Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

His expression bleak, Roland met his gaze. “We found the vials. They were in Elspeth’s chamber.”

  “How much was given her?”

  Roland closed his eyes, then opened them. “All three vials were empty.”

  For a moment, Alaun was blind, although his eyes remained open. Then, moving slowly, he turned and walked to the bed. He stood beside Lanella and looked down at the pale face on the pillows, calm, perfectly composed, yet lacking the light of love and laughter that had been there when he had left her that morn.

  “So she will die.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  There was no sound in the room bar Lanella’s soft sobs, then even those ceased.

  Alaun stood, his heart like stone, trying to grapple with his conclusion. His brain felt numb; his body chilled.

  “No.”

  Strangely, the denial came from Lanella. She sniffed, then resolutely wiped her eyes. “Not necessarily. I—oh, how I wish I had paid more attention years ago—but surely tis true that most strong potions have antidotes?”

  She looked at Meg; Alaun followed her glance.

  Meg pursed her lips, then nodded. “That has been my experience, lady.” She turned to Roseanne. “Did she mention any counteracting potion?”

  But Roseanne sent their hopes plummeting with a shake of her head. “Nay, she mentioned no such thing.”

  Lanella, however, refused to give up so easily. “Mayhap not specifically, but I think tis a thing called a stimulant we need. Twould be strange if, capable as she is, she did not have one made up.” She directed an imperiously imploring look at Roseanne. “Come, girl—you said she described to you all she had.”

  “Aye, but more in the way of what illnesses each mixture would cure.”

  Meg snorted. “Think only of the syrups or elixirs or potions. Did she have anything to help fainting? Or tiredness?”

  Roseanne brightened. “Fainting, aye.” Then her brow clouded. “But she said twas really a strong remedy for leth-ar-gy, whatever that be.”

  Alaun glanced sharply at Lanella. “Are you saying we can use another potion to counteract what she was given? To make her heart beat faster and her breathing better?”

  Lanella nodded. “Tis likely. If we can but pick the right one.”

  “Can you remember what she said about this potion for lethargy?” Meg looked sternly at Roseanne. “Twill be important if we are to use it.”

  Luckily, when it came to matters of memory, Roseanne was confident. “Tis mostly oil of rosemary, with extract of hawthorn berries and extract of foxglove leaves added. She said twas truly powerful, and no more than a drop should be given on the tongue. If too much was given the heart would race, and might seize or burst.”

  Meg snorted. “Aye—sounds right. I have heard of oil of rosemary.”

  Alaun raised a brow.

  Meg sniffed. “Some men use it to enhance their performance—it increases breathing and vigor. The hawthorn berries and foxglove leaves are likely for the heart, but from all I’ve heard, the warning is meet—tis a mighty powerful specific.”

  Alaun closed his eyes, looking inward for strength. They were suggesting walking a tightrope, juggling two powerful potions, one against the other—hoping they got it right. The only one who would know for certain was the patient, and if they made a mistake, she would die. Along with the child he was sure she was carrying. To entrust such precious lives to their inexpert doctorings went wildly against his grain.

  But if he didn’t?

  He opened his eyes to find Lanella and the others watching him.

  “This needs must be your decision, Alaun.” Lanella looked grave. “Tis going to be risky, but tis my opinion the stimulant will be needed.” She glanced at the figure beside her. “She’s already very low.”

  He had no choice.

  He looked at Roseanne. “Go fetch this oil. Roland—go with her.”

  They left immediately, returning ten minutes later with a vial of greenish liquid. Alaun took it and held it to the light. Inwardly, he grimaced. If it was as they thought, he held her life—and that of their child—in his hand.

  The rest of the day passed painfully slowly. Noon came and went; food was brought on trays, but lay largely untouched. Lanella remained in the chair by the fire, built up to throw as much warmth as possible into the room. They’d covered Eloise with furs, trying to ease her chill. But her coldness came from within; she remained deathly pale, her skin cool to the touch.

