by Allegra Gray
“’Tis unfair,” she muttered, “to hold someone without cause.”
“The villagers found plenty of cause.”
“And you believe them?”
“No,” he stated implacably, “but the woman has never spoken in her own defense. When the day comes for me to listen to and resolve grievances, I shall hear her case, if she is willing to speak, along with all the others.”
She couldn’t imagine why Helena had kept silent, preferring to suffer in the dungeons rather than speak up for herself. She would never be able to do the same. But perhaps Helena was frightened, or believed no one would listen. “And until then?”
“She will remain where she is.”
“Have you ever been down there?” she cried. “It is no place for any human, let alone a young woman!”
“I have. It is a dungeon, Celia. It is not meant to be luxurious. It is meant for holding criminals.”
“But they may not all be criminals! You had my father down there as well, as you so aptly pointed out! Is it fair to punish them thus before knowing for certain of their guilt? Do you have any idea what goes on down there? How they are treated?”
She knew her control was slipping, but it was too late. She could not believe this man who was so thoughtful to her, who had listened to her when her father was held in that same dungeon—even if he was ultimately responsible for putting him there in the first place—who had seen to her every need since then, could be so callous about the treatment of those not in his immediate line of sight.
Nicolas sighed heavily. “My man Hans is in charge of dealing with the prisoners. I cannot single-handedly run every aspect of this castle. Some things must be delegated, trusted in the hands of others, and that is one of them.”
“Then you should be more careful in whom you place your trust!” she said hotly. “I have seen what goes on down there. The conditions are inhumane and unsanitary, and what passes for questioning is nothing short of torture. I do not know this Hans, but he must be a cruel man.”
“He is an efficient man,” Nicolas countered.
“He is efficient because no one dares to cross him.”
The count raised his eyebrows, then cocked his head, as if contemplating, for a moment. Celia watched the lines around his mouth grow even sterner.
“All right. ‘Tis possible things have gotten a bit out of hand down there, and it is some time since I last observed the situation. I cannot guarantee the release of the woman you mentioned, but I will look into the conditions of the dungeon and make sure each prisoner is given the opportunity to talk before any form of physical torture is meted out. I will not turn the place into a haven of comfort, though, or I will have all the ne’er-do-wells in the region committing foolish crimes so that they can be placed in my dungeons and be taken care of without having to work. In order for a dungeon to be effective, it must be an unpleasant place.”
Celia could see his logic, and at least he was listening to her. Many men would not do so much. He was even compromising. No wonder everyone thought him such a good ruler and diplomat.
“I concede your point, my lord,” she said more quietly. “I would be very pleased if you looked into the situation, and I understand that you cannot, and should not, make things too pleasant in the dungeon. I just don’t think it’s fair for a person to be trapped forever for something not their fault. I also apologize if my temper got the better of me. I did not set out to anger you.”
“I share your beliefs,” he said, also more kindly, “and I assure you I will see it done. I do admire your compassion, Celia. It’s just that a ruler who indulges too often in kindness may find others taking advantage of him.”
“I promise, after this I shall ask nothing else of you, my lord.”
He shot her a dubious look. “Hasn’t anyone warned you about the folly of making promises you cannot keep?”
She gave him an impish smile. “You mean like promising not to kiss me again?”
“Exactly.” He pulled her in for a kiss that promised many more to follow. He ended softly, one hand on her cheek. “I must attend to other matters now, though I have not forgotten my promise to entertain you. Perhaps this evening. Now, go find a more pleasant way to spend your day than wandering about my dungeons.”
Celia did as he said, but she could not get Helena’s plight out of her head. Surely there was some other way to help her. She whiled away the afternoon helping some of the ladies who were embroidering a large altar cloth for the castle’s chapel. It was tedious work, and her mind wandered until she hit on a plan. It wouldn’t free Helena, but it might ease her suffering just a little.
