Prisoner of My Desire (8 page)

Rowena was in a daze for what remained of that awful day. She had been put on a horse, her wrists bound, the reins in another’s control, so she did not need to concentrate on guiding the animal. And she did not take note of where they rode. Fulkhurst Castle was in the north. She knew that, and she knew she was being taken there with all speed. How she got there mattered not.

Her escort had begun with five men, though they were all of them knights, so less likely to be set upon by bands of thieves, if there were thieves in the area. However, a sixth knight caught up with them on the road with more specific orders from their lord.

Vaguely, Rowena heard that she was not to be spoken to other than to be given direction, that she was to receive no special treatment
merely because she “appeared” to be a lady—which engendered much speculation—that she was not to be touched other than to be assisted on and off her mount, or to be tied thoroughly when she was not mounted. She did not care. She did not even think about it, still so shocked was she by what had happened.

They made camp that eve just off the road, and no sooner were the horses unsaddled and a fire begun than another twenty men arrived from the Lord of Fulkhurst. And by the look of their animals, they had ridden hard to reach them by dark.

Rowena’s interest was finally stirred, only because she feared at first ’twas Fulkhurst who had come with so many, especially when she saw one man astride a destrier much taller than all the rest. But as they came closer to the light of the fire, she decided ’twas not him—unless he had removed his armor, for this dark-haired man wore only a tunic and woolen hose. But she had no way of knowing.

Though he was not dressed like the other knights, and there were nine in this new group, a squire took his horse off the same as the others. At least she assumed the other ten men were squires, since they were every one of them younger than she, and too finely garbed to be merely men-at-arms. But again she had no way of knowing. Too many talked at once for her to hear any distinct conversation from where she sat alone, with a tree at her back and the fire before her.

She had indeed been more firmly bound after
she had been allowed to relieve herself, and that with a damn guard standing not five feet away. Her ankles now had a rope wrapped around them, so long a length it looped up nearly to her knees. Another rope, even longer, secured her waist to the tree trunk. And her hands had been retied at her back, so there was no way she could reach the cords at her feet. That she was extremely uncomfortable was of no concern to her guards, and in keeping with Fulkhurst’s order of “no special treatment.”

When the tall newcomer spared her only a curious glance, she felt immense relief. Not Fulkhurst, then, for that one would have given her more attention. And then she had it confirmed when she heard her original guard address him.

“He sent
you
, Sir Robert? I had not thought her such an important prisoner.”

“Any prisoner is important to him, or he would not take them,” Sir Robert replied.

“Forsooth,” the other agreed. “Though I am relieved to give the responsibility of her over to you, when Lord Warrick made it imperative that she arrive safely in Fulkhurst. Know you what she has done to merit the dungeon?”

“He did not say, and ’tis not our concern.”

But they were curious, all of them. Rowena could see it in their eyes when each of the newcomers looked at her, having heard the question, too. And if they did not know why she was being so harshly condemned, then she would not be finding out either any time soon. Their curiosity could not be as great as hers.

Mixed with their curiosity, however, she also
noted admiring looks in some, which gave her naught but unease. Mayhap ’twas to her good, after all, that they had been ordered not to touch her, for she knew what could be done to female prisoners. One had been thrown in the dungeon for just a day at Gilbert’s keep last year, merely as a light punishment, but the jailer had taken full use of the girl whilst she was in his care.

“Verily, Richard, are you quite sure she cannot get away?”

Sir Robert said this so dryly, Richard flushed. ’Twas the rope around her waist that Robert had noticed. The one binding her feet was hidden beneath her skirts and the single blanket that had been spread across her lap.

“You did not hear Lord Warrick’s tone when he threw her at me,” Richard said in his defense.

“Nay, but I am here with enough men to assure the prisoner is guarded at night as well as day. He said naught about denying her sleep.”

Sir Robert came around the fire to untie the rope at her waist even as he spoke. He also retied her wrists in front of her again. Rowena thanked him when he had finished, but he gave no acknowledgment of having heard her, nor did he meet her eyes. And then she was forgotten by most of them as they ate what food had been carried with them, then settled down for the night.

