The Protector

by Becca St. John

  “Roland.” She pulled at his hand. “Listen, think. You knew me once.”

  “Did I?” He snapped, as he turned back to the door, easily removed with one hand the beam it took three women to put in place.

  “Roland, I do not wish to be wed.” She pleaded, and he was glad of it. Glad he shattered her calm, just as she shattered his faith in her.

  He stood there, at the door, preparing to open it. “Don’t wish to be wed? But we are married, Veri, before a priest and all.”

  “But you told me it was possible to undo, when you returned. If you leave me be.”

  “Oh, no, Veri." If she had been an innocent, and they found themselves incompatible, she would be free without proof of her betrayal. She may have been young, but she had never been stupid. "You cannot get out of this that easily. I am not such a fool as that.

  “Ieuan!” He flung the door open. “Gather witnesses.” He looked down at Veri. “For I will consummate my marriage this night.”

  No need for the order. Witnesses were there, as he suspected, just outside the door. Vultures, greedy for gossip, gathering at the first sound of trouble.

  They flooded his chamber, faces tight with curiosity. Hungry for titillating fodder to feed their audiences. Some of the more pitiable oozed fear, their fates entwined with Roland's.

  It was their turn to be caught off guard, reduced, by shock, to their true natures. Roland’s family, representatives of the King, his neighbors all here at Oakland to witness, first hand, his distress when he learned of his father's death at his wife's hand. How fascinating it must have been.

  Now, it was Roland's turn.

  He felt the horror sweep through the room as, one by one, each person realized Veri’s presence, within his grasp. She appeared as she had vanished, like a spirit in the night. No one else knew of the secret passage, the hidden door in the wall of his chamber. But she had known, had used it, to leave ominous conclusions that she was more witch than human.

  Father Ignacious would love this. “She is the devil, I tell you! Get her gone from this place before she brings the devil down upon you!”

  The devil descended. Time to see it gone.

  The crowd divided. Women to one side of the bed, men to the other. Roland crossed to the fire, Veri’s hand still captive in his. Friar Kenneth hovered like a bothersome insect, his pleas no more than an annoying drone.

  “ . . . she is not safe within these walls . . .”

  The words registered.

  “Not safe?” A grave insult. “Are you telling me I cannot protect my wife?”

  He witnessed the priests visible relief. So glad to be heard. He stopped fluttering, stood firmly in front of Roland. “She was endangered from the moment you left for the wars, Roland. There were attempts on her life then. Think! Think of life within these walls before you left. Think of your commitment to your liege lord. You cannot always be here. You cannot always be by her side.”

  “My protection goes beyond my physical presence.” Roland argued.

  “Not so, my lord, when there is an enemy within.”

  The muscles in his jaw tensed so fiercely, Roland spoke through clenched teeth. “We shall find that enemy soon, shall we not?”

  The friar would not be intimidated, “It is not the girl. She has had no lovers, Roland, and you will find this out too late.”

  “Will I? And what of my brother-in-law? Dori’s husband, Derek? Was he not aligned with the adultery, the murder? Was he not found guilty? He confessed, paid heavily for his part. Should she be left to live in quiet peacefulness, leaving him to have paid the price for their adultery, their treachery, alone? My father," his words trembled with repressed fury, "would be alive if it weren’t for their greed to confiscate Oakland.”

  “He was not her lover, Roland, he was her guard. The only one your father could trust.”

  “It isn’t true!” His sister Dori’s shrill shout cut across the room. “He was her lover! Hannah saw them! She caught them in their lovers’ tryst!”

  His other sister, Margaret, pushed through the assembly to take Dori in hand, “Hush, now, don’t fret now.”

  “He was my husband! She bewitched my husband from me!”

  “Roland,” Margaret admonished, as she held a sobbing Dori in her arms, “don’t do this to your sister. Don’t make her live through this once more. Seek your revenge. Have it done with. There is no need of this farce. Just burn her, hang her, do what must be done, but don’t play the game of husband.”

