by Brit Darby
Liam stumbled back against the guards, his own weariness threatening to topple him. The crowd muttered with disappointment at the unfair end of the fight.
“Secure him,” the King ordered his guards. “Take him to the dungeon.”
Alianor looked on, still immersed in her own private agony. Yet, when she heard the King’s order, something stirred deep within her. Anger, outrage, and a spiraling indignation seeped through the numbness and spurred her into action.
As if in a dream, Alianor groped for the sword Camber had tried to use before being cruelly struck down. She grasped it and stood, rising so fast her brother’s limp body slid to the dais.
With every ounce of strength she possessed, Alianor cast the sword into the air. It arced gracefully, flashing and tumbling end over end across the distance between her and Liam. The sight drew surprised gasps from the crowd, and a furious snarl from the King.
All eyes widened as the sword impacted earth, and buried its tip into the ground in front of Liam, hilt up and quivering like a lightning bolt sent by God. With a final burst of strength, Liam yanked free of the guards and grabbed up the sword. Against the odds, he turned and fought like a wild beast, magnificent in his savagery. As the soldiers swarmed him, tears blinded her and Alianor lost sight of her love.
ALIANOR HUDDLED IN THE bed, weeping. She was cleansed of Camber’s blood, perfumed with damask rose to rid her of the smell clinging to her. Yet the memory remained, her mind forever branded with its horror. Despite the scrubbing efforts of several servants, she still saw the blood staining her hands, like a bad omen. Camber’s last words echoed in her head — the great lady’s bird watches over it. She knew he meant the cross and where he had hidden it.
Weary and grief-stricken, Alianor didn’t care anymore. The cross couldn’t help anybody. Nothing and nobody could help her or Liam. She buried her face in her hands, overcome by pain. Memories of Liam, bloody and battered, haunted her. Unable to bear her own thoughts, Alianor willed her mind to emptiness.
She looked up at a noise. Shocked, she watched a door she had not noticed before swing open from the wall, and the King entered her bedchamber. He was garbed in his sleepwear, a flowing white chamber robe. As he sauntered towards her she scrambled from the bed, panic gripping her.
In her despair, Alianor had forgotten the King. He had obviously not forgotten her. His small eyes gleamed as he studied her rigid figure, bathed in the glow of a few candles. Even in the plain, heavy nightrail, she felt vulnerable.
“Have you no respect for the dead?” she cried.
“Your brother’s fate was of his own making,” King John said, and she flinched at his cruelty. “He would not have been killed had you cooperated.”
Alianor did not believe it, but she realized the futility of expecting this man to feel any sympathy for her loss. “What happened to Liam?” she demanded.
King John looked amused. “Why, how touching to hear you speak the scoundrel’s Christian name with familiarity, my dear. We wonder how your lord husband feels, hmmm?” His gaze hardened on her. “The Irish knave’s fate will be the same as other thieves and murderers, Alianor. What else?”
“Set him free. He has only tried to aid his people as any leader would.”
“Leader?” The King snorted with contempt. “I am the only leader here, in England and Ireland both, and the rabble best remember it.”
Alianor bristled. “You are unworthy of the throne.”
Her treasonous insult fell upon deaf ears. He seemed entertained by her spirit, dismissing it as he always had. “My, you are a handful, Lady de Lacy. Whatever shall we do with you?”
He licked his lips and Alianor shuddered at the revolting gesture. He was toying with her. She grimaced, her wary stance warning him to stay clear.
Picking up one of the candle holders, he moved and stood before her, his eyes greedily devouring every curve through her gown. Alianor shrank from his lustful stare and the betraying light of the candle. Though he was not a large man, the King’s presence was unsettling and she knew refusal on her part was risky.
“You know you dare not deny your King,” he said, as if reading her mind.
“You cannot dangle Camber’s life over my head any longer,” she said. “Checkmate, Sire.”
Reminded of the chess game, his nostrils flared. Despite her defiance, he smiled and reached out to stroke her cheek like a lover. She jerked her head back and averted her gaze.