One of the squires eventually brought her a crust of bread and a chunk of moldy cheese, with a bag of water. She had no appetite for the food, would likely be sick if she tried to eat it. But she was grateful for the water. She did not bother to
say so, however. If they would not talk to her, why should she talk to them?

She wished she had not been brought to such a keen awareness of her predicament with Sir Robert’s arrival. It had been much easier to deal with when her mind had refused to grasp all the implications.

She now knew his name, the man who was sending her to his dungeon. She had heard the name Warrick de Chaville earlier, but had not known the speaker had been talking about the Lord of Fulkhurst. His dungeon—God’s mercy, a
dungeon
! It no longer lacked reality. A dungeon. And she would be there on the morrow at the rate they were traveling.

He must have known her, and that she was the rightful owner of three of the properties that had recently surrendered to him. Why else?—but how could he know? She had never met him, never even seen him before. But he could have simply heard that she was to wed Godwine Lyons, and she had given him her new name. Aye, why else would he want to put her away in a dungeon? People died in dungeons, from neglect, fouled food, or any number of other reasons. If she died, she could not make claim on her properties—and neither could Gilbert.

Ah, God, then it was not to be even temporary, her imprisonment. Fulkhurst wanted her to die, he just did not want to murder her with his own hands. She could see no difference, but he would.

She wished she were not an heiress. She wished she were a lowly serf with naught to her
name that men would covet. Tures and all it entailed had brought her naught but grief since the d’Ambrays had decided to kill her father so they could have it.

Little did she sleep that night, but Rowena was not tired the next day. Her anxiety would not give her mind peace. And the day passed much too swiftly, as did the miles.

They arrived at Fulkhurst just as the sun was setting. The red glow on the castle walls so reminded Rowena of her first sight of Kirkburough that she was close to trembling. Had it only been four days ago that she thought she was entering hell? This, she knew, would be much worse—the home of the fire-breathing dragon of the north.

It was an impregnable fortress, a stronghold similar to Tures Castle. But whereas Tures just stretched toward the sky with a keep five stories high, Fulkhurst stretched and spread out over the land. An outer bailey had been added only in the past ten years, which was why the inner bailey was larger than normal. The walls of both baileys were massive in thickness and fronted by deep moats.

The larger outer bailey was almost like a town, it contained so many buildings, including a new hall under construction that would be only two floors in height. Arms practice was still done in the inner bailey, however, since it had so much yard space.

The stone keep was merely four stories high, though larger than the norm. But Rowena soon found that there was one other floor dug out
beneath it. Reached through a trapdoor in the storage basement, the dungeon was another addition Lord Warrick had added to his castle.

The stairs led down to a small guardroom with stone walls and wooden floor that was presently empty. The only door was made of iron with an iron bar set across it. It led to a corridor no more than six feet long, with another iron door at the end, and two on either side. The cell at the end was the largest, though Rowena would not have guessed this, for it was only an eight-by-eight square. The floor was beaten earth, the walls well-set stone, the ceiling an iron grid similar to a portcullis, with the wooden floor of the basement seen above it.

This cell was entirely empty, without even an old rag to lie on. It was not exactly cold, for it was summer, but a draft seeped in through the floorboards above. Rowena stared at this small, barren cell in the torchlight and willed herself not to cry.

Sir Robert himself had brought her to it. He said not a word as he removed the cords from her wrists, but he was frowning. When his eyes caught hers as he finished, she was sure he wanted to speak to her. But his lord’s order held his tongue, for he was a man who followed orders down to the smallest detail.

But as he turned to leave, he growled at the man who held the torch. “Leave that and fetch the jailer so he can bring her a pallet and what other necessities are needful.”

She had not realized until the door closed her in that awful cell that she might have been left
in darkness. She was left in silence, however. Her ears strained to hear the parting footsteps, but the sound did not last long. Then there was the sound of rats scurrying across the floor above her.