  Alaun roamed the room, unable to leave, too restless to sit. Meg and Roseanne took turns sitting by the bed, fingers on Eloise’s pulse, checking her shallow breathing. They had yet to administer any of the green oil; they’d agreed to wait until her condition weakened in the distant hope that it would not. Jenni, round-eyed and subdued, crept in and out of the room, but there was little she could do; Rovogatti fetched her away. Roland and Bilder remained in the anteroom, ready to carry out any orders. Edmund looked in every hour, to learn what news they had and carry it to the people waiting in the hall and the baileys.

  As the day wore on, a pall of silence descended on castle and town. Few had not seen their lord’s chosen lady and exclaimed at her beauty; in his people’s eyes, she was a fitting mate for him—proud, graceful, and imperious. They’d nodded and winked, and warmed themselves with thoughts of the nuptial celebrations. Now, they did only what had to be done, and that silently, gathering in groups to discuss the latest news in hushed tones.

  And to dwell on the manifold iniquities of one scrawny witch, who they, one and all, abominated.

  Quite how that news got out was never learned, but castle folk were too close a community for any secret to remain so for long. Alaun learned of the threat when Roland, his expression devoid of its habitual joie de vivre, re-entered the bedchamber.

  Roland came close, speaking low so Lanella wouldn’t hear. “Rovogatti’s without. He’s just come from the outer bailey. There are murmurings and more—threats against Elspeth. Edmund and Mistress Martin caught her when she rode in, and have locked her in her chamber. Mistress Martin is with her. With your leave, I’ll set a troop about the guest wing. There’s no saying what might occur…”

  Roland couldn’t continue.

  Alaun nodded. “Aye.”

  Roland clapped a hand on his shoulder, then turned away.

  “Roland?”

  Roland glanced back. He read the thoughts behind Alaun’s eyes with ease. “I’ll take command of the castle. You must remain here in case your decision is needed.”

  Alaun nodded again; Roland left.

  Afternoon leached into evening—it was then the deterioration came. Eloise started to sink, her heartbeat dropping away, her breathing barely detectable.

  Meg had been watching her.

  Summoned to the bedside, Alaun looked down at the deathly pale face on the pillows. “Give her the oil. Two drops. Now.”

  Meg cast him a startled glance, but what she saw in his eyes made her hold her tongue. She administered the oil. They waited, watching, their entire existence focused on the slim, silent figure.

  She responded very slowly, the increase in her breathing the first thing to show, then her pulse quickened.

  The relief was so great it bowed his shoulders. He sank onto the bed, head lowered, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

  After a moment, Meg spoke. “Lord—tis just the beginning. We’ll have to watch her very close from now on, for we know not how long twill be before the effect of the oil wears off. When it does, tis likely she’ll sink very fast.”

  Numb, he nodded.

  Meg and Roseanne shared the watches of the night. Roland fetched Lanella away, carrying her back to her apartment under protest. Alaun insisted; Lanella looked gaunt. She was not, in truth, very strong, although she’d certainly improved since Eloise had come.

  The thought drew his mind back to the bed from which he’d strayed but little through the hours. Eloise hadn’t moved since he’d laid her there; her face was an emotionless mask. A death mask.<
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  He shook the thought aside. He would not let her go so tamely.

  Throughout the night, he remained by her side, her hand in his, his fingers on her weak pulse. As the hours dragged by, he forced himself to look ahead, to the plans he’d made, to actions already taken. He refused to think of defeat. The messenger he’d dispatched that morning should reach Westminster on the morrow, to inquire of the chancellor, who knew him well, as to the king’s precise whereabouts. Edward had expected to depart from Calais by the end of September. It was likely his liege lord was already in the country, hopefully not far distant.

  The thought of making formal application to marry Eloise de Versallet, the widowed Lady de Cannar, had occurred only to be dismissed. Despite Edward’s edict to wed, his liege was not above making political and capital hay out of such a request. A personal petition delivered directly to His Grace stood a much better chance of rapid affirmation.

  His gaze resting on Eloise’s face, Alaun swore he wouldn’t wait on the outcome of any lengthy deliberations. If she was spared this night, he would wed her soon; Edward and his minions could come to terms with the fact in their own good time.

  They almost lost her three times.

