Prisoner of My Desire (7 page)

Rowena did not realize it until after Gilbert had gone, that she and her mother had been saved from his fury by his distraction. He was so set on his new course, with only Fulkhurst and defeating him on his mind, that he had forgotten about the man supposedly still chained upstairs. Were the man still there, she would have had a fine time explaining him to the invaders when they took over the keep.

Fortunately, that was not one of her worries. Nor did she give any thought to Gilbert’s instructions, not at first, since she had had every intention of leaving the keep herself as soon as he had. But it took no time at all to discover that the despicable cur had taken every last remaining man-at-arms with him, as well as every last horse.

She had then thought briefly of taking herself
off to the town to hide there, to leave the keep open with naught but the servants to greet Fulkhurst’s army. But this was a man set on vengeance as well as on conquering, and such a man might well burn the town down in search of Gilbert—or the new lady of Kirkburough. Escaping into the woods as Lyons’ substitute had done would not serve either. On foot, without money, she would not be able to rescue her mother before Gilbert discovered what she had done.

She was forced to follow Gilbert’s instructions this time, because there was naught else she could do. But she would make no demands. She would wait and see what terms were offered and go on from there. It could not be known that the keep was completely defenseless. The portcullis was down, the gate closed. From without, Kirkburough looked a strong keep. She did not doubt that she could wrest favorable terms from the warlord for herself and the servants.

And once she had met Fulkhurst and taken his measure, mayhap she could appeal to him for help. If he was no worse than Gilbert, she would offer her wardship to him. Of course, he already had three of her properties in hand, and was not like to give them back. She would not mention them. She had others still in Gilbert’s control—but Fulkhurst intended to take all that was in Gilbert’s control anyway, for himself. God’s mercy, she truly had naught to bargain with—nay, she could assist Fulkhurst. She knew Gilbert’s plans, could warn of his return. But would the warmonger believe her?

Mildred had wanted to go with her to the gate
house, but Rowena convinced her to stay in the hall and do what she could to calm the servants. She took four of the menservants with her, for she had not the strength to raise the portcullis by herself. But she had waited almost too long. Fulkhurst’s army had arrived, was just beyond arrow range, and the sight of it, five hundred strong and armed for war, with nigh fifty mounted knights, sent the men she had brought with her into a panic.

They wanted only to run and hide, and she could not blame them when she felt the same. Yet she could not allow that, and her own fear added a coldness to her tone as she calmly explained that if they did not stay to help her, they would die; that either the enemy would kill them after crashing the gates open—or she would. The men stayed, though they cowered on the floor of the gatehouse, well away from the arrow slits.

Rowena watched, willing herself to calmness. So many knights. She had not expected that. And the red dragon breathing fire, aye, it flew on several pennants clearly seen, and many of the knights had it emblazoned on the trappings of their war-horses. It was indeed Fulkhurst, though she could not guess which of the mounted knights was him.

It did not take long before one man separated from the mass and rode up to the gate. He was not heavily mailed, not a knight, then. At least forty of the men-at-arms were also mounted, though not on the large destriers, and this was one of them.

He had a carrying voice. Rowena heard every
word clearly, she just did not believe them. No terms, no assurances. Complete surrender or complete annihilation. She had ten minutes to decide.

There was naught to decide. Even if it were a bluff, which she doubted, she could not call it, for the men she had brought with her did not wait to hear her decision. They rushed to open the portcullis without her order to do so, and she could not stop them. All she could do now was go down to the bailey and wait for the army to enter.

The knights came in with swords drawn, but there was not a soul left in the bailey other than Rowena, who stood on the lower step of the keep. They did not seem surprised to find it so. And those sent to secure the walls did so quickly, without much caution or wariness that they would find aught to oppose them.

The remainder of the army approached Rowena, with three knights in the lead who dismounted first. Two had trappings so fine, they were likely both lords, though only one could be Fulkhurst, the other mayhap his vassal. Yet it was the third knight who walked slowly toward her, taller than the other two, sheathing his sword as he came. He did not take his eyes off her as he did this, eyes too shadowed for her to see clearly beneath his helmet.

