“I thought ye more clever than that, Chrestien,” he said as he closed the door, bolting it after him.
Even through the thick oak doors she could hear his next words and they sent tiny chills down her spine. “But if he comes... I will kill him and leave his bones where ye can see them from the tower window.” His laughter rang behind him once again, echoing through the keep and returning unanswered.
Chapter Seventeen
In his heart, Weston could not believe Chrestien would leave him.
In his anguish, Baron Grey had suggested mayhap his wife had fled from him in fear. He was worse than an old woman with his absurd accusations. Weston would never mistreat Chrestien, and he resented the implication that he might. Still his soul wept, for their last words to each other before she'd disappeared were spoken in anger.
Henry tried to console the old man. But ultimately Weston could endure no more of his lamentations and he’d sent the baron away, promising to send news as soon as he learned anything. Reluctantly, and with a little persuasion from Henry, Grey had finally departed along with Henry. Though to Weston's eternal gratitude, Henry had left him with a league of men to aid in the search for Chrestien.
Once the King took his leave, the search continued night and day, none of them sleeping more than an hour or two here and there, returning to Lontaine only to confer.
Somewhere out there, Chrestien needed him.
Weston must not fail her.
Rolfe came at least twice each day.
Mercifully, he did not touch her, and on occasion he asked her questions she refused to answer. When he was bored enough with her silence, he would leave.
Jesu, but she would not know what to do if he ever touched her again.
It had become apparent to her that, so long as she faced him squarely and did not display her fear of him, he would not harm her. It was only when she showed weakness that he became angered.
How many days had she been here now? Alas, after so much time, she was beginning to believe his words of warning—that Weston would not come for her. Yet, somewhere in the depth of her soul, she clung to hope.
She wanted to go home—missed her husband terribly—needed his arms around her. Her grief was palpable and she was cold to the bone in this terrible donjon, despite the tattered blankets Rolfe had given her. Wherever he was keeping her, it was a mean place, lacking in aught, save spiders and webs.
For all the times she had accused her poor husband of mishandling her, she knew now the true meaning of mistreatment. Weston might be a hardheaded man, but he was as gentle as a pup. Rolfe, on the other hand, could be mean when angered and she tried not to do so.
“Weston... where are you?” she whispered brokenly and took a small stone from the floor to mark another day on the wall.
If her calculations were correct, the twelve days of Christ’s mass would be upon them soon and it seemed she would spend them here, in this cold gray tower.
With a sigh, she rose and went to the window, wondering if Aubert and Janelle would burn a Yule log without her this year. It seemed selfish to hope they would wait, and yet she could not bear the thought that life would go on whilst she wasted away in Rolfe’s donjon tower.
From the high, narrow window she could see for miles, but there was naught familiar about the landscape here, and Rolfe had yet to tell her where he had brought her. For all she knew, she was in faraway England, though she did not believe she had been asleep so long after he had abducted her. Still, it was a desolate place. Not a soul passed by the old decrepit keep and she could not fathom why Rolfe would not at least give her a candle to give light against the night’s blackness.
Then again, why would she have need of a candle? There was naught for her to do in this tower prison but count the spiders and the cracks in the wall.
At least he had given her the wares to stitch with, but she knew naught about sewing and could not see. She had managed only to prick her finger with the needle near a dozen times, even in the daylight with the windows open wide. By now, there were at least a score of red blotches on the cloth where she’d bled upon the canvas. And once the darkness fell, she had not even that to pass the time. She surmised that he did not want anyone passing by to know the tower was occupied, but she never spied a soul below this pile of ruin.
At night, the tiny window allowed little light into the room, and the wind whistled into open crevices. The cold was as tangible as the dismal gray stone of the cobbled walls.
Worse yet was that, as of late, she had to fight a growing nausea she felt in the mornings and eves. At first she had been afeared that she’d grown sick from the foul meals Rolfe brought her. But of late, the food had improved and she guessed Rolfe grew tired of having the chamber pot emptied of bile. But the nausea persisted and she could not imagine what illness had taken hold of her. It would come upon her so suddenly that it was all she could do to make it to the chamber pot before spewing her guts. Will power alone kept her from spewing on the floor, for then she would have to live with it, since she doubted Rolfe employed servants here in this pile of stones.
Down the hall, she heard the distant click, click of his spurred boots upon the stone steps and she closed her eyes against the dread of seeing him again. She knew it was Rolfe, for no one else had ever attended her. When the door creaked open to reveal him standing in the light of his guttering torch, she forced a stoic expression.
He came into the room, kicking the huge oak door shut behind him, before placing his torch in the only iron brace upon the wall. The brace remained empty when he was not around.
In his other hand he held a wad of bedding and clothing, which he tossed upon the bed. His eyes lit immediately upon the plate of half-eaten food and his eyes narrowed. “You’ll not make yourself well that way,” he scolded.
Chrestien’s throat constricted painfully. She could not answer him, as much as she wanted to shout her hatred of him. She wanted to leap at him and scratch his evil black eyes from his face, but she merely shrugged in response.
