Aye, he’d not been cruel to her through the passing weeks, but as of yet he’d still not allowed her to leave her chamber at all. She was a prisoner in this cold, damp, dark room.
“Ye are awake?”
Despite that he had not touched her in weeks, she seemed terrified and barely peeked above the covers. “Aye,” came her soft whisper.
“Another dream?”
“Aye,” she said brokenly.
Rolfe didn’t need an explanation. Lately, she had begun to talk to him and he knew far more than he wished to know. What he knew more than aught was that it was overmuch to hope she could come to love him someday. She could not, for her heart belonged to another. Although it was not yet physically apparent, with each passing week, her babe grew... and with it her love for his father. Lord, would that it were his own child... and Chrestien his ladywife. It would make up for all that he had suffered throughout his life. He would do anything to gain her love, but knew it to be a futile dream.
This beauty, who should have been his, would give her heart but once... and the deed was now done. Her love belonged to FitzStephen, and to him alone. “I’ve brought ye another blanket—ye did say that the chamber was still a mite chilly, did ye not?”
Chrestien nodded in the darkness and Rolfe knew that what he was about to do would be the hardest thing in the world.
But it had to be done.
She had to be given a choice in this matter, for she grew more pallid and melancholy each passing day. Aye, her heart had softened toward him somewhat, but he thought he detected a measure of pity in her eyes as well and he could not bear to acknowledge it.
Vague memories returned to torment him, memories he’d hidden in the darkest recesses of his heart and mind—a dark haired beauty from his youth... Gwynith was his first infatuation and she too had spurned him for his younger brother. Be damned if Aleth didn’t win all... and Rolfe?—not a damned thing!
Gwynith had killed herself rather than remain here with him, hung herself from the rafters with the rope he had bound her with. She had grown to hate him that much after her child had been taken from her. But there had been no help for it... he would never have made a good father to the girl child, when every time he looked at that tiny young thing, he saw only his brother. And why wouldn’t she have looked like his accursed brother, when she’d been planted in her belly by Aleth.
In that instant of remembrance, as though the dam of his emotions had burst with the surfacing of the old memories, a flood of Gwynith’s hateful words bowled him over. I love Aleth—not you! How can any woman love you when you are less than a man should be? You are naught but spittle to be wiped from your brother’s boots... you are spittle... spittle... spittle... to be wiped from your brother’s boots! Even your father despised you!
It was all true.
Gwynith’s words echoed painfully in his mind, until he could take no more and he rose from the chair, shaking his head to dispel the memory. He went to Chrestien’s bed and sat there watching her lovely face for a time. Even though he’d taken her in much the same way he’d seized Gwynith, Chrestien had yet to treat him with the same contempt.
Rolfe’s voice broke with the burden of his overwrought emotions. “Ye are beautiful, Chrestien. FitzStephen is a fortunate man.”
As though stung by his words, she turned her face from him to hide her tears, hiding beneath the covers as the first light of dawn stabbed through the window.
“Ye will love him always, will ye not?”
He watched her nod, but almost imperceptibly.
Nevertheless... she had given her acknowledgment.
“I’d only ask... that in time... ye would come to think of me kindly.” Taking her hand, he squeezed it and whispered, “Can I hope for so much?”
Chrestien’s dark eyes met his black ones squarely.
“My heart will never belong to you,” she told him honestly. “But there was a time when I feared you, Rolfe,” she admitted somberly. “I fear you no longer.”
Those simple words meant more to Rolfe than anything else in his life and he knew for certain he would grant her the means to leave... if it was her wish.
Taking her delicate hand again, he brought it to his lips to bestow his kiss upon it ever so gently. Then, holding it tightly against his chest, he began, “Chrestien, my love, I am so sorry about your sister. I did not intend to cause her death. I meant only to have ye... and I did not concern myself with the cost. Forsooth, if I had the chance to relive it... well, she would be alive today.”
