Splendor, page 30
Eloise looked up at Rolfe. “He is the one.”
“I am Rolfe de Mont St. Michel,” he announced, his gaze on Catherine, “vassal to Henry, duke of Normandy, count of Anjou. Your daughter was ordered taken by my liege lord, but her injuries lay on my shoulders. I ask that you do not blame Henry for what has happened here.”
William came to his feet. “If your duke were in this very spot, I’d tear his bloody heart out for all the misery he has caused,” he snarled in Rolfe’s face. “But since he isn’t, you are the one who will pay.”
“I accept your edict, sir,” Rolfe said. “You should know I never meant for Catherine to be harmed. Readily, I’d give my own life if it would change what has occurred.”
“And so you will,” William stated.
At that moment, another rider and horse came galloping toward the group. Reining in, Geoffrey d’Avranches leaped down from the animal’s back and strode to where William and Rolfe stood.
“’Tis he, isn’t it? He’s the bastard who caused my son’s death.” With that, Geoffrey spat in Rolfe’s face.
Rolfe stared at the man, sputum dripping from his cheek. The last he’d seen of Miles, the man was groveling on the ground. Surely two punches and a kick hadn’t done the coward mortal injury. But apparently, from what his father said, Miles was dead. Rolfe could muster no remorse.
“I want him, William,” Geoffrey announced. “’Tis my right to take retribution for what he has done.”
“And mine,” William returned.
“Then we shall take the pleasure together.” Geoffrey looked at Rolfe’s guards. “Put him on his horse. We head for Farnham.”
“Nay,” William stated. “We head to my estate. ’Tis closer.”
As Catherine’s father ordered a litter made for her, Rolfe was spun around. There at the edge of the woods stood Brother Bernard and Aubrey, a struggling Garrick trying to break loose from their hold. All their gazes were upon Rolfe.
He shook his head, signaling them not to come nigh. There was no sense in their suffering a like punishment to his. Noting that Garrick gave up his fight, Rolfe was relieved when the knight’s two companions pulled him into the woods. Then Rolfe was shoved toward his horse. Once he was mounted, one of the guards guided the stallion by its reins.
Rolfe watched as Catherine was settled onto the litter. Blessed St. Michael, he thought. Would she ever awaken? As the troop was ready to ride out toward William’s estate, Geoffrey came up beside him.
“You contemptible bastard,” he grated through his teeth. “By what I have planned for you in way of recompense, I suggest you say your prayers. ’Twould be far better if you were to die sooner than later.”
Rolfe kept his gaze on Catherine, who was only a short distance behind him. He imagined Geoffrey’s punishment would be severe. It didn’t matter. As long as she lived, he’d gladly suffer whatever tortures were necessary in exchange.
And if she died?
Death, Rolfe decided, was far and away more preferable than a life without his beloved Catherine.
CHAPTER
21
“IT HAS BEEN TWO DAYS, AND SHE HASN’T AWAKENED.”
“She will. But I caution you when she does come to, you had better keep your tongue between your teeth. If she has any questions, I will answer them.”
From a distance, Catherine heard the voices. The first was Eloise’s; the second, her father’s. She didn’t understand what they’d said. The familiar tones were what had drawn her from the depths of her oblivion. Her eyelids fluttered, and she focused on the two people who stood beside her.
“Father?”
“Oh, merciful Lord!” Eloise declared. “She’s with us again.”
As William turned to his daughter, Eloise crossed herself and voiced a prayer of thanksgiving.
“Catherine,” he said, edging a hip onto the bed. “’Tis good to behold your lovely eyes.”
Open your beautiful eyes for me.
Rolfe’s voice sounded in her head. When had he uttered those words? Or was she just imagining that he had? Her brow furrowed as she stared at her father.
“What’s wrong, Daughter? Are you in pain?”
“No. I simply thought… ’Tis nothing,” she said. She looked around her. “Where am I?”
“At my estate,” William replied.
Though nothing was familiar, she asked, “At Mortain?”
“No, Catherine. We’re in England.”
