Gareth turned his gaze back to her, his expression heavy with sadness. “Forgive me, cariad,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
Lora, her mind still coming to terms with the terrible reality, gaped at him. “Forgive you?”
Gareth rose to his feet and faced the stairway. “The lady is innocent, my lords.”
My lords? Who else is here? Lora’s head spun, for she feared she already knew the nauseating answer.
“She is not to blame,” Gareth continued. “I seduced her and took advantage—”
“Seize him!”
The familiar voice trembled with rage, but it was not Edward who spoke. Lora whimpered and her hand flew to her mouth.
Papa!
At the earl’s command, a pair of unshaven brutes with callous faces emerged from the shadows like wolves to the kill. Lora recognized them as two of Rothwyn’s men-at-arms. They seized Gareth, one on either side, taking the time to leer at Lora’s bared flesh.
Gareth’s lip curled in a snarl. “Take your filthy eyes off her.”
Edward crossed the floor in three strides and sank his fist hard into Gareth’s stomach. “Welsh cur. You’ll hang for this.”
Gareth doubled over and dropped to his knees, his arms still held by the two men. Pain twisting his features, he gasped for air, saliva drooling from his lips.
“Nooo, stop.” Lora rose to her knees, clutching her shift to her chest, and reached out a hand. “Please, Edward, I beg of you. Don’t hurt him.”
“Get the bastard out of my sight.” Lora’s father stepped past Gareth and placed himself in front of Lora, sheltering her body with his. “Edward, you will leave also. Wait for me in my office.”
Edward’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Lora. “I think not. I would speak to this…this slut who—”
“Enough!” Lora’s father raised a hand. “Go, now. You’ll have your say later.”
“Have my say?” Edward grunted and slammed his booted foot into Gareth’s face. Blood, dark and thick, gushed from Gareth’s nose and splattered onto the floor. “I’ll have more than that.”
“Stop,” Lora sobbed. “Please, stop.”
Gareth, hanging winded and helpless between the two men, turned his head to look at her. She whimpered at the sight of his broken, bloodied face. He coughed and spat out a wad of blood. “Keep…keep the faith, cariad. For me.”
Edward snorted. “She’ll be weeping over your dead body tomorrow.”
Bile rose in Lora’s throat as she sank back on her heels.
“Where do we put ’im, m’lord?” asked one of the men, looking to the earl for a response, but it was Edward who answered.
“The dungeon, you fool. Where else?”
The man raised an eyebrow, casting a dubious glance at Edward and another at the earl.
“Aye. The dungeon.” The earl fixed Lora with a tortured gaze. “Sweet Jesus Christ, this is beyond belief. All of you, get out of here. Now.”
Edward took a step forward and bent his head to hers. Lora cringed at the cold rage she saw in his eyes.
“I warned you, mistress, not to take me for a fool.” His eyes drifted to the swell of her breasts and his nostrils flared. “God’s balls. You stink of Welsh dog.”
“Edward.” The earl gestured to the stairs. “Leave us.”
Still dangling at the mercy of his two captors, Gareth attempted to stand as they pulled him across the floor. They stumbled down the stairs followed by Edward, who glanced back at Lora with a smile on his face. Surely the Devil himself, she thought, had never looked so evil.
Silence descended like the aftermath of a violent storm. The candle hissed and popped, making the shadows dance. The earl turned his face away, seeming to focus on the blood-spattered floor.
Lora sniffed. “Papa—”
He clenched his fists. “Cover yourself.”
“Please try to understand—”
“Cover yourself, child, or I swear I’ll drag you from here as you are.”
Teeth chattering, Lora wriggled into her shift. Then she stood, fighting a wave of dizziness, and pulled on her kirtle, leaving the laces loose. The earl still did not move or look at her.
“Pa… Papa?”
“Shoes.”
She wiped away a mist of tears, slipped her feet into her shoes, and waited.
He turned around then, his face pale beneath the golden wash of candlelight. The twitch in his jaw and tense lines around his eyes spoke of his anger.
