He was lying on his back in the middle of the small chamber. She thought he was dead for a moment, surprised at the terrible grief that welled up inside of her. Then she noticed the slight rise and fall of his chest and she knew he still lived. She remembered laying her head on that chest just two nights ago. As much as she reviled what he had done, a wrenching pain gripped her at the memory. And with it came a strange thought, a deep conviction that startled her in its clarity and strength: he could not have done it. Not Rogan.
It was the first of many doubts she was to have, doubts that flew in the face of all sense. Telling herself it was merely a selfish wish borne of her own grief, she pushed it away. Kneeling, she gently rolled him over.
When she saw what her father’s men had done to him, saw the blackened flesh of his back from the already festering welts, she had to look away. It took a few moments of deep, steady breathing to calm her stomach and keep herself from giving way to the wave of nausea. Steeling herself, she called to the guard to bring her hot water and set to work cleaning the wounds.
His body was ablaze with fever, and Lily felt inadequate. She knew little about medicines and healing. But there was no one else to do it since old Maida, the healer, had died, so she concentrated on getting the worst of the debris and dried blood out of his wounds.
He never stirred and Lily thanked God for that one blessing. If he had been conscious, the pain would have been unbearable. She finished the cleansing and smeared his whole back with a generous portion of salve, a mixture of healing herbs and goose fat, before wrapping clean linens lightly over his entire torso to protect the injured flesh and seal in the medicine. She said a quick prayer it would be enough, then thought of the fruitlessness of her efforts. He would likely hang for his crime in due time.
Finished, Lily stood on trembling legs and called the guard. She ordered a pallet brought in and she and the guard struggled to pull Rogan onto it. She insisted he be fed strong broth twice a day, pressing a silver piece into the guard’s hand to insure it would be done. Looking at Rogan now, she found it difficult to muster her hate. He was so vulnerable, so helpless, so very unlike the man she had known. It was her second moment of doubt.
Once seated again by Elspeth’s bedside, she was still thinking of him. She could not stem the flow of uncertainty that now bubbled up to cloud the safe, hollow hate that had sheltered her before. It was impossible he could be innocent. She knew that. And yet, fool that she was, she was unsure…
Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Elspeth. “I am a sinner!” she cried out, thrashing about in her sleep.
Lily leaped out of her chair and rushed to her side, holding her down and trying to calm her. The physicians had warned them not to wake her when she was in the grips of one of these sleep trances, cautioning that it could be damaging to her already fragile mind.
“Hush, Elspeth. Sleep now, my love.”
“I am dirty! I am unclean.”
This was her usual cry, and Lily felt a renewed surge of disgust for Rogan whom she had been so foolish as to feel pity for only moments before. “Shh, my little love, it is all right. You are but a sweet innocent.” She rocked her in her arms like a babe. “Please rest now.”
The seizures usually lasted only a few moments, and this one was already subsiding. Lily felt the small body relaxing, and the tortured voice fell off until it was barely discernible. Her murmurings were so soft, in fact, that when Lily heard her say “I have lied,” she was not at all sure she had heard correctly.
* * *
Down in the dungeons, the men did their work in silence. The fire was to look as much like an accident as possible, so they rigged a pile of straw near a torch to ignite as the flame burned low. It was relatively simple, and they were finished quickly.
A short time later, a second group of men moved in, equal in stealth but intent on a mission of a different nature.
“Where is the guard?” someone hissed.
Andrew shook his head. “He is nowhere about. I do not like this. It seems a trap.”
“Do we retreat?”
“No,” Andrew said quickly. “I count myself lucky if my brother is not already dead. I will not have another chance as this. If it comes to it, we grab Rogan and slash our way out of it. If Rogan dies…” He paused, and his men looked away respectfully while he fought for control. “If Rogan dies, it is no comfort to me that I saved my own life.” Andrew frowned into the dark maze of corridors. “I have no idea where he is, so we look in every cell. When you find him, give the whistle. I suggest we start.”
“What is that smell?”
