At last, Aimery spoke, and his voice was like the slither of steel through her naked heart. ‘Your only hope’ he said expressionlessly, ‘is to convince me that you were forced against you will.’
Brokenly, Elena shook her head. No, she was not forced. At least, not physically. She had been told that Leofwin would be beaten if she refused to comply - but how could she prove it? And at the time, she had felt so alone, so bereft. But all the time that Leofwin was making love to her, it was Aimery - Aimery, with his dark, bitter soul and his wonderful prowess - that she was dreaming of …
She swallowed down the searing ache that threatened to choke her and said, in quiet despair, ‘No, my lord. I -I was not forced.’
The silence hung ominously heavy in the airless room. Even Morwith and her partner, whom Isobel had summoned because he looked so like Leofwin, had subsided into stillness, watching and waiting.
Isobel, scenting success within her grasp, said smoothly, ‘One more thing, my lord Aimery - bad news, I fear. I learned a short while ago that the prisoner we talk of, the Saxon rebel Leofwin, escaped a short while ago from his cell. While you were feasting just now with your men, someone stole down to the dungeons and released him.’ She shook her head in mock concern. ‘You will, I think, find the key hidden in the convent girl’s room.’
Aimery was on his feet; Elena whirled to face Isobel, her dark blue eyes shadowed with despairing denial. ‘No! That is a lie!’
Aimery gripped Elena’s shoulders and twisted her round to face him, hurting her. His white-ridged scar made his expression dark and menacing. ‘Be very careful, Elena. That man, Leofwin, is a dangerous ringleader. If what Isobel says is true - ‘
‘It isn’t!’ she whispered, gazing up into his wintry face. ‘She’s lying, I swear it! How can you believe her?’
‘Why don’t you come with me, my lord?’ said Isobel silkily, turning to leave the room.
Aimery followed her, dragging Elena behind him, his fingers bruising her wrist.
Glancing behind to make sure he could see, Isobel entered Elena’s small room and triumphantly drew back the sheet of her narrow bed. There, starkly black against the white linen, lay a big iron key.
‘Look - the key to the dungeons,’ said Isobel, shaking her head sadly. ‘Do you need any more proof, my lord?’
With casual, biter strength, Aimery flung Elena across the bed. She lay there stunned, the breath knocked from her body.
‘Do what you will with her, Isobel,’ said Aimery le Sabrenn curtly. ‘She’s all yours.’
The moonlight gleamed softly on the deserted courtyard, on the dark granaries and low-roofed stables where the horses whinnied restlessly.
Elena, taking a deep breath, forced herself to watch a tiny wisp of straw that fluttered uncertainly across the cobbles, lifted now and then by the warm night breeze. Perhaps, if she watched it very carefully, if she concentrated on its light, delicate dance with every fibre of her being, then she might forget the overwhelming horror of what was happening to her.
About an hour ago, two of Isobel’s guards had tied her up here with her back against the palisade. They’d stripped her first, at Isobel’s orders; Isobel had looked on, her face so full of savage triumph that Elena hoped she would choke on it.
It was Isobel who ordered the men to lift their trembling prisoner’s arms, so that her breasts were raised high, her rosy nipples hardening already in the soft kiss of the night air; Isobel who told them to plant her feet widely apart before securing her ankles with leather straps, so Elena knew, with burning shame, that all her pale golden fleece was exposed; even the tender pink flesh that peeped from between her thighs.
She’s all yours, Aimery had said with cold scorn to Isobel. His words of utter contempt still rang in her ears. At first she’d tried to struggle, but the guards had tightened the straps that bound her wrists and ankles, dragging her feet yet further apart. One of the men had surreptitiously brushed his big, calloused hand high between her legs, drawing in his breath in appreciation; Elena felt the shame flood through her body, and leaned back against the palisade in numb despair.
Isobel watched her enemy’s degradation in silent joy. ‘Beg’ she said softly. ‘Beg for forgiveness, Saxon girl; promise me that you’ll crawl to me on your knees, and then I might - just - consider releasing you!’
Elena shook her head wildly, her long hair sweeping her naked shoulders. ‘Never!’ she whispered. ‘You know I didn’t free the Saxon! I would rather see you in hell, than apologise for something I’ve not done!’
