Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Damsel:
The Betrayal of Lady Roslyn
by Lizbeth Dusseau
ISBN 13: 978-1-934349-32-8
ISBN 10: 1-934349-32-1
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2005 Lizbeth Dusseau
All rights reserved
Prologue
Riders from the North
A wide moon danced across the heavens all night long, from the first moonglow in a sunset sky, until morning, when it faded like the fragmented pieces of a tattered cloud. She looked out over the expanse of meadow and woods at dawn, awakened from her sensuous slumber by the deep rumble of something treacherous and earth shattering. She’d been dreaming of lovers, of bold exotic men, with eyes like birds of prey and tender but decisive hands, delicately caressing flushed skin. Men with sinewy chests, bearded faces and pliant lips; men with virile arms that could capture and content a restless female. Alas, Lady Roslyn was a restless female
But with that dream bursting at the seams with passion, she awakened, startled by a prescient fear and ran toward the window facing west. Gazing out toward the approaching clamor, her beauty bloomed while excitement filled her wide expressive eyes. She was a beauty like none other, where auburn tresses shroud white shoulders, and plump lips beg a lover’s kiss. Grabbing her nightdress in her hand, she darted toward the window facing north to get a better view. She moved regally, but with a youthful grace; she was, after all, still young, still an unplucked flower, fragrant and sensuous, the only flower in her father’s garden.
The riders came from the north, on steeds with thundering hoofs, and cries of war screaming on their lips, crashing through an easy dawn with swords drawn and ready to kill. Soon swarming over the lightly guarded embankment, blood flowed in a terrible river of pain. Roslyn heard the crashing sound of the gate, breached by snorting beasts and their raging riders.
She dared not run, although even if she’d tried, her legs would never have carried her. Too weak, too panic-stricken for rational thought or calculated action, she slumped in a corner, clutching her white nightdress and buried her face in her arms. Footsteps on the stone staircase echoed, even as her desperate prayers echoed through the injured walls of her home.
They were in her room. Cringing, she peeked at a pair of muddy knee-high boots. She closed her eyes, shaking like a frightened mouse, while a pair of firm, grasping hands lifted her into the air. She landed over the broad shoulder of some fierce burly fellow—she could smell the sour heat of him, his foul breath. No time to waste, he and his accomplices took the stairs, making a hasty retreat.
Roslyn dared not look as the small brigade swiftly passed through the ransacked castle. Her heart cried out to her parents but the scream caught in her throat.
“Doncha dare take milady!” Tevi’s cry stopped their retreat and Roslyn’s eyes shot open in time to see a rough, bearded warrior backhand the old nurse. She got up swinging in a rage, but was sent to the floor again, this time too wounded to rise again.
“Milady!” The sound of her young maid Celia’s plaintive scream suddenly pierced the air.
“Oh, dear God, please, no, Celia, no!” Roslyn prayed vehemently.
But her lovely maid was too fair a prize not to be snatched from the ruins of the castle. Like her mistress, the doe-eyed girl, with the flaxen hair and rosy cheeks, was stolen away, riding over the shoulder of another stinking brute. Unlike the speechless Roslyn, Celia kicked and flailed and screamed. But to no avail, the barbarian laughed at her misery and took her away, following the tiny band of men into the cloudy morn. Behind them, the battle for the castle waged on.
Roslyn choked as the smoke caught in her throat; her eyes burned. A devilish business this was; a terrible memory this morn would leave clinging to her beleaguered mind, though through her body, through limbs and blood a churning thrill coursed. She bit her lips and clenched her fists and fought back her tears. Just a week before, her old nurse crumpled at her feet, and whispered something nonsensical about the end of the world. Oh, how the woman made her shiver before the saner Roslyn shook her off. Tevi saw things; she had the gift, and she knew then, that her mistress’ simple life would never be the same. Not after this day of mortal terror.
By the end of the day, a vast stretch of ruins was all that remained in that open meadow, where once the castle of Rosyln’s father proudly stood. A lone female, old and decrepit, limped from the ruins, briefly staring back at her past, before she made her way into the wilderness beyond.
Chapter One
The Girl At The Whipping Post
Roslyn and Celia rode for miles inside the arms of their captors. They were given no food; there was no time for rest. Their fleet journey sent them though the dangerous woods, through two streams and across a river. Emerging on open land again, to a landscape shrouded in the golden glow of a late summer’s afternoon, Roslyn spotted a curiously familiar site. Though it had been over a year since her eyes had rested on Draydon castle, she recognized its battlements and the small village at its outskirts.
It was only then that Roslyn’s mind began to function.
“Sir, please, I am not properly attired. Is there something…?” She looked back and upwards at her rough guardian’s face, pleadingly. A guardian now, for he seemed more benign than dangerous.
“Indeed,” the man replied, sounding strangely more civilized than she first imagined him to be. That, too, would suggest that he meant her no harm.
“A cloak for the lady!” he called to one of the marauders behind him.