“Papa, I’m sor—”
The impact of the earl’s hand whipped her head sideways. She tasted blood and cried out in shock and pain.
“Whore!” He grabbed her upper arm, fingers digging into her skin without mercy. “You filthy little whore. He set spies on you, did you know that? And I defended you, told him his suspicions were unwarranted. Christ’s blood, you’ve shamed us all.”
He dragged her from the loft as carelessly as he might have dragged the carcass of a slaughtered beast. Sobbing, Lora stumbled along beside him, shock still obscuring the clarity of her thoughts. The approaching dawn had eased some of the darkness from the bailey. Somewhere a cock crowed, announcing the start of the day. Lora whimpered at the thought of what the day might hold. If only she could turn back time.
Fear for Gareth’s life sat like a weight in her chest, Edward’s threat playing over and over in her mind. Desperate, she voiced a tearful wish to the well as they passed.
“Please don’t let Gareth die. I love him. It’s not supposed to be like this, remember? I’m not supposed to be here.”
A shiver ran through her, cold and ominous. Strangely, it seemed to come from the earl’s touch, entering her arm before snaking around her neck and down her spine. At the same moment, he hesitated, casting a puzzled glance at her before his expression hardened again.
“Be silent.”
After that, his pace never slowed. He hauled her up the stairs, opened the door to her chamber, and shoved her inside.
“I shall return momentarily,” he said, red-faced with exertion, his chest heaving. “Remove your kirtle while I’m gone.”
Trembling with weakness and fear, Lora sank to the floor as the door slammed. She tried to make sense of his parting words. Remove your kirtle? Frowning, she looked down at herself. What did he mean? No sooner had the question crossed her mind than she realized his intention.
“Oh, dear God.”
She kicked off her shoes, scrambled onto her bed, and curled up in a ball. A short time later, the door opened again, and the earl’s silhouette filled the door frame, a horsewhip dangling from his hand.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. It creaked as it swung shut, an ominous sound that preceded the final click of the latch. Lora flinched.
“Papa, please.”
“Get up.”
“Where’s Gareth?” she dared to ask. “Please don’t hurt him. It’s not his—”
“I said, get up.”
Lora eyed the whip and shook her head. “No. Please don’t, Papa. I—”
With a guttural snarl, he strode to the bed and grabbed a fistful of her kirtle. The rapidity and force of his violence caused her to choke on a breath as he hauled her to the floor. Her scream came out as a hoarse, strangled cry. He ignored it. “On your feet, girl.”
Dizzy with shock, Lora clutched at her bedclothes, pulled herself upright, and turned to face him. Rage sat like a tight mask on his face. She tried to look behind it, hoping to see a trace of leniency, yet she saw only pain, savage and raw.
“I love him,” she said, as if uttering those three little words vindicated all she had done. In response, the earl spat at her feet and raised the whip.
“Remove your kirtle and turn around. Defy me once more and I’ll rip the clothes from your body myself.”
It was, Lora realized, no frivolous threat. With trembling hands, she eased her kirtle over her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Her lip quivered as she clutched at her shift, drawing the neckline together
to cover the bare flesh of her chest.
The earl’s lip lifted in a sneer. “Christ. You insult me with your false modesty. Turn around.”
A sob tore from her. “P-please, Papa. You ca—”
“Turn!”
His face disappeared behind a blur of her tears. “I love him,” she said again, squeezing her eyes shut as she obeyed. There came a dreadful pause, a silence that precluded the horror of what was sure to follow. Lora knotted her hands together, bent her head, and whispered a desperate prayer.
She flinched at the snap of the whip, and at first felt nothing but a short, sharp wisp of air across her shoulders. Then something tugged at her shift and pain lashed a diagonal fiery swathe across her back.
Her cry turned into a hiss as she bit down against the shock, yet even in the grip of agony, an unanswered question demanded release.
“Where is Gareth? What have you done with him?”
The reply was a snarl of rage and another crack of braided leather. Teeth grinding against a fresh welt of pain, Lora dropped to her knees.
Then, somewhere above the pulsating throb in her ears, she heard the chamber door open.