Tears sprung to Chrestien’s eyes at hearing his unexpected confession. “Please, please! I cannot hear this! I cannot bear to hear it!” She would never truly forgive him, and neither could she listen to his apologies. Her sister was gone now. She wanted to go home.
“Aye, ye must! For I’d have ye know it all before I leave this room. I hold myself accountable for her death—for your grief.”
Chrestien covered her ears. “Please! No more!” Anger filled her heart. Because of his need for revenge Adelaine would never again take another breath! She did not want to pity Rolfe; she wanted to loathe him forever more.
Still, he persisted. “I was blinded by my hatred of my brother, but I do not excuse what I have done, nor can I change what I am. Please know ye are the only one I’ve ever loved in this life.”
Chrestien glared at him. You know nothing of love, her mind screamed!
“I only ask that ye think kindly of me... when ye think of me... if ever ye think of me.”
His words confused her. Why would he tell her these things unless he was going to set her free?
Her heart nearly burst with that new thought.
Mayhap he will set you free! a voice inside her screamed, but she remained composed and silent, masking her thoughts.
Rolfe rose from the bed and stood there gazing upon her for a long moment.
He would leave the pitch torch in the wall brace so that she would not fall and break her neck upon the slippery steps.
Opening the door, he walked through and turned, then stood there gazing into the room, not really wanting to close the door behind him. In his heart he knew that when he returned, she would be gone.
When finally he closed the door, after an eternity, he climbed the tower stairs instead of descending to the hall. He would go to the roof to watch her unobserved for the last time.
He’d instructed Gervais to saddle the white horse that was so similar to Chrestien’s and to fill her saddlebags with supplies. Moreover, the gates were left wide open and once she rode through them Gervais, would see to it that she made it safely to Lontaine. He would follow at a distance, cluing her to the right path. It was the right thing to do, though it left him cold. His brain knew it even if his heart did not.
As he climbed the tower stairs, he felt the last warm vestige of his humanity extinguish for eternity… but as a dead man twitches after his death, his feet continued to move of their own accord.
Chrestien did not hear the click of the bolt. She froze as he closed the door and walked away, his footsteps fading as he went.
She felt dizzy with hope.
He’d not locked the door.
But nay?
Could she hope for so much?
She bolted from the bed once he was gone and went to stand by the loathsome door... afeared to try it—afeared the latch would not give when she turned it.
She stood too long, feeling the cold from the door seep into her cheek, listening for some sound that would betray his presence behind it.
Finally, taking a deep breath, she tried the door, and found it unlocked and nearly passed out with joy.
She stared at the torch in the brace outside her door. He’d left it for her. He knew what she would do and he would let her.
Her breath quickened as she snatched the torch into trembling hands and quickly made her way down the narrow steps.
Silent tears stung her eyes as she hurriedly descended the long stairwell, scanning the shadows
apprehensively, like a frightened rabbit afraid to be caught by the hunter’s snare. She was certain Rolfe had left the door unlocked apurpose and terrified that he would change his mind and return.
Could she hate him so much?
It was no more than mere minutes that Rolfe waited upon the battlements before he saw her stealing across the courtyard, her torchlight flickering feebly against the breaking dawn.
His face was numb from clenching his jaw overlong and his tunic was soaked with tears he’d not realized he’d shed. Shutting his lids tightly to stop the tears from flowing, he groaned haplessly.
When the unwanted tears finally ceased, he opened his eyes to spot the approaching riders—an army of them or so it appeared!
Anger, his old companion, took its place in his breast as he watched them ride through his open gates. There was no mistaking the leader: FitzStephen!
From his perch atop the tower roof he saw that Weston had already spotted Chrestien scampering into the stables. And at that moment he knew he could not live the rest of his days knowing she would be in another man’s arms. He knew he gave himself a death warrant by facing Weston alone—all his men, save Gervais, had abandoned him by now—but he could never live this way—knowing he had held her and let her go. He bolted down the stairs, drawing his sword even as he went.