She had chosen the wrong place to wait, with the sun behind them but shining directly on her. It lit her flaxen braids with golden sparkles, her alabaster skin to glowing whiteness, and made it difficult for her to tell anything about the man
almost upon her, except that he was huge and fully armored. Even his mail coif was buckled over his lower chin, the helmet with wide nasal guard sitting low, both obscuring his features—except for the cruel slash that was his mouth.

She opened her mouth to give greeting, but only a gasp came out as his hands gripped her upper arms, so hard she thought the bones might crush. She closed her eyes against the pain, only to be shook once, sharply, to bring them open again.

“Your name?”

His voice was as cold as his mouth was cruel. Rowena did not know what to make of him. He must know she was lady here by her very dress, yet he was treating her like a field serf, and that terrified her.

“La-lady Rowena Bel—Lyons,” she got out in a mere squeak.

“No longer lady. Henceforth you are my prisoner.”

Rowena nearly sagged in relief. At least he did not mean to cut her down right there on the steps. And a prisoner was not so bad and was only temporary. Most of noble birth were given fine quarters for their confinement, and allowed all courtesies due their status. But what did he mean, no longer lady? He still held her in that painful grip, waiting.

For what? For her to argue against his making her a prisoner? Not with him, she would not. From what she had seen and heard thus far, he was worse than Gilbert. But what should she
have expected of a man who reached for a league if you took a scant inch from him?

She was becoming unnerved, knowing that he stared at her, but she was too afraid to look up to confirm it. Finally he turned with her still in his grip, only it was to literally throw her into the mailed chest of one of the men who had come up behind him.

“Take the prisoner to Fulkhurst and install her in my dungeon. If she is not there when I arrive, there will be more than hell to pay.”

The man behind her paled. Rowena did not see it. She was ashen herself, verily, near to fainting from those ominous words.

“Why?!” she cried, but Fulkhurst had already turned away to enter the keep.

Mildred found him in the chamber she had come to dread entering these past few days. The tall candles had burned out from Rowena’s last visit to this room just before dawn, but he had found a new one and stuck it on the metal spike of the candlestand. His men were plundering the keep, taking all of value that they wanted. She could not imagine what he was doing here when a glance should have told him there was naught in this room save that bed.

She hesitated to speak. He merely stood there, staring down at the bed. He had removed his helmet, but his coif still covered his head. He was a very tall man. And those wide shoulders reminded her of…

“What do you want?”

She started, for he had not turned to notice her there at the door, nor had she made a single
sound. And he still did not turn. Instead he bent down and dragged the long chains out from under the bed, and she watched, fascinated, as he slowly draped the two lengths around his neck like a layered necklace, the ends left hanging from his shoulders to his waist. She shivered, wondering why he would take the chains unless he meant to use them on someone.

“Answer!”

She jumped that time, and stammered, “They—they said you are the Lord of Fulkhurst.”

“Aye.”

“Please, what have you done with my lady? She has not returned—”

“Nor will she—ever.”

He turned as he added that last word, and Mildred staggered back. “In God’s mercy, not you!”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a menacing curve. “Why not me?”

Mildred thought about running. She thought about begging. She thought about her sweet Rowena in this man’s hands, and she wanted to cry.

“Ah, God, do not hurt her!” she cried her horror aloud. “She had no choice—”

“Be quiet!” he roared. “Think you aught could excuse what she did to me? Her reasons matter not. By my sworn word, no one does me an ill without paying for it tenfold.”

“But she is a lady—!”

“That she is a
woman
only saves her life! It does not change her fate. Nor will you. So beseech
me not on her behalf, or you may find the same fate for yourself.”

Mildred held her tongue as Warrick passed her to enter the chamber across the way. But he knew she still hovered about the new doorway, wringing her hands, tears gathering and spilling from her soft brown eyes. He might be indebted to her, but if she made another entreaty for that flaxen-haired bitch, he would indeed send her to his dungeons as well. He did not give warnings twice.

