Hidden Honor

by Anne Stuart

  She'd landed on hard stone paving, fighting her way out of the enveloping covering to find herself in the middle of a small courtyard, surrounded by armed men far more interested in their horses than their abandoned captive. She could either make a run for it, fast, before they remembered she was there, or she could throw up.

  Unfortunately her body made the decision. When they let her go, she managed to crawl off a little way, and then she emptied what little was in her stomach.

  The sun was high overhead, beating down on them.

  It was no wonder the hours had been endless—they'd been riding forever. At least she had the blessing of being unconscious for part of it.

  She moved a little farther back and lay her face down on the cool stones, taking deep breaths. They had stopped at some kind of house—smaller than a castle, larger than an ordinary house, clearly belonging to someone of wealth and property. Someone who might help her?

  Except that grass grew between the paving stones in the courtyard, the windows of the house were barred and shuttered, the place deserted long ago. There would be no help for her here.

  A pair of legs appeared in her line of vision. Fine legs, in elegant embroidered hose. She looked up, squinting into the sun, into the blandly smiling face of Prince William.

  "It's a good thing Brother Peter can't see you now, my lady," he said in that dulcet voice. "His infatuation with you is beyond my understanding already, and if he saw you looking like a drowned, overgrown kitten he would have no reason to rescue you. And then this would all be for nothing."

  She blinked. The words sank in, but they made no sense. She pushed herself to a sitting position, staring around her. "What is this place?"

  "This place is what is so deliciously fitting about the entire enterprise. Why I knew it must be ordained. This was Peter's family home. They owned most of the land between here and the shrine, and even the land the abbey lies on was once in their possession. A very wealthy family indeed. But they all died. A fever overtook most of the countryside while he was conveniently away on crusade, and when he returned his family was gone, half the farms deserted. Coming back to this area would already have been painful for him. Dying here will have a sweet poetry."

  He held out a gloved hand, jewels sparkling in the leather cuff. She stared at him, uncomprehending, so he simply grabbed a fistful of her short curls and hauled her upright.

  She rose to her full height, looking down at him. For the first time her size gave her a perverse pleasure. "What do you want from me?"

  "Not a thing, lady. You're simply the means to an end. A way to lure Peter away from his precious God and into my trap. I have a score to settle with him, one that's long overdue. Are you going to be ill again?" he asked, peering at her suspiciously.

  He was very finely dressed, and she would have liked nothing more than to have vomited once more, over his rich clothes, but her stomach had already resorted to dry heaves when he approached her, and she knew she was past that point.

  "No."

  "'No, my lord,"' he corrected.

  A lifetime ago the false prince had corrected her. The annoying, deceiving, seductive monk masquerading as the prince. But Elizabeth was past tears.

  "No," she said stubbornly!

  There was surprising strength in that gloved hand that whipped across her face, sending her sprawling onto the stonework once more. One of the jewels must have grazed her, because she could feel the wetness of blood running down her face from beneath her eye. A little bit higher and she might have been blinded.

  The prince turned his back on her, dismissing her presence. "Bring her into the house," he ordered. "We're bound to have a bit of a wait for Brother Peter. He'll have to search his soul, pray for deliverance, change his mind three times before he comes for her. Because he knows he'll be coming to his death, and a man always thinks twice about such things."

  "What will we do with her, my lord?" asked one of the villainous-looking soldiers.

  He let his eyes skim over her as she lay on the pavement, blood dripping down her face. "Why, anything you please. Just don't kill her. We need to save that until Peter arrives."

  Rough hands took hold of her, dragging her out of the sunlight. She was too terrified to scream, and they threw her on the floor of a small room, the bunch of them crowding in.

  "Who's first, lads? Shall we draw for her? She's not that pretty, but they're all the same between their legs, and I'm more than ready to take my turn at her. Especially after being around all those damned nuns."

  Elizabeth scrambled away from them, into the corner like a trapped rat. But she was no helpless female, and she would be damned if she'd let them touch her.

  "Not all the same," she said in a breathless voice as one man approached her, his filthy hands fumbling with his hose, cheered on by the laughter of the men crowding into the room.

  He held up his hand to silence them. "What do you mean by that?" he asked suspiciously.

  She hadn't spent years among the midwives of Bredon without learning more than she ever wanted to learn. "You'll find out soon enough. The symptoms take about three days to show up. I expect I'll be dead by then, but I'll leave you all something to remember me by."

  "You're telling me you have the pox? You're too young for that," the man said, but he nevertheless took a nervous step back. "And it takes years for it to show up, not days. I've had friends die from it." He gulped.

  "There's more than one kind of pox. Why do you suppose my father sent me to a convent? To make certain there was no risk of contaminating the people of Bredon. It comes from the Holy Lands, an illness derived from the Saracens, who have carnal relations with animals and boys. Your privates shrivel and fall off as if they were leprous. Boils cover your skin and you begin to vomit black blood. It takes a few days to die, but it feels like years to the afflicted."

  "You lie. You have no sign of such an illness." He took another step back, anyway, coming up against his now-silent company.