  Roland looked to his sisters, and then at his step-mother, Hannah, who fought her way through the crowd, to reach them. He looked down at his wife, stoic and silent by his side. He addressed her.

  “Have you nothing to say? No pleas of innocence? No denials that you had been found in a lovers’ tryst? What of Derek’s confession?”

  Calmly, she looked back at him. “What could I say to convince you, to break through years of hardened hatred? You will not believe my words.”

  “Speak them anyway. It will amuse me to hear them.”

  “I am not here for your amusement.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Speak them.”

  “For a promise.”

  Roland laughed, a bitter sound. “For a promise? You are in a position to make conditions?”

  Her direct look startled him. She didn't respond to his confrontation, didn't try to plead or beg for mercy. How could she, when guilt over- rode everything?

  “Now I am curious.”

  Margaret moved closer, Dori with her.

  “Stop this, Roland, now.” Margaret bade him, “Get on with it, whatever you intend, but stop this game playing before she bewitches you, too.”

  “Bewitches me?” He glared at his sister, “Nay, she will not bewitch me. Neither will you command me. This is my home, I am ruler here.”

  He turned to Veri, “What is this promise you seek?”

  She ignored his anger to reason, “When you reach the maidenhead you will not breach it. You will annul the marriage when you find my innocence. You said it could be done.”

  "Annul the marriage?" A marriage pledged to protect her with the power of his family, his name. “If there is a maidenhead, we will be married.” He squeezed her hand. “If not, I will be allowed divorce under the grounds of adultery. You, I fear, will not fare so well.”

  "No," Rose countered, "you must not do this. Marriage is not a necessary thing.”

  Roland had forgotten the Mother Superior, now stiff with fury. Her eyes sparked with it, while the other nuns stood mute with wide, terror- filled eyes. Some wept openly. Only Mother Rose opted to intimidate.

  Roland snorted. "Ah, yes, there is marriage to the church." He allowed. "But that is reserved for virtuous unmarried females." He looked down at Veri, "but you don't fall into that camp, do you? Or does the convent now house murdering whores as their number?"

  "I am guilty of neither." Clever enough not to fight with might, Veri used calm reason and, if that failed, she would resign herself to wait for an open opportunity. At least in that she was true to the child she had been.

  “’Tis a lie!” Dori's screech slashed through the room, as she dove at Veri, grabbed a handful of hair, yanked hard and fast. Ripped from Roland's hold, Veri tumbled to the ground, still firmly held by Dori. With one sweep of his arm, Roland lifted his sister away.

  “Take my wife to the bed!” he ordered, as he carried a struggling Dori to the door, dropped her on the other side of the threshold. One nod to the guards ensured she would be kept away.

  He turned back to the room. The men faced him, their backs to the women who undressed Veri. Roland pushed his way through them. He would watch. After all, she was his wife. He wanted to know what had become of her, why such a drastic change with womanhood.

  When he'd left, she had been a child, her form no different than a young boy's.

  The difference rocked him. She stood before him, a woman, full and ripe. He sipped air through his teeth, in an attempt not to react. He
r allure proved stronger than that. He felt himself harden, dropped his head and fought it, then laughed. Head back up, he looked his fill. His reaction all the better for the bedding. He would not think of her as a person, but as flesh, a mere body, a matter of dispassionate lust.

  Again, he promised himself he would not be caught by her as a person.

  His eyes drifted up to find her gaze focused on him. A challenge? Did she expect to use one steady stare to break him from his intent? Did she imagine herself a witch, with power in one glance?

  Over a decade ago, he’d thought that, when she tended him after the attack. She had looked at him and he felt pain. When she crooned, the pain eased. He had been drugged then, floating more in dream than reality.

  He met her stare, refused to break the contact, to show any sign of weakness.

  “He was not her lover, Roland, he was her guard. The only one yourfather could trust.”

  The friar’s words slid into his mind. Roland blinked, as once again he wondered if she worked an enchantment on him. He must remember, Hannah had found them in each other’s arms. Derek confessed.

