Straight before her in the center of the bailey was the castle well. Rose veered to the left of it and headed toward the Great Hall, which lay along the southern defenses of the castle wall. Rose stepped between two carts and entered the arched door of the forebuilding attached to the Great Hall. Once inside, the castle porter, a tall middle-aged man with graying short brown hair, directed her to the lieutenant-justiciar’s office.
When she neared the chamber, Rose threw back her shoulders, then walked proudly inside.
A young, pleasant-faced clerk sitting at a small desk rose and greeted her when she entered the antechamber.
She kept her hands folded demurely before her as she replied, “I am Lady Rosalyn. Sir Golan is expecting me.”
He left and returned shortly. “The lieutenant-justiciar is tending to an important matter and shall speak with you when he’s done.”
The clerk sat down. The fear that had been Rose’s constant companion since she left Ayleston before dawn suddenly altered to outright fury at the despicable man. Her worry for her son had twisted her stomach into knots, and Golan’s obvious delay stoked her anxiety into a fine rage.
She marched into his chamber, her hands fisted at her sides and her face flushed. “Where is my son? What have you done with Jason?”
The clerk hustled into the room behind her. “My lord. Forgive me. I told Lady Rosalyn you were occupied.”
Golan set down the missive he had been reading and negligently waved his clerk away. “You may leave, Roger. I shall speak with Lady Rosalyn now.”
“I have done as you have asked, Sir Golan. Now tell me where you are keeping Jason.”
Golan stood up slowly behind his desk and leaned forward, resting his fisted knuckles on top of his desk. He smiled, satisfaction clear in his voice as he said, “Lady Rosalyn. Do you have something you wish to confess?”
A lump of emotion formed in her chest and constricted her breathing. “I will confess as soon as I know Jason is alive and unharmed.”
Frowning, Golan straightened and came around his desk to stand before her. “You are in no position to bargain, my lady,” he said with an insolent sneer. When he reached out and stroked her cheek with his knuckles, she flinched. It was not a caress, but a warning. “Confess.”
She refused to move away and reveal her fear. She said softly, “If I confess, how do I know you will release Jason?”
“You do not. But if you do not confess, right now, this moment, I shall send word to my accomplice to slit the boy’s throat.”
She read the conviction in Golan’s black hate-filled eyes. He would murder Jason. He had no qualms about killing an innocent boy.
“Very well. I wish to confess to murdering my husband. One night when he was drunk, I pushed him down the stairs. As you know, the fall broke his neck.”
His satisfied smile broadened. He reached out and stroked down her arm. “Now was that so difficult?” She shuddered with revulsion.
Not expecting an answer, Golan shouted, “Roger!”
Roger hurried into the chamber, bowing. “My lord?”
“Call the guards. Lady Rosalyn has just confessed to murdering her first husband, Lord Ayleston.”
When the clerk left, Rose jerked her arm free of Golan’s repulsive grip. “I have confessed as you demanded. When will you release Jason?”
“Not so fast. You will have to give your confession to the coroner, who will record it, and only then can it be used at your trial to convict you. He is due back on the morrow. That should give you plenty of time to consider your transgressions and repent your sins.”
Two armed guards entered the chamber, their glowering presences dwarfing her.
“Take Lady Rosalyn to the tower prison,” Golan ordered.
The guards seized her by her arms.
“Wait!” She twisted back to Golan. Tears flooded her eyes. His smirking face blurred. “Where is Jason? Tell me where he is!” She twisted and struggled in the guards’ arms. Pain shot through her limbs as they shored up their fierce hold and dragged her inexorably forward. Desperate, she resorted to begging. “Prithee. Sir Golan, I beg you. Do not harm my son. He’s just a boy.”
Golan, crossing his arms over his chest, watched with ruthless satisfaction as the haughty Lady Rosalyn was reduced to a begging supplicant. ’Twas only the beginning of the degradations he had in store for her. She would regret spurning him and marrying Sir Rand instead. Passing through the outer portal, Rosalyn clutched the door frame with her hand. But the guards gave a sharp tug, and, with a final cry, her grip slipped and she disappeared from view.