Isobel’s face tightened, her features sculpted to ivory by the moolight. She turned to the guards. ‘See that the girl is not actually harmed,’ she said curtly. ‘Otherwise - ‘ She shrugged her shoulders expressively and moved to go back into the hall. To Aimery.
Elena watched her depart and hated her with a wild, bitter passion, because it was better to feel this hatred than to feel the aching void which overwhelmed her when she thought of Aimery.
She whirled round suddenly in alarm, her bonds tugging at her wrists and ankles. In the pools of darkness that lay between the outbuildings, she could see men coming, sidling up in the shadows. Word had got round, and the scum of the estate was gathering, like a den of rats, to gaze on her punishment.
Her naked flesh burned. Her exposed breasts throbbed, her rosy nipples tingled as the soft night air caressed them. And between her legs, at the pit of her abdomen, she was aware of a pulsing ache of shame, the dark pain of utter degradation.
She held her head high and proud, trying her best not to see them, but their appreciative mutters drifted across the hushed courtyard. Her guards stood on either side of her, grinning broadly in anticipation.
‘See what we have here, lads!’ one of them called encouragingly to the silent furtive onlookers. ‘What’ll you give us for a closer peek at this fine slave, eh?’ He reached out with his rough hands and cupped her breast in his palm; Elena shuddered and wrenched her head to one side. ‘Just look at these proud beauties,’ he went on, rubbing her nipple with his thumb, ‘good enough for the lord Aimery himself!’
Someone lurched forward out of the shadows, but the other guard pounced on him and drove him back.
‘No touching, now! But you can have your fill of watching. See, if I spread these lovely legs a little further for you, you can see that sweet pink flesh, all parted and melting …’
Dazed with shame, Elena tried not to listen any more. Their hot, greedy looks; their casually filthy comments as they gazed lecherously at her vulnerable body and pawed secretly at their swelling erections. It was all far worse than any physical abuse.
She was squeezing her eyes shut in desperation, trying to block out their leering faces, when suddenly, silence fell. The men in the shadows melted away, like the vermin they were, as a tall, familiar figure brushed them aside.
‘What is the meaning of this outrage?’
Elena’s head jerked upwards, her heart beating. That deep, velvety voice was so familiar. Hamet, the Saracen - Aimery’s servant. Aimery had sent for her.
Even as the thought flashed through her mind, she knew she was wrong.
But nevertheless Hamet pushed the remaining stragglers aside scornfully and walked up to her, his dark face full of concern. ‘Elena - what is happening?’
The - the lady Isobel’s orders, sire!’ stuttered the guard at her side, quailing beneath Hamet’s icy anger. This lass here, she helped a Saxon rebel to escape, and the lord Aimery himself commanded her to be punished. She’s not actually been harmed, sire!’
Then see’ said Hamet, ‘that she is not.’ In a swift, sinuous movement, he pulled his woollen cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it gently round Elena’s trembling, bound figure. She lifted her dazed blue eyes to him in mute appeal, but he frowned and shook his head sadly.
‘I have no power to countermand my master’s orders,’ he said quietly. ‘Or the lady Isobel’s, for that matter. But,’ and he turned once more to the guards, ‘
if you let any of that - that scum out there come near her again, or touch her yourselves, then you will answer to me, personally. Do you understand?’
‘Sire!’ The guards stood rigidly to attention as Hamet turned, reluctantly, and headed back towards the hall.
Elena sagged in her bonds, half-sleeping, half-waking, throughout the short midsummer hours of darkness. Thoughts of Aimery came to her like a nightmare now, not a dream. How could he? How could he let this happen to her?
Dawn broke early, revealing itself in pink and golden streaks above the dark line of the forest. Alys hovered warily outside the kitchens, on the pretext of fetching hot water for her mistress. She’d heard and seen everything, and ranted silently against them all. It was too much! They way the lady Isobel had treated her, Alys; the way that slut Morwith had laughed at her so openly for her plainness! And now, they were making that sweet girl, Elena, suffer unbearably. Alys looked across the courtyard and shivered. It was cold in this early grey light. The girl was pinioned there still, her head bowed, the Saracen’s big cloak wrapped tightly round her slender figure. The watch had changed twice during the night; two young, yawning men-at-arms were with her now, plainly bored and weary since Hamet had warned them all against any sport with their prisoner. That Hamet might be a heathen, but he was the only decent one amongst them all.