Minutes later, a dark cloak appeared that Roslyn quickly wrapped about her shivering shoulders, covering her thin nightgown. The thought had hardly registered in her mind that all this had happened while an unknown man had hold of her body in ways too familiar for any man, but perhaps a husband or lover. A twinge of undisclosed thrill made her shudder in places deep inside her body.
By the time their small party reached the village, it was clear that something was stirring in the tiny town. A throng of people had gathered in the square, their shouts and cursing leveled toward someone, at present, hidden from Roslyn’s view. Stomping feet. Canes raised in anger. The Lady’s heart beat with trepidation and thrill. Though she’d not been allowed to see such displays at home, instinct told her what was taking place. A few yards more along the stony road, which was now almost impossible to traverse with all the commotion, they halted on a small rise, which gave them a clear view of the terrifying sight.
Clothed only in a dirty shift, a fair-skinned girl was led toward a whipping post. Her cheeks were flushed; her hair a disheveled cloud of gold around her proud but terrified face. Though she aimed at being haughty, her attendants shoved her toward the post with such force, that she snarled back at them angrily, only to have one cuff her and she fell to the ground as if weightless.
“Good lord, what is happening to this world!” Roslyn exclaimed.
“The girl’s a traitor, they say,” the man behind her volunteered.
Indeed. But still Lady Roslyn would wonder what this traitorous female had done to earn such a ghastly sentence.
“La
sh her to the post!” the cry rang out.
Hauled up the scaffold, the terrified girl was thrust against the tall stanchion, her arms raised above her head and her hands shackled to the post. So positioned, body squirming uncontrollably, she looked like laundry twisting in the wind. A knife cut through the slip of material that clothed her, freeing her back from any impediment to the bare flesh. Aware of her sorry state of attire, she now planted her body firmly against the post to hold what little was left of her shift in place.
How sad she looked, Roslyn thought, as the poor girl tried to maintain a bit of dignity in the midst of this terrible travail.
The first cut of the lash on the girl’s white skin created such a thundering crackle through the evening air that the watching young woman cringed. As if she felt the blow herself, she let out a scream, a small scream. The poor victim’s scream was boisterously loud. What followed was so brutal that Roslyn twice looked away. But something unknown brought her gaze back each time. Such a savage tremor filled her own tender flesh that she was shaking and nearly in tears, while the man behind her held her fast to his chest, as if knowing how she suffered.
“Let’s get along!” he finally called to the others in their party. He dug his heels into his mount’s flank and the horse moved forward toward the castle gate.
The last Roslyn saw of the girl, she clung to the whipping post, tears streaming down her cheeks. The leather lash, so skillfully placed had ripped such a swath across the delicate skin of her back that it appeared to flame like a scarlet flag.
Entering her uncle’s familiar castle, Roslyn could only hope that the day’s awful business could be put to rest at last.
***
A new day dawned in spectacular fashion, cottony clouds marching across a vivid sky. Blue from horizon to horizon—as if this could wash away the horror of that miserable day.
Roslyn gazed out new windows, hoping to be bolstered by the fine morning, but her heart was pained and heavy that it seemed to spill from her breast across the stones. So much now going on in her besieged brain for which she needed answers, Roslyn dressed in haste, donning the clothes her uncle’s servants had laid out for her. Then she rushed from the room, moving quickly toward her uncle’s chambers; seeing the door ajar, her uncle speaking with his advisors, she hurried in.
“Uncle, uncle!” She dropped to her knees and bowed her head in respect. “Oh, uncle, what a horrible fate!” she cried sobbing, even as she kissed his outstretched hand. She looked up, eyes imploring his understanding, needing answers. “Please tell me, sir, what all this means!”
Lord Draydon looked down on her with some compassion.
“Oh, dear girl, my dear Roslyn.” He stroked her auburn hair with a light hand and gazed into the depths of her sad, chestnut eyes. He was a man of some years, older than her father, with a wise face, a proud bearing, holding his head high at all times. A dreadfully proud man, he could be call reserved; his demeanor was cool, though he’d always been so kind to his only niece that she rarely thought of him in this way. “Life gives us so few rewards and takes from us with a swift and bitter hand. But you’re safe now here with me.” He feigned a smile, one as hollow as her own might be—if she were to smile.
“Do you have word of my mother and father?” she went on anxiously.
That strange smile did not fade. “Hum, yes, your mother and father—my dear brother Ledo.” He eyed her wistfully, though his jaw seemed hardened, twitching strangely. “I’m sure you know the truth without my having to spell it out.”
At first, she was puzzled, then as the truth he would not speak of dawned on her, Roslyn fell to sobbing, dropping to the floor in a pitiful heap. Her uncle watched her heaving body for several moments then he motioned to his aide. “The maid that came with her, bring her here now.”
“Yes, sir,” the man bowed and removed himself from the room. Celia was summoned to her Lady, and when she arrived, Roslyn was put in her care. Kindly helping Roslyn to her feet, Celia held her tightly and, in time, the two left the room to mourn together. A long day and night awaited both women as they sought to comprehend the unthinkable.
