IN HER NEW ABODE at Everswell, Rosamund, standing on a stool, tied the last bunch of herbs to the rafters of the kitchen. The heady scents of mint, rosemary, and basil, which she had brought with her from Godstow, mingled with the aroma of lavender strewn amidst the rushes covering the clay floor. Carefully descending from the stool, she surveyed her new domain: iron cooking pots on the trivet, a cauldron of stew bubbling over a slow fire on the hearth next to the small bake oven, the long table of polished oak that graced one wall. She had arrived only four days earlier and was still adjusting to the sudden change in her circumstances.
On that March morning, filled with driving rain and brisk winds, a grim-faced Henry had picked her up outside the abbey gates, put her in a covered litter, and taken her straightaway to Everswell. In truth, her sudden and unexpected departure from Godstow had been almost exactly how she had left Woodstock the previous April. At that time, she had been pleased to return to the abbey, but—though none there dared openly chastise her lest King Henry come to hear of it and withdraw the benefices he regularly bestowed on Godstow—it was clear that the community of nuns viewed her as an unredeemed Magdalen. Nor could she blame them. A king’s leman was a far cry indeed from a potential bride of Christ.
Still, despite the sisters’ disapproval, Rosamund was grateful to have been given the opportunity to spend almost a year at the abbey. Much of her time had been occupied in aiding the infirmaress—who cared for the ill—and in helping tend wounded or sick animals on the home farm. As a result, her knowledge of herbs and healing potions had greatly increased.
One particular incident stood out in her mind. A local shepherd had brought his thirteen-year-old-daughter to the abbey claiming she was the victim of a rape. The girl had been in a trancelike state, barely conscious at first then voiding the contents of her stomach and complaining of a heavy head and giddiness. The sickeningly sweet odor emitted by her body seemed vaguely familiar to Rosamund, although she could not recall ever having smelled it before. She had asked the infirmaress what it was.
“Loveapple, or Devil’s apple some call it,” said the infirmaress in disgust, signing herself. “A yellow plumlike fruit that is part of the mandrake root family. Too much can be fatal.” She listened to the girl’s heartbeat and examined her eyes. “Leaves, fruit, or stem are often used as a love potion by unscrupulous lads and men to violate an unsuspecting maid—for mixed with mead its bitter taste is undetectable. It renders the girl helpless and unresisting. Sometimes she may not even recall exactly what happened.”
The infirmaress had dosed the girl with a concoction of barberry to purge her system completely, then tended to the wounds inflicted by her violation. Later, for reasons she did not entirely understand, Rosamund had lit a candle to the Holy Mother in thanks for allowing her to escape Bredelais.
So on this day, after four straight days of downpour, the rain had stopped and Rosamund looked forward to exploring the grounds. She loved the house, as she had told Henry. True, the place was small, at least compared to Bredelais and Woodstock, but having lived in a cell at Godstow it now seemed unusually spacious. Surrounded by a dense wood, the house, shed, and small stable were set in a lonely clearing cunningly hidden from prying eyes at Woodstock castle. Unless one knew where to look, there was little evidence that the residence existed. Rebuilt of wood and stone on the original foundation, the reconstructed house contained a hall, part of which also served as a kitchen. This narrowed into a passageway ending in a flight of stairs that led to a bower where Rosamund and Hildi, a young serving girl Henry had hired from the village, slept.
The bower was furnished with a large double bed whose frame was laced with ropes to support a feather mattress, linen sheets, and fur coverlets, with a pallet stored underneath. Bright-green hangings surrounded the bed and could be pulled back during the day when the bed provided a comfortable seat. There were poles protruding from the wall for clothes, a wooden stand containing a silver ewer filled with water, a tapestry frame, and an oak chest to store Rosamund’s few belongings. The clothes she had brought with her from Bredelais would soon be replaced, as a sewing woman from the village was in the process of making her new kirtles and gowns, a fur-lined cloak, and wool stockings. A shoemaker in Oxford had already fitted her for two pairs of new leather shoes. Rosamund, who could not remember a time when she had not worn her sisters’ castoffs, or plain convent attire, was excited at the prospect of having everything new and made to her own taste.
She pulled the hood of her blue cloak over her head and opened the door. Outside, although the weather had cleared, the wind was still blowing a near gale, strewing fleecy clouds across a gray-blue sky. The large garden, she noted, was filled with fruit trees that gave promise of apples and pears in the summer. There was a stone well, fed by a brook that wound through the forest, and a cluster of brown hens pecking the earth for food.
