“Are you going to tell your father what I’ve told you?”
He saw her struggle, and waited tensely for her answer. If she told her father, he and Trev might find out if there were cells in Throckton Castle.
Blaidd couldn’t risk that. He’d have to keep her down here until they could get away.
“No,” she said at last. “Because I think you’re wrong and nothing will come of your suspicions. You have no proof. I’ll tell him you left because—”
“Tell him I realized the woman I loved was not going to return my affections, and I saw no need to linger.”
She nodded curtly. “Very well.”
She went up the steps without a backward glance.
As he watched her go, he prayed to God that someday she would understand what he’d done, and why, and believe that he did love her.
He still loved her. He’d finally found a love that could last forever, but it wasn’t going to bring him happiness.
Only the despair of knowing what might have been, and was forever lost.
Blinking back tears, Becca crossed the courtyard as quickly as she could. Sir Blaidd Morgan had to be wrong! Her father wasn’t a traitor. He couldn’t be.
Blaidd had come there under false pretenses. He was a liar, a sly, deceitful rogue who’d used her loneliness and vulnerability to further his own schemes.
She’d be happy when he was gone. Very happy!
She entered the hall and realized everyone had finished eating. “Where’s my father?” she asked Bran.
The man’s eyes widened at her harsh tone, and he pointed toward the stairs leading to her father’s solar.
Without another word, she went to the stairs and began to make her way up. Her leg ached and she paused, rubbing it, before starting up again.
She was determined to tell him that Sir Blaidd Morgan was leaving. That was the only reason she was going there….
She paused again near the landing and leaned against the cool stone wall. No, it wasn’t. She wanted to see her father’s face, to compare it to Hester’s. To see if there could be any truth at all to Hester’s claim.
Because even as she’d denied what Hester had said, bits and pieces, words and phrases, kept coming to Becca, like colored threads of wool forming a tapestry. A little snatch of overheard conversation about her father and a maidservant here, other conversations cut short there. Glances exchanged when nobody thought she was looking. The maidservants who always seemed to leave so suddenly and so soon. His tolerance for men’s “sport.”
Dobbin’s expression when he spoke of the misery a man like Sir Blaidd could cause a woman. Dobbin had been at Throckton for years and years. Was he speaking of her mother, and her father’s other wives?
“You expect me to marry that cripple? I won’t, not for that pitiful dowry.”
Lord Valdemar’s words, issuing from her father’s solar, yanked her out of her reverie.
There was only one cripple in Throckton Castle.
Even more stunned than when Blaidd had made his startling announcements, Becca inched her way forward. The door to the solar was open just a crack, but it was enough for her to put her eye to the door. Her father sat behind the large trestle table covered with scrolls, quills, a vessel of ink and one of sand, as well as wax for seals. His sword, its jeweled hilt sparkling in the sunlight, also lay on the table. Valdemar, obviously angry, was pacing in front of it, and the tapestries moved in the breeze from his agitated steps.
“Be quiet,” her father ordered, “and sit down. Let’s discuss this like civilized men—or are you a pirate, as Sir Blaidd suggested?”
“I am the son of the king of Denmark!”
“And I will increase the dowry to thirty thousand marks.”
Becca gasped at the sum. For him to marry her? She couldn’t believe it. She had no notion… What was her father doing?
Valdemar sat, in a chair she couldn’t see. She could only watch his feet, which shifted and moved restlessly. “And that’s another thing,” he said, still angry but somewhat mollified. “What’s that Welshman doing here?”
“Another suitor for Laelia’s hand, who would have been gone if you’d sent me word you were coming sooner than you did.”
Valdemar’s hand came into view, waving dismissively. “There is nothing to prevent me from coming here. Our countries are not at war. Or at least, not yet, and then it will be the Danes and you and your allies against Henry and his French friends.”
Becca shoved her fist in her mouth to stifle the moan rising in her throat. God help her, Blaidd was right! She should have believed him, trusted him.
Was he right about everything?
“He’s no fool, Valdemar.”
She inched closer to hear what they thought of Blaidd. If they suspected him of knowing the truth, he might be in danger.
“And Morgan’s a friend of Henry’s. You’d better hope to heaven he believes that all we’re interested in is trade, or the plans your father and I have made won’t be worth a hangman’s noose.”
Valdemar slouched lower in his chair. “He believed you.”
“So far, anyway,” her father agreed. “And Laelia’s not inclined to favor him, so he’ll probably leave within the week. If not, I’ll see that he does. As for my other daughter, crippled she may be, and with the tongue of an adder, but the agreement between your father the king and me includes an alliance by marriage.”
Becca felt sick and too weak to move. Her own father was a traitor, and planning to use her to further his schemes.
“I would prefer your other daughter. I would take her for half that dowry.”
“Laelia is not part of the bargain.”
“Not even for a quarter of the dowry?”
They were haggling over them as if they were fish lying in a stall in the marketplace!
“Valdemar, if you don’t wish to marry Rebecca, so be it,” Lord Throckton said, his patience obviously wearing thin. “Your father the king has plenty of other sons. One of them will do just as well, and he will get these lands when I am a duke and the power in London, where Laelia will be queen.”