  As Meg had foretold, when the effect of the stimulant wore off, Eloise’s decline was abrupt and acute. Two drops more, administered on the back of her tongue, seemed barely enough to anchor her to life. But the second time it happened, her response to the rosemary was more pronounced, although still slow. Her heart pounded heavily and false color appeared in her cheeks.

  Meg, who had come at his call when Eloise had faltered, settled herself against the bedhead and blinked owlishly at him. “The effect of the poppies is wearing off. If she again needs more rosemary, twill not be safe to give her more than one drop.”

  Reluctantly, he agreed.

  Dawn was still some way off when her breathing again sank low. Meg was there and gave her the agreed dose.

  Then they waited.

  Her pulse was thready, close to faltering; the furs did not stir, so shallow was her breathing. Still they waited. He was steeling himself to order another drop, knowing the danger yet frantic at the thought of losing her, when the furs lifted fractionally. He waited, his own breathing suspended, until it happened again. As blessed relief swept him, he lifted his eyes to Meg’s. He nodded, and they both relaxed.

  He didn’t leave Eloise—could not—too terrified that death would take advantage of his absence to claim her. The first hints of dawn were glimmering through the shutters when he realized the pulse beneath his fingers was stronger, although she’d been given no more stimulant.

  Lifting his head from where he’d pillowed it on his arm, he looked up, into a face that, while still very pale, seemed to have eased. Her features no longer held the sharpness of a marble effigy; her usual light color had yet to return, but when he glanced at the furs over her chest, elation swept through him. The furs lifted regularly and discernibly, the steady rhythm one he recognized at some deep, intimate level.

  She was with him again—back from the dead.

  He looked further and saw Meg asleep in her corner, her old fingers still curled about Eloise’s other wrist.

  Slowly, he rose and slipped away from the bed, wanting to shout his joy, his relief, to the world, yet also needing to savor the moment alone, privately, acknowledging the inescapable, that without Eloise, life would be worthless, colorless, devoid of all happiness.

  She was the center of his existence—and she’d been spared.

  He opened the shutters and leaned on the stone sill to look out on his familiar world. The rising sun broke through wispy clouds; it lanced through the river fogs, transforming them into veils of shimmering gold. The air was crisp, clear, scented with wood smoke and the tang of the nearby forests. Closer at hand, the smell of baking wafted from the kitchens, along with the usual clinks and clunks as the castle awoke to the day.

  Closing his eyes, he drank it all in, the sounds and smells of castle life. He gave thanks to the saints for Eloise’s deliverance, that all he could sense, his life, yet had meaning. He felt the hot prick of tears behind his lids; he couldn’t even remember when last he’d cried.

  *

  In mid-morning, Alaun convened what was, in effect, a baronial court in Lanella’s chamber. Everyone involved in the drama was present, except the two principals. Eloise was still sleeping, although it was clear her slumber was now more natural. With Meg’s assistance, he had stripped Eloise of her surcote and gown, and had wrapped her in a thick bed-robe before laying her back beneath the furs. She’d moved and murmured as she often did, snuggling against him while in his arms. Meg had cackled, as reassured as he.

  Elspeth remained under lock and key—and guard. Rovogatti presently stood outside her door while Mistress Martin attended the deliberations.

  “I find it all very hard to understand.” Sir Howell Davarost, never an imposing sight, looked shattered. His weak face had crumpled; he looked helplessly about, as if hoping someone would rescue him from his plight.

  Stoically, Alaun suppressed his contempt; he had expected neither sense nor support from that quarter. “The matter is beyond question, Sir Howell.” They’d heard evidence from all sources, from the cook who had filled the ale-cup, to the archer who had seen Elspeth emerge from the stair to the stillroom with something clutched in her hand. Bit by bit, they’d traced what had occurred; it only remained for Alaun to decide what to do.

  To pass judgment on his stepmother’s goddaughter.

  Lanella looked peaked and drawn; Alaun knew he looked haggard.