“Aye, a pity our leverage is gone, but what loss is one more monk?” He chuckled. “We may not have your brother any longer, but now there is Caomhánach.”
She stiffened and tears filled her eyes.
Her reaction seemed to amuse the King. He resumed his touch, trailing his fingers down her neck. “Your skin is like silk, my dear. How could an Irish barbarian ever appreciate it?”
His vile caress shocked Alianor’s courage back to life. “Don’t touch me again,” she said. “I’ve warned you.”
“Or,” he taunted her, like a little boy pouting for a kiss, “you’ll kill me?”
“You assume me incapable?”
“We never assume anything when it comes to you, sweet witch.” His hand fell away as his voice took on a darker, sinister tone. “But if you do not please your sovereign tonight, you invite retaliation upon another tomorrow.”
Alianor swallowed, and asked, “What is it you want from me?” She knew, but she’d make him say it. Let him see the scorn and disgust in her eyes at his filthy proposal.
“Your husband made a deal, sealed in a nobleman’s bargain. His bridal night is ours and we have come to claim it.”
“De Lacy,” she sneered back, “is a villain. I will not honor a villain’s bargain.”
“You will this time.”
His confidence irked Alianor. “Why should I? Threaten all you like; I know in the end you shall execute Liam anyway. I have nothing to lose by refusing.”
“Ahh, you are mistaken, my dear. Caomhánach is wounded, but not mortally. If you honor de Lacy’s agreement, we promise your pet, the Irish wolf, shall be released. We will permit him to crawl back to his lair.”
“Why should I trust you?”
He shrugged. “What choice have you? We have no true grievance with Caomhánach. He was a burr under de Lacy’s saddle, aye, but a poor Irish outlaw and his filthy handful of followers scarce poses any real threat to the Crown.”
Alianor considered his words. She didn’t want to trust him — her instincts told her not to. Yet he was right, what choice did she have? Without her flesh sacrifice this night, Liam would be killed. If she honored de Lacy’s perverse bargain, perhaps the King would honor his own word. She would be out of his blood at last and he would move on to new pastures.
She must take the chance. Alianor drew a shaky breath and looked at the man she loathed with every fiber of her being. “Release Liam first, and I shall submit to you without further argument.”
Chapter Thirty
LIAM STOOD ON HIS toes, his calves screaming in protest, his wrists manacled and chained to the wall high above his head. Relegated to the torturous position for nigh three hours, perhaps more, he had lost all sense of time.
His whole body ached, and though his wounds no longer bled he felt the dried evidence of it on his legs. His head lolled upon his chest for awhile, seeking refuge from the horrific sight and smell of this place.
Finally, he opened his eyes, what little he saw distorted through the swollen slits. The King’s guardsmen had taken pleasure in beating him and idly, he wondered how many ribs they had broken. It did not matter. He would not leave this place alive. He raised his head, pain lancing down his spine, and looked at his bleak surroundings.
The dungeon hold was dark, windowless, airless. His nostrils stung from the sharp scent of human decay and death. He prayed he would die soon. A lingering death in this pit surely exceeded the biblical hell threatened by the Church.
Distant moans and screams drifted into his cell, eerie remind
ers his end would neither be swift nor merciful. Death itself was inevitable, but dying at the hands of cruel taskmasters and their implements of torture was the ultimate shame.
Liam hoped he would die with his dignity intact. He understood it was a torturer’s job to break him before death claimed him. For some men, their threshold of pain was easily reached — surrender and death came quickly. For others, days dragged into weeks, weeks into months.
Liam figured his stubborn nature guaranteed a lingering torture. Death was certain — only the time it would take was not. He wrested his mind from dire thoughts to Alianor instead. Where was she? What evil fate did the King plan for her? His heart ached. He cared not what they did to him — he would endure. What he could not bear was the thought of Alianor suffering.
Tears burned his eyes and ran down his cheeks, mingling with the dirt and blood caking his face. Pain unlike any he had ever felt choked him. Not a physical pain, but a deeper one. His soul cried for Alianor. He had never told her he loved her.