Golan plucked off the desk the letter that he’d been writing when she had arrived. He reread it, a slow smile spreading across his face.
He folded the missive, retrieved the candle on the shelf below the single chamber window, poured wax onto the parchment, and then pressed his seal into the wax.
“Roger,” he called.
His clerk returned and bowed. “My lord.”
“See that this is delivered to the king in Northumberland posthaste. The king must be informed that Lady Rosalyn confessed to murdering her first husband and her trial will be held at the next county court three days from tomorrow.”
Roger reached out to take the message. Golan flicked it back out of the man’s reach. He narrowed his eyes and glared. “Need I explain further the imperative nature of this message? Or why the king must receive it without delay?”
His clerk visibly gulped. “Aye, my lord. I understand. I shall not fail in my duty.”
“Good,” Golan said coldly and handed his servant the letter.
Rose turned and rubbed her arms as she gazed out the cross-shaped arrow-slit of her tower gaol cell. The sun was dipping down toward the western horizon, the last of its rosy rays shimmering on the water of the Dee River below. In the distance she could see the foothills of the Welsh mountains.
Behind her, the chamber door closed in back of the coroner, and then the key scraped, the guard locking her inside once more. Now there was nothing to stand between Sir Golan and his revenge. For with her confession recorded in the coroner’s rolls, she’d sealed her fate. It would be a quick trial, her execution no doubt carried out with gleeful swiftness. Burning at the stake for murdering her lord. A whimper escaped her.
She rubbed her weary, burning eyes. Worry for her son had kept her awake all night. Her spirits were bleak, but since almost two days had passed and she had not seen Rand, she took hope that her husband had done as she had asked him. Rose rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the stiff tendons at the base of her neck. She reached up and rubbed the hard knot of tension. Her clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and her wimple and veil headdress were long discarded.
The sudden screech of the key in the lock raised the hairs on her arms. She jerked, startled, and spun to gaze wide-eyed as the door slowly creaked open. Her lips moved in silent prayer. “Let it not be Sir Golan, I pray you, Lord.”
Rose breathed a sigh of relief when the female servant wearing a hooded cloak entered carrying a tray of food. Without speaking a word, the woman laid the tray down on the table near the door. Rose turned back to the miniscule view outside. Another reason why she had to be vigilant and not succumb to sleep was because Sir Golan would not be satisfied seeing her executed on the gallows. He wished to humiliate and debase her for repudiating him in favor of Rand.
Rose shuddered, trying not to think about what he intended to do to her. But unfortunately, she remembered all too vividly his vile attack in the chapel. Flashes of his assault pummeled her at her most vulnerable moments, when the ache at the separation from her son grew so intense that she just curled up in bed unable to eat, move, or think.
Tears welled in her eyes and she fiercely rubbed them away with her fists. She would be brave. She would not weaken now and give Golan the satisfaction of turning her into a weeping, cowering woman, as Bertram had. Jason was counting on her to be strong for him.
Don’t worry, my beloved son. Somehow,
someway, Mama’s going to save you. I vow it.
“You should eat something to fortify you for your upcoming ordeal.”
The soft, seductive voice of the speaker sent a curl of revulsion down Rose’s spine. Surely her mind was playing tricks on her. Slowly, Rose turned around, her brow furrowed.
Not five feet from Rose, the cloaked woman reached up, pulled back the sides of her wool hood, and let it drape down her back.
Rose gasped. “Nay, it cannot be.” She breathed a sigh of shock and disbelief.
Lady Lydia’s full lips curled up in satisfaction. “Aye, ’tis indeed possible.”
Short gold curls framed an exquisite heart-shaped face. Rose had never expected to see or hear from Lady Lydia again. The king had locked her away in a remote nunnery.
Sudden sick comprehension roiled inside Rose. Her chest rose rapidly with agitation. “You! You’re the one responsible for my incarceration. I don’t know how, but I know ’tis so.”
Lydia threw back her head and laughed in wicked amusement. Then her laugh abruptly died. She began pacing around the room, taking in Rose’s sparse cell.