Chrestien was little surprised to find the white horse fully harnessed and ready for travel. The bulging saddlebags confirmed to her that it was by Rolfe’s design she was escaping. Not daring to worry about how she would find her way—desperate only to leave this place—she set the torch into a brace and led the animal to a railing to climb atop it.
Concerned for the babe, she lifted herself carefully over and onto its back, but before she could get completely into the saddle she heard his voice.
“Chrestien?”
The single word was a heartfelt caress as he sent months of worry to her ears.
Slipping back to the railing, Chrestien nearly fell in her haste to see him—for that voice could belong to none other than Weston, she knew.
He had come for her, after all!
Turning to him swiftly, she took two steps and her vision blackened. She fell into the straw at his feet.
“Chrestien!”
Dropping to his knees, Weston drew his wife into his arms, wholly terrified that she was wounded somehow. Lifting her up, he carried her into the morning light of the courtyard. Thank God, her eyes opened, and her immediate smile was full of love, reaching clearly to her beautiful dark eyes.
He froze in his step, loath to speak or move lest she disappear from his arms yet again—loath to break the spell that had brought them together.
Chrestien’s eyes filled with tears.
Swiping at them hastily to see her husband more clearly, her heart fluttered and she could not contain the smile that came to her lips.
He looked up and when suddenly he stiffened and planted her on her feet upon the ground at Aubert’s side, she knew instinctively the reason why...
Rolfe emerged into the courtyard.
She turned to see him making his way toward them and of a sudden, she was afeared to see them do battle. One of them would die, she knew—and she could not bear it if it were Weston.
“Do not fight for me,” she pleaded. “Let it be, for he let me go!”
Weston could not be stopped.
Vengeance had been his shadows since he’d learned who her captor was—and he could not simply let it be.
Rolfe sauntered toward him, grinning wickedly, arrogance in every step he took. He cursed and laughed hideously. “You’ll not listen to that harlot, will you, FitzStephen? You will duel with me because you love the taste of blood more than you do the taste of your wife!”
Fighting the tremendous urge to leap at Rolfe’s throat and silence him forever, Weston stood his ground, but unsheathed his sword. Rolfe had called his wife a harlot, but to lose sight of one’s anger was a deadly sin in the heat of battle and he would not allow himself to give Rolfe that advantage, for Chrestien's sake.
“Aye, I’ve already tried her many favors... as ye must well know,” Rolfe taunted. “She coos like a whore.”
“Lies!” Chrestien shouted and lunged for Weston, but Aubert held her back.
“She tastes like honey, does she not? Sweet and wet and full with passion!”
Weston’s gut burned.
Anger blinded him.
Rolfe’s blade sliced the air in front of him, coming well away from its mark. They were not the actions of one who would win, rather they were clumsy and without aim. He had too many armed men at his back for Rolfe to believe he could walk away from this unharmed.
The man laughed hideously. “The king’s champion—bah! So ye would have all believe, but ye are naught but a common bastard—as I am. Let me try your favors as well, FitzStephen. My cock has grown tired of your mouse of a wife!”
The hair on Weston’s nape bristled.
He could tolerate being called a bastard, because in fact he was one, but to know that Rolfe had used Chrestien for his base needs was his undoing. Rolfe would have died a thousand deaths if Weston could have arranged it, but since the manner of combat was set, each of them wielding broadswords, Weston would settle for wresting the last breath from his vile body—and carving his heart from his ignoble breast.
Neither Weston nor Rolfe wore shields. The battle would be short, for the first to take a substantial blow would fall to the other. At least Weston had the added advantage that he was clad full in armor. Rolfe was not.
For his part, Aubert watched the scene unfold with barely restrained fury.
If Rolfe fell, justice would be done. If Weston fell, he would champion his sister’s honor himself. Should he fail to do so? Then after him, so would each and every man in Weston’s company.