Alys shifted the bundle in her arms, lifted her chin resolutely, and set off across the deserted courtyard towards them. Now was the time. As she’d calculated, the big gates were just about to be dragged open, in readiness for the dawn patrol to ride out.
The guards watched warily when they saw Alys coming. She was well known as a troublemaker, only too ready to carry spiteful tales back to her mistress.
‘You’re to set her free,’ said Alys briefly. ‘And then you can go.’
‘But -’
‘Quickly, damn you! You want me to tell the lady Isobel that you dispute her commands? Be off with you!’
Worried, they did as she said. The girl almost fell when her limbs were freed, but she struggled to lean against the palisade. Her small face was white and drawn. The guards hesitated still; Alys snapped, ‘Go on, you great brutes!’ and watched until they were out of sight. Then she turned urgently back to Elena.
‘Now’s your chance to escape!’ she hissed, thrusting the bundle towards her. ‘Here are some clothes, and a little food. Head for the forest - get away from this evil place while you can. Quickly, they’ll be closing the gate again soon!’
The girl took the bundle, but she looked dazed and uncertain, her eyes wandering longingly towards the great hall. God help her, thought Alys, but the sweet maid is still in love with the Breton. After what he’s done to her …
‘Go, for pity’s sake!’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t you realise that Isobel will never, ever let you have him? That between them, they’ll destroy you?’
As if waking from a long dream, the girl tightened her grip on the little bundle and took a deep, shuddering breath. Then she hurried towards the beckoning gates, not looking back.
Alys watched her go as the first pale rays of dawn spread tentatively across the castle courtyard. She should have done more. She should have told the lord Aimery about the key, and told him who it really was who set the dangerous Saxon rebel free.
But she didn’t dare. Not yet. She was too frightened of Isobel.
Chapter Thirteen
It was the shrill birds of the forest that woke her as they clamoured in alarm above her head, their wings beating in panic against the suffocating canopy of the high trees. Someone was coming!
Elena leaped to her feet in alarm, her throat dry. It was late afternoon and the sun was still hot as it slanted through the dusty branches. She’d not meant to fall asleep, but this soft, grassy bank beside the trickling stream had been so tempting, the sun so warm, that she’d lain down on the mossy turf and slept in utter exhaustion.
All day, she’d wandered deeper into the trackless forest, driven by nothing other than the wild, instinctive urge to get as far away as she could from the domain of Aimery le Sabrenn. Now, she was alone, and frightened, and completely lost. And she could hear the echoing sound of voices, male voices, and heavy footsteps crackling through the undergrowth nearby.
She cowered behind the trunk of a great gnarled oak, her heart hammering wildly. Outlaws. Brigands! Or perhaps Isobel de Morency had ordered the soldiers to follow her, to kill her.
Holding her breath in panic, she pressed herself into the shadows as three young men came into sight, laughing and talking to each other. They paused to drink at the stream; she thought for one wild moment that they’d pass by without seeing her. But suddenly one of them, getting to his feet, spotted her and called out, ‘Look - over there! A girl!’
She tried to run, but in her state of exhaustion she was no match for their nimble feet. They caught her easily, gripping her wrists, staring curiously down at her and asking questions all at once. ‘Who are you? Where are you going? Why are you all on your own in the forest?’
The knowledge swept over her that they were Saxons - men of her own race. In sudden blind inspiration, Elena stammered out, I’m looking for Leofwin. Please, do you know him?’
The name was like a magic talisman, Smiling in wonder, the young men stepped back, releasing her.
‘Leofwin?’ said one, his grin wide and friendly in his sunburned face. ‘Know him? Lass, if you’re a friend of his, then you’re a friend of ours! Come with us!’
Considerately adjusting their energetic pace to her weary limbs, the three young Saxons led her along the winding paths of the forest, until at last they came to a sun-dappled clearing set between stately oaks. The same stream ran more deeply here between rocky boulders, emptying itself just beyond the clearing into a deep, limpid pool fringed with ferns. The stream’s banks were edged by soft, rabbit-nibbled turf that was like velvet to Elena’s bruised and aching feet.
