Once past the mill, Gilles pointed east. “There are fine grazing pockets to the south, m’lady. Today, I thought we should stay closer to the keep and find a few quiet groves for Tullian and the mares.”
True to his word, the places Gilles showed her were perfect for the horses. They climbed the next hill and dismounted to rest. From Tullian’s back, Anna removed the saddlebags containing their lunch. Will had brought a blanket and spread it on the grass. Will and Gilles sat opposite Anna on the blanket, and she passed out their meal. To her delight, Grainne had packed half a dozen meat pasties. They were a shade hotter than warm, and she breathed in the deliciously rich aroma.
“Cook must be in a good mood today,” she announced. Gilles grinned, and Will elbowed his father’s ribs. “What aren’t you telling me?” Anna demanded.
“Well, Cook is me mum, m’lady,” Will explained. “Her mood’s always improved when the lord’s away.” She noted that Will’s father was suddenly on edge and wondered if he was nervous that his son’s words would be reported back to Roger.
“These are the finest beef pasties I’ve ever tasted,” Anna announced, hoping to ease the wariness from Gilles’s face.
“You know,” Gilles finally confided, “she rarely makes these. It drives Lord Roger to distraction because he loves them so much. I think my Doreen is the one person at Stolweg that he’s afraid to order around.”
• • •
In the days that followed, her Tullian and a few of the mares were set loose together. Anna would know in less than a month if he’d managed to get one of them with foal. But more than the breeding program was on Anna’s mind. Her husband was due to return the next day.
Chapter Twelve—Lord Roger’s Return
Even with Grainne’s tea, Anna didn’t sleep on the eve of Roger’s return. Thoughts wheeled in her head like great flocks of starlings, darting again and again in different directions. She tried everything to clear her mind. When nothing helped, she alighted from her bed and, in the dull light of the fire’s banked embers, found and lit a candle.
Even though her body was at her husband’s disposal, her soul was her own. She swallowed hard, thinking about her wedding night. She’d been naïve, but refused to blame herself. With a shudder, she blocked out the much-too-peaceful image of her almost watery grave. She’d nearly died that night. Not because of the assault, but because she permitted her mind to sink into an unfathomable darkness. Had it not been for Grainne, she would’ve drowned.
The thought caused a surge of rage to wash through her. Rage was one emotion she could and would control. It made her feel alive. Her other emotions were now safely locked away in what was left of her heart. She sat near the warm hearth, remembering every detail of that evening, and swung the memories away from the fire burning inside her, leaving them to simmer out of the flames.
She had tricked herself into believing in fairy-tale romance and passionate embraces. Some pain was natural when a woman’s maidenhead was pierced. But Roger had not made love to her, had he? Next time she would be better prepared.
The herbs, roots, and wildflowers were still neatly arranged above the small table next to the door. Physical healing was another area she could control. Anna said a prayer of thanks that her grandmother had taught her so well.
Suddenly, the look in Grainne’s eyes the day after Roger’s attack came to mind and gave her pause. That same expression had come from Gilles and, now that she thought about it, was in Cellach’s gaze as well. They all had looked at her expectantly, as if their long years of waiting for a miracle were over. Was this the purpose of her training? Was this the duty of which her grandmother had spoken?
“Duty to my people?” Anna asked herself. “First, duty to myself.” While solving the physical problem, Anna had unconsciously fortified the emotional wound as well. Stone by stone, she would erect a wall around her heart.
• • •
It was around midday when Roger returned. She witnessed the people—her people now—wither back to nothing. Her husband came through the main gate and into the stable where she was checking on a mare named Rina.
Gorman, Lord Roger’s right-hand man, dismounted and yelled for Will. He gave the young man a hard cuff to the head. Gorman was a cunning soldier, and Anna had heard that he took pleasure in hurting others. He was currently making sport of bullying Will.
As soon as Roger dismounted, Gilles stepped forward and led the horse away for its rubdown. Her husband approached her, smiling as if nothing had happened, and her blood froze.
“Which of the mares will breed first, Aubrianne?” he demanded.