Andrew paused, sniffing the air. His eyes widened in alarm. “Fire!”
They all reacted in unison, racing down the corridors, flinging doors open as they went, shouting to one another as each cell turned up empty. They did not bother with stealth now; there was no time.
“I found him!” Garven, an older knight, called at last. Andrew was beside him in a flash and they went together into the moldy cell.
Garven knelt beside his master, feeling the timorous pulse at Rogan’s neck. “Just barely alive, sir. And maybe not for long.”
“A fate we may all be sharing in if we cannot escape this Hades. John! Arwen! Lord Rogan is here!”
The men came and hoisted Rogan onto their shoulders. They had no time to be gentle, and Andrew winced as he thought of the pain for his brother. Blessedly, Rogan did not wake, though that fact worried Andrew all the more.
They raced against the encroaching flames as they threaded their way up through the labyrinth.
“Pray the alarm has not yet been raised,” Andrew called. “If it has, we are likely to be met on the surface by half of the population of Charolais.”
Garven grunted, bursting free of the choking flames and into the still night. “All clear!” he announced.
“Call for the alarm now,” Andrew instructed, “and we will escape under cover of the confusion.”
Andrew watched grimly as Rogan’s limp body was slung on the back of a horse. His jaw worked as he thought what a shame it was that they could not simply let the flames take Charolais. A fitting end to such a hellish place.
Lily had spent the night by Elspeth’s bedside, so it was not until morning that she heard the news of the dungeon fires.
Numb, Lily sat in silence before asking, “And my husband? Lord Rogan?”
“My lady, he is certainly dead.”
Chapter Ten
Autumn came, staining the sparse greenery dead shades of brown and rust. It was followed quickly by winter with its bleak wastelands that so suited the Cornish coast. Through these changes, Charolais slept like an enchanted castle, its inhabitants still under the spell of the horror that had occurred that summer.
Everyone was changed, especially Lily. Life no longer held the slightest of joys, nor even the promise of such. She lived quietly, alone with her grief.
She had her chamber changed and the one that had been hers since childhood, the one she had shared only one night with Rogan, was closed up and left unused. She never went to the garden. She never walked by the sea.
Elspeth withdrew, causing her father so much worry that he at last granted her dearest wish: to be allowed to go to the convent. This news didn’t cheer the child, and her delicate state was the preoccupation of Lily, who never dared ask again about the cryptic cry that fed so many of her tortured doubts.
Even Catherine was changed. And though she grew meaner over the months, given to extreme moodiness and vicious outbursts, her sting was gone. Everyone was relieved when Enguerrand made quick arrangements for her marriage to an old earl. It was a suitable enough match, though disappointing after having had dreams of a duke. Catherine, surprisingly, seemed to be as anxious to be away as was her family to have her gone. She was wed and living with her new husband before Christ’s Mass.
Nothing was heard from the St. Cyrs. Initially there had been some concern that Alexander might launch a retaliation for the death of his b
rother, but none came. The worry lessened over time and life at Charolais slipped into dull monotony.
When her father announced he had found her a husband, Lily reacted not at all.
It made no difference what happened to her now.
When Lily’s wedding day arrived, it was the kind of day in late February that was deceptively mild, a kind of lull amidst the heart of the winter, and Lily was relieved to see that the chapel looked nothing like it had on the long-ago day when she had wed Rogan. Gone were the gay boughs of late-summer flowers. A few ribbons sufficed for decoration. Instead of the broad-shouldered warrior waiting for her at the altar, a thin, pale bridegroom stood. Leon de Aignier, a Norman relative. A pleasant enough fellow, smiling down the aisle at her, proud that he had made such a fine match.
She drew up to him, seeing him close for the first time. They had barely been introduced when her father informed her they were to wed. He was so young. Her heart ached for all she would not be able to give him.
The priest began the mass, droning the holy prayers in staccato Latin. Lily felt her bridegroom give her fingers a squeeze, as if to reassure her. He thinks my pallor is due to nervousness, she realized and a flush of shame passed through her. A good man, he deserved better, not a woman whose heart was dead.
