“Kiera,” he barked as the young woman waited anxiously, “have one of these women bring wine. Then take my bedraggled lady to her chamber, where she may change into dry garments. She must not catch her death from a chill, and what she is wearing is hardly flattering.”
“I do not dress to please you,” Isabelle said, trying not to shiver or let her teeth chatter although the rain had soaked her to the skin.
“This way, if you please, my lady,” Kiera said, both eager and deferential as she indicated the western door that led into the tower.
Since she wanted to get dry and into something that was not DeFrouchette’s tunic, Isabelle followed Kiera as she led the way out of the hall.
Raising the blanket that formed her skirt so that she wouldn’t fall, Isabelle climbed the worn, curved steps lit by flickering torches. When they were nearly at the top, they reached a door of thick timber which, like the hall, looked relatively new.
It also looked very strong.
Kiera opened the door and waited with a servant’s deference for Isabelle to precede her inside the chamber. “Osburn forgot to introduce me,” she said as Isabelle passed her. “My name is Kiera.”
“And I am—” Isabelle caught herself before she said her real name. “I am Lady Allis.”
Then she silently surveyed the chamber, an unexpectedly well-furnished room, with a large bed of oak covered in fine linens dyed in an earthy green, a delicately carved chair, and a dark wooden chest embossed in brass. A metal candle stand was near the bed, containing ten white candles. The loopholes were shuttered with canvas to keep out the night air.
The narrow loopholes, apertures suitable for archers, were not, regrettably, nearly big enough for her to climb out of, and she wondered what was in the chest.
“I know this chamber is not as fine as what you’re used to,” Kiera said, seemingly as anxious for Isabelle’s approval as she was for Osburn’s. She hurried to the chest beside the bed and threw open the lid. “These are my gowns. We’re nearly the same size, and Osburn told me before he went to get you that you’re to take whatever you need. I’m also to serve as your maid, if you like, and this whole room is to be yours.”
Isabelle walked toward her. “Did he not tell you that he was abducting me?”
Kiera’s face reddened and, holding the lid up, she looked at the contents as if searching for something. “Yes, he did, and I am sorry about that.” She glanced at Isabelle, then away, but not before Isabelle saw the anxiety in her brown eyes. “But it is his father’s plan, not Osburn’s. He’s not a bad man.”
Isabelle did not share her opinion. And while it was clear Kiera realized that what her lover had done was wrong, it would probably not be wise to criticize Osburn to her.
Kiera reached into the chest, set aside a brown garment on the top, then lifted out a gown of deep green wool with some simple embroidery in the shape of blue flowers around the rounded neckline. “This is my best gown. I hope it’s not too rough and poor for you.”
“I’m sure it will do.”
“There is no need to be frightened,” Kiera continued as she laid the gown on the bed. “Osburn says you’re not to be harmed. Besides, you’ve got that man, that knight, to look out for you.”
“DeFrouchette?”
“Is that his name?”
“Have you never seen him before?”
“No, he has never come here, nor his friend, neither.”
“DeFrouchette is not a knight.”
“Oh.” Kiera smiled apologetically as she turned back to the chest. “He certainly looks like one.”
“Compared to the men in this place and the Norsemen in the ship that brought me here, I suppose he does.”
“He’s very handsome, too,” she said. “And those shoulders!”
Perhaps Kiera would not be completely loyal to Osburn after all, and if she preferred DeFrouchette to Osburn, she showed slightly better judgment. DeFrouchette did not imbibe overmuch, for one thing, or at least she hadn’t seen him.
Kiera turned and held out a white garment. “Here’s a shift, too. I suppose you’re used to silk?”
This situation was getting stranger and stranger. They were not two young ladies at court. She was here against her will, brought here by this woman’s paramour in a hateful scheme of revenge. “Whatever you have is good enough, as long as it is dry.”
Isabelle unwrapped the blanket around her waist. She pulled off DeFrouchette’s tunic and her mud-stained shift and put them on the bed, then quickly dressed in the dry clothing.