“Stop!” Her mother’s frantic cry rent the air. “Please, husband, have mercy.”
“’Tis less than the little whore deserves,” he said, sounding breathless. “Do you know what she’s done? Where we found her?”
“Yes, I do,” came the soft and anguished response. “But I beg of you, my lord, cease your action. ’Tis surely the mason who is to blame, leading an innocent girl astray.”
At that, Lora twisted around, cringing as the movement pulled at her torn flesh. “No, Mama. It was not—”
“Hold your tongue.” The earl raised the whip again, regarding her as he might a rat. “Or I swear I will—”
“Confine her.” Lora’s mother laid a hand on the earl’s arm. “Isolate the child within these walls until you see fit to release her. Let her consider, in her solitude, the shame she has brought to bear upon your name. But stay the lash. Please, Godfrey.”
The earl’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, his focus appeared to drift, as if pondering an idea or realization. “Confinement,” he muttered, the sharpness in his eyes returning. “So be it.”
Then he grabbed his wife’s wrist, spun on his heel, and headed for the door. On the threshold, he paused and turned, throwing a final castigating glance at Lora. “So be it,” he said again and closed the door on her.
Lora choked on a sob, her body overcome by sudden and violent trembling. She hugged herself, her mind scourged by confused thoughts that swirled like dead leaves in a windstorm. They all centered around one image, that of Gareth being dragged, bleeding, from the loft.
Please, God, I beg of you, let him still live.
Lora’s breath caught. No. In good heart, she couldn’t pray for that. Oh, she wanted Gareth to live. More than anything, she wanted him to live. But not…not if…
“I pray,” she whispered, knotting her fingers beneath her chin, “that he is not in pain. That he does not suffer. Please, God, don’t let him—”
A sudden volley of commands came from beyond her shuttered window, halting her prayer. She recognized the harsh tone of the speaker, whose voice sliced through the morning air like a scythe.
Edward.
Moments later, the rattle of harness and clatter of hooves blended with additional shouts of men. Stifling a groan, Lora pulled herself up and limped to the window. She fumbled with the latch, tugged the shutters open, and peered out. In the bailey below, men, horses, and wagons gathered in readiness for an obvious departure. Edward’s entourage. Of course. He no longer had any reason to stay at Rothwyn yet Lora felt no relief at his leaving. The sacrifice made that night could never justify this outcome. Never.
Be careful what you wish for, Gareth had said. By all the saints, she had not wished for any of this. Her only true wish had been for freedom, freedom from what she saw as the trappings of Rothwyn. A wish made before she even knew about Edward. And now here she was, confined to her room, helpless. So much for the power of the well. And yet Gareth had believed.
The maelstrom in her mind slowed as she pondered the strange voice she’d heard. Give it more time, it had said. You’re not supposed to be here. Choose your words.
“Time for what?” she cried, lifting tear-filled eyes skyward. “If not here, then where am I supposed to be? And what would you have me say? What would you have me do? Tell me and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything, anything to put this right. Please, I need—”
Silence, she realized, had descended over Rothwyn like a fog. She held her breath and looked down to see upturned faces staring at her, a hostile audience to her desperate appeal. Animosity emanated from them like a stench. She could almost taste it.
Then someone spat, a loud and deliberate sound of disgust that sent a mild titter through the crowd. The noise pulled her gaze to where Edward sat astride his horse. As their eyes met, Lora resisted the temptation to step back. To cower would imply shame, and she felt none. “Where is he?” she whispered. “What did you do to him?”
Her words, beyond the bounds of possibility, somehow flew to Edward’s ear. He responded with a smile, an arrogant, triumphant sneer that carried a clear message.
With a cry of anguish, Lora stumbled back toward her bed and, like a shipwrecked soul, dragged herself onto it. Curled up in a ball of utter despair, she sobbed until she retched. The child she had been, not so far back in time, emerged and cried out for her mother, desperate to hear a gentle voice, to feel a soft touch of reassurance. But the chamber door remained closed. Everyone Lora loved, it seemed, had abandoned her, or worse.