As soon as the weather warmed she intended to plant flowers, vegetables, and her own herbs: mustard, parsley, sage, hyssop, and borage. Also poppy, if she could find the seeds. Rosamund walked through the gate in the stone wall that surrounded the house and entered the clearing itself, soft cushions of wet moss springy under her feet. Amid the untidy profusion of shrubs and brambles, her practiced eye recognized primrose, foxglove, wild cherry, harebell, and milkwort growing wild. A rustling sounded in the air; glancing up, she caught sight of a blue-black raven disappearing into the forest. To her right a path led into the woods and she followed it. There, where sunlight could not reach, she was surrounded by thick gorse bushes, deep-green ivy, and alder and hazel trees. From Gwennyth, she had learned that hazel was sacred to the ancient folk who had used it to kindle the Beltane fires. She broke off a small branch dotted with tiny green shoots.
Hoof beats pounding through the woods startled her. Rosamund stepped from the path and drew back into the shadow of the trees. A few moments later Henry trotted by her on his black stallion. She ran after him, then watched him ride into the clearing, jump the stone wall, and rein the horse to a sudden stop.
“Sweeting!” He slid from the saddle. “Where are you, my Rose of the World?”
When she walked through the gate he lifted her up in his arms and, rather awkwardly, whirled her around.
“God’s eyes but you look a vision today. Is it my imagination or have you grown an inch? What happens if you become taller than I, too big to lift?” He set her down, his arms still encircling her waist.
“I will lift you,” she said, laughing.
“Not very reassuring to male pride.” Henry gave a mock shudder. “You’re looking very pleased with yourself, my thornless rose, why is that?” He kissed her lingeringly on the lips then let her go.
“I was looking over the grounds.” She clapped her hands. “Oh Henry, I cannot thank you enough, again. All this”—she made a sweeping gesture that included the house, garden, and clearing—“is so lovely. I cannot wait for the weather to warm so I can begin planting.”
“Good God, why? You can get all you need from Woodstock.”
“I want to grow herbs myself. For cooking, of course, but also for curing ailments. The clearing is filled with harebell, which will ease sore eyes; wild cherry, which soothes an inflamed throat; and sacred ivy, whose berries will cure fever.”
“Sacred ivy?” Henry raised his brows. “Sacred to whom?”
“To Saturn.”
“To Saturn?” His voice was filled with a mixture of amusement and incredulity.
“Yes. That merry old king whose reign comes to an end at the winter solstice. I also saw foxglove, which is good for the heart, and primrose for wounds. With vinegar, honey, herbs, and wild plants I can make many ointments and healing potions.”
“I don’t think I have ever seen you look so excited.”
“There is no way I can repay you for your kindness.”
Henry regarded her with a steady gaze. “I do nothing out of pure kindness, Rosamund. It pleases me to please you, but I do expect something in return.”
Rosamund felt her cheeks burn. “At Bredelais I could heal both men and beasts,” she said quickly, ignoring his comment. “My old nurse, Gwennyth, taught me many useful things, and of course I learned a lot from the infirmaress at Godstow. A lay sister came to the abbey who had visited the Abbess Hildegard at Bingen on the Rhine and she taught us many things to use for healing. Galingale is an herb I do not have, and—” She could hear her voice babbling on like a halfwit’s.
“I will tell the steward at Woodstock to send over whatever you need. But who will you heal?”
Rosamund was so used to being needed by family, beasts, and serfs at Bredelais, ailing nuns and animals at Godstow, that the question had not occurred to her.
“Oh. Well, there must be those at Woodstock and in the village who would be glad of my help.”
“Limit yourself to Woodstock. The horses and hounds are frequently in need of help. The village folk, well, being my leman is one thing, but one never knows what they may make of you if you try to cure them. We don’t want anyone thinking you are a witch or enchantress, do we? And I advise you never to go into the village alone. Just to be on the safe side. Not yet.” Henry took her chin in his hand and tilted it up. “You are avoiding the subject, as always. Sooner or later it must be dealt with.”
“Yes.” Rosamund felt her heart turn to lead, as it always did whenever the subject of her . . . inability arose.