“I’ll tie the laces, my lady,” Kiera said. She came behind her and began to tie the laces of the woolen gown with brisk efficiency, which told Isabelle she must have been a ladies’ maidservant before she ran afoul of Osburn.
“There are some slippers, too, if you like,” she offered.
Isabelle sat on the bed and pulled off her soiled shoes. The sole was tearing away from the top of one, and the other had a hole in the toe. Considering all that she had been through, it was something of a miracle she still had them at all.
Kiera studied her. “I used to dress my mistress’s hair. Would you like me to do yours?”
Why not? “Please.”
Kiera produced a wide-toothed ivory comb from the chest and proceeded to work the knots out of Isabelle’s hair. It was a painful and arduous process, and Isabelle decided to use this time and opportunity to learn more about where she was. “What is the name of this castle?”
“Osburn just calls it ‘the Welsh ruin.’”
“Who owns the land?”
“I don’t know. Osburn doesn’t … he doesn’t talk very much with me.”
No doubt he had other things than talk on his mind when he was with Kiera, Isabelle thought. “Are you not curious, though?”
“No. As long as I am with Osburn, I’m happy.”
Isabelle subdued a sigh. Kiera sounded moonstruck—or lovestruck—and was clearly not a font of knowledge.
“Will you have braids, my lady?”
“That would be fine.”
“One or two? Or more? I could coil them about your head, if you like.”
Again, Isabelle felt that odd disconnection between the reality of her situation and Kiera’s cheerful chatter. “One braid will do.”
“I’m sorry I have no scarf to cover your head.”
“I never—” Once more, Isabelle caught herself. Maidens did not cover their hair, but married women did. “I never expected that you would.”
When she was finished, Kiera went to the door, holding it open for her. “Come, my lady. Osburn will be waiting for us.”
Isabelle wanted to remain where she was, away from the leering stares of the Brabancons and the disconcerting presence of DeFrouchette. She must always remember that he was not her protector, no matter what he said or did.
She must only think of him as a slightly tamer beast, and always be on her guard around him.
A few moments later, Isabelle entered the hall, Kiera behind her. Osburn, DeFrouchette and Heinrich sat at a table by the hearth. Other Brabancons were also seated at trestle tables. DeFrouchette’s friend was between two Brabancons, looking as uncomfortable as she felt.
Some bread was already on the tables, and Heinrich shoved the heel of a loaf into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
Osburn surveyed her over the top of the bronze goblet he held loosely in his long fingers. “Well, that’s better!” he drawled, slipping down in his chair. “Now you look like a lady. Please, join us.”
DeFrouchette rose as she approached—a courteous gesture oddly out of place, and it excused nothing.
“Since you’re already on your feet, DeFrouchette, Lady Allis may have your chair.”
Without a word, his expression unreadable, DeFrouchette went to sit with his friend.
Telling herself she didn’t care where he was, Isabelle walked around the table and swept her skirt out of the way as she sat. Regarding Osburn as she would a bedbug, she said, “I
am a lady whether I look it or not, but you will never be a gentleman no matter how well you dress.”
Heinrich laughed, his mouth full of half-chewed bread, while Osburn scowled, then downed more wine.
As the meal progressed, Isabelle tried to keep her attention on the food, which was surprisingly good. There was a beef stew with dumplings made of eggs and bread crumbs, mutton in gravy, brown bread and a filling dish of beans cooked slowly in a fish broth until they were almost a porridge.
It was more and better than she had expected, but then, perhaps good food was part of the bargain Oswald had made with the Brabancons.
However fine the fare, though, Isabelle could not will herself to deafness as she ate, or completely ignore the banter the Brabancons exchanged with the other women. It was nearly enough to turn her stomach.
She also couldn’t ignore the way the women lingered long as they served DeFrouchette—especially one of them, a woman who had probably been attractive in her youth. She obviously still considered herself a great beauty and was not taking kindly to DeFrouchette’s continued, inattentive silence.