“We’ve already begun, m’lord,” she replied with forced calm. “Tullian and Rina have mated, and I believe that we can expect a foal by early spring next year. Dragonfly will be next.”
Anna had worked on masking her emotions during his absence. She stared blandly at her husband’s surprise and doubted not that he had expected to see her cower.
“Very good, then,” Roger spoke. He left the stable, throwing one last remark over his shoulder. “I expect you in my chamber in two hours, Aubrianne.”
Anna stood in the center of the stable, the ice in his words having immobilized her. Thankfully, Gilles and Will pretended that they hadn’t heard her husband’s menacing tone. But Gorman loitered near the entrance. She made a show of checking on Tullian and the mares, humming soft nonsense words as she went along. She glanced under Tullian’s neck and through his long mane. Gorman followed her every move. He was waiting for her, playing some devious game. Anna squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked purposefully to the door. When he lurched forward as she passed, she halted.
“Isn’t there something you should be doing, Gorman?” she demanded. She could see that he had meant to scare her, and his disappointment at not doing so was as plain as day on his face.
He fumbled for a moment before offering a lame excuse. “Beg pardon, my lady. I was just resting a moment. I seem to have pinched my neck while standing here.”
Anna stepped closer to him, boldly meeting his rude stare. He smelled of two and twenty foul things, and she lifted her hand to cover her nose. “Perhaps next time you will attend to your duties instead of loitering here. Standing the way you were, one would think you were needed to hold up the walls of this structure. I suggest you mind your assigned business instead of mine, and give your neck no opportunity to pain you.”
“As you say, my lady.”
She had called him to task. Checking the urge to gloat, she spun on her heel, her braid whipping out at him, and walked to the castle.
Anna made her way to her chamber quickly, cursing Gorman for delaying her with his malicious game. She now had little more than an hour before her presence was required in Roger’s chamber. It was barely enough time to ready herself.
She headed behind the partition to bathe. When her door protested, she didn’t jump, so inured was she already to its noise. Grainne carried a tray to the table near the fire. “I’ve brought you some food. And tea, of course. Would you like me to prepare a plate and cup?”
Steadily, Anna answered. “No, thank you. You see, I’ve been summoned to his lordship’s chamber this eve. If I have time, I’ll eat before I retire.”
“As you will, m’lady. Can I bring you anything else?”
“No, Grainne, I’ll see you tomorrow. In the morning.” Grainne retreated reluctantly but held her tongue.
It was almost time to go, and Anna realized she had no idea what Roger expected her to wear. She couldn’t very well walk to his chamber in her sleeping gown. And then it came to her. There would only ever be one thing that she could wear to Roger’s chamber: her wedding gown. She would not willingly sully any other garment.
• • •
Roger sat at his desk, his head bent in the study of one of his many ledgers. At his feet, his black mastiff slumbered. He bent down to rub his head affectionately and was rewarded with a contented growl. He remembered the day his father had
given him the mastiff. He’d named him Garamantes after the great war dog of olden times.
His brother had been miserable with jealousy that day, and if Roger had not returned to Ragallach, he was sure that his pet would have suffered some fatal accident. He and Garamantes had bonded from the start; the dog only snarled and snapped at his brother. Their father clapped Roger on the back that day, and laughed. And for once, Roger was his favorite child, and Garamantes went unpunished for his transgressions. In fact, Roger encouraged his beast, training him to protect his person at all costs.
Gorman, assigned by his father to protect him, was no match for Garamantes’s instincts. The man always gave the dog a wide berth. Roger knew he was reporting everything he did to his father, and it was just as well. His father ruled over his people with a heavy hand, and would certainly approve of Roger’s treatment of the people here.
He ruffled the mastiff’s wiry coat. “My poor brother,” Roger said to the beast, “having to live under our father’s thumb. Couldn’t have happened to a better person, right, boy?” Garamantes lifted his massive head and licked his master’s fingers.