After the evening meal, she lingered in the great hall until servants began clearing away the meal’s remains. Making sure no one noticed, she took two of the bread trenchers from the high table. She’d learned from Marie that even though the nobles left them, they were usually eaten afterwards by the lower servants. Surely those servants wouldn’t miss one or two in this household of plenty. They would be a treat indeed for the young woman in the dungeons.
Try as she might, she couldn’t believe that any one woman could intentionally cause an epidemic of fever. No one else seemed to share her opinion, and unless Helena found the courage to defend herself, she would likely be left to starve before anything was decided on her case. Her father had described what happened when the dungeon guards brought what they called “dinner,” and it was basically a mad rush in which the more aggressive prisoners fought one another for hunks of stale bread and scraps the kitchen had seen fit to spare.
Anyone who didn’t run for the buckets, fettered or not, was unlikely to receive anything but the barest of scraps when the frenzy was over.
The real trick would be to slip Helena the trencher without the others seeing. Many of the prisoners were too absorbed in their own misery to pay any attention, but others were suspicious of the slightest movement. Still, if she could pass the bread from under her cloak, Helena could hide it in her shawls.
Celia stole from the great hall and quickly crossed through the courtyards, silent now after the chaos of the day. The wind blew chill and the melted snow had frozen over, making the cobblestones slick and dangerous.
Her heart sank when she saw the guards on shift at the dungeon entrance. One looked to be passed out as he slumped against the wall, probably from drink.
The other was the repulsive man who’d groped her at earlier visits. He too smelled of alcohol but was, unfortunately, still conscious.
If she didn’t do this, Celia reminded herself, no one else would. She could not turn back now.
“I’d like to visit the prisoners,” she said without preamble.
“Why? Yer father’s not down there no more.”
Celia thought frantically. “’Tis the Christian thing to do...bringing goodwill to the wicked, showing them a better way of life.” She didn’t for the slightest moment believe that the guard was a religious man in any true sense of the word. Overall, though, Chillon was, like most castles and villages, heavily influenced by the church. It housed a chapel and several religious personages, and a convent sat just down the road. The guard would know that, and surely he wouldn’t want to prevent her from doing her Christian duty.
She was wrong.
“I don’t know about that,” he rasped. His hand snaked out and grabbed her by the waist, hauling her up against his dirty tunic. The other guard snorted and shifted in his drunken slumber, but did not awake. “If it’s goodwill ye’re lookin’ to spread, I could use some o’ that right ‘ere.”
Celia struggled against him, trying to free herself with one arm and use the other to prevent the guard from discovering the bread she’d hidden beneath the folds of her cloak. He had definitely been in his cups that night. The putrid fumes of alcohol he breathed made her gag.
Still holding her tight, the guard reached up to fondle her breast. “See, ye’re not goin’ anywhere, are ye? I think ye just wanted to pay a visit to yer old friend Garr.”
<
br /> Angry now, she broke his hold. “Beast! How dare you touch me!”
“What, playing the innocent? Do ye think we don’t know what ye are?” he hissed. “You, running around with yer hair all down like some harlot, makin’ eyes at his lordship? Gettin’ favors and better treatment than the rest of us, when ye ought to be down in the dungeons yerself? Ye’re no better than a common whore, my pet, and I intend to sample some of that sweetness you offer his lordship so freely.”
It was the longest speech she’d ever heard from the man. She wouldn’t have credited him with enough intelligence to string so many words together. But now was not the time to wonder at such things.
“You’re mad,” she whispered. “Stay away from me!”
“Afraid I can’t do that, my pet.” He reached out to grab her again. “I been waiting since I first seen ye. Tonight ye’re mine.”
She backed away, abandoning any plans she’d had for delivering bread. “No! I’ll never let a foul beast like you lay hands on me! I shall scream, and you will be sorry you ever threatened me!”
“And who will hear ye, pet? Him?” he gestured to his unconscious partner, then spat in his direction. “Not likely he’s up for savin’ ye.” He advanced again.
