A Lamentation of Swans

by Desiree Acuna

  She was not certain whether her reluctance displeased him and that was what had led him to become more and more ill-tempered with her, or if his ill temper was what had caused her to become more and more reluctant to lie with him. It didn’t seem to matter. She could not please him no matter what she did. If she defied him when he was in a temper, he beat her and if she cowered from him, he beat her worse. Even when she had finally found herself with child after nigh a year with him, he had only been temporarily appeased and when he’d lost his temper and beat her so badly she had lost the child he had been furious with her, blamed her for provoking him, blamed her for being so poor a breeder that she could not even carry his son to term.

  She had not even fully recovered from that loss when she found herself breeding again, except that she had hardly realized she was pregnant before she miscarried the second. When the third child fared no better, Rolphe had come to realize that he would breed no heirs on her. He’d turned his thoughts then to ridding himself of a useless wife so that he could search for one capable of producing an heir.

  She had been hopeful, at first, when her father had finally recognized her plight and seemed inclined to help her, but it had taken no more than a single, tearful, conversation with her father to realize that the power struggle was between her husband and her father. Her life and continued good health was incidental and it would do her no good to flee to her father for help. He would bluster and threaten, and then he would send her back to her husband.

  She had almost been tempted to take the poison when her nurse had discovered it, as it had seemed the only way to escape the living hell she had found herself caught up in, but Rolphe had not managed to completely cow her. There still lingered a spark of defiance and she had rebelled against giving him what he wanted—his freedom to marry again.

  Alive, she continued to pose a threat to him. So long as any lived who knew her, he could not marry again for fear that she would surface and befoul his plans.

  It was revenge of a sort, the only revenge she was allowed, but a dangerous one, for she knew that he would not hesitate to strike her down if he should find her now that she was completely without protection and traveling under an assumed identity.

  “It is dangerous to lose yourself so completely in your thoughts that you do not hear the approach of another.”

  Roslyn jumped and whirled at the sound of the deep voice so close behind her, her heart jerking to a painful halt. The wind plucked her hood from her suddenly nerveless fingers, snatching her hair loose and whipping it around her face. With shaking fingers, she gathered the strands blocking her vision, but relief did not come when she saw the dark visage of Lord Roland. Instead, her stomach tightened and then went weightless, as if she’d just leapt from the castle walls. She bobbed a nervous curtsey. “My apologies, my lord. The wind …. I did not hear you.”

  He moved to stand beside her, leaning against the battlements as he studied her. “The wind is blustery today, but it was your thoughts that claimed your attention, I’ll wager … and not terribly pleasant ones, from what I discerned from your expression.”

  She glanced around self-consciously. “I should not be here.”

  He caught her arm when she would have brushed past him and hurried away. She glanced down at the large hand clamped around her upper arm and then up at his face. His eyes were narrowed now, but she didn’t nurse the hope that it was to shield them from the wind’s chill. “You have lost your taste so quickly for the view from the battlements? Strange when I have watched you here for nigh an hour.”

  Roslyn swallowed with an effort, forced a tremulous smile. It only made her more uneasy to know that he had been watching her so long. “Small wonder I find myself chilled. The sun has set and I must go if I am expected to perform tonight.”

  She reddened the moment the words were out of her mouth, fearful that he would put a different interpretation on the comment than what she’d intended.

  He seemed to. Instead of releasing her, he pulled her closer, until she could feel the heat of his body thawing the chill from her own. His hand, as he lightly brushed it along her cold cheek, felt like a hot coal. “You do not have the look of a serf.”

  Roslyn blinked, disconcerted by the turn of the conversation and ill prepared for verbal sword play. “I am a free woman,” she said before she thought better of it.

  His brows rose. “A merchant’s daughter, mayhap?”

  She hesitated, but it was as good an answer as any. “Aye.”

  “And yet you had to think it over.”

  She couldn’t contain the blush that rose to her cheeks. “I was only surprised that you guessed it so quickly,” she lied.

  He let that pass although she could see he did not believe it. “How is it, I wonder, that the daughter of a merchant finds herself traveling with a group of players?”

  Roslyn bit her lip, realizing her mistake. She should have simply stuck with the story she’d invented to tell the troupe. “He died … and my husband, as well, and I was forced to find a means of supporting myself.”

  His dark brows collided at the bridge of his nose and she had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t pleased to hear that she was a widow. His next comment seemed to confirm it. “And so, despite your air of innocence, the fruit has been plucked.”

  A twinge of resentment surfaced that she had not the protection of her true station to prevent such an impertinent question. “Well plucked,” she said tightly. “I was wed for nigh three years.”

  He seemed less pleased, if possible, with that answer. “That being the case, one wonders why you did not find a less hazardous means of support.”

  Roslyn could not prevent the distaste that curled her lips, but she felt it would be a mistake to air her true feelings on the matter. “I should have become some wealthy man’s layman, you mean? I confess I had no taste for it, for my heart is in the grave.”

  His face tightened with anger. He loosened his hold on her, flicking a gaze along her length. “It is not your heart that … men desire.”

  She had the feeling when he hesitated that he had meant to say something else entirely, but no wish to delve into it. “I should go, my lord, if I am to entertain your guests.”

  To her relief, he released her. Bobbing a curtsey, she made good her escape, hurrying along the walk and down the stairs. Braun was virtually dancing with anxiety when she reached the great hall where everyone had gathered to sup and finally found her way to her group. “Where have you been?” he snarled.

  “Talking with Lord Roland,” Roslyn returned tartly.