Either way, his sister would go free today, but he prayed Weston would be the victor so Chrestien might know of her husband’s love firsthand, not through secondhand tales. Aubert wasn’t much good with tales. That had been Adelaine’s forte.
The two circled each other, assessing one another’s weaknesses. Rolfe feinted to the left and sliced the air before Weston’s face.
The clang of metal rang as Weston parried, bringing his sword up to deflect Rolfe’s. Weston drew back and Rolfe toppled forward as he lost his balance. On the ground, Rolfe rolled free as Weston lunged after him. Rolfe swung his blade angrily, indiscriminately, but was able to pierce Weston’s cheek with the gilted edge. Encouraged by the blood he’d drawn, he swung high. Weston parried, and seeing an opening, he dipped his point to Rolfe’s belly and slashed his tunic, drawing blood.
Shrieking like a banshee, Rolfe lost control and swung madly, but he dropped his sword as he spied Chrestien’s look of horror.
Could he bear to be without her?
“Nay!” he said aloud, dropping to his knees.
A tightness engulfed his chest, bringing with it unbearable pain and he knew he would die this day. It felt as though his heart would fail him even now! Driven by the pain, he rose from his knees, clutching his chest—his decision made.
Better to die like a man!
Weston’s sword was still extended, but at this point he considered sheathing it.
It went against his code of honor to kill a man so at a disadvantage—and Rolfe was indeed at a disadvantage. He was not given the time to make a decision, however. Of a sudden, Rolfe gave a blood-chilling cry and lunged at Weston’s sword, impaling himself upon it.
Confused, Weston simply stood there, bewildered by what he had witnessed.
Eyes wide with horror, he eased Rolfe to the ground and slid his blood-smeared sword out of Rolfe’s guts. As Rolfe’s body released the sword, a pool of blood gushed upon the ground beneath him, spilling at his feet.
Chrestien stumbled as she ran to Weston, embracing him. At their feet, Rolfe’s voice sounded weak.
“FitzStephen,” he croaked. He coughed and when he did, blood found a new outlet throug
h his mouth. “FitzStephen,” he said again, and his words were barely audible.
Weston turned away in his disgust of the man at his feet.
With some effort, Rolfe lifted himself from the blood-sodden ground and his hand darted out to catch Weston’s leg. “Chrestien is far too noble to be used like a harlot. I released her from my keeping... because I knew she would never give her heart to me... it belongs to ye.”
There was a moment of silence as Rolfe allowed Weston to digest the information. Then he continued, again spewing blood before speaking. “The babe she carries is yours...”
Shock pummeled through him.
Rolfe’s eyes closed then, but his hand still firmly held Weston’s leg. When he opened them again, the shadow of death was nestled within them, his pupils indistinguishable. From the black of his irises.
His next words were said to Chrestien.
“I would have you carry a message...” He gagged suddenly, spewing forth a river of blood. “To my brother... tell him that Gwynith is not lost to him entirely... tell him she bore him a daughter... Terese... He will find the girl at La Trinite. It should delight him to know Gwynith never loved me either.”
He closed his eyes then and did not reopen them and he shuddered suddenly and spewed forth a gurgle through a mouthful of blood.
Chrestien cried out and turned to bury her tear-stricken face into Weston’s mailed chest.
His hand curled about her neck, holding her firmly against him, while his other hand offered her solace, caressing her back.
He could not bring himself to regret Rolfe’s death, but at the moment, he was more than grateful for the admitted confessions. He knew they had not come easily to a man such as Rolfe. But, ah, dear God! Rolfe had said she carried his babe!
Nothing else mattered now.
His voice was hoarse with emotion as he said, “It’s over... he is dead, my love.”
Chrestien nodded, lifting her tear stained face to Weston’s. Her arm flew about his neck and she nuzzled her face into his chest, not caring that his mail chafed her cheek, seeking only the safety of his embrace. She never wanted to let him go.
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