Fury flushing her face, Rose demanded, “What have you done with my son, Lydia?”
Lydia ignored her. She flicked the soiled straw-stuffed mattress in the corner bed niche that was built into the wall, then strolled back past the cell door. She prowled like an animal trapped in a cage, stopping at the small table. Beside the tray of food and drink, a clay basin and water pitcher sat on the table. Lydia reached out a single finger and wiped it along the wooden surface.
She held up her forefinger covered with dust. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Cleanliness is next to godliness. The sisters at St. Brigid’s would be appalled if they were to inspect your cell. I should know.” She held up both her hands, which were red and raw and chafed. “I spent hours on my hands and knees scrubbing the floors and walls until there was not a speck of dust covering them,” she spat icily.
“Answer me! At least tell me Jason is still alive.”
“Do not seek to dictate to me!” Lydia flung her arm out and swiped the tray of food off the table. Rose recoiled. The tray clattered against the stone wall. A brown, gooey muck of potage stuck to the wall and slowly dribbled down it.
The bright glitter in Lydia’s blue eyes took Rose off guard. “Pray, have mercy, Lydia,” she implored softly. “Jason is just a boy.” Her voice cracked with emotion, deep despair breaking her heart. “Will you not at least tell me if he is safe and unharmed?”
Lydia delicately brushed her golden curls back off her temple. The glimmer of madness dimmed. “The boy is safe, for now. The sisters are taking good care of him. But that can quickly change. His safety depends on your docile cooperation.” Her small upturned nose wrinkled in disgust. “It should not be so difficult for you. You always were a pathetic mouse.”
But Rose barely listened to her scornful diatribe. Lydia had accidentally given her a clue to Jason’s whereabouts. She’d said Jason was being well cared for by the sisters. That could only mean he was being held in a nunnery or hospital. But it was more likely he resided in a hospital where the nuns took care of not only the sick but orphans too. And he must still be in Chester or the surrounding area. She doubted they’d had time to secrete him in a more distant hospital. There were two hospitals near Chester. If only she could find a way to get word to Rand of what she’d learned.
But for now Rose had so many questions to ask of Lydia. Mayhap if she could get Lydia to open up, Bertram’s mistress might give her a further hint as to Jason’s location. She kept her voice calm, neutral. “I don’t understand, Lydia. How is it you were released? And why were we not told?” Rose fisted her hands down at her sides, digging her nails into her palms.
Lady Lydia continued pacing. When she reached the corner opposite the straw mattress, she curled her nose up at the foul smell emanating from the bucket that served as Rose’s chamber pot.
“The convent, Lydia? Why are you no longer within its walls? How did you come to be here?”
A soft trill escaped her lips. “How shall I say this?” Her hips swaying, she walked slowly toward Rose. “’Tis quite ingenious, I think you will agree. The abbot who presided over the abbess of St. Brigid’s looked the other way when I bribed a fisherman to sail me across to the mainland. For a price, of course.” Standing before Rose, she flicked her finger along the right side of her mouth and repeated the gesture on the other side as though wiping something from her lips. “Needless to say he was quite ‘gratified’ by the services I provided him, and was quite ‘eager’ to reward me with whatever I desired.”
Rose blushed, knowing what the gesture implied. Bertram had forced Rose to watch as Lady Lydia had taken his aroused flesh inside her mouth and stimulated him until he spent his seed.
“Ahh, I see I have shocked the innocent Lady Rosalyn.”
Rose stiffened at the contemptuous emphasis Lydia placed on the word “innocent,” as though it were a curse.
Lydia laughed, the sound grating Rose’s ears. “How I despised your innocence and verve for life from the moment I met you. Then when Bertram and I became lovers, I found the perfect opportunity to humiliate and demean you. I cleverly saw to it that he married you. That he stripped away your innocence just as my incestuous father stripped away mine,” she spat out bitterly.