  Derek had been tortured.

  Tortured, then confessed.

  Hannah found them, in this room, in this bed.

  A maidenhead could only be breached once.

  If she was an innocent, everything would change. Her guilt over his father’s death questioned. Without a lover to rule with, she had no reason to overtake his domain. Would not have been able to. He had gone to war, which afforded her incredible freedom. His father adored her, gave her anything she wished for, listened to her wisdom.

  Wisdom or trickery?

  Too many questions. He’d ask himself no more. She was a murdering whore and he would prove it this night.

  Steeled by those thoughts he watched, as naked, she moved to the bed without a fight. There was no point. She had brought the wrong kind of army to back an escape.

  The bed had been inspected to assure no hidden knife, small amulet of wine or pouch of chicken's blood could feint a virgin's stain. The only move toward modesty, for either one of them, was a thin cotton cloth his servants covered her with. It trembled with her tremors. She was frightened, and well she should be. This would be the beginning, not the conclusion, of her punishment.

  His turn now. Positions turned, the men faced the bed, the women gave their backs, as Roland disrobed. No ribald jokes, no Bacchus humor to color this mating. A somber affair.

  Margaret broke rank, turned to confront Roland openly. “Don’t do this Roland,” she pleaded.

  “Margaret,” her husband, Sir Howard, challenged, “stay out of this!”

  “It is too much for Dori, she will break. Don't you see?”

  “Enough!” Roland commanded.

  With no more hesitation, without thought to court Veri's body, he lifted the sheet, moved beneath it, pushed his hips between her legs. No question of innocent virginity, no room for hope. He knew better, had learned the ugliness of life to well.

  With one powerful thrust, he entered her.

  Veri bucked, cried out with the pain of invasion, at the rasp of dry flesh against dry flesh, piercing manhood against innocent virginity.

  Her maidenhead had been intact.

  “Out!” Roland bellowed, to the ceiling, to the room. The veins in his neck bulged and pulsed, his face contorted with horror.

  “Out!” He bent his head, rested forehead to forehead, as his mournful voice cried, “she is an innocent.”

  *************************

  Tight, convulsive shudders racked Veri’s slender form as she lay, sheltered from the view of others, within the cocoon of Roland’s body. He could not block out Dori’s screams. They dipped and swelled, as she fought against the exodus from the room.

  “Leave me be!” Dori spat, against whispers that urged quiet. “I’ll speak my mind.”

  “Get her gone.” Roland barked. His sister’s wails trailed away, one last eerie echo against stone wall.

  “Do not be fooled Roland. She has found a way for trickery, witchery.”

  Roland's command had come too late for Veri. Those screams a mirror of what everyone else thought. False tales of sin were ripe fruit that infected minds. Falsehood would become the stronger reality, more powerful than truth.

  Numb with despair, Veri turned her head away. Roland remained above her, upon her, his weight braced on huge forearms. It was only now that she realized he was no longer within her, had eased that part from her, as though that could change anything. As though, once his mark had been made, her life could ever be as it was. An act that took no more than one wrenching moment, her life was gone.

  Crowded in by the wall of his body, she opened her eyes to the bunched muscles of his biceps, the bulging veins in his neck. She could feel his breath upon her face as his head rested against her forehead. His chest heaved, as if he had run a long race. Try as she might, practical reason was out of reach, her thoughts a chaotic tangle. She must wait and wonder, what would come next?

  Roland shifted, eased from her, fitted his head beside hers; nestled his chin within the crook of her neck and shoulder.

  “It will be made to rights, Veri, all will be well. That is my promise.” She shut her eyes against the lie. “I vow never to take you like this again. Upon my honor, I will never.”

  The friar’s murmured prayer caught them both off guard. Veri stilled, took in the sound of that voice, the quiet sobbing of the sisters. She didn't move, was not capable of it, other than the frantic beat of her heart. The sisters were there. The Friar, Mother Rose, the sum of her family, her friends. They would help, they would reason with Roland. He would have to listen now.