How was Laelia going to be queen? Who did he think was going to be ruling England?
“That’s assuming Henry will accept her.”
He wasn’t going to murder the king? Perhaps, somehow, she’d misunderstood and he wasn’t planning rebellion, Becca thought hopefully. That hope was snuffed out with his next words.
“Once we’ve gotten rid of Eleanor and her blood-sucking relations, I’m sure my daughter’s beauty will help convince Henry to accept the inevitable.”
Any move against any member of the royal family was treason. There could be no denying now that her father was a traitor. He was planning on allying with the Danes to bring about a change in government, one that would see Eleanor dead or banished, and Laelia on the throne instead, while their father…their father would be the power behind the king, making Henry march to his tune.
“Why not kill the man?” Valdemar asked.
“Because he’s my lawful king, anointed before God.”
Becca listened carefully, her dismay turning to confusion.
“His wife was anointed, too.”
“She’s French.” Rage burned in her father’s eyes, with a fierceness she’d never seen before. It was as if he were another person. A stranger.
Perhaps he was. Perhaps she’d never really known him at all. Maybe nobody in Throckton had.
The fierceness diminished, as if he were putting on a mask, although there was still steel in his voice when he spoke. “We might have been able to overlook that because Henry was pleased with her, except that she brought those leeches with her.”
“You might lose and wind up dead,” Valdemar pointed out, obviously not nearly as confident of their success. “And I’ll still be married to your homely daughter.”
After everything Becca had heard that day, his barb couldn’t hurt her.
What should she do? Tell Blaidd that he w
as right? Accuse her own father of disloyalty to the crown? What would happen then, to him, to her sister and to her? If he were convicted, he would be hanged, drawn and quartered. Yet that was the fate he was willing to bring down upon himself. Henry was their lawful king, and if he’d made a poor choice of wife, surely there had to be ways to neutralize her, and her relatives. War meant pain, deprivation and death.
The lives of a traitor’s family were in danger, too, even if they were ignorant. Would Henry be merciful to them or would he see only that they were to be part of their father’s scheme, however unwilling?
Even if the king spared their lives, their family’s estate and money would be forfeit to the crown. She and Laelia would be penniless, the pauper daughters of a traitor.
“We won’t lose if your father keeps his word. There are many other lords and barons who detest what Henry’s doing.” Her father gave Valdemar a slight, patronizing smile. “And it’s not as if I’m going to be riding into battle myself. I’ll leave that to the young hotheads. Have no fear, my Danish prince. If it seems things are going awry, I will ensure that my family survives unscathed. We’ll have to flee England, perhaps, but I’ve plenty of money in coin and jewels, gifts from those who support my cause. You’ll return to your homeland a very wealthy man. And as for still being married to my daughter…” He shrugged. “Take a mistress.”
So cold, so callous. As if he weren’t her father at all.
“You don’t seem overly fond of the girl yourself,” Valdemar noted.
Throckton regarded him steadily. “She’s been a thorn in my side all her life, just like her mother. I shed no tears when that woman died, and if you want to shut your wife up in a convent after she’s given you a son or two, and carry on as you please, you’ll get no complaint from me.”
His words about her mother added to Becca’s agony, and enraged her, too.
“Then why insist we marry?”
“Because, my dear Valdemar, bastard though you may be, you’re a king’s son, and I will have royal blood in my grandchildren’s veins—and an alliance with your father that goes beyond mere words. Now, is there anything more you wish to discuss or have explained?”
“No.”
She heard the sound of chairs scraping against the stone floor.
Becca knew what she had to do now: she had to tell Blaidd that he was right. If she didn’t, how could she expect mercy from Henry for her people, or her sister, or herself? Their father had chosen his course; the rest of them had not. And if it came down to a choice between her guilty father’s life, or those of innocent people, was there really any decision to be made?
She turned and tried to move, then bit back a cry as excruciating pain shot through her weak limb. She stumbled, grabbing the handrail for support.
“How long have you been listening?”
Becca looked back over her shoulder, to see her father looming about her like a great bird of prey. Behind him stood Valdemar.
Chapter Fourteen
Her father’s voice, his stance, everything about him seemed harsh, unfamiliar, as foreign as Valdemar.
As she straightened and faced her father, marshaling her tumultuous thoughts and even more tumultuous feelings, it was as if she were looking at a complete stranger. Pressing her lips together to keep from crying out as another searing pain shot through her aching leg, she tried to regain some measure of self-control and think.
“I said, how long have you been listening?” her father repeated sternly.
What should she say to him now? Should she admit what she’d heard? What would come of it if she did? What could she hope to achieve?
What should she do?
Gain more time. Time to think, to absorb all that she’d heard, and come up with a plan of her own, about what to do with this horrible knowledge.
“I wasn’t listening,” she lied. “I was coming to ask you about rations for the garrison. I realized you weren’t alone, so I decided to come back later.” She forced herself to smile at Valdemar. “I hope you weren’t complaining about your quarters or the food.”
“Not at all,” he said with a smile more bogus than her own. “I was telling your father how much I admire you.”