The much larger chamber was fit for a lord with its costly, though meager, comforts, yet it held little of a personal nature to denote whose chamber it was. But Warrick knew. He flipped open the only chest there and the abundance of rich apparel within confirmed his thinking.

Still he asked, “Hers?”

Mildred found the voice lodged in her throat. “Aye.”

“My daughters might make use of these.”

He said it with such indifference, Mildred’s fear dissipated and her anger rose, though she was not stupid enough to let him hear it. “That is all she has left.”

He swung around to face her, and there was no lack of emotion in those baleful silver eyes, as there had been in his voice. “Nay, all she has left is the skin on her back, and what rags I choose to give her. Though I do not forget that I was allowed even less.”

Indifference? she had thought. Nay, merely another revenge, those clothes, but likely the least of all he intended. And she could think of
no way to aid Rowena when he did not want to hear that she had been as much a victim as he. Verily, Rowena’s reasons would
not
matter to one such as he, who was not a serf, not a lowly knight, but a highborn lord. You simply did not do to a lord what they had done to him, and expect to live to tell of it.

Her fear returned, in abundance, but it still was not for herself. “You mean to kill her?”

“That pleasure would be too swift,” he said coldly. “Nay, I will not kill her. She is my prisoner. She will never be ransomed, she will never leave Fulkhurst. She will be at my mercy until the day she dies.”

“Do you have any?”

“For those who do me harm? Nay, Mistress, I do not.” He glanced about the chamber again before he asked, “Did Lyons have relatives?”

Mildred was too sick at heart over his answer to wonder at his query. “Aye, a brother, I think.”

“There will be naught but a blackened shell left for him,” he said. “But then there will be naught left for her brother either.”

Her eyes widened at his meaning. “You mean to burn the keep, too?”

“’Twas all done for this place, was it not?”

She did not understand vengeance so all-encompassing, but it was true that everything Rowena had been forced to do had been for Kirkburough. Mayhap she could understand after all. She would not be sorry to see this place burn, and knew that Rowena would not be sorry either, to have Gilbert thwarted in that way.

“What of the servants you will leave homeless?”

He shrugged, as if it were no matter to him, but he said, “I do not burn the town—except for the inn,” he added coldly. “The castlefolk can move to the town, or I will disperse them to my own lands, which would better their lot from the ragged look of them.” And then he looked at her more intently, and at her fine woolen bliaut, and concluded, “You did not make your home here, did you?”

“I came here only three days ago, when my lady was brought here.”

“Then you are free to return to your home.”

Back to Gilbert’s keep, which Fulkhurst was like to besiege in the near future? Or back to her true home at Tures, which he had already taken and Gilbert was determined to have back? Fine options, both to find her in the midst of war and destruction. But Mildred would not tell him that. If he did not know who Rowena was yet, or that her stepbrother was his avowed enemy, she would not be the one to tell him and thereby add to the vengeance he already sought.

“My home is lost,” was all she finally said.

He frowned at her, and it sent a chill up her spine, for it only made him look more cruel. “As I repay those who do me ill, I also repay those who do me a service. You may make your home at Fulkhurst Castle if you so wish.”

Where he had sent Rowena? Mildred had not expected that, could not credit this good fortune in the midst of total devastation.

But he saw her pleasure, understood it, and
would have none of it. “Understand me, Mistress,” he added sharply. “Do you go to Fulkhurst Castle, ’twill be to serve me and mine, not her. Never again will you serve her. If you cannot give me your loyalty—”

“I can,” Mildred quickly assured him. “I will, and gladly.”

“Will you?” he shot back skeptically, the doubt clear in those telling silver eyes. “That remains to be seen. But mayhap you will give me the name of her brother?”

The implications of that name swirled in Mildred’s mind. Gilbert would not suffer for his knowing, any more than he would have if Fulkhurst ever found him, for he was already despised. ’Twas only Rowena who would suffer more for his knowing. He might even change his mind and kill her to have clear honors to her properties. Yet was he not like to learn Gilbert’s name while he was here? Nay, the servants knew him only as Lord Gilbert. And she doubted Fulkhurst would question every single man in the town.