Later, when the Brabancons were so into their cups that the hall was like a raucous tavern, the woman obviously thought she saw a chance. She set down the jug of wine she carried and leaned forward with her elbows on the table. Her gown gaped open to reveal much of her heavy breasts and she smiled, exposing what was left of her teeth. “What’s the matter?” she cooed to DeFrouchette. “Don’t you like women?”
“In general?” he calmly replied. “Not particularly.”
The woman straightened. “What, you’re one of them?”
“If by that you mean do I prefer men or women in my bed, the answer is women.”
“Ahhh,” the wench sighed, leaning down again. “My name’s Hielda.”
“Well then, Hielda, why don’t you fill the mug of that fellow over there who is staring at the backs of your ankles?” DeFrouchette suggested as he dipped his bread in some gravy.
“Because you’re better looking. And I’m sure you know how to make a woman sigh. Aye, and scream, too, if that’s your pleasure.” She grinned, and her eyes sparkled.
DeFrouchette raised his eyes to look at the woman, and the expression in them was frosty. “I decide who I invite into my bed, Hielda, and if I am interested in a woman, she won’t have any doubt about it. What I do with a woman, then, is my own business. Whether she sighs or moans with the pleasure of it is something you will never know.”
Isabelle couldn’t quite catch her breath.
Hielda closed her mouth with a snap, turned on her heel and marched off across the room, where she threw herself into the lap of a startled Brabancon. The man recovered quickly, and Isabelle turned away as he started to grope her.
Unfortunately, she found herself staring at DeFrouchette’s lean and handsome face.
He raised one brow.
“I am going to retire,” she announced, pushing back her chair.
Osburn’s hand darted out and gripped her wrist so tightly that it hurt. “Not yet. You may be finished, but I am not.”
“Osburn,” DeFrouchette said in a warning tone as he rose slowly, like a god roused from slumber.
Kiera cowered in a corner as the other women watched with eager curiosity. The Brabancons watched with a very different kind of curiosity, hoping for a fight, perhaps, and the Gascon was also on his feet.
Osburn glanced at DeFrouchette, but he didn’t let go of her. “Don’t you think she should be present when we discuss your next task, DeFrouchette?”
“What task?” Isabelle demanded as she tried to pull her arm from Osburn’s grasp.
Osburn grinned his gargoyle grin at her. “Why, taking the ransom demand to your husband, of course. You do want us to do that, don’t you?”
Her throat suddenly dry, Isabelle didn’t answer. Allis and Connor must be nearly frantic with worry about her, and she wanted them to know that she was alive and unharmed—but the sooner the demand was made, the sooner they would learn they had the wrong woman, and the worse her situation would be.
“As much as I want to confront her husband,” DeFrouchette said grimly, interrupting her tumultuous thoughts, “I first want your promise that she will be safe while I am gone.”
“Of course you have my promise.”
“You know I mean more than that,” DeFrouchette said sternly. “Unharmed and unviolated.”
“Both, unless her husband refuses to pay. Then any other promises need not be kept, for we must be compensated for all our trouble. And when we’re done with her, I’m sure Ingar will still pay a considerable sum. He clearly finds her fetching.”
DeFrouchette strode around Osburn’s chair and pulled him to his feet. “That was not agreed upon.”
“Heinrich!” Osburn screeched, and the German obeyed the summons.
Scowling, but no doubt aware that he was seriously outnumbered by the Brabancons, DeFrouchette let Osburn go. “I never agreed to sell Lady Allis into slavery if Sir Connor didn’t pay the ransom.”
With a sour expression, Osburn straightened his tunic. “What did you think was going to happen to her if he didn’t? We’d just send her home again?”
DeFrouchette’s face reddened. “Oswald assured me Sir Connor would pay, so there is no need to consider alternatives.”
“Yes, he will,” Isabelle declared, determined to keep herself safe as long as she could. “How long will you give Connor to raise the money?”
“A month from the day Alexander delivers the message. But there’s no rush.” He addressed DeFrouchette. “Surely you won’t mind waiting a few days before you go back to Bellevoire.”
“What of Ingar?” he demanded. “Will he wait?”