The altar servers moved about, fetching the incense drum, bowing low in reverent acknowledgment before the Holy Sacrament. Ordinarily Lily would not have noticed them, but one happened to catch her eye. He was watching her, it seemed. The strangeness of that pierced her dysphoria. She looked closer.
He looked familiar, but she could not place him. She glanced toward the other server, but his head was bowed low so that she could not see him. But when he moved, there was something in his step that seemed to remind her of something…
Lily realized de Aignier was speaking his vows. She snapped out of her musings and forced herself to attend him. He was looking at her with such pleasure, enunciating each syllable enthusiastically.
When he was finished, the priest turned to her and began, “I, Margaret Lily Elizabeth Louise.”
“I, Margaret Lily Elizabeth Louise,” Lily repeated.
“Take thee, Leon Stephen Robert.”
“Take thee, Leon Stephen Robert.”
“As my husband.”
Another voice, rich and bold, and easily familiar cut through the silence of the chapel. “I am afraid she cannot do that, Father, for she already has a husband.”
Immediately, sounds of dismay exploded. Lily’s head shot up, and she was looking into the face of the altar server who had been bowed so low, concealing his face. It was Andrew! She whipped her head around toward the voice. That voice! It could only be…
Rogan stood directly in front of her, staring with a thunderous expression.
Rogan. Rogan was here. Alive. Impossibly, blessedly alive. Her legs gave way, and had it not been for the gallant de Aignier catching her, she would have collapsed onto the cold stones.
Staring at her with a terrible, evil-looking smile twisting his lips, his eyes gleamed silver by the dim flames of the candles. Trust him to appear in such a shocking manner, Lily thought distractedly, so smug and poised and magnificent.
“Block the doorways, do not let him escape!” Lily recognized her father’s voice. No one moved. Then, in unison, Rogan’s men drew their swords and the slicing sound of unsheathed steel resounded in the chapel.
Alive. Alive, Lily was thinking stupidly, unable to will her limbs to move, wanting to cry, to shout—something. He was still watching her, looking incredibly at ease amidst all of the tension. And though his eyes held a fathomless intensity, she felt deliriously happy.
Her reaction was pure instinct. She dashed the small bouquet to the floor and ran straight into his arms. In a smooth motion, Rogan captured her around the waist. He did not embrace her, but swept her behind him. His hand he kept tight on her wrist, hurting her.
“You are alive!” she exclaimed. It was the only thought her brain could conjure.
“Obviously,” Rogan muttered. “Disappointed?”
de Aignier leaped forward and demanded, “What the devil is going on?”
He had spoken to Enguerrand, but it was Rogan who answered. “Why, you have been had, my good man. The lady is already wed, you see. To me. And though I wonder at my own sanity for not counting myself well rid of her, I find I am curiously unable to see the woman who promised me to wife live a life of sin with another.” He paused, letting de Aignier digest his news. “You were taken in, and that is regrettable. But it has happened to others before you. Me, for instance. So you see, I sympathize.”
“St. Cyr, you are outrageous!” Enguerrand roared.
Suddenly Rogan dropped the sardonic mien. His whole body stiffened and his tone sharpened to match Enguerrand’s. “No, ‘tis you who are outrageous. Did you not do your best to destroy me? But I lived, Enguerrand, and I have returned. And today luck is with you, for I want no vengeance on you. I come only to claim my wife.” He turned to Lily. Confused and suddenly wary of the dark light in his eye, she tried to step away but Rogan yanked her back to his side. His next words were for her alone. “The wife who handed me over like a female Judas.”
Coldness crept over her, a mingling of shock and fear, as the chapel exploded into action. Men rushed forward, but Rogan’s soldiers, disguises now cast aside, had gathered into a small semicircle. Passing Lily to an older man who was waiting by the vestry door, Rogan turned back to the fray. Lily cried out his name, but she was already being dragged out through the sacristy. The last thing she saw was the wide, terrified eyes of Elspeth as Lily was taken down a narrow stair that led to an outer courtyard. Behind her, she could hear the furious clash of steel.