  "Women show no sign of it. It festers inside them, where no baby will ever grow. Some say it's a curse made from Saracen witches, others say it's God's will for not taking back the Holy Lands as the crusaders promised. The reason matters not, only the outcome. Touch me, and you will die a horrible death."

  "I don't believe you. How would you have gotten such a foul disease? You look to me like a virgin."

  She didn't have to manufacture her bitter laugh. "Far from it. The knight who brought it to Bredon Castle was dead within a week of his arrival, and who's to say where he got it from? It spread so quickly that my father lost a dozen of his best fighting men in short order. He had the infected women strangled, but he always had a soft spot for his only daughter. He spared me, hoping the plague could be stopped if I were kept celibate." She summoned what she hoped was a suitably wanton smile. "But it makes little difference to me. The prince has said I'll die today, and I may as well enjoy myself before I go." She began inching the skirt up her long legs. "Who's first?"

  They turned and ran, the bunch of them, slamming and locking the door behind them. She wanted to laugh, to throw back her head and laugh until tears poured down her face. But she knew that once she started she would not stop.

  The prince was a fool. Peter would never come after her. If he had any sense at all he'd be glad she was dead, so he'd never have to suffer such an illogical temptation again. And Peter was very wise.

  She leaned her head against the rough wall. It was no wonder he'd managed to find that empty farm-house, no wonder he knew his way around the countryside so well that he'd managed to avoid the prince's hunting party. He'd managed to keep her safe. Long enough to break her heart.

  She needed to view her very short future with equanimity. She would die, painfully, she expected, but at least she'd ensured that she wouldn't suffer rape at the hands of a dozen rough men. And at the very least, she had known what love was.

  Not that Peter had loved her, of course. Seducing her had probably been one more piece of s
elf-ioathing, along with his hair shirt and his self-flagellation.

  No, she'd had the gift of loving him, whether he deserved it or not. And damned if she didn't love him still.

  She was a pragmatic woman—she'd seen too many deaths and births to think that one's allotted time was fair or expected. She would die, and most likely spend a fair amount of time in hell for her sins.

  And remembering that endless night on the bed of cedars, the morning by the cool stream, the heartbreak of his kiss beneath the very roof of the holy sisters, she decided that it was a small price to pay.

  William hummed softly beneath his breath, his humor sweeter than it had been in a long, long time. The great hall of Peter's abandoned house had seen better days, but the warmth of a fire offset the cool spring night, candles glowed everywhere, he'd eaten well of venison and roast rabbit, and he was going to have the sublime pleasure of torturing and killing Peter and his outsize whore.

  He hadn't yet decided who would go first. He knew Peter would die slowly, by fire. In truth, the night wasn't so cool that he'd needed a fire set, but he had other plans for those bright orange flames.

  He would unman him, as well, though not by fire as he'd been unmanned. A knife was more thorough, and he wasn't sure which would bring him more pleasure—to watch while he screamed in pain or to wield the knife himself. A dull knife.

  Which would cause him more agony—to have his little nun watch him as he died, or to witness her painful death and have the memory of her screams join his own? So many delicious choices—it was hard to choose.

  Only one thing marred his happy anticipation. He hadn't heard the screams he'd expected from his hostage. His men could hardly have been tender in their affections, and no matter how stalwart she might have intended to be, she would break beneath their abuse. But there had been no shrieks echoing through the abandoned household. No coarse male laughter as each took his turn.

  Had they killed her? He would be most displeased, and someone would pay for not following his instructions. They were all terrified of him, his band of rough mercenaries, and he couldn't imagine they would dare go against his wishes. Accidents happened, however, as he well knew. He hadn't meant to kill the baron's daughter—he had more sense than that.

  If Lady Elizabeth hadn't survived her afternoon of pleasure, then he would simply have to improvise. He'd have them drag her bloodied body to the hall and lay it out in front of the fire. He would be cheated of half his vengeance, and his men would pay for it.

  "Winston!"

  "Yes, sire."

  "The girl's dead, isn't she?"

  "I don't believe so, my lord."

  William looked at him suspiciously. "Bring her here, then. I need proof. And entertainment. I'm tired of waiting for her noble rescue."

  "Yes, my lord. Shall I bring your knives?"

  William smiled serenely. "Yes, Winston, do that. And drag her here, then, man. I'm bored."

  And he leaned back in his chair, smiling in sweet anticipation.

  The tiny room was pitch dark, her stomach was roiling again, the pain in her head now joined by a deep throbbing beneath her eye. Elizabeth put up a hand to touch the wound, only to pull it back swiftly. It was swollen and painful, and she suspected she wouldn't be able to see clearly out of it. Not that it mattered in this dark pit.

  She wasn't even given the blessed relief of sleep. She spent the endless hours huddled in the corner of the room, prepared to spin another wild tale if anyone should decide to risk such a horrible death.

  But no one came.

  And no one would come, certainly not Peter, no matter what Prince William might think. After their last encounter it would have proved to him that he dare not be anywhere near her. The best solution to his problem would be her death.

  No one would care if she died, she thought gloomily. The good sisters would keep her dowry, her father and brothers had already forgotten her, and to Peter she was the temptation incarnate. Even the twisted Prince William didn't want her—she was simply a means to an end.