The grogginess instantly left her. Everything came flooding back. Under the covers, her hand immediately sought her belly. Feeling the slight roundness, she was relieved.
“How did you ever find me?” she questioned. “And Miles—where is he?”
“’Tis not important,” William said. “All in good time, you’ll be told everything. Right now you should rest.” He took the cup that Eloise placed before him. “Here. ’Tis something to help you sleep.”
She pushed lightly at the cup. “I don’t want to sleep.”
“Don’t argue, Daughter. Now drink.”
Lifting her head, her father set the cup to her lips; Catherine swallowed. As she lay back on the pillow, she spied the ruby-eyed dragon’s head peeking from her father’s belt.
“My bracelet.” She slipped it from the leather band at William’s waist and placed it on her arm.
“Where did you get that treasure, Catherine?” her father asked. “’Tis worth a small fortune.”
She yawned. The herbs were making her sleepy. “From Rolfe. ’Tis a remembrance of the time we shared together.”
“Was he kind to you?”
“Aye.”
“You’re certain he didn’t harm you in any way?”
“Nay. He saved me from the wolves and the rats. Eloise will tell you.”
William looked at Catherine’s nurse; she nodded. “He always treated her well,” Eloise confirmed.
“He was right,” Catherine mumbled, the herbs taking her closer to sleep.
“Who?” William asked.
“Rolfe. He said Miles was a coward. And that he is. I don’t want to marry him. Not anymore.”
William frowned. “Why do you say Miles is a coward?”
“He pushed me from the horse and rode away. ’Twas terrible. Everyone was fighting around me, and I couldn’t get out of the fray. Sir Balder saved me, but then he was killed … fell on me.”
As Catherine spoke, her words became more slurred. “Hush, Daughter. We’ll talk of it later.”
“I should never have doubted him,” she whispered. “I’m glad he didn’t follow, else my golden warrior may have come to harm.”
Catherine didn’t see the look that passed between her father and her nurse. Allowing Eloise’s potion to claim her, she drifted off to sleep, believing Rolfe was safe.
Deep in the dungeon of William de Mortain’s fortified keep, Rolfe drew a jagged breath. Needles of fire pricked along his arms as he dangled above a yawning black pit that no doubt led straight to the bowels of hell. His wrists were raw and bleeding from the rope that bound them. His lips were cracked, his throat parched; one eye was swollen shut from the hard blow Geoffrey d’Avranches had delivered.
From his good eye, Rolfe watched the iron that lay in the glowing coals. Geoffrey plucked the instrument of torture from its bed. He spat on the tip, then laughed when it sizzled.
The man was demented, Rolfe thought, then stiffened as Geoffrey swung the iron toward him. He jerked as the fiery tip seared his belly. Too weak to cry out, he endured the pain. Sweat poured from his brow as the putrid smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Would this agony ever end?
Rolfe went limp when the iron left him. As always, he thought of Catherine. Memories of her were his only comfort.
When times were their darkest or most painful, such as now, he envisioned their days and nights together. He heard her soft laughter, saw the look of passion in her ever-changing eyes, felt her lips as they traveled his body when they made love. It was those memories that gave him the impetus to survive.
But why?
He didn’t even know if Catherine were alive.
More often than not, he thought it would be best if he simply surrendered to the ever-lasting sleep; then the suffering would surely end. But the one hope that she still lived always prompted him to withstand the torture and the agony he was made to bear. Just to see her one more time, to know she was well—that’s all he asked. Then he’d allow death its due.
The white-hot iron struck again, this time against his shoulder. His head pulling back, Rolfe gritted his teeth. He heard the hiss of searing flesh, smelled the rank odor, then felt the pain. His nude body was immediately slammed by a bucket’s worth of frigid water. Chills ran the length of Rolfe’s spine.
Geoffrey laughed uproariously. “’Tis only the beginning, Rolfe de Mont St. Michel. Just wait until tomorrow.” He turned to the guards. “Bring him down and tie him to his cot. We don’t want him to die too quick.”