She glanced quickly around, the truth of the guard’s words striking new fear in her heart. He was right. The courtyard was deserted.
The walls of the castle were thick. If she screamed, someone might hear, but by the time they could find her, it could be too late.
Realizing that pleas, threats—words of any kind—would have no affect on him, she pushed back, turned, and ran.
She sprinted across dirt, then icy cobblestone, slipping and sliding in a frenzied struggle to make forward progress. She passed from courtyard to courtyard, hearing his hoarse, labored breathing and heavy footfalls just behind her. She dropped the small bundle of bread she’d been carrying under her cloak, needing both arms to keep her balance as she sped over the uneven ground.
Reaching the uppermost courtyard, she spied a small door she’d never noticed before. She flung it open—mentally thanking the Lord that it hadn’t been locked—and dashed inside.
A narrow set of spiral stone stairs was the only thing before her, so she began to climb.
She’d gone no more than four steps when a heavy jerk on her skirts sent her tumbling backward. Her tailbone bore the brunt of her landing on the stone floor, but before she had time to register the pain, a fleshy hand closed over her mouth. Another landed on her breast, and Celia began to fight in earnest.
She kicked, struggled, clawed at any piece of him that she could reach, but this only seemed to excite him more. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head around to face him. She spat at him angrily, but he only laughed and wiped it away, then slammed her head against the stone. Her vision blurred, marred by a thousand tiny pricks of light.
“That’s it, my pet. I bet ye don’t put up this much fuss for the count. But if ye want it rough, we can do it rough. Don’ mind either way.”
The guard’s free hand grabbed the fabric near her collarbone. With a vicious yank he tore both the bodice of the dress and her chemise, exposing her breasts to the cold air. He grabbed one of her nipples and pinched, hard. Bile rose in her throat. She wanted to die.
No. She wanted him to die. Either way, it did not appear God was in the mood to grant wishes, since neither of them dropped lifeless. She squirmed harder, twisting away.
A noise in the courtyard sent hope flooding through her. Footsteps, coming closer, echoed through the night and she tried to cry out, managing only a brief sound of protest before his hand clamped tightly over her mouth.
Black boots, the bottom of a black tunic, appeared in the doorway leading to the courtyard. Celia looked up in dread to see the sinister face of the dungeon-keeper looming above her. His lips twisted in a grimace that resembled a smile, and the hope that had so briefly flared in Celia’s heart died with a sickening thud.
“Carry on, Garr,” Hans said softly, his cloak swishing behind him as he disappeared, firmly closing the doorway to the stairwell that was, to Celia, quickly coming to resemble hell.
She twisted and turned, frantic now, but the hand over her mouth was jammed up against her nostrils as well, making it hard to even breathe. He seemed to sense that her struggles were growing weaker as he shoved her skirts up about her waist, exposing her stockings and her most intimate areas.
Keeping her mouth covered with the one hand, he began using the other to unfasten his trousers. Cold terror trickled down her spine as she realized she would not be able to stop him from raping her.
The guard yanked impatiently at the leather laces holding his trousers together. The tie continued to give him trouble, his fingers being clumsy with intoxication.
Swearing violently, he released Celia momentarily so that he could assign both hands to the task.
As his arousal bulged forth, she had just enough time to scream.
Chapter 9
Nicolas’s meeting with the seneschal had been quicker than he’d anticipated, so he’d returned to his chambers to look over the accounts they’d discussed.
He’d barely sat down when a scream broke the silence.
He started, looking up from his ledger.
He could have sworn the sound came from the staircase, but no one ever used that. It was a private passage—even the exiting door had been designed to blend in with the masonry of the walls outside. Still, certain his ears weren’t playing tricks on him, he got up to investigate. He slid the panel in his chamber that led to the stairs, then hurried down the narrow, curving stone steps.
The sight that met him at the bottom filled him with a black rage like no other he’d ever known.