  “As I see it, tis clear.” He fixed Sir Howell with a steady gaze. “Elspeth Davarost, daughter of Sir Howell Davarost, of Davarost Manor by Worcester, poisoned my chatelaine, Eloise de Versallet, the widow of Raoul de Cannar, with intent to take her life. By the evidence of our collective experience, and by the testimony of Mistress Martin, hired by Sir Howell and Lady Davarost as keeper of their daughter, it seems certain that Elspeth Davarost is of unsound mind.”

  There was no murmur of dissent, only a pervasive expectation.

  “That being so, I do hereby banish Elspeth Davarost from all lands I hold of the king. Once she leaves, she is never to return, on pain of death.”

  Lanella paled, but said nothing; Sir Howell shifted uncomfortably.

  “As Mistress Martin has advised that Elspeth is likely to resist my injunction to leave, to the extent of acting in a manner likely to cause herself and others harm, I myself will lead the escort that will deliver her to Davarost Manor.”

  Murmurs broke out, a soft protest from Lanella, who would appreciate what it would cost him to leave Eloise at that time, a more robust protest, a curse, in fact, from Roland, who would not have him subject his temper to such strain. Sir Howell, of course, looked relieved; someone else was, after all, going to sort things out.

  Alaun held up a hand to still the arguments. He had other reasons for journeying to Worcester, but did not intend discussing them. “We leave in an hour.” Davarost Manor was some twenty miles distant. “After delivering Mistress Elspeth to her home, I will travel to Worcester to pass the night with my uncle, the bishop, before returning on the morrow.” His gaze swept the room. “Humphrey, you’ll take command here; Roland, you’ll accompany me. We’ll take a troop—I doubt we’ll need more.”

  Roland looked like he wanted to argue, but nodded curtly.

  A commotion beyond the door drew all eyes. At Alaun’s intimation, Roland strode over and looked out. A minute later, Roland turned, pale and ready to move.

  Alaun was already on his feet when his cousin’s eyes met his.

  “Rovogatti’s been found with a broken head in Elspeth’s chamber. The guards in the courtyard heard screaming, then all was silent. They sent one of their number up to check—he found the door wide and Rovogatti senseless.”

  “Turn out the garrison. Find her.” Alaun threw the order at Humphrey and Edmund as he headed for the door.

&n
bsp; Roland was waiting in the corridor. Without a word, they ran for Alaun’s chamber.

  Alaun charged through the door into his anteroom. And pulled up short.

  A knife in his fist, Bilder was rising from where he’d been sitting, polishing a helmet in front of the bedchamber door. “Lord?”

  Heaving a sigh of relief, Alaun clapped Bilder on the shoulder. “Elspeth’s escaped, but clearly she has not come through here.” Alaun turned to Roland. “Check the keep, and the lock on the stillroom door.”

  Roland nodded and left.

  Alaun hesitated. He should go down and join the search, but the need to check on Eloise, to see if she’d awakened—and to calm his still prowling fear—waxed strong. Jenni was sitting with her, keeping watch now the worst was past. Turning to the bedchamber, he paused to tell Bilder, “I’m leaving within the hour to escort Mistress Davarost home. You’ll accompany me. I’ll be visiting my uncle—pack suitably. We’ll return tomorrow.”

  “Aye, lord.”

  Alaun lifted the latch, and was about to shove the door open when it swung inward. He stared, then saw the marks of the carpenter’s adze along its edge. Putting out a hand, he pushed the door wider, noting as he did the traces of fat on the barrels of the hinges. He swallowed a curse as the door opened—silently.

  He stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him before turning to the bed.

  The figure sitting in the chair drawn up by the side of the bed was not little Jenni. Straggly red tresses showed on either side of the chair’s back.

  One glance told Alaun the robin was nowhere in sight—that, impossible though it seemed, Elspeth was sitting calmly beside Eloise.

  Rage poured through him, welling up, engulfing him, leaving a red haze before his eyes. He’d purposely avoided meeting Elspeth, knowing how he would feel when he did. Now, having had the occasion sprung upon him, base instinct took command. On silent feet, he approached the chair.

  She neither heard nor sensed him.

  From directly behind the chair, he looked down on Elspeth’s head, on the slim column of her throat. He could snap it so easily. By his sides, his hands reflexively flexed, long fingers curling.