She had still not been able to bed Henry. Every time he tried to enter her she would go into a convulsive fit, scream with terror, and break out in a cold sweat. She could not help these feelings, nor did she know how to remedy them. It had happened twice in the last four days and she could tell that he was losing patience. Nor could she blame him. Her willingness and trust, he said, was very important; otherwise he would feel it was rape.
“What would you say if I told you that I may have found a solution for our dilemma?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “A solution?”
Henry let go of her chin, strolled about the bare garden, and perched on the stone wall. “I attended Prime at Oxford Church this morning and after the service I discussed the matter with a visiting canon from St. Paul’s in London. Something of a scholar, he made a suggestion that normally I would have refused, but under these circumstances seemed worth considering.”
Rosamund was surprised that Henry would have openly consulted an ecclesiastic on so delicate a problem, considering all the trouble he was having with Holy Church.
“You look very disapproving, my dear.”
“Country folk are not of a mind to disclose their secrets to priests except under the seal of the confessional. They do not trust the Church overmuch.” She walked up to the stallion, Beaumont, who was nosing the damp ground, and stroked the soft black neck. The horse whinnied and nuzzled her.
Henry lifted up his head to a thin ray of sunlight peering through charcoal clouds. “Country folk are also apt to be highly superstitious, and in backward areas like Bredelais—” He spread his hands. “Saint Augustine came to England at the end of the sixth century, but conversion is a long process, isn’t it? There are many, even here in Oxfordshire, who have been practicing Christianity for only four or five generations. Even less.”
Rosamund saw that Henry did not understand and she did not know how to explain. “What is it this canon would do?”
“Nothing himself. But he thinks it possible you may be possessed of a demon and suggested I send for an exorcist from St. Paul’s.”
Rosamund’s body went rigid with shock. An exorcist? Was he mad?
“Before you say anything, poppet, I want you to know that I approach the whole concept of diabolical possession, name magic, and words of power with some degree of caution, even though it is affirmed by scripture.” When she did not reply, he continued, “Now you look skeptical.”
“Well, when I was at Godstow there was an exorcism done.” It began to rain again, a slow drizzle.
“Tell me inside. I grow cold.” Henry led the way back to the house. “And thirsty.” He suddenly stopped and pointed to the sky. “Look. A rainbow.”
Through the rain, Rosamund saw a faint arc of mingled blue, orange, green, and yellow shimmer across the sky. “It is the soul-bridge over which the dead pass. If their lives have been good their passage will be safe. But if they led evil lives they will be consumed in raging fire.”
Henry laughed. “What old wives’ tale is this?”
“Gwennyth told me of it.”
“Ah! The redoubtable Gwennyth again. It seems to me she had a powerful influence over you.”
Rosamund did not reply but put the hazel branch under her cloak. In the kitchen, fragrant with the smell of the herbs and the stew, Henry slipped off his brown cloak and seated himself on a wooden bench. Rosamund laid the branch on the table, her cloak over it, then poured brown ale from a pitcher into a wooden cup. Henry took a deep swallow, his gaze taking in everything on the table: mortar and pestle, cheese molds, bone-handled knives, and her freshly baked loaf of wheaten bread, which gave off a faint scent of ginger and nutmeg. He pointed to a large wooden bowl of Pace eggs.
“God’s eyes, so many eggs,” said Henry with a laugh. “Did the hens lay all these today?”
“No. I’ve been boiling them for three days now so I can color them. I sent Hildi into the village to see if she could find any dyes. At Bredelais we make the dyes from flowers and vegetables, but I have none here.” She saw the blank look on his face. “For the Easter festivals? I thought all Christian households, especially the king’s, would have Pace eggs and pax cakes. It is the custom in the backward hills of Bredelais to celebrate many of the days in the Easter cycle.” She counted off on slender fingers. “Like Shrove Tuesday, Ash Wednesday, Mothering Sunday, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Rogation Sunday, Ascension—”
“Enough of your impertinent tongue, mistress! You’ve made your point. Tell me about the exorcism at Godstow.”
Rosamund walked over to the iron cauldron, picked up a long-handled wooden spoon and vigorously stirred the thick pottage of pork, white beans, garlic, and onion.
“One summer there was a plague of crop-eating insects that overran the abbey fields. Nothing the nuns or local workers did stopped them. Finally Reverend Mother complained to the bishop and he sent an exorcist. We—that is, the students and sisters and novices—all watched while the exorcist stood in the fields—”
“Come now, do you tell me that the bishop actually sent an exorcist?”