Rowena knew she was in trouble when the jailer showed up with only two thin blankets for her to sleep on and a rusty tin of water. He was a heavyset man in his middle years, with scraggly brown hair and watery eyes and a stink about his person that nearly gagged her. He had been surprised at first sight of her, amazed actually, but that did not last more than a moment, and then he did not even try to hide his delight that she was there. He was so pleased, he was close to laughing as he explained the routine he followed and that she would have to abide.

He would feed her only once a day, and she had already missed this day’s meal, so she would have to wait until the next one. And if she wanted better than moldy bread and water, she would have to think of some way to pay him for it. Her fine bliaut might get her some butter and
cheese for a fortnight, but after that…She was to relieve herself in the corner of the cell, and he might or might not get one of the stable lads to shovel it out once a week. There would be no water for bathing. He was not a lackey and he refused to haul buckets of water from the well, even though the wellhead was close by. She was to give him no complaints, or he might forget to feed her. If she wanted aught better, including another torch, she would have to pay for it.

Rowena managed to keep the horror from her expression during this recital. She knew what manner of payment he was anticipating. ’Twas there in his eyes, which returned repeatedly to her breasts and hips. She could say now that she would never, ever touch that stinking swine, but how would she feel a month from now? Even a sennight? She had not eaten last eventide, nor this day. Already she felt some weakness along with her hunger pangs. And no torch? Was she to be entombed in darkness permanently, looking eagerly toward this foul man’s visits simply because he would carry a torch with him?

She could not have spoken if she tried, but he was not displeased by her silence. He even gave in to a chuckle, finally, when he left. As soon as the door closed, however, Rowena sat down on the blankets and cried. Her torch would last but a few more hours, and then…She did not mind the dark, truly, but she had never had to endure it without having the means to make light close to hand, and she had never had to endure it in a place like this, with rats nearby.

She was so sunk in misery she did not at first
hear the loud argument coming from the guardroom. But it was a short argument, and the last of it, “Be gone!” she did hear clearly. Moments later, she cringed inwardly as her door was opened again. But ’twas not the jailer who came in with a brace of candles and set them down in the center of the cell. This man was a little older, and his surprise at his first sight of her lasted much longer. But then he looked around at what she had been given, and he swore foully.

“That whoreson, and I will wager he did not feed you either, did he?” Rowena blinked, then shook her head slowly. “Aye, ’tis as I thought, and him bewailing he wants the job.
Wants
it! He hates it, and well he should, but I can see now why he changed his mind about that. Such a tiny thing you are, and so pretty. It must be some heinous crime Lord Warrick thinks you guilty of, to put you here, but I am sure ’twill be straightened out once he comes.”

Rowena just stared. She knew not what to make of this man and his tirade. He was certainly indignant about something, but she was not sure what.

He did not frighten her, however, as the other man had. Verily, there was such kindness in his light blue eyes, she almost started crying again.

He must have noticed, for he said gruffly, “Here now, none of that. ’Twill not be so bad, your stay with us. ’Tis a deplorable place to put a lady, but private for all that, and I will see what I can do about cheering it up for you.”

Cheering up a dungeon? She could not help but smile at such an incongruous thought.

“Who are you?” she thought to ask.

“John Giffard I am called.”

“Are you a jailer also, then?”

“Only when ’tis needful, which is not often. But I was just rousted from my fire to be told only I am to have the care of you. ’Tis late in coming, that order, though better late than not at all. That whoreson did not hurt you, did he?”

Which whoreson? she almost asked, but realized in time that he was speaking of the other jailer. “Nay, he did not touch me. But then, ’tis your lord’s order that no one is to touch me, to assist me or otherwise, nor am I to be spoken to. Were you not told that you are not to speak to me?”

“Nay, no one said aught of that, nor would I mind it if ’twere said. I do as I will and always will, though I have a few stripes on my back that tried to convince me otherwise.”

’Twas incredible, the anger she felt on his behalf. “
Who
whipped you?”

“Nay.” He chuckled. “Never you mind. ’Twas long ago, and my own stubbornness the cause. Now, let me see what I can find for you at this late hour. The kitchen is like to be locked up tight by now, but I warrant there will be some fruit at least in the “stores above.”