KING JOHN HESITATED AT Alianor’s demand. His eyes gleamed with lust and his hands trembled with anticipation as he set down the candle.
“Give the order with me present,” Alianor said. “Else you shall not have your heart’s desire, not willingly.”
He appeared to consider his options — perhaps he wouldn’t mind if she was unwilling and fighting to the end. This thought caused her skin to crawl but, he nodded, crossed to the main door of her bedchamber, unbolted it and summoned his guard.
Alianor was not surprised they were there, but her face grew hot when she realized others would know her shame this night. Surely the guards were listening through the door, and she imagined them smirking and nudging one another. Humiliated, she sank down to perch upon the edge of the bed.
The King instructed his guards to release Liam from the dungeon. She watched and listened carefully, but could not ascertain anything untoward in his order or manner to cause suspicion. “Satisfied, my dear?” he asked as he shut and bolted the door again.
She nodded. “You have this one night, no more.”
The King’s face reflected victory, and his gaze staked possession of her. He said nothing; instead he paced in front of where she sat curled on one hip upon the bed. He looked like a buzzard examining its next meal. Alianor felt as helpless as a rotting carcass, unable to stop the ghoulish bird from picking away at her bones. When he finally spoke, his tone was curt. “Remove your gown.”
Alianor did not move but clutched the nightrail closer about her figure. It provided little coverage, modest though it was. But the thought of standing naked before those lecherous eyes was too much to bear.
The King stepped closer and leaned down across the bed, his hot sour breath falling upon her cheek as she turned her face away from him. “We will not ask again. Consider your next actions carefully, my dear.”
Alianor trembled, not from cold or fear, but from shame numbing her to the core. She closed her eyes, refusing to look any longer at the vile man who whispered vulgar promises of what he would do to her this night. Untying the ribbon at the neck of her gown, she started to slide it from her shoulders, but stilled. Nausea overwhelmed her and she realized she couldn’t do it. Not even to save Liam.
The King’s heavy breathing made his impatience obvious. Alianor’s eyes flew open when he grabbed her by the wrists, yanked her off the bed and pulled her flush against him. He was a man in his forties, his body soft where Liam’s was firm. His beard was coarse, scratching her skin as he nuzzled her neck, his lips wet and slippery with saliva.
One hand grabbed her by the buttocks, his vice-like grip painful as he pulled her closer, the bulge of his desire rigid against her stomach. His other hand tore at her gown and his tongue traced a path in between her breasts. Her flesh crawled and her spirit rallied, causing Alianor to push him away.
“No,” she cried, in fury and anguish. Despite her resolve to let him have his way for Liam’s sake, she instinctively fought back. She could not bear to have another man touch her, defile her.
Alianor saw the King do a double-take, and his dark eyes squinted in anger. “What is this resistance, woman?”
She pulled free of his grasp and backed away. “I hereby nullify our agreement.”
A sneer curled his lip. “We will not be denied. Not this time, you bitch.”
Alianor braced for his assault. She raised her chin. “I will not be raped like a peasant wench hurled upon the hay.”
The King responded with a low, gutteral growl and lunged toward her, capturing Alianor before she could flee. His mouth claimed hers in a fierce kiss, and his tongue demanded entrance.
The feel of his probing tongue sickened Alianor, and she refused to open her mouth. He gathered a handful of her hair and bent her head back until the pain forced her jaw open. His tongue plundered her mouth and he chuckled with smug victory — until she sank her teeth down on the foul intruder.
He grunted with pain and withdrew, but licked her cheek in passing. When she shuddered, he laughed again, Alianor’s legs were trembling so hard she could barely stand, but her fear only seemed to increase his desire.
Grinning like a fiend, the King seized her upper arms, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Methinks you sorely need a lesson in fucking, little hellcat.” He shoved her back onto the bed and fell on top of her. His tongue flicked out at her like a reptile, his eyes buggy and round. Alianor shut hers, refused to look at the revolting vision looming above her.
In that instant, her fear disappeared. Her anger became a tangible thing, rising inside her, lending strength and will that, only moments before, lay smothered beneath humiliation and shame. A growl escaped her, the sound so animalistic Alianor startled even herself.