***
With her grief somewhat abated, Lady Roslyn returned to her Uncle’s chambers days later. Unlike that inconsolable retreat of the previous occasion, she was very much collected now, with her emotions carefully knit into the fabric of her solemn demeanor. With a calm, steady and measured gait, she moved toward her uncle.
“I see you’re much revived now,” he said, looking up from his writing table. He was glad for what he saw.
“Yes, Uncle, I have my wits about me now,” she smiled thinly. “I apologize for my terrible scene. My poor mother would be mortified to know that I could not contain my grief.”
“It is understandable, my dear. You had a horrifying shock.”
She nodded. “I appreciate your kindness, sir. In time, I’m sure we will all move beyond this terrible misfortune. I realize that even now you have much on your mind and I do not wish to be a burden to you. Please be sure that I am here to serve your house as you wish.”
“And so you shall,” he returned. He too was much changed from their previous meeting, the sharpness in his mien restored full measure. The brilliant eye, the keen perception, the intensity that was so common to his character—Roslyn knew it well.
“I do have some questions, sir, if you don’t mind?”
“Oh? I thought that yesterday Sir Stephen apprised you on all the details that we know of the terrible incident.”
“Yes, sir, he did a most admirable job. And he was very kind. However, there is one question on the matter that I thought I would ask you.”
“Please,” he said with a deferential nod.
“How did it happen that your hunting party—it was your hunting party that rescued me and my maid, Celia?”
“Yes, Stephen spoke correctly.”
“How did they happen to be so far from your door; how was it that they happened on my father’s castle at that very hour?”
He responded with a somewhat curious expression, but barely missed a beat in replying: “They were on their way with gifts from me, intended for my brother and his household.” He smiled. “Quite a fortuitous moment, don’t you think? Though I regret that they were not soon enough to save your parents.”
Roslyn stared down sadly at the thought of her dead parents, although she appeared to accept his explanation. “I am sad too.”
“We can be thankful that you were removed from harm’s way, that your maid was spared as well. You must know that these are treacherous times. It would not surprise me to learn that those who so efficiently stuck down your father’s house are on their way here. I have had to double our guards, post sentries at the far outposts. I’ve brought men back to shore up our defenses in case of an attack. I will do my best to guard what’s left of my brother’s house—his lovely daughter,” he nodded officiously, “and protect what we hold dear. I can promise you that much.”
“I appreciate your efforts, sir. You can trust me to hold firm.”
“Yes, you are strong, like your father was strong.”
No, she was not strong like her father was strong, but was weak as a foundling child, Roslyn answered silently. She could repeat her uncle’s words to herself again and again, and still not believe them. But she would try; she would have to try, because she understood that men needed strong women at times like these. Her parents would expect it of her; they raised her to understand the treachery of the world. It would have been so easy to sink into the oblivion of her own romantic thoughts, to walk the gardens, pluck the flowers, sing the songs old Tevi taught her, or, perhaps, maybe… make love to the men she harbored in her dreams. Her body ached beyond its understanding of life for such passionate things.
She ached for something she could not identify and, oddly, what seemed irrevocably tied into the knot of her present quandary were the memories of those strange happenings she’d witnessed in the village on her arrival. Again an
d again, that appalling scene came back to her with such a furious rush of feeling that she had to push it from her thoughts—which proved nearly impossible. For all her attempts to purge her mind of that incident, the picture of the punished girl returned to her feverish thoughts again and again. Oddly enough, she was almost pleased that she could not drive away the image of that screaming, half-clothed victim from her thoughts. Did that make her like the peasants in the square who clamored around the girl, who shouted for the executioner to wound her deeply and make her body bleed? How was that right? How could that be civilized? What did this despicable fascination have to say about her character? Oh, she was not strong; she was weak indeed, in her mind, her emotions and her young, untried body.
Roslyn stood so silently and was so thoughtfully engaged for so long a time that her Uncle grew impatient.
“I should like to speak with you about this more,” he finally broke through her reverie.
His comment made her jerk. “Yes, sir?” She looked directly at him.
“But perhaps not now. I am busy.”
“Oh, of course, sir. I will leave you. I thank you again for your kindness.” She was yet a bit dazed as she turned to go, but was then suddenly compelled to turn back.
“I do have one more question, sir… about the girl in the village, the day of my arrival?”
“Girl? What girl?”
“The little traitor, I believe,” his aide jumped in with the answer and looked directly at Roslyn.
“Yes, sir, that one.”
“What of her?” her uncle asked.
“Was she a traitor?”
“It is believed that she shared secrets with our enemies.”
“So, she was ordered to be beaten?”
“Yes, I ordered it; the treatment is customary for those deserving my condemnation. She’s lucky that she wasn’t hanged. ”
“And what is to become of her now?”
“I am not sure,” her uncle replied.
“I believe, sir, if I may—” the aide spoke again.
Her uncle nodded.
“The girl will be taken to one of our outposts.” He smiled in a vain effort to hold back his salacious thoughts, then continued in deliberate fashion: “She’ll give succor to our troops.” The sibilant sound of the word succor lingered in the air, teasingly.
Damsel Page 1