Roger straightened up and closed the ledger on his desk. His wife was due any moment; it would be interesting to see her reaction to Garamantes and his to her. She still hadn’t learned her place in the hierarchy of Stolweg. As his father had treated all of his wives, so Roger would treat Aubrianne. To do otherwise would risk losing the respect and fear that he held over the people of Stolweg. And keeping them afraid was integral to all that he wished to accomplish.
There was a tentative rapping at his door. His wife, no doubt. Garamantes sat up, alert to any threat. Roger bade her enter.
• • •
Anna hadn’t known that her husband kept a dog; she smiled hopefully at the beast and felt a lessening of the panic gripping her heart. His tail thumped in greeting. Roger whispered a command to the dog. It immediately rose to all four paws and a low growl rolled from its throat like distant thunder. Her husband patted the dog’s head with affection and, without looking up, spoke, “You will remain still and silent, and wait until I have need of you.”
She stepped to the center of the room to stand as told, facing his bed, with her back to Roger’s desk, and waited. Periodically, there was a rustling of parchment and the scratching of quill and ink. The shutters were open, allowing the frigid night air to enter. The small glow in the hearth offered no warmth. Anna began to shiver.
And still she waited, at least two hours judging by the dying embers in the grate. Her legs were stiff and her back ached. Lack of movement made her colder. She stifled a scream.
What was he doing? It occurred to her that she would rather he came at her all at once than making her stand there, unknowing. But that was exactly what Roger wanted her to feel: helpless and frightened. No, she decided, an attack like before would be much worse.
“You may go.” Roger had spoken so unexpectedly that she jumped. “I expect you back at the same time tomorrow.” She hadn’t even realized that he’d risen from his desk, and now he stood before her. He lifted her chin with his finger. “What was it you said once, in the clearing? Ah, I remember now. ‘Your request is my pleasure.’ I would like to hear you say that when I give you an order. Now, go. I will see you tomorrow evening.” His finger remained under her chin.
Anna focused on her husband’s handsome face. He was waiting for her to do something and was growing impatient. She swallowed and spoke almost inaudibly.
“What was that?”
“Your request is my pleasure,” she managed to choke out. A queer look came into his eyes: part satisfaction and part something else that she was too afraid to name. But she had to know. She couldn’t stop herself from asking the question that had haunted her since the consummation of their vows. “Why? Why did you…?”
“Because I can,” he answered when it was clear that she could not finish her question.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way between us.” Terrified, she blundered on. “We could find pleasure in each other’s company.”
“I have whores for pleasure. You are nothing more than property. My chattel.” His fingers plucked at the velvet of her gown. “Even this dress belongs to me. You are mine to do with as I wish. And that is the most pleasurable thing I can imagine.”
Chapter Thirteen—Ragallach
Larkin patted his great Chevring steed as he turned him toward the place he now thought of as home: Whitmarsh. Weeks ago, Lord Baldric had given him this mission, wanting information on Lord Roger. Few in the realm knew much about the man. And those who had met him, Larkin included, hadn’t liked him. So Larkin had ridden out, along with his fellow guards Trian and Warin, northwest to Ragallach, to the place where Roger had been born.
It had taken them weeks to reach this small but vital region. Nowhere else in Godwin’s kingdom did Nifolhad come so close to touching Aurelia. With a strong wind, it was only days by ship across the Western Sea. Ragallach’s coastline was to Godwin’s realm as a watchtower was to any stronghold.
On Ragallach’s western and northern borders, impenetrable cliffs dove hundreds of feet to the ocean below, a natural curtain wall; its eastern border consisted of near-impenetrable mountains. Down the length of the territory was a narrow strip of pasture, perhaps only a few miles wide, continuing down the coast for leagues. It was this strip of land that gave nourishment to the one industry of Ragallach: sheep.
After the Great War, Roger’s ancestors hadn’t resumed trade with King Cedric of Nifolhad. The former Lord of Ragallach, Roger’s father, had a long memory and had lost friends and family alike to the violent battles, more so than any other region in the kingdom. The refusal to barter continued until Roger’s parents passed away and Roger took over. He immediately grasped the opportunity to trade, and soon Ragallach was rich from its prized wool.