The wooden arm that suspended Rolfe over the pit was cranked to one side. The chain was unhooked, and he fell into the dirt. His hands yet bound, he was lifted by each arm and dragged to his bed, then tied hand and foot to the rails.
“Sleep well,” Geoffrey said, grabbing the torch. “Tomorrow I think we’ll try the rack.”
All went black when Geoffrey stepped through the door. Rolfe heard the lock click. As he lay in the dark, shivering, the dampness of the dungeon piercing to his bones, he let his mind drift into the past and to the one thing that eased him …
Catherine.
He was dead.
Catherine couldn’t believe it was possible.
Rolfe, her golden warrior, was dead.
“I cannot accept what you say is true,” she said, springing from her chair.
Gripping her hands together, Catherine began to pace. It had been two days since she’d first awakened, almost the same number in which she’d lived with the certainty Rolfe was safe at Cartbridge. The confidence held until only a few hours before, when she’d snapped from her daze to stare at Eloise.
Whether it had been the herbs, which had kept her in a constant fog, or if it was simply that she was always so accustomed to having her nurse around, Catherine couldn’t say. But when the realization struck, it nearly knocked her from her feet. If Eloise were here, then Rolfe had to have followed. Catherine’s questions tumbled forth. What she was told, she couldn’t countenance.
“And neither will I accept that he killed Miles,” she announced, “though God knows, if anyone had the right to slay him it was Rolfe.”
“Catherine—”
“’Tis not so.” Her words cut over William’s. “But if he did kill him, the coward deserved no less. I would have slain him myself had I the chance.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” William barked.
“Don’t I? The last I saw of my beloved betrothed, he was running from the battle as fast as his horse could carry him, leaving me to fend for myself. That he died is a favor granted me from the saints. I won’t have to marry the bastard. I’d not do so even if he were still alive.” She turned on her father. “I want to see Rolfe’s body.”
“’Tis buried,” William responded. “They are both buried.”
She gaped at him. “I don’t believe you. I’d know if Rolfe were dead.”
“Daughter, ’tis as I told you. We found him on the battlefield, not far from Sir Balder. Eloise identified him. Why are you working yourself into such a frenzy over this man? Tell me.”
Catherine ignored William’s command. She began to pace anew. “Why is Geoffrey here?” she countered.
“He is too distraught to travel. I have invited him to stay until he feels up to removing himself to Farnham.”
Not trusting the man one whit, Catherine said, “I’d prefer he left now.”
“Daughter, you’re being unreasonable. Crass as well. Your betrothed lies in a freshly made grave, and you’re going on and on about this scoundrel who abducted you as though you hold feeling for him. Is that it? Do you fancy yourself in love with him?”
Aye, I love him.
Catherine wanted to shout those words, but she held them inside. She had no intention of explaining what she felt for Rolfe to anyone. Not at present. “He was good to me.”
“Then you are drawn to him,” William said, nodding. “’Tis not uncommon, Catherine, for a young woman in your situation, who has depended solely on one man for all her needs, to think she owes him her undying gratitude. He’s wiled you. Have you forgotten he stole you from your betrothed, from me? Took you on a treacherous journey across sea and land? Placed you in danger at every turn? Pursued you from Cartbridge, whereupon you were thrust into a battle which nearly claimed your life? The man is a mercenary. The only reason he followed you is to make certain he collects his fee from Henry.”
She again gaped at her father. “You keep speaking about him as though he were alive. Is he here? Is he your prisoner? Tell me.”
“He’s in his grave,” William stated, then rose from his chair. “Now I’ll have no more of this talk about Rolfe de Mont St. Michel. The hour is late, and ’tis time you took yourself to bed.” He walked to the door, then turned. “Forget about him, Catherine, for you’ll never see him again. Good night to you.”
Long after the door had closed, Catherine continued to gaze at the panel. Something was decidedly amiss. She didn’t want to believe her father had lied to her, especially when he’d never done so before, but she was beginning to think that was the case.
Then again, maybe she was mistaken. Perhaps she wanted so much for Rolfe to be alive, she refused to grasp the truth when handed to her.