She opened her eyes and saw the King looked taken aback too, common sense making him pull away despite lust’s frenzy. He did not withdraw swiftly enough. Alianor’s flailing hand encountered a heavy object on the table beside the bed, and she clutched it in her grasp.
She swung the makeshift weapon and it collided with his left temple. Blood splattered her nightrail, gushing from the cut the marble statue left across his brow. The King screamed, grasping his head as blood trickled between his fingers and ran down his face. He scrambled off the bed, dropping to one knee on the floor.
“Bitch,” he swore as he stared up at her, stunned and in pain. “’Tis treason to strike your King. Now you will die alongside O’Connor’s bastard.”
“Liam is free. I heard you give the order.”
He laughed harshly and it echoed in the chamber. “’Twas simply an act to placate you. We had no intention of letting him go, you foolish trull!”
The King’s gloating incensed her beyond control. She had known better than to trust him, but still the bald-faced lie appalled her. Still clutching the small statue, she slid off the bed. Ironically, she had struck Lackland with a likeness of the Virgin Mary, a symbol he no more respected than he did the Church.
A peculiar calm overtook Alianor as she stood over England’s anointed King. He cringed as she weighed the marble statue in her hands. One more blow, and he might die. They both knew it. He was bleeding like a stuck pig, which she thought a fitting way for this pig of a man to die.
“I could kill you,” she said softly, “and take great satisfaction in it. I have nothing to lose, for you’ve sworn I shall die anyway.”
The King’s eyes darted wildly about. Yet there was nothing he could do to stop her, no weapon within reach, and his strength ebbed upon the floor in a pool of blood. He could call for his guard, but she could strike before his cry brought aid. Like a frightened child, he huddled upon the floor, a pathetic visage in his royal nightwear.
The door flew open with a bang and a voice, cold with malice, interrupted. “Aye, strike and be done with it, Alianor.”
Startled, both the King and Alianor turned to stare at Quintin de Lacy. He leaned against the doorjamb, a crude bandage wrapped about his waist, a stain darkening it. In his
hand he gripped a sword, its edge dripping with the blood of the guards positioned outside.
“Kill Softsword, wife, and spare me the effort.”
Shocked by his appearance, Alianor didn’t reply. De Lacy’s face was twisted with pain, his broken nose swollen and crusted with blood. He was blotched with sweat, his eyes fever-crazed. Yet, he read the surprise on her face. “Did you hope I had died, my dear?” His voice was soft, yet menacing. She didn’t know what to say.
De Lacy gestured impatiently at the King with his sword. “Do it,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “or I will.”
“Nay,” Alianor said, lowering the statue she held in her hands, “I cannot.”
Relief touched the King’s eyes, but de Lacy became furious. “Idiot woman, seize the moment. You are already condemned!”
She shook her head. “I think not.”
With a savage growl, de Lacy stepped forward, sword raised to strike when she wouldn’t. Alianor put her hand up, staying him. “I’ve more patience than you, husband.” She emphasized the word with a tinge of mockery. “Instead, I will bide my time. I will exercise patience. On my oath, justice will be done, but in my time and for my reasons, not yours.”
Alianor turned her attention back to King John. He had managed to drag himself to his feet and she waited until he looked at her. She wanted him to know she spoke the truth, and her tone turned pleasant as she contemplated her promise.
“It may not be today. Maybe not tomorrow. Perhaps not even in ten years. But I will see you reckoned with when I damme well please. I want you to waken every morning henceforth and wonder — wonder if it shall be your last day on earth.”
The dark delight of holding someone’s fate in her hands was heady. Did it make her as evil as these two? Perhaps, but she would avenge her brother’s death and her attempted rape. “Mark my words, Sire, no one will ever know it was me. That’s the beauty of it, don’t you think?”
She tossed the bloodied statue upon the bed as de Lacy shoved her aside. But before de Lacy could dispatch the King, noises outside the door — the sound of running feet and clanking armor — warned him opportunity was past. With an oath, he grabbed Alianor’s wrist and pulled her along with him into the hall.