“Oh yes, he held up a crucifix and cried, ‘I declare and affirm that you are banned and exorcised, and through the power of Almighty God shall be accursed and daily decrease,’ or words to that effect.”
Henry choked on his ale and began to laugh so hard that the tears ran down his face. “God’s eyes! Did the insects leave or decrease?”
“No. They got worse, truly.” Rosamund paused. “Then a year later one of the sisters, one who had been forced into convent life against her will and had always acted strangely, began to have fits, tearing off her veils and trampling them underfoot, screaming blasphemies aloud. At Communion she even threw the blessed host in the priest’s face.” Rosamund crossed herself at the memory. “It was very unsettling. Poor creature. Reverend Mother and the bishop were convinced it was diabolical possession.”
Henry took another sip of ale. “What happened to her?”
“An exorcist was called in who cast out one thousand demons from the nun. At least, that is what the convent priest said.”
“Did she improve?”
“I never heard, as she was transferred to another convent.” Rosamund glanced at Henry. “Can you truly believe there is a devil’s imp inside me?” It was almost laughable, yet she felt uneasy.
“It seems unlikely.” He shrugged. “But it is possible there may be some—some malign influence at work here of which you, and certainly I, are ignorant.”
He got up from the table and walked over to her, slipping his arms around her waist as she stirred the pottage. “When this priest suggested an exorcism as a possible remedy, I thought the idea was not without merit.” His hands moved up to cover her breasts. Rosamund stiffened. “After all, what harm can it do? Hoping you would agree, I have to sent to St. Paul’s and the exorcist should arrive the day after tomorrow.”
“Will it be done in the chapel at Woodstock?” Grateful to him for all he had done for her, she did not see how, in good faith, she could refuse the exorcism, whether she agreed with it or not.
Apparently sensing her anxiety, Henry loosed his hold on her and returned to the table. “No. I thought it best to have this ritual done here after nightfall, in privacy. Too many people come and go at Woodstock. The matter would be certain to get out and set superstitious tongues to wagging in the village. Be sure to send your servant girl away for the evening. So that’s all settled, then?”
Rosamund nodded, concealing a surge of fear—although of what, exactly, she could not imagine. As Henry had said, what harm could the exorcism do? Nevertheless, just the idea of someone trying to cast out devils from her, uncovering who knew what else in the process—she could not repress a chill of foreboding.
“All settled?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Henry set down his cup with a smile. “Now, I must ride over to Woodstock and bring you back a surprise from the stables. I wish you could come with me, but better not under the circumstances.”
“You mean I cannot leave Everswell?” Rosamund’s voice rose in dismay, and she followed him out of the house. “Am I a prisoner here?”
“Certainly not. Come, I only suggest that it would be best if you did not show yourself. At least—at least until Eleanor leaves for the Continent when my daughter Matilda marries. Only a month or so. Then you may go to Woodstock or anywhere else.”
Rosamund glanced at him. The smile had gone from Henry’s face and his expression was grim as he turned to his horse and adjusted the headstall.
So the gossip at Godstow had been correct. There was some new trouble between Henry and his queen. She knew she had been the cause a year earlier. But now? She had not seen him in nearly a year, since April. In truth, given Henry’s nature and what she had heard of Eleanor’s, Rosamund did not see herself as the cause of this fresh bout of turmoil between them. Both Henry and Eleanor, said wagging tongues, were passionate and strong-willed. The king had had a similar relationship with the former archbishop of Canterbury until their final falling out, one of the sisters had said. So far as Rosamund could determine, Eleanor and Thomas Becket were two of the most important people in Henry’s life, and yet he was at odds with both of them. This did not bode well for her future. Especially given Henry’s expectations of her, and how inadequate she felt to meet them.
“I think you will like your new mare,” Henry said. “I know how you have missed having your own horse.”
There had been a young fawn-colored mare at Woodstock she had grown attached to. This must be the surprise, a gift for agreeing to the exorcism. Although where she was expected to ride, if she couldn’t leave Everswell . . .
“I feel you are rewarding me for my compliance,” she said, surprised at her own audacity. “Buying my agreement to do something I am not entirely happy about.”
Henry, who had one booted foot in the stirrups, lifted it out and turned to her. “And so I am, in a way. But then that is our arrangement. Have I ever indicated otherwise?”