  She waited, felt the slight brush of his hair against hers, as he lifted and tilted his head to listen. She opened her eyes to see his set on her and willed him to listen, let these people right the wrong of this night.

  The friar’s soft intonations now meshed with those of the sisters, as they moved closer to the doorway. The rumble of Roland’s voice struck like a clap of thunder to Veri’s nerves.

  “Friar,” He barked. The shuffle of feet halted, “Take the sisters and leave this place, this night.”

  “No!” Life shot into her veins, sparked her to action. She bucked and twisted against Roland’s hold, tried to free herself, to flee to the safety of Mother Rose.

  “Yes, Veri,” he arrested her movements with ease. “Trust me in this. I am your family now. My family is your family. You may not go with the sisters.”

  “Then let them stay here.” She pleaded, though she knew he would not relent. She knew it in the steel of his hold, the set bleakness of his gaze.

  Anguished tears pooled and slipped from her eyes to streak her cheeks. Tears withheld throughout her ordeal.

  “Please.” She begged, desperate in her need, confused by his despair.

  “She will need tending, after this night,” Mother Rose argued.

  Veri struggled anew, trying to see the Mother Superior, to reach out to her once more.

  “Nay,” Roland rolled to his side, his back to the Friar, nuns. With one firm hold, he anchored Veri’s head to his shoulder, wrapped a restraining leg around the pumping kicks of hers, as if she were a child to be cocooned while she cried. “You may leave instructions, but she can tend to herself. She knows of healing.” She hit at his shoulder, fought the fierceness of his hold. “There’s no need of another.”

  “Aye,” Mother Rose agreed sadly. “She is a healer, but that does not mean she needs no other. She will need you, Lord Roland of Oakland. Take care to be there.” Then she left. Rose and the others, for Veri heard their sandaled footsteps, the swish of their habits, their mournful whispers.

  Mother Rose left. Friar Kenneth was gone. She was alone.

  “Trust me,” Roland crooned, over and over again, as he held her to him, comforted with arms that held no solace.

  Her body shivered with quaking sobs, wave upon wave. Exhaustion took its toll. No more heart, n
o thought to fight, she sank against him.

  Finally, his weight lifted, shifted the bed, as he left her side, placed a heavy cover over her.

  Numb she lay, unmoving. Heard the door open, the rumble of voices, men entering the chamber, grunts of effort, the slide of furniture. The secret entrance, escape route, blocked.

  Masculine footsteps, closing of the chamber door, then silence.

  Without warning, a feather light, hesitant kiss, brushed her forehead. She jerked away, every muscle tensed against his touch as he stroked her back, brushed the hair from her face. He whispered promises that no one would ever be able to hurt her again and vowed to protect her.

  Promises made once before, in a time when she felt little need of protection. Then, as now, if he had let her leave, there would have been no need for the safeguard.

  Veri curled into a tight ball, against a pain that seared her soul. She rocked with the shift of the bed as he rose to stand beside her, his gaze a tactile thing.

  She should never have returned to this place. Never. If only she could have imagined, but nothing foretold such an outcome. He was not the man she had known, had changed drastically in the years of his travels. The young man he had been would have listened to her request, honored it. He would not have needed proof to believe in her innocence.

  “Forgive me.” A prayerful request, as one would whisper in church, as though her benevolence could stretch that far. He left, she lay, spent beyond feeling, deep inside herself, remembering, remembering all those years before.

  Murmured whispers sounded from the hall, again the door opened, though this time the steps were lighter, hesitant.

  Huddled beneath the covers, Veri willed herself alone.

  “Milady," the soft whisper washed over her. "I’ve come with a clean shift, warm water. If you like, I will arrange a bath.”

  Veri shook her head. She trusted no one, needed none of them.

  “It is Cwen. Remember? M’mum was your maid, your own personal maid when you were a child. His Lordship asked me to tend you.”