Or perhaps not, for later, much later, as she drifted in and out of a haunted sleep, she imagined she heard a voice.
Gareth’s voice.
Give it more time, cariad. Give it more time.
Chapter 11
“You’ve eaten little, my lady.”
Lora turned from the window to glance at Fritha. “I’m not hungry.”
The maid picked up the tray, concern etched on her face. “’Tis not right to starve yourself like this.”
“I’m not starving myself. When I’m hungry, I’ll eat.” She turned back to observe the world beyond her window. All it had once held for her–the magic, love, the urge to see beyond the distant horizon–had vanished. Still, the comings and goings of Rothwyn provided some measure of distraction from her grief and guilt. They also subdued an echo of regret that chimed like a bell in her mind.
If only. If only. If only.
Several weeks had passed since that terrible night. Lora’s physical wounds had healed, but neither of her parents had once returned to see her, a rebuke more painful than any number of her father’s lashes. Only Fritha and Rothwyn’s priest were allowed entry to her guarded chamber. Lora had tried, many times, to pry information from her maid, news, gossip, anything. Yet Fritha, fear evident in her eyes, refused to answer her mistress’s questions. Only once had she passed on a tidbit, a simple two-word message from Master William.
Stay strong.
By all things holy, Lora had tried. So far, she’d found the strength to rise from her bed each morning, to breathe in and out, and to pray for forgiveness, with false conviction, at the priest’s feet each evening.
So far.
“I’ll return shortly to tidy your hair, my lady,” Fritha said.
“Why?” Lora asked, without turning. “Am I expecting guests today?”
“Ah, no. I don’t believe so.”
“Then don’t bother.” Her fingers sought out the braid dangling over one shoulder. “My hair is tidy enough as it is.”
She heard Fritha’s sigh. “As you wish, my lady.” A moment later, the door closed with its usual finality.
Lora sighed, too, as she settled into her chair and looked out across Rothwyn’s lands. Desperate to find beauty in the new day, she absorbed detail, transparent fingers of morning mist trailing across the meadow, t
he soft blue of an autumn sky, sunlight playing on amber leaves. Yet melancholy, as always, dampened her resolve.
The mist served only to bury the withered stems of summer flowers. The bleak autumn skies lacked the glimmer of blue-winged swallows that had long since abandoned their nests. And autumn’s pretty golden cloak hid its true purpose. It was nothing but a harbinger of winter, that darkest of all seasons with its frozen nights and bitter days.
Weary of her sadness, Lora clenched her fists. She could end it, of course, anytime she chose. One step up, another out, followed by a rapid drop to the cobbles. Not that she had any intention of doing such a thing, but the thought, while sinful, at least offered her an odd sense of control. It meant her future was not entirely in the hands of others.
Somewhere below, men’s voices carried through the crisp autumn air, their words unclear. Lora leaned forward to see half a dozen of her father’s knights milling around the stables, preparing to ride out, it seemed. Behind her, she heard the chamber door open.
“I thought I told you, Fritha,” she said, irritation evident in her tone. “My hair needs no tidying today.”
“On your feet, girl.”
Lora gasped and rose from her chair so fast that her head spun. With one hand against the wall to steady herself, she turned and faced the earl.
“My lord,” she said, her voice quivering. “Oh, Papa. I am… I am honored. And relieved. Truly relieved to see you. I thought—”
“Pay attention.” He dropped a cloth bag on her bed, his stern voice matching his expression. “This contains a change of clothes. As soon as I leave this room, you will remove what you are wearing and put these on instead. Once you’ve done that, you may take your Bible, prayer beads, and comb, and put them in the bag. That is all. You must not wear any adornments, other than a crucifix if you wish. Nor will you take any books, quills, ink, or coin. Nothing, in fact, of personal significance to you. Is that clear?”
“I… no, Papa. I don’t understand.” Numbed by a growing sense of disbelief, Lora shook her head. “Are you telling me that I’m to leave Rothwyn?”
The Wishing Well (Legends of Love Book 1) Page 12