Revolting.
Brenna had never been able to stitch very well but was skilled with a paintbrush. That she had meticulously used her skill to make pretty little decorations for her atrocious husband’s garment sent a shooting pain behind one of Gwyneth’s eyes. Montgomery had caused the people much heartache. How dare she betray them all thus!
Enraged at her sister’s disgusting devotion to her husband and her willingness to sell her own kin off in marriage, Gwyneth snatched Brenna’s outstretched hand and spit in the palm.
“Eek!” Brenna squealed.
“Ha! “ The small satisfaction, wasn’t much but ‘twas better than doing naught.
With a grin, Gwyneth tossed Brenna’s hand aside, pushed past Montgomery, and scampered for the exit. She yanked open the heavy oak door and ran out into the bailey. Somehow she would find a way to get out of their plans for marriage.
“Gwyneth!” she heard both of them call in unison behind her but she did not turn around.
“A curse on both of you! “ she tossed over her shoulder. “I will marry no man!”
“Come back, sister!” Brenna’s voice carried across the yard.
“Should I go after her?” she heard Montgomery say.
“Nay, ‘tis me she is angry with. I—”
Behind her Gwyneth heard shuffling and some discussion, but she could no longer discern individual words. Her hair floated like a flowing cloud as her cape’s hood slid downward and she fled, panting, away from the keep at Windrose, running to speak with Irma, her only true friend in the world.
“Reconcile yourself, wench,” Montgomery blasted just as she reached the cove of trees and the secret path that led into the town. “The wedding is at dawn.”
The harsh fist of determination closed around Jared St. John like a cold iron clamp as he surveyed the Windrose lands and sensed that he was closer than ever to finding his brother’s murderer. Bitter revenge at the injustice of losing his freedom for three years flowed inside him.
Rafe’s drinking horn had been found and he had heard gossip that a man wearing his green boots with silver buckles had been seen down by the docks.
It had been two long months of hiding from the authorities, but somehow he had escaped their claws. Oft at night, he’d awoke to the sound of hounds howling and thought that soon he would be arrested again, but so far he had managed to remain free.
Jared gripped his staff—a new one that he had carved from a small sapling. It was nearly as tall as he was and sturdy in his hand. On the top of it, he had whittled a dragon into the wood. Its reptilian tail wrapped around the base. It was still somewhat crude, and Jared wanted to add other carvings to the stick, but he was pleased with how his creation had turned out. He had even found a small red rock for the dragon’s eye. In three years he had not lost his skill with a knife.
Aeliana perched atop his shoulder. From his position on a hill above Windrose, he watched shadows grow long in the town surrounding the castle. Another day gone. Time seemed to be passing all too quickly. He gripped his walking stick, his every desire that he could clear his name. Get his honor back.
But he would not become a monk. God was dead to him—had died and left an empty coldness in his soul. Unlike Joseph of the Bible, Jared had not resisted the siren’s call of a woman who belonged to another. His irresponsibility had caused her death—and that of an innocent child as well. He had wanted to pay penitence and had ended with his brother dead and him in prison instead. Proof that God had abandoned him.
The lowering sun bathed rooftops with orange fire. Frogs chirped. Birds roosted on the eaves of the church, their twittering a continuous hum as they settled for the night. Workmen walked the cobbled streets, the tools of their trades rolled into packs as they headed back to their huts and houses, the day’s work completed. A queue formed outside the bakery—women purchasing meat pies and bread for the evening meal.
Somewhere, hidden amid the town and castle folk, he would find the truth, the answers he needed.
Restless, longing to rush forward to solve the mystery, he turned his staff over and over in his hands. The smooth wood slid against his palms and the engraved dragon at the top twisted this way and that.
Rafe’s body had been found by a fisherman. His tunic had been loaded full of rocks and his boots stripped off. If only he could find the boots, then he would have a clear trail to the murderer, could clear his own name, and make him pay for the long nights spent in prison.
Aeliana fluttered her wings in agitation. Her feathers brushed his cheek and her soft, musky scent tickled his nostrils.