He found her four plump apples freshly picked, which more than satisfied her hunger. But that was not all he found. He brought in a narrow wooden frame and a plump mattress heaped with warm bedding. He found an old, faded rug that covered nearly all the floor space. Another trip produced a crate to set her candles
on, and a box with a supply of replacements so she need not deal with the darkness after all. There was a chamber pot, a bucket of water with cloths for washing up, and cold, fresh water to drink.

John Giffard was a godsend. He turned her dungeon cell into a room that was, if not pleasant, at least very comfortable. He brought her two large meals a day, food that was fit for the lord’s table. He kept her well supplied with fresh water as well as bathwater. He brought her a needle and thread to keep her hands busy, and himself to keep her mind busy. He spent a great deal of time with her every day, gossiping about this and that, mostly nonsense. He simply loved to talk, and she loved to listen to him.

She knew she had Sir Robert to thank for John Giffard. He must have known what the other jailer was like, and also that this one had a good and kind heart. Robert had taken pity on her after all, though Warrick de Chaville was not like to thank him for it. But she would thank him if ever she had the chance.

The days turned into a week, then two, then three. When Rowena finally noticed that the time of her monthly flux had come and passed without flow, she sat down and laughed hysterically. Gilbert’s plan had actually worked. That damn churl’s seed had taken root with only three nights’ trying. But Kirkburough was gone. From the road they had stopped to watch the smoke billow above the treetops as every wooden building and floor caught fire. There was naught left
for a child to secure; a child conceived for only that purpose was useless now.

After the mad laughter came tears, a veritable flood of them mixed with self-pity. What had she done to deserve this ill fate? What would happen when Warrick de Chaville returned to Fulkhurst?

John Giffard would no doubt be taken from her, that was what, and all the comforts he had given her. That other jailer would return, or one like him. And would de Chaville even care that she was with child? Nay, he wanted her to die. She did not think that begging him at least for the child’s life would work. He had not wanted Kirkburough. He had destroyed it, so he would not care about the child if she said it was Lyons’ heir. But the child was hers, too, and his purpose in getting rid of her would be defeated if she left an heir to all that was hers.

She would not have to worry about giving birth in a dungeon. She would not be allowed to live that long—unless Fulkhurst did not return. And would not his war with Gilbert, who still had Lyons’ army, keep him away for long? If she could just have the child before Fulkhurst even knew of it, she was sure she could convince John Giffard to find a home for it.

Rowena was not certain when the child became her first concern. It might have been conceived for the wrong purpose, might have lost its usefulness, but she considered none of that. It was hers. It did not even matter that its father was an overlarge lout who had hated her every touch. Its father…

She had too much time to think in that dungeon, and too often her memories dwelt on Lyons’ substitute. She did not like that, but she seemed to have no control of it. If she closed her eyes, she could still see him stretched out before her, his body had been so memorable. She could still recall what it had made her feel like, the heady power in being able to control that body no matter how much he fought against it.

She had not lied when she had told him she was glad it was him. She had not enjoyed taking him, but after the original pain, it had not been unpleasant to touch him, or to taste him. He did not repulse her, did not make her gag with his clean smell. And he was very appealing to the eye—except for those silver eyes of his that hated her with such passion. But before she had first spoken to him, those eyes had been lovely, had made him very handsome despite the gag that had distorted his mouth.

She had not heard John approach until the door opened with its usual creak to draw her from her pensiveness. He was not wearing his usual pleasant smile and seemed disturbed about something. And then…

“Are you breeding, Lady Rowena?”

She stared at him in amazement. She had not been sick of a morn, as some women suffered, nor had her breasts enlarged the tiniest bit yet.

“How did you know?”

“Then you are?”

“Aye, but how—”

“I had not thought of it this soon, but my lord asked if you had had your—ah—woman’s time
yet, and I realized you had not asked me for extra—ah—cloths. Why did you not tell me?”

“I only just realized it myself. But what do you mean, your lord asked? When?”

“Just now.”

Rowena lost what color she had maintained in that sunless room. “He has returned?”

“Aye, and I am to bring you to him now.”