Celiese could respond. Was there some plan afoot among the servants to see she came to no harm? What had Marcela meant by suffering? Merely the pain of hunger and thirst, or something far worse? Rather than being reassured, the maid’s vow terrified her. She had no appetite whatsoever now, but knew she’d be foolish not to eat something now her supper had arrived. Pulling the stool up to the table, she sat down and removed the cover from the meal. She’d been given roast pork in a succulent gravy, boiled peas, a slice of freshly baked bread with butter, a wedge of cheese, and a glossy red apple. There was a carafe of wine, a napkin, a cup and spoon, but no knife to cut the pork into bite-sized pieces. Since that was more food than she could possibly eat, she wrapped the apple and cheese in the linen napkin and set them aside for the morning, then ate what she wanted of the rest. She had never been fond of wine and knowing its effect she took only a sip and decided to ask Marcela when next she saw her to bring water instead. A candle would be useful too, as the chamber was so poorly illuminated by the sun. Perhaps if she were to be held in that wretched room for some time, they would bring all her belongings, and other personal items. Hrolf would never grant her request if she asked for everything at once, but perhaps Marcela could remove the things she needed one at a time from their room. From Mylan’s room, she corrected herself angrily. He was the sole occupant of that elegant chamber now. Too restless to remain seated, Celiese got up and began to pace the narrow space between the cot and the table. When the sun set she could make out nothing of her grim surroundings, but she continued to pace with slow, even steps while she let her mind wander to far happier times.

When she was a child the walls of her room had been decorated with bright tapestries, and a thick carpet whose intricate design depicted a hunter chasing a stag through the forest had covered the floor. She had walked around the edges of that fanciful scene knowing the stag would always escape the hunter’s arrow. The man had been a handsome fellow, his mount a spirited while stallion, but the forest belonged to the deer, and he’d used speed as well as cunning to elude his pursuers. Sinking down upon the lumpy cot, Celiese attempted to devise some clever plan to survive the duke’s wrath, but she could not even think of Hrolf as a duke, for that title implied all the virtues of nobility, and from what she’d observed those were attributes he lacked. A deer was at home in the forest, and she was at home in France. She’d been an idiot to confront Hrolf as she had when an oblique approach would have been far more effective. Depressed by her own foolishness, she lay down upon the cot and tried to sleep so her mind would be clear at dawn.

The hours of the next day passed slowly with nothing but the wretchedness of her situation to occupy her mind, but Celiese knew that was precisely why she was being confined: to break her spirit and subdue all her resistance to Hrolf’s will. Determined that he would die an old man before she gave him the satisfaction of shedding one tear over her predicament, she paced her cell with a long, easy stride, waiting for Marcela to again appear so that she might question her more fully.

Unfortunately, when the door swung open that evening it was not the pretty Frenchwoman who brought in the supper tray but a burly Dane. Celiese backed away, putting as much space between herself and the tall, grinning man as possible.

Eyeing the remains of her supper from the previous night, the brute laughed heartily, “I did not think the duke’s commands were taken so lightly, but you are to have bread and water now that I am bringing your meals, nothing more.” Placing the tray he’d brought upon the table, he picked up the other one and turned toward the door.

“What else do you know about the details of my confinement? Am I expected to merely die of boredom in here?” Celiese asked defiantly.

“If it is amusement you want, I will have to return later,” the man teased her as his glance hungrily swept the curves of her shapely figure.

“Do not bother!” Celiese replied instantly, having no wish to encourage his attentions. Laughing again, he slammed the door shut and locked it, but she had not felt nearly as brave as she’d sounded. She’d recognized his voice as that of one of the men who’d brought her there, obviously the more amorous of the two, and that thought sickened her thoroughly. She’d been a fool not to hide the spoon Marcela had brought with her supper. She could have sharpened the edges against the stone walls of her cell and made a passable weapon, but since no utensils were required to eat bread she’d been given none that night. The small loaf was fresh, the crust crisp, the inside soft and tasty; perhaps the friendly guard did not know the bread given to prisoners was supposed to be stale, but she’d not offer instructions for her treatment if he’d been given none. Not wanting his or any other guard’s company, she struggled to move the cot across the door. It would not serve as much of a barricade, but at least the room could not be entered while she slept. The door would slam into the wooden frame of the cot and jostle her awake, and then she’d have the advantage of being alert should she have an unexpected and unwanted visitor. She’d saved half the cheese from breakfast and ate that with some of the little loaf. The water was fresh and cool, readily quenching her thirst. After dining upon what little she’d been served, she made another line upon the wall to mark her second whole day in the small chamber. When the room was completely dark she lay down and went to sleep, hoping to break the monotony of the dreary hours with the sweet peace of dreams, but they were as wild as the night before, for asleep she could not suppress Mylan’s taunting sneer from her mind. His presence pervaded her thoughts with the most sensuous of memories, filling her heart with an anguish too great to bear without the relief of tears.