  It took the wind out of his sails. He blinked at her several times, and she could see the cogs turning in his mind. “He must not have been too displeased with you then,” he said finally.

  He was fishing, but she wasn’t about to either correct his misinterpretation or agree with it. Instead, she shrugged, took the bread and cheese Gilly handed her and concentrated on chewing her dry food carefully lest she choke. She saw, when she finally nerved herself to glance toward the high table, that Lord Roland had joined his family. Her food settled in the pit of her stomach like a stone.

  Why was he so curious about her, she wondered? And how was it that he seemed to have noticed that she was not low born when no one else had in all the time and all the places she had wandered with the troupe?

  She could not help but fear his interest was dangerous to her continued well being. Perhaps he knew Rolphe? Perhaps he had heard something that had led him to believe that Rolphe’s wife was not dead as he claimed?

  She shook the thoughts off, trying to convince herself that she was frightening herself needlessly. He would have asked her more specific questions, she was almost certain, if he had indeed suspected who she was.

  The ‘almost’ continued to plague her, however, and she was a mass of nerves by the time she was called upon to perform. Almost against her will, she found her gaze straying to the high table as she surreptitiously examined the nobles seated there.
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br />   Surprise flickered through her when she actually looked at Lord Phillip’s bride for the first time. She looked to be well past her twentieth year and she was quite plain. Perhaps Lord Phillip had chosen her because she was a proven breeder? Or, perhaps, it was her dowry that he had found irresistible? She could not fool herself into believing his attentiveness to his bride stemmed from either respect or affection, for his expression was not at all doting.

  Pity welled inside her, but then it occurred to her that it might, perhaps, be unwarranted. She had felt the sting of her father’s hand more than once, but he was not at all like Rolphe. Mayhap Lord Phillip was not as ill tempered either and would be kind to his bride?

  Or would he?

  Lord Roland’s bride had died, according to tales the villagers told, under suspicious circumstances. Mayhap, despite the fact that they seemed far more gentlemanly, the brothers Montague were actually as brutish as Rolphe?

  Her gaze flickered to Lord Roland at that thought and she discovered, much to her discomfort, that he was watching her. She looked away at once, but she couldn’t help but worry what he might have read of her thoughts in her expression.

  It was not her place to judge and certainly not to condemn … or even to feel pity for someone above her station. Lady Montague did not seem greatly disturbed by her situation. She seemed somewhat nervous, but then any bride had reason to be all things considered. In any event, she was far too old for this to be her first marriage. Most likely she was a young widow and heavily dowried, which should insure her good treatment, whatever Lord Phillip might feel about her.

  She felt uncomfortable, however, about the love ballad she was to sing, and glanced at Lon to see what he thought about the matter. He seemed almost to shrug as he began to pick at his lute to test the tune, as if his thoughts had followed a similar path. He looked up at her as he began to sing and, with relief, Roslyn focused on her role.

  It was a beautiful song, and pulled at some desperate yearning deep inside of her to find even a taste of what the lovers of the song had felt for one another, for they had loved each other so deeply that when they were torn apart by war they had found that neither could live without the other.

  When they had finished their song, there was absolute silence in the hall for the space of several moments. Abruptly, as if embarrassed that they had been moved by anything so sentimental, everyone began to speak and laugh very loudly. Bowing, Roslyn withdrew with relief to wait until it came her time to dance.

  The future Lady Montague excused herself and left with her ladies when the juggling and tumbling began. Roslyn was relieved. She had been too agitated the night before to consider it, wasn’t certain if the lady had even been present the night before, but she didn’t think that Lord Phillip’s bride would have been pleased with the dance she and Gilly were to perform.

  Halfway through Will and Peter’s performance, someone grasped Roslyn’s upper arm. She jumped, glancing up quickly to see who had accosted her. Her heart fluttered uncomfortably when she saw it was Lord Roland’s steward.

  “Lord Roland has sent me to escort you to his chambers.”

  Roslyn gaped at him for a moment before she glanced at the high table. Lord Roland still sat where she’d last seen him. She frowned. “After my dance?”

  “Now.”

  “But ….”

  “Are ye daft?” Braun growled near her ear. “We are here at his lordship’s pleasure. Go.”

  She didn’t argue further, but it was with a mixture of feelings that she allowed the steward to lead her from the hall. Embarrassment was a part of it, for she felt the interested gazes of all those they passed, heard the whispers that followed in her wake. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she didn’t need to. They were speculating on Lord Roland’s particular interest in her.

  Was that it, she wondered suddenly? Had Lord Roland chosen her to try to squelch the hated rumors circulating about him? But why her? And why now?

  Or had she placed too much faith in the prattling of low born folk who could know nothing about the life of a member of the aristocracy?

  She had been pacing before the hearth for some minutes before the door of Lord Roland’s chambers opened. Jerking to a halt, she curtsied low.

  “Impatient?”

  Roslyn’s head jerked up as if she was no more than a puppet and it was he who controlled the strings. There was amusement in his cool eyes and a faint smile upon his hard mouth.

  “My lord?”

  He stopped when he reached her, pulling the veil from her face. “You were pacing.”

  She need only say ‘yes’ and lower her eyes coyly and he would be pleased to think he had been right. She could not bring herself to utter the lie.

  “I thought not,” he murmured. “What then?”

  Roslyn swallowed, rattled that he stood so near her she could feel the heat of his great body, could almost imagine she felt the brush of him against her with each breath. “I was … to entertain your guests,” she managed to say finally.

  One black brow rose, the other descended as he studied her coolly. “You are here to do my bidding—whatever that should be.”