“Would ye rather I fed ye myself?” Rolfe threatened.
She blinked at him, her dark eyes empty pits, devoid of warmth. She did not answer and he felt a twinge of some emotion he could not place.
Was it pity for the weakening girl?
Or mayhap regret?
Nay, he did not regret taking her, even as sickly as she’d become—and he could not abide the stench of her retching.
Impulsively, he left, bolting the door behind him and returned minutes later with a bucket of warm water and a rag.
She was lovely... this girl who haunted his dreams. Her hair had grown much since Montagneaux and, even in its dirty state, it never seemed to lose its lovely luster. Her face, with its delicate high cheekbones, was regal and her lush pink lips were a tempting sight to behold. He cringed with remorse when he noted the bruising that was yet so apparent on her bottom lip. He had bitten her severely, he realized. But, damn it, she’d angered him.
His rage was a living beast that not even he could conquer—and God help him when it reared its furious head.
He sat next to Chrestien upon the bed and she recoiled from him instantly.
When it was obvious he only wanted to wipe her face with the cloth he’d brought, she slackened her posture and let him wash her without issue. It seemed she had little fight left in her. Soon he would break her and she would slowly come to love him of her own free will.
His hands were gentle as they brushed her face with the damp cloth, but a chill ran the length of her spine as he gently smoothed her hair from her face.
He started to lave her body as well, but something stopped him suddenly, and he handed her the cloth instead, letting her complete the task. Good thing, because Chrestien would not abide his touch anymore than she must.
Standing, he turned from her to allow her some privacy and in doing so he noted her chamber pot had been abused yet again. He turned, a scowl darkening his face as he observed her. “Ye are breeding?”
Chrestien gasped, startled by his words.
“Aye, ’twas not clear to me at first, but I know now that ye are. Ye carry FitzStephen’ babe.”
Rolfe spat out an explosion of curses.
It was all he could do to acknowledge the fact without venting the anger he’d learned to conceal from her. He knew she was afraid unto death of him—despite the brave face she put forward. Oddly enough, it was that dauntless nature of hers that made him respect her all the more. Even though he oft felt the urge to beat her into submission, he could not allow himself to do it.
He had been prepared to hate her, for he’d not known it was possible to love her. But surely he must—how else could he explain this need to woo her and the terrible feeling of despair when she would not be appeased?
And though his desire for her was great, he could not bring himself to force himself upon her. The biggest part of him needed her acceptance of him, her consent—and he would gain it… even if it took his entire life to accomplish the task.
Rolfe sighed deeply, walking over to peer out the unshuttered window.
He knew this was no place for a gentle woman to live. No one even cared enough to seize it despite its lack of garrison. It was a pile of rubbish, a plot of fetid land where nothing would grow. Worthless leftovers from his brother, who was blind enough, foolish enough or unconcerned enough with his own blood to give him something to build upon—merely a spot on the map he valued only enough not to abandon it entirely.
He didn’t know what to do about the babe.
Could he accept the flesh and blood of another man?
He wanted Chrestien and if he sent her child away he would never gain her trust… or her love. If he kept the child and mistreated it… what then would Chrestien think of him? But he could little bear the thought of dealing with a brat child, wailing for his mama all the time.
And yet... how oft had he cursed his own father for his lack of care? Nay, he would not make such a mistake with this babe.
With a nod to himself, he decided he would raise the child as his own. And he would be a better father to the bastard than his own had been to him. Although his father had acknowledged him as his illegitimate son, he had never treated him with any affection. Aleth had been his only light—his precious heir.
Rolfe had wanted so much to have something, anything of him that would say, “You too, Rolfe, are my blood.” But there was never a thing.
He stared out at the dark horizon, seeing his old man in his mind. All these years later, he couldn’t bring himself to regret murdering the old man, and he would have killed Aleth as well, save for Gilbert’s interference.
Without doubt, Rolfe could not bring himself to regret de Lontaine’s death. But he had to give the man his due. He had raised a daughter worthy to be the wife of a warrior. She was her father’s daughter through and through.
Turning from the window to assess the girl once more, his lip curled into a sneer. Even unto the end, Gilbert had fought like a lion. How fitting that his device should be the golden winged Lion and his own should be the snarling red. Together, he and Chrestien would make many fine sons. In truth, looking back on it now, it was no small wonder Gilbert had kept Chrestien to himself, for it would take an extraordinary man to be worthy of a woman like her. “I take it you did not realize?”
Tears brimmed in her eyes, and after a long moment she managed to whisper, “I did not.”
“No matter…”
He started to tell her that he would care for her always and treat her son with a father’s love… but then thought better of revealing his feelings.
It was better she not know his weakness.
The time would come when she would give herself to him freely... only then would he tell her everything that was in his heart.
Weston sat, eyes closed, upon the lord’s chair in the great hall of Lontaine, his fingers entwined about the near-empty flagon he held in his grasp.