  Too bad she was no longer a virgin—had she been so she might have qualified tor sainthood eventually, had her own shrine. To do so she would have to perform miracles after her tragic death, but Elizabeth had no doubts that she'd be able to do that. She'd always had the ability to do almost anything she set her mind to. If she missed hell and landed in purgatory she might spend her days walking this empty land, performing kind deeds for strangers.

  A lovely thought, but she was no suffering, gentle Madonna. If her spirit were left to walk this land she'd plague Brother Peter for the rest of his life, and raise holy hell for Prince William. Could spirits kill? They could drive people mad, but it seemed fairly certain that Prince William had already taken that particular road. Perhaps she could talk one of his men into killing him.

  There would be a great deal to learn as a ghost, but she was open to new adventures. At least this way no one could hurt her, no one could touch her. Kiss her, put his hands on her breasts and…

  The door opened, letting in a shaft of dim light, and she stiffened. Planning an eternity as a vengeful ghost was all well and good, but she wasn't looking forward to the transition. Particularly with the memory of Peter's hands fresh in her mind.

  "Come along. He's wanting you."

  Oh, sweet Jesus, she hoped not. The very thought of sweet Brother Matthew touching her was more than her weakened stomach could bear.

  A wave of dizziness swept over her as she rose. Her bare feet were freezing, her head throbbing, and she almost considered sitting down again and announcing she wasn't going to leave.

  But she didn't want to die in darkness, in a cold, dank room. So she steadied herself, leaning against the wall for a moment before moving forward.

  The prince had made himself at home. It was a pretty-enough room, Elizabeth thought as she stumbled after her captor. His man had tied her hands together in front of her and was leading her like a fractious mare. The prince sat alone in the huge room, by the fire, the flames dancing across his pretty face. She saw the knives then, and her stomach lurched.

  "You look quite good for a woman who's just entertained a dozen soldiers," he said, frowning.

  "They let her be, my lord," the man who brought her said warily.

  "Why? She's no great beauty, 'tis true, but I wouldn't have thought they'd be so picky."

  "She's got the pox. She told them their privates would shrivel and fall off if they took her."

  "Nonsense. Why am I surrounded by idiots?" he asked plaintively.

  "I'm not quite sure, my lord…"

  "That was a rhetorical question, Winston! I was not expecting an answer."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Any sign of our expected guest?"

  "No, my lord. None of the men seem to be around—they must be guarding the approach. I'll seek them out and see if there's word."

  The prince sighed. "He'll show up sooner or later. Trust Peter to be late to his own demise. Leave the girl with me. Winston, and go fetch me some wine. I grow weary of waiting."

  "You'll have a long wait," Elizabeth said. Her one eye was swollen shut, but she could see more than she wished to already. "He's not coming."

  "I know him better than you, my sweet." He took the end of the rope and tugged her forward, so abruptly that she fell on her knees. "He'll be here. But don't make the mistake of believing it will be out of love for you. He's atoning for his sins, he'll atone till Judgment Day and beyond, and he'd come if you were the sour-faced mother abbess."

  "That's because he's a good man," Elizabeth said.

  "That's because he's a fool. I almost regret doing this. Killing him might be a mercy, freeing him from that crushing load of guilt. But I console myself with the knowledge that I'm sending him to the eternal torments of hell and then I am at peace."

  "You're the one who'll spend eternity in hell," she said. "You're a sick, evil monster. A killer of the innocent, a despoiler of everything good…"

  "Oh, I am
a mere infant in the annals of destruction compared to Peter. Am I not?"

  For a moment she had no idea whom he was talking to. And then she heard the footsteps behind her, and knew with a dreadful sinking feeling that Peter had walked into the trap after all.

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  His beloved looked like holy hell, but she was in one piece. His beloved? When the hell had that happened? Sometime during the endless ride he'd come to the conclusion that there was no saving him. He was doomed to love her, whether it made sense or not, and the more he fought it the more powerful it became.

  "I'm surprised you managed to get in here without setting off some kind of alarm. My men had orders to let you pass, but they were going to at least apprise me of your arrival."

  "Your men were… indisposed," he said, moving forward into the light. He was trying not to look at her—William would take advantage of any weakness, any lapse in attention. She would simply have to remain that way, on her knees.

  "You must not have come alone, then—there's no blood on your sword, and my men wouldn't have given up without a fight."

  "True enough. But it's easy enough to sneak up on a stupid man and disarm him, and your men are very stupid."

  "I won't argue with you on that one. I, however, am not stupid. And I'm wondering why you even bothered to carry that sword in here, when you and I both know you aren't going to use it."

  "You think not?"

  "I know not. You're still beating your breast over those infidels we torched in the Holy Lands. You took an oath before God that you would never take another life unless your own is threatened, and you've held to that, haven't you?"

  "Yes."

  "So you think you're going to kill me in cold blood? In front of your overgrown trull? I doubt it, not if I don't attack you first. Sit down, Brother Peter, and have some wine. Or are you still Brother Peter? Somehow I doubt it, even though you're still wearing your monk's robes."