Remorseful, Rosamund ran to him and buried her face against his shoulder. “No. Forgive me. You have been more than fair, and patient.”
Henry smelled comfortably of sweat and leather, horseflesh and wood smoke. Just as her father had. But Henry was nothing like her father and Rosamund could not imagine why she had even thought of Walter de Clifford.
“I will be back soon.”
Henry bent to remove a strand of hair from her face and mounted Beaumont. As she watched him ride out of the clearing, tears pricked Rosamund’s eyes. If only she could love him, if only she could respond to his embraces and behave like other women.
Two days later, shortly after sext, Rosamund was struggling to stay awake after imbibing a strong draught of wine and herbs. She also felt ill from the fumes of burning incense permeating the bower, and uncomfortably hot from the copper brazier of burning coals placed next to the bed. She looked up at the exorcist, Father Jerome, through slitted eyes. His narrow ascetic face and severe gaze were even more frightening than she had anticipated.
“There’s naught to be feared, my child,” he said in a voice dry as old leaves. “God is in this chamber with us, and with His help any imps of hell will be put to rout.”
His lean white-robed figure began to sway while his hands swung a large silver crucifix. In the glow of the candlelight she followed the movement of the crucifix as it moved back and forth. Behind him stood his acolyte, a boy about two years younger than her, with russet hair and wide gray eyes. He had been introduced as Henry’s misbegotten son, Geoffrey, an oblate at St. Paul’s and absolutely trustworthy, Henry assured her.
The exorcist began solemnly to intone words, some of which she could barely make out.
“I command thee, whosoever thou art, thou unclean spirit and all thy companions possessing this servant of God . . . by the mysteries of the Incarnation . . . ascension of Our Lord Jesus Christ . . . thou tell me thy name . . . that to me a minister of God, although unworthy, thou be obedient in all things . . .”
The voice droned on. Rosamund felt herself drift off into some twilight realm. Then, to her horror, her father’s face appeared, threatening, contorted with lust; he bent over her and his hands thrust her legs apart. The weight of his body was oppressive, stifling, and she could no longer breathe. A searing pain engulfed her, followed by screams and sobs. Her body convulsed and she flung out her arms to protect herself, heard herself begging him to stop, felt his lips pressing against her face, his hands holding down her shoulders, then the raised voice of the exorcist, stern, admonishing, before she lost all sense of awareness.
When Rosamund awoke, she was still lying on the bed, a fur coverlet over her. She tried to raise her head then fell back, and a strange voice said. “You will be very weak for a while, I understand. Here.”
The oblate, Geoffrey, dressed in a black robe—there seemed to be two of him—crouched down beside her and held out a pewter goblet. “I was told to give you this.”
Rosamund raised her neck again, took the goblet in trembling hands and downed it, spilling some over the coverlet. Her head started to clear and the two Geoffreys merged into one.
“Is it over?”
He nodded.
“I can recall nothing of what happened except a fearful dream.” Rosamund shuddered, gave him back the goblet, and crossed herself.
Geoffrey stood. This was the first time she had ever seen one of Henry’s children, although he talked about all of them, especially this bastard son by a Saxon whore of whom he had been very fond. She wanted to ask him what had happened—after all, he had witnessed the entire ritual—but hesitated.
“Where is your father?”
“He was waiting in the kitchen the entire time. He accompanied Father Jerome to Woodstock but should be back any moment.”
Rosamund sat up, pulled her skirts down over her black-stockinged legs, pushed the coverlet aside, and swung her legs off the bed. For a moment the bower reeled and she had to grab the bed curtain to steady herself.
“You have just been through a very trying experience,” Geoffrey said. “Perhaps you should not try to get up just yet.”
She nodded and waited until the chamber settled itself before letting her feet slip to the floor. The leather curtain to the bower was pushed aside, accompanied by a draft of icy air. Henry entered.
“Awake, I see. Good. Has Geoffrey been looking after you properly?”
“Very well.”
Henry put an affectionate arm about his son and ruffled his hair. “He’s a good lad, one who’ll go far in the Church. Now, I would speak to Rosamund. Geoffrey, do go wait for me below.”
When they were alone Henry silently paced back and forth in front of her. “Do you remember any of what happened with Father Jerome?”
“No.” Rosamund could hear the thumping of her heart.
“He said you might not at first. Well, he found a devil all right.”