Too late she thought to struggle, but her captor was quick. He bound her hands together before lifting her atop a nervous stallion, and lashed them to the saddle. No sooner had she been secured than Rogan’s men started racing out of the castle and mounting up. Lastly Rogan and Andrew came out at full run. Rogan shouted some orders and swung up onto the stallion.
The feel of him pressed fully against her back slammed into her like a blow, his hard chest like stone and his arm about her waist squeezing her like a vise. As he kicked the great beast into action, she was thrown against him, cushioned by the warm flesh that was cruelly inviting. She was grateful, however, for the benefit of stability his cold embrace afforded as they raced to the castle’s main gate. There they were joined by several others, who had been set to insure a safe retreat.
As the troop of raiders passed under the gate tower, Rogan swept his sword expertly over the ropes that controlled the portcullis and it came crashing down just as they raced through the gate. Without pause, the raiders pounded over the moors at breakneck speed. By the time they reached the cover of the trees, they had not seen any sign of pursuit from the castle.
They rode at the jarring pace for hours. At times, the men would shout to one another in a brief interchange to clarify direction, but otherwise no one spoke.
Rogan continued to hold Lily tightly against him. She was acutely aware of his powerful thighs like granite behind her legs, his breath at her ear, warming it against the terrible wind. He did not speak, nor did Lily, though the need to do so burned in her throat Or perhaps that was grief. In the silent tension of their mad escape, she could feel the heat of his anger burning into her back.
Darkness was beginning to fall when they finally stopped. Lily could make out a ramshackle hut in the dense twilight. She was filled with questions, but fear kept her mute as Rogan swung down from the horse and entered the small shack with Andrew. The man to whom Rogan had passed her in the chapel came up to her again and gently untied her hands, taking her down from the horse.
“I am hungry,” Lily said meekly. Her legs were shaking and she feared she might faint, else she would not have complained.
“We will have something to eat on the boat,” the man answered, not unkindly. At the mention of a boat, Lily realized
she smelled the briny aroma of the sea.
“Where are you taking me?” she cried, instantly alarmed. She had heard tales of slavery inflicted on female captives—sexual and domestic servitude to lords in foreign countries. But no, Rogan would never do such a thing. He was angry at her, yes, but as much as he might despise her, he could not be that cruel—could he?
“Please!” she screamed, struggling against him. He was an older man, almost as old as her father, but he was strong and he held her easily. “Do not send me away, please. I don’t want to go. I do not want to be a slave!”
“Silence,” her captor urged. “Get on the boat. Lord Rogan will explain everything to you there.”
His words were like an immediate balm. Rogan was coming with her. “Then I am not to be sold into slavery?”
The man chuckled. “Now, my lady, why would the master go through all of that trouble just to send you off somewhere else when he could have hired anyone to do it? Nay, he has plans for you himself.”
Realizing she was not going to be sent into bondage, she calmed, though she did not like the reference to these still unrevealed “plans.” She was led onto the boat and taken below to a small cabin.
“My name is Garven,” the man said to her. “I’ll bring you something to eat when we are at sea.”
“Where are we going?”
“Lord Rogan will tell you,” Garven repeated, and left her.
True to his word, it was not long before Garven brought her a modest meal. Lily devoured it, then sat stiffly on the edge of the narrow bunk, waiting for Rogan.
She was afraid.
Chapter Eleven
Lily reacted instantly to the rattle of the key in the lock of the cabin door. She was on her feet in a flash as Rogan ducked under the low transom and closed the portal behind him, taking care to turn the catch and pocket the key.
The room was too small to accommodate both of them standing, so she was forced to retreat onto the bed. Hating herself for a coward, she skittered backward, seeking the farthest point from his impassive face. The apex of the two walls stopped her and she wedged into the corner. She sat with her legs curled under her, as wary and tense as an animal at bay.
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