by Phoebe Conn
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 she would be foolish not to eat something now her supper had arrived. Pulling the stool up to the table, she sat, and removed the cover from the meal. She had been given roast pork in 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. It 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, and ate what she wanted of the rest. She had never been fond of wine and knowing its effect she took only a sip and would ask Marcela when next she saw her to bring water instead.
A candle would be useful too, as the sun reached so little of the chamber. 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 the elegant chamber now. Too restless to remain seated, she got up and paced the narrow space between the cot and the table. After sunset 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 had used speed as well as cunning to elude his pursuers.
Sinking down upon the lumpy cot, she attempted to devise some clever plan to survive the duke’s wrath, but she could not even think of Hrolf as a duke, for the title implied all the virtues of nobility, and from what she had observed those were attributes he lacked. A deer was at home in the forest, and she was at home in France. She had 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 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 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 as his glance hungrily swept the curves of her shapely figure.
“Do not bother!” she 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 had sounded. She had recognized his voice as that of one of the men who had brought her there, obviously the more amorous of the two, and that thought sickened her thoroughly.
She had 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 no utensils were required to eat the bread she had been given tonight. 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 would not offer instructions for her treatment if he had 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 would have the advantage of being alert should she have an unexpected and unwanted visitor. She had 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 had 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 memories of Mylan’s taunting sneer. 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 could not stack them together. She tossed some breadcrumbs 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 counted being left alone a blessing.
Jaret was back at dusk. Hoping to win a smile if not much more from the defiant beauty in his care, he had stuffed his pockets with apples and nuts, which he placed upon her tray beside the bread and water. “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 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 would 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 on 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 had been struck so brutally and carried from the gar
den. 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, and her eyes flooded with bitter tears. She had thought him so attractive, his golden gaze haunting, his touch as well as his kiss enchanting. His heart had been open to her, 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 had 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 had 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 had spent with the pampered young woman making plans for the future seemed years in the past now. They had 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. 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 would 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 had found had been in the passion they had enjoyed to the fullest. While she had sought love in his embrace, he must have longed only for the pleasure he could have found with any woman. From the moment they had met he had been her husband, while she had never truly been his wife.
Growing increasingly more desolate as the hours passed, she 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 had 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 had 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 did not 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?”
Celiese looked up at the stocky guard, barely aware of his insult. As her lips curled into a vicious smile, her green eyes glowed with so menacing a light that he backed away, certain she had gone mad. Not daring to incite a hysteria he might be unable to contain, he dashed through the still open door and after locking it hastily fled for the security of the guardroom.
After that slight interruption to her thoughts, time ceased to exist for Celiese. She saw neither the changing pattern of sunlight moving across the bare wooden floor nor the trays of food that appeared upon the table each evening. She had wrapped herself in the cloak of numbness that dulled all pain, as she had done years before to escape Raktor’s brutality. She was alive only in her mind, preferring to relive the time she had spent alone with Mylan on his farm. During the days they had found the challenge of the hunt exciting, for the game had always been plentiful and the nights had been filled with love’s most blissful expression. Mylan had still insisted that she was his slave and no more. Those memories brought a peace to sooth her ravaged heart as the troubled contemplation of her future never had. Her thoughts took on an absorbing rhythm, and she ceased to struggle against the bitter reality fate had presented and floated instead upon a bright cloud of remembered love. That brief happiness was all consuming, burning away the need for anything more.
At the week’s end, Marcela scurried through the door ahead of Jaret. She rushed to Celiese and knelt by her side. “My lady, come, it is time. You must come with me now.” Patting her hands, she found the pretty woman as cold as death, and seeing the uneaten food upon the table she turned to look up at the powerfully built guard. “Fool! The master wants this woman alive, not dead from the chill of this room or starvation! How long would you have continued to bring meals she did not eat before you had summoned someone with more sense than you possess?”
Understanding few of the Frenchwoman’s words, Jaret nonetheless found her critical tone and fierce expression easy to comprehend. It was plain his prisoner had suffered far more from her confinement than had been intended, but she had brought her troubles upon herself and he had no sympathy for her now.
Marcela persisted in her efforts to awaken Celiese, and at last she opened her eyes and regarded her two visitors with a curious glance. Yawning sleepily, she apologized, “I’m sorry, I must have dozed off, is it time for supper?”