“Why do you hesitate, Mistress?” he demanded. “Surely you know his name.”

Mildred stiffened her back to meet his full rage. “Aye, but I will not give it. Though she hates him, he is now the only hope she has of being rescued from your ‘mercy.’ I will not aid her, but I will not aid you against her either. Do you ask that of me, then I must decline your offer.”

He stared at her for a long moment before he said, “Why do you not fear me?”

“I do.”

He grunted. “You hide it well.”

He didn’t react with rage, then, just with the typical male grouch which told her he accepted the circumstance, but was not the least satisfied with it. She found herself smiling at him, and wondering if he was not as cruel as he looked.

Warrick cared not for that smile, but he had no more questions for the woman, so he dismissed her to gather her things and to send one of his men to collect the clothes. Beatrix and Melisant could make use of them after the garments had been altered, for both girls were somewhat taller than the flaxen-haired wench. And he would enjoy having her see her possessions worn by others. Women set great store by their clothes. Aye, he would enjoy that—and a whole lot more.

He would have to find a suitable reward for Robert FitzJohn for his quick thinking in this misadventure. Sir Robert had been left in command of the men Warrick had brought to escort Isabella to Fulkhurst. Sixteen other of his household knights had also been in the troop, some older than Robert, yet Warrick had been impressed with the younger man’s leadership during several skirmishes this past year and had only just promoted him to captain of the guard.

’Twas well done. When he had not met up with his men as expected, Robert had sent several back to Kirkburough town to see what had detained him. The innkeeper had claimed that Warrick had left as soon as the town gates had opened that morn, a lie that he would know the reason for ere the sun set. But Robert had had
no reason to doubt the tale. Assuming Warrick was no longer in the town, he had begun a search of the countryside surrounding it. Yet the woods were thick and dense to the south, and thirty men could not cover much ground as quickly as Robert would have liked, and also have enough remaining on the road to meet Isabella when her party arrived.

Robert had then decided to send to the closest of Warrick’s properties for help. This was Manns keep, held by his vassal, Sir Felix Curbeil, and only a league and a half west of Kirkburough. In the meantime, Isabella had arrived and been rightly upset that Warrick had not been there to greet her, that he had, in fact, disappeared.

As it happened, another of his vassals had been visiting Sir Felix when Robert’s messenger arrived, and Sir Brian had nigh two hundred men with him. So when Warrick had found his scattered men still in the area that morn, he had been told that Sir Felix and Sir Brian would be arriving within hours with their two small armies, with every intent of tearing Kirkburough apart if he still had not been found.

Warrick could not have been more surprised, or more delighted. He had thought to waste days in sending to Fulkhurst for more men, for Felix had already given him his forty days this year in the siege on two keeps belonging to his newest enemy, the Lord of Ambray. He would not have taxed Felix further, no matter his impatience, yet Felix had been glad to come. And Sir Brian simply loved to fight, the reason he always had a small army of mercenaries on hand. In fact, Warrick
had only just sent Brian home this month to “see to his own,” for the young lord had been in Warrick’s service for nigh half a year and had given no signs of wanting to leave him.

The only thing that had not gone as he would have liked was that Lady Isabella had not waited, had camped no more than a day, then had departed the next with her small escort. He could not understand her reasoning in that. And she had left no message with Robert other than “I am going on.” Verily, he did not want to chastise her before they were even wed, but he would not countenance such foolishness in a wife. He had left Robert in command. She should have stayed in his care.

But even that could not dampen his success, for the sight of Rowena Lyons standing in that bailey, alone, had filled him with a savage elation. He had her. As he had sworn to do, he had her in his power, and she would eternally regret that that was so.

Warrick left Kirkburough, but not before he had personally set a torch to the bed that had held him chained and helpless, and not before he had sent another twenty men to assure that his prisoner did not escape.