“Easy, my friend,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes at the turrets of the castle and forcing his fingers to still. “We’ll bring the killer to justice soon. Then you can stop wandering around the countryside sleeping in caves with me. You’ll like that, won’t you, girl?”
The hawk twitched her head as if in answer; her yellow eyes gazed at the sky. She ruffled. She wanted to fly more. But they had just returned from the hunt and it was time to settle for the night in the cave that had been their shelter the past while.
Knots ran from his lower back to beneath his shoulder blades, his body’s protest against being disguised, pretending to have a limp and being smaller, weaker than he was. The restrained investigations he’d done these past months went against his preferred methods of straightforward conversation. He wore a hood most of the time and had grown a goatee and mustache to disguise his features—set himself apart from the smooth-shaven monk and the scruffy-bearded prisoner he had been—so that he would not be recognized.
How much easier it would be to charge in sword first; to slash, to slay. The only trail he had seemed to end at The Bald Cock, a brothel in the low-class area of town. Some of the women had seen a man wearing distinctive boots—green with silver buckles. Rafe’s boots.
Jared rolled his shoulders.
Aeliana flapped her wings and dug her talons painfully through the leather padding and into his flesh. Clearly she neared the end of her patience with his musings. She wanted to hunt, and if not to hunt, then eat.
With a grimace, he relaxed his shoulders and turned toward the cave.
He would feed Aeliana and leave her so she would rest, then head toward the brothel where he’d been gathering information. He’d have that fuzzy-haired whore named Irma bathe him and rub the worst of the tension from his shoulders. She had gentle hands and a loose gossipy tongue, and didn’t question his lack of desire for her sexually.
He had no interest in a whore or, indeed, any other woman. Love was an illusion and lust beguiled a man’s soul.
His Aeliana, loyal and sagacious, was the only female he could trust. Even his own mother had not wanted him.
The unfairness of being imprisoned ate at him. All passion had been swallowed up by the thirst for revenge. The scars surrounding his wrists and ankles—red and bumpy—and the white ones on his legs drove him to that end.
Jared made his way into the cave, fed Aeliana, and decided to skip his own supper. He sighed. Mayhap Irma would have some interesting gossip to share tonight—something to lead him one step closer to clearing his name and bringing the murderer to justice.
Chapter 7
Gasping for breath, Gwyneth drew up her hood and pulled her cape—the homespun, tattered one she used when secrecy was required—around herself. With a shove, she entered the well-oiled back door of The Bald Cock, a tawdry brothel, to look for Irma—just as she always did when she needed consolation and advice.
Marriage was akin to death for a woman—first there was the wretched act of consummation, then being a broodmare, and if a woman survived that, she would live a meaningless life in complete subjugation to her husband.
She had much more important work to accomplish. Somehow she and Irma would come up with a plan to avoid tomorrow’s wedding.
The acrid stench of ale, sweat, and lust bit at her nostrils as she walked inside the whorehouse. Balls of mud dotted the floor, and an oily film caked th
e sconces and walls.
The sheer dirtiness repulsed her. It proved the base nature of men, of how they cared for naught more than shoving themselves inside a woman’s body until their vile lust was spent.
The back door opened to the kitchen area rather than the main chamber. Barrels of ale and dirty dishes were stacked along the cabinets. Harlots and a few kitchen boys ran back and forth through a swinging door. One girl, barely seven summers, stood on a stool and halfheartedly dunked tankards up and down in a pan of scummy water. Another child, not much older, dried them with a greasy cloth before one of the whores would rush in, yank it out of her hand, fill it with ale, and race back out through the swinging door.
The chaos set Gwyneth’s nerves on edge. No one cared that tankards were not properly washed, that the linens were filthy, or that flies crawled across the cabinets. Haphazard piles lined the walls and she longed to wrap her hands around a broom.
In the corner, five smaller children played with wooden blocks, building some sort of tower. Kiera, Irma’s daughter, was among them.
“Lady Gwyn!” she called, leaping to her feet. Her hair, the same mousy brown as her mother’s, sprang in loose curls all around her head. Her wrinkled dress had two splotches of dirt where her knees were.