“Ingar’s been offered a considerable sum. I’m sure he won’t mind lingering here a little.”
Osburn pulled out his dagger as he continued to address DeFrouchette. “Regardless of when you go, we must have some proof that we have the lady, to ensure that her husband will pay.”
“What’s it to be?” Heinrich asked as calmly as if he were discussing the weather but with a savage glint in his eye. “An ear or a finger?”
Panicked, Isabelle instinctively stepped closer to DeFrouchette. Meanwhile, the women gasped and whispered among themselves, all except Kiera, who started to weep. The Gascon looked sick, and the Brabancons excited in a horrible way. Even the hounds stirred, roused by the noise.
“I am to be treated as a guest,” Isabelle whispered, too terrified to speak louder.
DeFrouchette moved in front of her to shield her from Osburn and Heinrich. She clutched at his arm as if holding him could help. At that moment, she would have welcomed the intervention of the devil himself.
“Your father said nothing of any proof,” he declared.
“My father may not have raised the issue of proof with you, but he did to me,” Oswald replied with disgusting delight. “However, calm yourself, my dear DeFrouchette, and you, too, my lady. I don’t intend to follow Heinrich’s bloodthirsty—if fascinating—suggestions.”
She loosened her hold on DeFrouchette but didn’t let go of him completely. “Then why have you drawn your dagger?”
Osburn gave her another leering grin. “To cut off your hair.”
Her hair. Only her hair. Her legs went weak with relief, until Heinrich spoke.
“Plenty of women have hair that color,” he said, his disappointment all too apparent. “How will her husband know it is hers?”
Osburn’s eyes gleamed with a terrible pleasure as he turned back to address the Brabancon, and her grip on DeFrouchette tightened again. “That’s a good point, but the same could be said of an ear or a finger,” he said, “and as DeFrouchette so continually points out, she’s not to be harmed—yet. Besides, I’ve no qualms about letting her husband doubt if the hair belongs to her. She could be alive and in our hands, or not. The only way he’ll ever be certain is to pay us and find out. Now then, DeFrouchette, be a good fellow and hold her arms for m
e. I fear the lady will squirm like a fish otherwise.”
DeFrouchette regarded him steadily, his expression unreadable. “No.”
Determined not to add to Osburn’s fiendish delight, Isabelle came around DeFrouchette and faced him. “Go ahead,” she said, without the slightest tremor in her voice to betray her fear. “Cut off my hair.”
Osburn’s eyes burned with the anger of disappointment, just like Heinrich’s, and indeed, he was no different, except that he had finer clothes.
Osburn stepped up to her and waved the dagger in her face. “Be sure you don’t move, my lady,” he warned. “Otherwise, I might slip and accidentally cut your beautiful face.”
Isabelle willed herself to show nothing, to feel nothing, so that she would not increase Osburn’s sadistic pleasure. “I will not.”
Reaching around her, Osburn snatched her braid, and she was sure it was no accident that his hand also brushed her breast. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
His eyes fairly flashing with ire, DeFrouchette stepped forward and wrapped his long, strong fingers around Osburn’s wrist, making him drop the dagger. “Do that again and I’ll break your fingers.”
Heinrich drew out his sword, but DeFrouchette paid no heed as he cast Osburn off, sending the man stumbling back. He swooped down and grabbed the dagger. “I’ll do it.”
Again, Isabelle willed herself to show nothing—not relief that a steadier hand than Osburn’s held a knife so close to her, or disappointment and anger that DeFrouchette would help in this.
He pulled her braid in front of her. She stood absolutely still, like a soldier being reviewed by his general.
His brow furrowed with concentration, he sliced through it quickly. Once done, it looked like a blond snake, or the pelt of some strange beast, while what was left of her hair fell about her neck and just above her shoulders, not even as long as his.
He wordlessly handed the braid, and the dagger, back to Osburn.
“Put that somewhere for safekeeping until the morrow, Kiera,” Osburn commanded. He tossed the braid at her and returned the dagger to his belt. “Then fetch me some more wine. Barbering makes me thirsty!”
Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] Page 9