“Baldric will be disappointed,” Warin groused, interrupting Larkin’s thoughts. “Either the people of Ragallach, and therefore Roger, have nothing to hide, or else they’ve been threatened into such subservience that they are afraid to speak, and by an absent lord, no less.”
“I’d wager odds on the latter,” Larkin said to his longtime friend. Though not his closest confrere, Larkin trusted Warin with his life.
When none of the men of Ragallach were inclined to speak frankly, Larkin and Warin had tried their hand with the fairer sex. But the women of Ragallach had been impervious to their charms. He cast his glance at Trian, his most trusted friend, and as usual, the great bear of a man remained silent. But Larkin knew his friend as well as he knew himself. He had something on his mind. So he waited, knowing Trian would speak when he was ready.
Warin, on the other hand, couldn’t stop complaining. “This rain is interminable. I’ll not be happy until we cross the mountains and into a fairer clime.”
Larkin smirked, enjoying anything that made Warin uncomfortable. Experience had taught him that the best way to quiet Warin was to agree with him. “This is a miserable place,” he concurred, “and a waste of time.” They rode on, the hooves of their mounts making the only conversation, a sucking and splashing of mud.
“They were broken, those people,” Trian said, finally letting go of what had been gnawing at his mind. “Did you see? Especially the women.”
“What women?” Warin growled.
And there it was, thought Larkin, the crux of what had bothered him. He waited for Trian to put to words what he’d noticed but not recognized.
“Even the girls, they were clothed head to toe. Did you notice they all covered their hair with scarves? Not completely, but enough to act as guimples,” Trian noted.
It was true, Larkin realized. Women hadn’t covered their hair in Aurelia since before the Great War. He knew of only one place that continued the tradition.
“Nifolhad,” Warin supplied, as if reading his mind. “I’ll be da—” He was stopped from saying more by what sounded like a woman singing. Soon, the smell of roasting meat filtered t
hrough the rain. The soft glow of a window drew them forward like oil through a wick. “I will be damned,” Warin repeated, “a tavern!”
• • •
If Warin weren’t careful, Larkin thought with a small amount of relish, the pert little barmaid sitting in his lap might migrate to Trian. She’d already cast a longing eye in Larkin’s direction, but he’d warded off her affections, leaving her fluttering eyelashes wilted. He hadn’t been as interested of late in the game of hearts that he and Warin played, and was content to listen to the local gossip, hoping to hear something of worth to take back to the king.
The tavern keeper’s welcome had been so warm when they’d shuffled in from the rain that Larkin wasn’t sure if they were still within the borders of Ragallach. Thus far, they had been placed near the great hearth with its roaring fire, been fed a hearty stew, hot enough to warm their bones, and were kept supplied with one of the best honey meads that he’d ever tasted. Trian was so satisfied that he’d broken into song. His beautiful tenor voice rang true and clear through the tavern. The barmaid couldn’t keep her eyes from him.
Larkin had heard this sad ballad from Trian’s northern home of Cathmara before. It spoke of the legend of Fishwife Point, a perilous outcropping that stretched into the Northern Sea. Many a ship had been wrecked on the jagged rocks hidden under the surface of the waves at high tide. At low tide, a person could walk to the tip of the natural jetty, a quarter league from the coast. The lyrics told the tale of the young wife of a fisherman. Newly married, he vowed to return to her every night; she vowed to wait for him. Out to sea he sailed, and his wife watched until his boat disappeared. Each evening, at low tide, she would walk to the point’s end and await his return. One evening, as the ballad went, she waited, but he came not. Hours passed, and she kept her vigil even as the tide rose around her. Finally, she saw his boat. But it was too late; the rising sea had cut off her return to the mainland. The waves swept her from her perch, dashing her upon the rocks hidden below. Her husband, seeing her perish, scuttled his boat and joined his beloved in a watery grave. At low tide, the farthest rock of Fishwife Point resembled a woman leaning toward the sea.
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