Celia was sprawled on the floor, her dress torn open, baring her lovely breasts to a dungeon guard who straddled her, half kneeling and half lying on her, holding her down with his weight while she squirmed beneath him. Her skirts pooled about her waist, the man above her poised to invade her most sensitive place. His pudgy, filthy hand covered her mouth, and her eyes were wide with a terror that made Nicolas want to tear the man limb from limb.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” he thundered, his voice echoing off the walls around them.
The guard looked up in surprise. He hastily tried to get to his feet, swaying with inebriation. His trousers hung open and evidence of his arousal was all too apparent.
“We was just havin’ a bit of fun,” he tried to explain, eyes goggling at the imposing figure of the count.
“It did not appear that the lady was enjoying your attentions,” Nicolas said with a calm that belied the black fury roiling inside him.
“Well, er, she wanted a bit of convincing, is all,” the guard looked uncomfortable, now. He fumbled with his laces again, now desperately trying to retie them.
Nicolas’s disgust made him want to retch.
Nicolas stepped down the final two stairs until he was nose to nose with the man. Inwardly he recoiled at the man’s foul breath, but he held his stance. “If you ever, ever come within fifty yards of this woman again, I’ll have you hanged. Do you understand?”
Foolishly, the guard tried to object. “Whar’s the problem, my lord? Everyone knows she’s a whore.”
Thwack. Nicolas’s fist connected with the man’s jawbone with a force that sent him to the floor, unconscious. Unable to stop there, he hauled the man up by his shirt and planted another sound punch to his left eye before unceremoniously tossing him out the doorway and calling to a sentry who was crossing nearby. “Have this man placed in the dungeons immediately. Under no circumstances is he to be released without my permission.”
“Right away, my lord.” The sentry signaled another for help and began dragging the unconscious guard away, never questioning the count’s reason for wanting the guard of the dungeon thrown into the dungeon.
Nicolas turned back to Celia. His breath was ragged and he was still shaking with rage, but she didn’t need t
o see his anger. She had drawn herself into a corner of the stairwell, knees curled up to her chest as she lay, trembling, in the fetal position. Her eyes were unnaturally wide and dry as she watched him.
He felt his fury subside as he met her gaze, though it was quickly replaced by a sick twist of guilt. This was—at least partially—his fault. He’d told her father that she would be treated as a guest, that no harm would come to her. He obviously hadn’t been holding up his end of the bargain.
Shaking his self-recriminations aside for the moment, he knelt down by her and reached out. She jumped like a frightened rabbit at his touch and trembled even harder. She tried to scramble to her feet but her body heaved and she fell to her knees, bent forward. He waited a moment while she took deep, gasping breaths, but was not actually ill.
“Did he...did he...” He couldn’t say the words aloud.
“No,” she whispered, finally sitting back on her knees. “You were just in time.”
Dizzying relief poured through him. “Shh, it’s all right now. No one’s going to hurt you.” He gathered her up into his arms and held her tightly. Her trembling ceased suddenly as she went utterly limp in his arms. Fear pricked at him, but a quick glance assured him she had not lost consciousness. Whether her collapse was one of exhaustion or fear, he didn’t know.
The narrow staircase and surrounding walls seemed to close in on him, so he picked her up and carried her upstairs to his chambers. The bodice of her dress was completely ruined and hung open despite her feeble attempts to hold the torn material closed over her chest. Nicolas did his best to look away. He’d been dreaming of those lush curves since he’d first set eyes on her, but now was not the time to notice the perfect, creamy swells of flesh or the enticing curve of her slender waist. Guilt stabbed him again as he registered the fact that the abominable guard had stolen such views.
He used the toe of his boot to kick open the door to his chambers. His first instinct was to set her on the bed, but given what had just happened, he decided that might not be the wisest course. Instead he sat in his largest, burgundy-upholstered chair, holding her on his lap like a child, cradling her face to his chest, and softly stroking her long hair.