In the shade of the trees were some low turf shelters, built carefully to merge into the undergrowth. In front of them a young woman was tending a simmering cauldron over an open fire; she looked up questioningly as the men led Elena into the clearing.
This is our home’ said the young, suntanned man who’d first spoken to her. He gestured proudly round the clearing, as if it were some nobleman’s estate. ‘My name is Gyrth, I’ll introduce you to the others later. But first things first. You must eat, and rest!’
The young woman, who was plumply pretty with thick blonde curls, brought her over a wooden bowl full of hot, delicious rabbit stew, and smiled at her shyly. Elena ate hungrily, suddenly realising how long it was since she’d had a proper meal. The sun was starting to set behind the tops of the great trees, but its rays still warmed the clearing, mottling the mossy turf with soft shadows.
She felt safe, and at peace, as long as she tried not to remember about Aimery.
What was he doing now? Was he thinking of her?
She put her bowl to one side, suddenly no longer hungry. By now the others had gathered round her companionably; the woman and the young men, with their own bowls of food.
‘You have come far?’ The pretty woman, Freya, handed her a beaker of clear water from the stream. ‘Forgive me for prying, but you look so gently-born, and so tired. No lady should wander on her own through the forest!’
Elena hesitated, knowing she could never tell them everything. ‘I - I was captured from a convent, and held as a serf at Thoresfield.’ She clasped her fingers tightly round the wooden beaker. ‘Leofwin was kind to me there. I thought perhaps he might help me again’.
‘So you too escaped from Thoresfield!’ breathed Freya, leaning forward. ‘When Leofwin reached us last night, he said that the place is full of evil; that he wants to go back there and raze it to the ground, and kill its Breton lord! Oh, did you suffer greatly there?’
‘Leave her alone, woman!’ said Gyrth sharply, seeing the tears that sparkled suddenly in Elena’s blue eyes. ‘Isn’t it enough that she was th
e Breton’s prisoner?’
Elena bowed her head. ‘If you and Leofwin will but shelter me for a while,’ she whispered, ‘until I find somewhere else to go - ‘
‘How do we know she’s not a spy?’ broke in a venomous voice. ‘Sent by the Breton to track down Leofwin and bring the soldiers down on us?’
Elena looked up, startled. A girl had just joined them, standing with her hands on her hips at the edge of the circle. Vividly pretty, with a suntanned, elfin face, she wore her silver-blonde hair cropped short like a soldiers’, and wore a boy’s tunic that only emphasized the soft curves of her slender figure. A murmur of protest ran through the rest of them at her challenging words.
‘Leave her be, Sahild!’ said Gyrth shortly. ‘Leofwin himself will be here to identify her soon enough.’
‘Don’t be so sure of that, Gyrth! I still think she’s a spy!’
Elena shrank instinctively from the venom in the girl, Sahild’s, blue eyes. Freya meanwhile, seized Elena’s hands and held them up angrily. ‘Look! Look at these rope marks on the poor girl’s wrists! She’s been bound, Sahild, bound and punished! Would the Breton really do that to his spy?’
Sahild glared. ‘Just don’t blame me if the soldiers do follow her here!’ And she flounced off into the trees.
Quickly Freya put her arm round Elena’s trembling shoulder. Take no notice of Sahild - she’s always wary of newcomers. You see, we’ve all suffered at the hands of the Normans, and we value our refuge here so highly.’ She touched Elena’s wrists gently. ‘You poor thing. How you must have suffered. Leofwin will be so pleased that you’ve found us.’
‘Will Leofwin be here soon?’ Was it her imagination, or did a strange, expectant hush fall over them all at her question?
‘Soon,’ said Freya softly. ‘Very soon.’
After their meal, Elena helped Freya to clear away. Sahild seemed to have disappeared, for which she was glad. With Freya, she took the wooden platters down to the stream to wash them; Freya chatted companionably, soothing her secret fears. When they got back to the clearing the men, taking advantage of the evening sunshine, had got out their bows for archery practice; and Elena, sinking down onto a mossy stone, watched them entranced, her chin clasped in her hands.
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