A child could tell he was lying, and it was all she could do not to reveal her real reaction. “Indeed? I thank you, my lord, for the compliment.”
Her father watched her closely, studying her face, and she fought to betray nothing.
At last, he relaxed. “You seem to be in some pain, Rebecca,” he said, smiling as he usually did.
She’d never be able to trust him, or his smiles, again.
“Perhaps Valdemar will lend you his arm?” he continued. “I’ve got some tithe rolls to examine right now.”
She nodded, glad that she didn’t have to come up with a story to support her lie, even if she would rather have a snake about her than Valdemar’s arm.
However, she had no choice, so she allowed the Dane that liberty, and they started down the steps. She leaned most of her weight on the handrail, so that she could keep some small distance between them.
“Are you sure you weren’t looking for me, Lady Rebecca?” Valdemar said slyly, his breath hot on her ear, his arm tightening about her.
“No, I wasn’t looking for you,” she retorted, trying to pretend that his proximity and his vanity didn’t fill her with revulsion. “I told you, I had business with my father.”
He halted.
“What is it?”
“I thought you were not nearly so pleasing as your sister,” he said, touching her cheek as his gaze raked her body, “but perhaps I was mistaken.”
“You certainly are mistaken if you think you flatter me by saying such things.”
“Aren’t you pleased that a prince wants to spend time with you?” he asked, edging her back against the wall.
No longer could she pretend that he didn’t revolt her, that she didn’t loathe his presence, his touch, everything about him. “No,” she retorted, her voice stern and imperious. She shoved him back. “Get out of my way, my lord.”
“Your father said you were tempestuous. Perhaps marriage to you will be interesting, after all,” he said, and before she could open her mouth to tell him she’d never marry him, he tugged her to him and covered her mouth with his.
Horrified by his wet, unwanted kiss, ignoring the pain in her leg, she struggled to get free, twisting and kicking and punching. Nothing worked. His arms tightened about her like tongs and he forced his tongue into her mouth.
She bit down as hard as she could.
Swearing in his native language, he jumped back. She stood panting, trying to regain her breath and her strength, ready to thrust him down the stairs if he tried to touch her again.
“You should be delighted a prince of Denmark wants to kiss you, wench,” he snarled as he wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand.
“I’d rather kiss a goat!”
“So would I! But it seems our fathers have other plans.”
Upset, distraught, overwhelmed by all she’d learned, Becca lost the last of her self-control. “If you were as wonderful as you think you are, you’d reconsider anything that might rouse the might of England against you and your country!”
He stared at her.
What had she done?
She heard a noise behind her. She wheeled around, sucking in her breath at the pain from the sudden movement. Her father charged down the stairs toward her, his face scarlet with rage.
She’d thought he’d looked like a stranger before; that was nothing compared to the shock she felt now as he grabbed her arm, so tight she cried out in pain. “Father, let go! You’re hurting me!”
He ignored her plea and gripped her tighter still. “Leave us, Valdemar,” he growled as he began to drag her back up the stone steps.
Valdemar turned and fled down the stairs.
“Father, stop! You’re hurting my arm!”
He didn’t. He pulled even harder. “Shut u
p, you stupid girl!”
She tried to brace her feet, but her weak leg wouldn’t hold. It hurt worse than ever for her efforts. “Father, please, my leg!”
“I don’t give a damn about your bloody crippled leg, except that it makes you nearly worthless.” He shoved open the door to the solar and pushed her inside. She fell hard on her hands and knees on the stone floor, nearly striking the table.
Before she could get to her feet, he came in and closed the door. “So you were listening, you sneaking, sniveling little spy.”
Panting and in pain, she crawled to the table and, holding tight to its edge, got to her feet. She turned, measuring the distance between her father and the door. “I didn’t,” she lied.
He lifted his hand and struck her hard across her face. Her cheek stung and she tasted blood.
“I should have packed you off to a convent the moment I could, you useless cripple,” he sneered. “You’re just like your mother. She was useless, too, birthing another useless girl before she died.”
In that moment, the respect and love for the man who had sired her died within Becca. As he heaped scorn on her and her late mother, harsh, invigorating, righteous anger consumed her and burned the last of her love away.
“How dare you speak of my mother like that!” she cried, glaring at him. “And how dare you call me useless? Who’s been running your household these past ten years? Paid the merchants, supervised the servants—and all the while watched as you exalted Laelia over me? She should have been in charge, not me. And I berated myself for being bitter and jealous, thinking I was at fault to have such feelings about the people who loved me.”
Disregarding her pain, she limped toward him. She jabbed his chest with her finger, forcing him back. “I was a fool, Father. A stupid, love-starved fool, trying to get your attention any way I could. By God, I wish you had sent me to a convent! At least there I wouldn’t have had to watch you pamper and pet Laelia. I wouldn’t have had my deficiency rubbed in my face every day. But I’m not the deficient one, Father. You are, for you’re willing to break a sacred oath and dishonor yourself and your family, to start a war that will lead to destruction and death, because you’re jealous of the power of a woman.”
Margaret Moore - [Warrior 14] Page 16