Rose gasped at the horrific revelation. Lady Lydia’s father, her own flesh and blood, had ravished her body? How could a father do such a thing? It was evil and corrupt. No wonder Lydia was diabolically manipulative of every man she met. She must truly loathe all men.
As she despised them? Rose marveled in sudden insight. Nay, she thought, she did not despise the whole male race. But Bertram had severely damaged her trust in men. It took Rand’s patience and kind understanding to teach her not to hate indiscriminately based on one bad experience. That there were good men and bad men, as well as there were good women and corrupt women.
With sudden understanding, pity welled inside Rose’s chest for the innocent girl Lydia had once been.
“Don’t you dare pity me, Rosalyn Montague.” Lydia’s delicate features twisted with hate. “You are the one to be pitied. It shall not be long ere you are convicted and sentenced to death for killing Bertram. I shall revel as I watch the flames consume your body at the stake.”
Rose blanched at the gruesome image, her pity forgotten. “Why, Lydia? You despised me for my innocence. But as you said, Bertram stripped me of my naïveté years ago. Why do you yet hate me? Contrary to what you believe, I did not kill Bertram. He tripped and fell down the stairs.”
Lydia shoved her face in Rose’s. “You may not have pushed him down the stairs, but he is dead because of you,” she snarled. “If you had not been sneaking away from the castle that night, he would never have confronted you in the corridor to prevent you from leaving. And he would not have tripped and fallen when he moved to block your path at the top of the staircase.”
Rose gasped. Her hand flew to her neck. “How could you know what happened? Unless…”
Lydia spun away, sat down on the bed niche, and crossed her legs. “Aye. I saw the whole confrontation. When I heard you arguing with Bertram outside the chamber I shared with him, I opened the door to see what the commotion was about. After he fell, you walked right past my cracked door in your haste to hide your involvement in the crime.”
Rose did not refute Lydia’s accusation. Lydia was determined to blame her for Bertram’s death and would not be gainsaid. Rose rubbed the hollow at the base of her neck. “If you knew what happened, why did you not speak out before, or give the hue and cry when Bertram fell?”
“Because I did not wish to answer prying questions that might bring light to my affair with Bertram. I could not take the chance of my husband becoming suspicious and learning Bertram was my lover. But my caution was of no avail.” A bitter light flamed in her cool blue eyes. She lurched up from her seat and paced to the cell door. “On Lord Joinville’s deathbed, his heir apprise
d him of my infidelities and the miserable sod disinherited me. All he left me with were a few pitiful dower manors. And now even those are lost to me. And ’tis all your brother’s fault.”
Lydia spat out, “I curse the entire Beaumont lineage.” Her contemptuous gaze flicked down Rose’s body.
Rose held Lydia’s sneering look, refusing to let Lydia intimidate her.
“Why has the king not yet learned you have fled the convent? Surely the abbess or one of the nuns must have discovered your disappearance and informed the king.”
“The abbot told the abbess I was being moved to, and detained, in another convent. So no one but the abbot knew of my escape. I promised him I would never tell anyone he helped me. So everyone believes I am still withering away in that barren convent. Even Golan does not know my true identity.”
“How is that possible? How is it Golan has not recognized you? And where have you been hiding all this time that no one else has recognized you?”
A look of unadulterated pleasure spread across Lydia’s face. “You do not know? You have not guessed?” Lydia approached Rose and slowly walked around her. Rose remained completely still. Lydia’s hand reached out and plucked a nonexistent piece of lint off of Rose’s shoulder. Rose flinched but did not step away. “Why, I was in disguise, of course. My short hair and stature lent credence to my deception. But I had to conceal my distinctive light hair and skin.” She stopped in front of Rose again. Pausing, she tapped her forefinger against her chin.
Rose stared at Lydia blankly.
Lydia tsked with contempt. “God, you are truly guileless.”
After a dramatic pause, Lydia grabbed the sides of her bodice. She pulled the ruby silk taut against her body flattening her voluptuous breasts. Her sensual mouth curved in a slyly pleased moue. “Mayhap it will jog your memory if you picture me disguised as a boy, with my hair and skin darkened with dye?”
Vow of Deception Page 28