“Shhh!” Gwyneth admonished, gathering the child into her arms for a quick hug. “Where is your mum?”
The child pointed a thumb toward the door leading to the main chamber of the brothel. “Working,” she said casually.
Gwyneth cringed at how indifferent the girl was toward her mother’s career. The very idea of union with a man wrenched her stomach.
‘Twas loathsome. Absolutely loathsome.
Likely the girl would be servicing men in a few years if Gwyneth could not come up with a plan to control her dower lands and take her away from this revolting place.
Through the door, she saw Lord Ashland and Master Baker standing by the wall. Even Lord Mallory was here.
Eventually, all men came and tasted the wares, or so Irma said.
“Did you bring me an apple, Lady Gwyn?”
“Not this time, child. I must speak with your mother,” Gwyneth said, setting the child back down.
Kiera stuck out her bottom lip. “But you promised me.”
“I know, sweetling, but this trip was urgent and I did not have time to plan. Go play with your blocks and I’ll return on the morrow with two apples and a haircomb for you.”
The child’s eyes widened. “A haircomb? Will it be silver with jewels?”
A silver comb with jewels would ransom two women.
Gwyneth patted the girl on the head. “Nay, but it shall be well crafted, I promise.” She’d steal Brenna’s.
“All right, Lady Gwyn. I will dream all night about it.” The child turned and flounced back to the other children.
Inside, Gwyneth felt her heart break. She wanted more for the child than merely a haircomb. An education. Some skills. Something to do so that she would not have to earn her keep with her legs in the air.
With a renewed purpose, Gwyneth pulled her hood firmly over her head to avoid being recognized and headed for the swinging door.
The stench in the brothel—sweat and sex and cheap toilet water—grew more rank as she moved into the main chamber. The vulgar way the men’s eyes roved over exposed skin and the degrading way women’s bodies were used for men’s uncontrolled brutality disgusted her.
Frequently, she had urged Irma to leave, but her friend always smirked at the thought.
Through the haze, Gwyneth saw Irma, wild brown hair curling around her face. She sat on a wobbly three-legged stool holding a tankard. She was smiling, tittering, gazing with round eyes at a stoutly man at least twenty-five years her elder who had a potbelly and an expensive-looking pin clipped to the enormous lace kerchief at his neck.
“Psst! Irma!” Gwyneth whispered, staying near the back of the chamber and praying her disguise would hold so that none of the patrons would take notice of her. She had not changed her clothing after the row with her sister. Beneath her shabby cape, which she had snatched from its secret hiding place in the stables, she still wore a finely stitched houppelande. The dress would be noteworthy and the last thing she wanted was male attention. If she was discovered here, she would be ruined.
Turning, Irma took in Gwyneth in one full blink. It was one of those looks that Gwyneth had come to appreciate both for its worldly wisdom and for its care.
Irma sidled off the stool, leaving her customer gaping after her, his sentence half finished. Obviously forgotten. She’d never cared a whit what he was saying anyway, of that Gwyneth was sure.
Irma had shown her how to paint her eyes with kohl. Irma had taught her how to roll her hips when she walked. Irma had been her teacher in how to charm men, to pretend interest, to get what she wanted. The skills had served her well in releasing women from the prison.
“Wot’s wrong, m’dear?” Irma wrapped her arms around Gwyneth.
“Ohhhhhh,” Gwyneth moaned, hugging her friend tightly. “I’m to be married off.”
“I see.” The stench of toilet water permeated the yellow veil around Irma’s shoulders that announced to the world she was a harlot. She wore a low-cut blue gown with droopy embroidered trim that was ripped in three places, likely torn by an overzealous customer.
Despite the inappropriateness, Gwyneth’s fingers itched for a needle and thread. Such actions were useless—life for women came unstitched faster than anyone could sew up loose ends. Had not her mother proved that? All the mending in the world had not appeased Papa or kept him from stupidly getting himself exiled. Now that Montgomery was overlord, her own marriage seemed imminent.