In the morning, Celiese replaced the cot against the southern wall. Moving the table, she stood upon it but still could not reach the narrow window. Since neither the table nor the stool were sturdy, she decided against stacking them together but tossed some crumbs of bread upon the sill, hoping a bird would come to eat them. She would welcome any company except that of a Dane, for other than pacing restlessly or lying down to nap she could think of nothing to fill her time. Active by nature, she found the enforced leisure in itself torture, but she told herself to count the fact she was being left alone a blessing while it lasted.

Jaret was back at dusk. Hoping to win a smile if not much more from the defiant beauty in his care, he’d stuffed his pockets with apples and nuts, which he placed upon her tray beside the bread and water he’d brought. “The duke is generous with his men; I do not mind sharing my rations with you.”

Although she was surprised by his kindness, Celiese had no intention of sharing anything with him. “If there is something you expect in return, then take it all back to the kitchen.” She stood on the opposite side of the table, ready to hurl the stool at his head should he move toward her.

Giving an unconcerned shrug, Jaret picked up the largest of the apples and took a bite. The fruit was crisp and juicy and he wiped his chin as he savored its marvelous taste. “It is a pity you have no manners, but perhaps by tomorrow you’ll be more agreeable, or next week, or next year. I am a patient man.”

“Get out of here!” Celiese whispered a command in so threatening a manner that the burly man had left the room and locked the door securely before he realized she had no means to enforce her words.

After making another line upon the wall, Celiese sat down and ate some of the nuts and an apple with bites so tiny she made the meager meal last a long while. In the morning she’d eat the bread as slowly, and that would provide the only excitement to which she could look forward. She stretched out upon the cot, but sleep, no matter how troubled, would not come, and she lay wide awake, finally letting her thoughts focus upon Mylan. He was undoubtedly getting quite drunk with Hrolf at that very minute, having completely forgotten her and the dire predicament in which she found herself. “Snake!” she cried out bitterly, for had he been the one to be locked away in a forgotten tower she would have done all she could to set him free within the hour. He had not lifted a hand to help her when she’d been struck so brutally and carried from the garden. He had not even spoken in her behalf. No, he had simply severed what tenuous ties there had been between them and had chosen to serve Hrolf rather than save her.

As her depression deepened she recalled their first meeting with a rush of emotion that brought a flood of bitter tears to her eyes. She’d thought Mylan so attractive, his golden gaze haunting, his touch as well as his kiss enchanting. His heart had been open to her then, his hopes unhidden, and yet the love that had flared so brightly between them that first night had left only smoldering embers of hatred by the time dawn had lit the sky. Mylan would be glad to see her banished from his life forever, for the marriage she’d longed to share had existed only in the beauty of her dreams and never in the stark reality of his perceptions.

Olgrethe was the lucky one, Celiese thought with a faint smile, she’d found the best of husbands in Andrick, not due to well-laid plan but purely as the unexpected result of her father’s treachery. The afternoons she’d spent with the pampered young woman making plans for the future seemed years in the past now. They’d been so foolish, thinking the choice of mates was theirs to make, when fate held the course of their lives forever hidden from their view. Her fingertips closed around Thor’s silver hammer and she recalled that Mylan had asked her to return his charm, but she had refused. The silver necklace was a symbol of all her dashed hopes, and he’d have to remove it from her body to ever take it back. Hurt, confused, desperately lonely, she lay still knowing she had fallen in love with Mylan with a childlike faith that her kindness would be appreciated, that her affection would be returned, but the only happiness they’d found had been in the passion they’d enjoyed to the fullest. But while she had sought love in his embrace, he’d longed only for the pleasure he could have found with any woman. From the moment they’d met he had been her husband, while she had never truly been his wife.

Growing increasingly more desolate as the hours passed, Celiese began to envy the haven from the trials of the world her mother had found. Perhaps the love of God was the only true affection and she’d been far too hasty in leaving the convent of Saint Valery with so much of her life in confusion. The once bright hope of regaining her estate was no more than a faint glimmer now, while the rapture of Mylan’s embrace was a joy forever lost. Perhaps she would live no longer than the seventeen years she’d managed to survive in the world. That was a feat of some kind, she supposed, but her existence seemed pointless now, totally without reason or reward.

When Jaret entered the dimly lit chamber to bring Celiese her meal the next evening he found her sitting upon the cot as though in a trance, her gaze blank, her posture rigid. Suspecting some sort of trick, he placed her meager meal upon the table and waited for her to speak, but when she didn’t he moved close. “There is talk in Rouen of little but your plight, Lady d’Loganville. I expected more than this complacent mood from a woman of your breeding. Have you no more courage than the rest of your countrymen whose faint hearts we’ve stilled with our swords?”