“You have missed several, dear lady, but it is near dawn and we must hurry, as the duke will not be kept waiting,” Marcela warned sternly. She was overjoyed to find Celiese coherent at last, but they still had much to accomplish and little time.
When Celiese got unsteadily to her feet it was obvious she would never be able to manage the stairs, and Jaret scooped her up into his arms, and then nodded for the troublesome maid to precede them. “If she cannot walk I will carry her. Let us be gone.”
Startled to find herself in the obnoxious guard’s arms, Celiese had no choice but to lift her arms to encircle his neck. For all his strength, his touch was surprisingly light, but she was too tense to relax in his arms. The hallway was long and dark, followed by a narrow flight of stairs that led to still another gloomy passageway before they entered the corridor she recognized as the one where the room she had shared with Mylan was located. He did not take her there, however, but to the room at the far end of the hall.
Once inside the opulently decorated bedchamber, Marcela gestured toward the bed while she poured a generous amount of wine into a silver goblet. “Please place her carefully upon the bed, and I will do my best to help her,” Once she was certain Celiese was comfortably seated, she lifted the wine to her lips. “Drink this, it will restore your strength.”
Celiese thought Marcela’s concern sincere but misplaced, and she took only a small sip of the rich red wine. “What is the cause for this sudden attention? Hrolf has kept me waiting for so long, why should I hurry to please him?”
Marcela set the goblet aside and gripped both of Celiese’s hands tightly. “You must not even think such a thing! There is no time for even the smallest delay!”
Celiese looked closely at the little woman, alarmed by the urgency in her voice. “Did Hrolf tell you why he wishes to see me at so early an hour?”
“His reason is unimportant, he is the duke and his order must be obeyed!” As if to emphasize her point, Marcela pulled Celiese off the high bed and pushed her toward a tub of steaming water. “I will help you bathe and dress, but there is no time to waste in conversation!”
Looking over her shoulder at Jaret, Celiese refused to move. “You must wait outside, as I’ve no wish to bathe in front of you.” The very idea disgusted her, and her expression clearly showed her mood.
“I do not trust either of you out of my sight. I will stand right here while you bathe, so be quick about it,” Jaret replied forcefully.
Realizing she was too weak and dizzy to argue any further, Celiese turned her back on the guard and slipped off her rumpled clothes, too grateful for the opportunity to bathe, to create a scene over his presence. She stepped into the tub and
sank down into the warm water, lathering the bar of perfumed soap Marcela had provided. The bubbles were so soothing that she washed her hair twice before the diminutive maid brought a towel and insisted she climb out of the water immediately.
“I have your clothing laid out, the most beautiful gown ever fashioned, but you must put it on quickly, as we are late as it is.”
As Celiese patted herself dry she noticed that the Danish guard had gone to the door where he was speaking in hoarse whispers to another man who was apparently stationed in the hall. Hrolf certainly had her well guardedâbut why, was an escape attempt expected? She whispered to Marcela in French in a voice too low to be overheard, “What is the truth, where am I being taken?”
As she helped Celiese don a lace-trimmed chemise of the softest silk, then an exquisitely embroidered brocade gown, Marcela responded softly, “The priest is waiting for you in the chapel. Then you are to be taken to the duke before the light of dawn fills the skies; those were his orders to me, and I know of no others.”
“The priest?” In her first week in Hrolf’s home she had not even met the man, and she could not imagine why he wished to see her now. Had he had some interest in her, why had he not come to the cell where she had been held to speak with her or to pray? “I do not understand why the priest wishes to see me.” Celiese fluffed out her damp curls with her fingertips, and then stepped into the velvet slippers Marcela had placed at her feet.
“To hear your confession; I suppose.” Proud she had accomplished what had seemed the impossible, Marcel stood back to admire the beautifully groomed young woman.
Celiese gasped sharply, stunned that the smiling maid seemed to have no idea what she was saying. Prisoners were executed at dawn, and surely that was what her fate was to be after she had been extended the courtesy of making her peace with God. She was being prepared for only one thing, for the most gruesome of deaths, but it was not a prospect to which she would submit meekly. “The priest is a Frenchman, is he not?”