Wending around tables and serving wenches, Irma steered Gwyneth to a private area in the corner. Girls sauntered back and forth, hips wiggling, breasts bobbing in display. Ale sloshed. Men laughed. A minstrel played a bawdy song. One girl, clad in gypsy garments, danced in an undulating rhythm while balancing a tray of flaming candles atop her head. Tallow smoke hung in the air.
“You’ve always got out of the proposals afore,” Irma said once they had settled onto the bench. Crumbs and droplets of wine marred the worn tabletop.
“With Brenna’s help,” wailed Gwyneth. “Now that she’s married, she’s sticking by her husband. ‘Tis as if she’s lost her spine. Damn the man.”
“Humph. Stay ‘ere, luv. I’ll fetch a flask of wine and we’ll conjure a plan, eh?”
A plan. Irma always had a plan. The two of them had never gotten themselves into a situation where they could not get out. Somehow working together they fooled magistrates and jailors. They had released woman after woman from the prison cells.
Taking in a steadying breath, Gwyneth resisted the urge to lay her head down on the table as she watched her friend saunter back into the brothel’s chaos. Irma’s hips rolled as she walked; she smiled easily at the other women. Despite her working conditions and the disgusting thing she did to earn her keep, her shoulders were as loose and carefree as a child’s.
Irma could come and go as she pleased, she could spit and drink ale and ride horses bareback. She was never sequestered away, squeezed in houppelandes, or shoved into pointed, pinching shoes.
A pitcher of ale was set before her and Irma poured it into two tankards. “No wine tonight. Too watery.”
An ache formed in Gwyneth’s chest, and she wrapped her hand around her drinking vessel. As the daughter of a wealthy baron, she never lacked for wine. She should be grateful for her life, but she felt shattered and splintered inside.
The brothel’s abbess, a tall, thin woman whose dour expression could have rivaled any convent nun’s, shot her a glare. She was busy soothing the pride of Irma’s jilted customer.
With a huff, Gwyneth dug into the purse tied to her girdle, pulled out two coins, and handed them to her friend. “Here. This should keep the abbess happy.”
Irma smirked. “No’ much’ll keep that woman happy except the wenches ‘ave their leg
s in the air several times a night, you know. But me customers pay me well, so she leaves me alone, she does. I’ll take this, though, and give ‘er ‘alf. That’ll leave me free for the night. ”
They sat there for a few moments in companionable silence.
“Why don’ you jes refuse to marry the lout?” Irma asked, pulling the conversation back to the issue at hand.
Gwyneth drew circles on the table with her index finger. “It’s not… that simple.”
“Sure ‘tis. Say nay and ‘ave done with it.”
If only she could. If only it were that easy. But Irma could never understand her life—the ties, the rules, the duty.
Tracing her fingers round and round the patterns of wood grain, Gwyneth stared at the remains of spilled ale encrusted into a knot of wood.
“The arrangement must be broken amicably,” she answered at last. “I am bound by honor.”
“Bah,” said Irma, flicking a crumb off the table. “Honor is for men. Women have better ways.”
Gwyneth sighed and gave a slight smile, amused by her friend’s unorthodox outlook. Irma’s life gave her freedom that Gwyneth would never know. “Even if I were able to get out of this marriage, there would be another proposal, and then another. ‘Tis been thus for year—”
“—but you ‘ave gotten free afore—”
“'Tis the lot of noblewomen to marry and bear a man’s heirs,” she said miserably, parroting the words of her sister. “We’re to be chattel and broodmares.”
Irma cocked her head to one side, getting that look of possibilities in her eyes the way she did when she was coming up with something outrageous.
A moment passed. Tension built. In one corner, a bard sang a bawdy song. The titters of harlots reminded her of the London court. In many ways, it was not so much different—women being sold for money.
She thought fleetingly of the dark-haired Elizabeth in prison—likely the jailor was making arrangements to sell her as an indentured servant or slave. The child could not even speak for herself. Often she sat along the dank wall chewing the ends of her straight, dark hair and staring up at the cobwebs.
Defiant Page 5