He’d searched every inch of the woodlands, and where he had not searched, Michel had in his stead. He’d checked every abbey, every hostelry... Montagneaux even. Aleth had not seen her. No one had seen her. She had simply vanished, with no one the wiser.
Aleth had even sought out his brother’s aid as far away as Poitiers, although he doubted Chrestien could have gotten so far alone. Two months now, she’d been gone... two miserable months and he could little bear it.
Henry had awarded him Lontaine, but without Chrestien, what did it matter that he was no longer a landless knight? What was there to fight for if she was not here?
A deep gulp from his flagon emptied what little remained and he lay his head back to ease the tightness in his neck. He had hoped to give his wife a memorable Christ’s mass... to make a new beginning for their wedded life together. But the hall was dark. No one sang. There was no joy.
The muscles in the back of his neck ached from too many hours of high tension, and he rubbed them now, closing his eyes. Disheartened, he lay his head back upon the wooden chair to focus on a vision of her in his mind. She oft came to him in his thoughts now—an angel bathed in heavenly light... with sultry dark eyes that penetrated him to the depths of his soul.
Who could have guessed he would come to love her so much... only to lose her.
But nay, he could not lose her! If it took the rest of his days, he would find her and bring her home. Leaning forward in the chair, he rested his elbows in his lap and buried his face in trembling hands.
Could she truly have left him?
He refused to believe her dead. He would feel it in his bones if she were.
His men—your men killed my father! And I can never forgive you for that! Get off me,” she had demanded. “I hate you!”
It was unseemly for a knight to cry, but silent scalding tears flowed from his eyes, and he had to will himself to remain composed.
This was, by far, the worst Christ's Mass he had ever spent—worse than any he had known as a bastard in his father's home.
And by God... never had he been driven to tears before now—never! And though he only allowed himself that brief private display, he stayed in that bent position for what seemed an eternity, with fingers tightly pressed against his weary eyes to keep them from betraying his emotions.
I can never forgive you for that! I hate you!
A guttural moan escaped him as he raised his head and irately cast the tankard to the wooden floor. He was drunk and his head was reeling, and he was angry with himself for giving in to the wine when Chrestien needed him.
She was out there somewhere.
He refused to believe she was dead. Refused.
And he should be out there, still searching—not weeping in his cups! Damn it all to hell!
Agitated, he ran tired hands over his thick growth of whiskers and his voice was a hoarse whisper. “Where have you gone, my love?”
A sudden gust of wind puffed at his face, and he caught his breath like a babe surprised by his mother’s blow of breath.
He lifted his head from his hands and what he saw at that moment, framed by the arched entrance of the stone staircase that led to the tower rooms... was his wife.
For a moment he did not believe it.
A handful of torches lit the room, but none were braced upon the stairwell walls. And yet he clearly saw the figure standing there, with golden tresses that glowed like the light of a dying flame.
Chrestien.
But not Chrestien.
She looked straight at him, beckoning him without words and then she turned and made her way up the winding steps, just as she had the day of their argument.
Weston closed his eyes, shaking his head, and when he again opened them again, she was gone. All that remained was a dark blur where the door should have been.
Though he knew it was merely a vision conjured from his drunken stupor, he dared to hope.
Calling to her, he stumbled from the seat, nearly tripping over the edge of the dais in his haste to reach her. She was not on
the stairwell when he started his ascent and he shouted her name, letting the anguished cry echo before him. “Chrestien!”
Her name reverberated throughout the keep, returning to him unanswered, and he flew up the stairs and through the antechamber, throwing open the door to her bower.
She was not there.
Aubert rushed in behind him, having heard his sister’s name, but the chamber was empty save for the two of them. Another rush of cold wind slipped by him, giving him an unmistakable chill.
Somehow, he knew he must follow it. Blindly shoving past Aubert, he followed the winter chill, bolting for the narrow stairway once more. He made the climb to the donjon tower, taking the steps two at a time in his recklessness.
The door to the tower chamber was wide open, but the room proved to be empty. There was barely anything in it—never had been. After all, he had not been able to ensconce her grandfather here. He hadn’t had the heart to do so. But the shutters were open to the night wind.
Thick cobwebs filled every corner of the room. Unlike the rest of the keep, it was filthy from years left unattended, though oddly enough there was a spot on the floor that seemed to be swept clean, as though by someone's hand.
For a moment, he saw a flash of someone, a glimmer of memory he did not possess. And then it dissipated.
Once again Aubert came in behind him, his expression full of confusion. “My lord! Have ye gone utterly mad?”
There was no insult intended, Weston knew.
“Mayhap I have,” he confessed, raking a hand over his face. His jaw tightened with the admission and he swallowed convulsively. “I thought I saw her,” he said. “But I am drunk with longing.”
Aubert’s eyes fell to the stone floor where a spot of red caught his attention. He went to it, lifting the tiny crimson amulet. As he turned it in his fingers, inspecting the painted rose in its middle, a memory was sparked. “The roses,” he whispered suddenly.
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