Tears brimming in her eyes, Catherine glanced at her bed. Bruised, battered, and aching, she was still weak from her ordeal. Now this new blow, which pummeled her emotions and tore at her heart, had drained her completely.
Disrobing down to her chemise, which, along with her tunic and chainse, Eloise had sewn for her, Catherine climbed into bed. Having left the candle burning, she stared at its flame. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t be.
Every memory she had of him filled her head. Virile, strong, handsome, he was far too vital to be gone.
Her tears streamed her cheeks, for the blame was hers to bear. Had she never fled Cartbridge, he’d yet be safe. And he’d be holding her in his arms once more.
Her sobs broke forth, and Catherine buried her face in her pillow, the same entreaty playing again and again in her mind.
Please, please, don’t let it be true.
Far below where Catherine lay crying, Rolfe sat huddled on the dirt floor in the dark. He was filthy and smelled of sweat. Raw, open wounds festered all over his body. He was cold and hungry. Atop that, having pulled through the agonies of the rack, the instrument caked with years of dust from little or no use, he ached unmercifully. He was amazed his joints hadn’t separated, especially at his shoulder.
But Geoffrey’s torture was calculated.
The same as the man gave Rolfe just enough water to make certain he survived, Geoffrey inflicted the needed amount of pain to ensure that his victim lived to suffer for another day. Rolfe’s death was meant to be slow, arduous. Geoffrey took great pleasure in seeing that it would be.
Rolfe heard the lock turn. Light poured into the dank room as the door opened. He squinted against this new sort of pain. Then he heard Geoffrey’s voice.
“Hang him over the pit.”
The guards came toward Rolfe and, catching him by the arms, dragged him to the center of the dungeon. The winch sounded, the chain was hooked to the rope binding his wrists, then his arms were pulled above his head. He was cranked slowly upward, then swung over the pit. He swayed when the wooden beam stopped.
Rolfe wondered why the rope securing his hands didn’t just simply unwind, sending him to his death. With his luck, the hole had no bottom, and he’d fall through space for eternity. He’d only exchange one form of torture for another.
Torch in hand, Geoffrey stepped forward and drew his sword. Its tip skimmed lightly across Rolfe’s groin. “You’ll hang here the night through. If you live, tomorrow I think I’ll geld you.”
Nausea filled Rolfe as the cold steel grazed against his testicles. Mother of God. End it now. His prayer went unanswered.
Laughter trailing him from the room, Geoffrey slammed the door, leaving Rolfe to hang in the darkness.
Time passed endlessly, and he drifted in and out of consciousness. How much longer could he go on?
The words formed in his mind. He shouted them in silence.
Catherine, come to me, my love, so I may at last die.
She awakened with a start.
Rolfe?
She’d heard his voice.
Come to me, my love …
Was it a dream?
No. She actually heard him.
Tossing back the covers, Catherine scrambled from her bed and drew on her chainse. The candle yet burned on the table. Taking up its holder, she headed for the door.
Down the stairs she went, to the hall, then to the first floor. It was as though she were attached to a string and being drawn along a prescribed course. But where did it lead? And was Rolfe truly at the end of this route?
Catherine found herself facing a door. Her hand shook as she unlatched it. She prayed it didn’t lead where she thought.
Pushing the panel inward, she stared at the winding stairs that descended even lower inside the keep. Perspiration dotted her upper lip; she began to tremble. Then the words floated through her mind once more: Come to me, my love.
She drew a deep breath and steadied herself, then passed through the opening. Eyes keenly watching every step, she circled down to the cellars. Once on level ground, she held the candle high, searching each corner for the ugly little creatures she so despised. It was then she spied another door.
Compelled to see what was beyond the panel, she rushed toward it. The hinges moaned as she pushed against the wood. On the other side lay another set of stairs.
Thrusting the candle into the black well, she gazed at the steps. Footprints showed in the dust that had settled on the stone treads. The patterns were recent. Someone had traveled this way, no doubt just hours before.