“A devil?” The shock of his words reverberated throughout her whole body. “I cannot believe that.”
“An all-too-human devil, I fear.” Henry stopped directly in front of her.
“I don’t understand.” But a moment later she guessed at the truth. “Holy Mother—” she pressed trembling fingers over her mouth to keep from screaming.
“Father Jerome told me that the devil he cast out took on the form of your father. You apparently relived an incident where a ‘demon’ in the guise of Sir Walter had carnal knowledge of you.” Henry’s face was pale and his eyes like thunderclouds. “Many things that baffled me have suddenly become clear, particularly your father’s distraught response when I wanted to take you away.”
Rosamund would not meet his gaze.
“I see this does not come as a total surprise. I think you must tell me the truth now.”
“There is little to tell,” she said miserably. “I suspect my father gave me a draught with mandrake in it, which dulls the wits and causes forgetfulness. I was never sure of exactly what happened or even when it happened. It was more a sense of what he had possibly done than any—any certain knowledge of it.”
His eyes searched her face. “What do you remember?”
She told him of the incident in the stable. “That brought to mind other times I had rebuffed his advances, but there is no direct recollection of a specific time he ever did anything more than touch me. Sometimes—sometimes there was the sense that there was more lurking under the surface—something my mother knew, even my sister.” Rosamund shook her head. “There is much that happened before I went to Godstow that is hazy in my mind. As if it happened to someone else.”
Henry continued to scrutinize her with an unblinking gaze. “So your mother knew?”
“Oh yes, she knew.” Rosamund felt a stab of bitterness as she briefly recounted hearing her mother threaten to tell others of her father’s shame, what had prompted her to leave Bredelais so precipitously. “In some strange way she blamed me.”
“God’s eyes! What a—” He stopped and passed a hand through his bristly hair. “Father Jerome firmly believes that Satan roams the countryside quite freely and deflowers many young maids, sometimes taking on the form of their father, sometimes their brothers or uncles or other male relatives.”
He let his breath out in a long sigh. “‘Be that as it may, Father,’ I said. ‘But in this case, we are not talking of demonic possession but incest. A mortal sin and heinous crime. Against both canon and civil law.’ Well, nothing would convince him. ‘Christ himself, by word and deed, believed in possession by evil spirits. I exorcised a devil from this maid, Your Grace. If you could have seen her, you would not doubt it.’”
“I will never forgive myself for not having told you of my suspicions. But I felt so ashamed—”
“I cannot blame you for keeping silent. None of this is your fault, Rosamund.” He smote his fist into his palm. “God’s blood! But I would personally like to horsewhip your father within an inch of his life! To deflower a child—”
“Deflower?” Had she heard him aright? “Did the exorcist tell you that my father took my maidenhead? I had not thought it to have gone so far.”
Henry raised his brows. “Father Jerome said you were in a state of terror, screaming, begging the demon to stop, and trying to fight him off.” He paused. “I was in the kitchen and heard you myself. What other explanation is there?”
Mortified, Rosamund shook her head. “I had a dreadful nightmare during the exorcism. Of course I screamed, it was horrible, so real. But I have no memory of being deflowered.”
“By your own admission, you remember very little before being sent to Godstow.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle.
“That is so.” Her stomach suddenly felt queasy and she gagged.
“You have eaten nothing since Father Jerome left.” Henry pushed open the leather curtain leading to the bower and called for Geoffrey to bring them food and wine, and more coals for the brazier.
The servant, Hildi, who must have returned from the village, appeared then with a wheaten loaf, goat’s cheese, and two bowls of stew on a wooden platter along with a flagon of wine. Geoffrey followed with a wooden bucket of coals. When they had eaten, Rosamund felt a renewal of strength.
“Something happened to you, Rosamund, Father Jerome is right about that. But as to its nature, we are no wiser than before, are we? There is only one way to find out.”
His eyes met hers in a questioning look. The prospect filled her with dread, but he was right. There was only one way to find out.
“Yes.”
“Let me see to Geoffrey. He will have to ride back to Woodstock for the night. I will take the servant’s pallet down to the kitchen.”
When Henry had left, Rosamund went to the silver ewer and splashed cold water on her face. She was so tired she could barely stand, but oddly enough, she felt closer to Henry than at any time while they had been together. After removing her kirtle, chemise, and stockings, she washed her body with a linen towel, then stirred up the coals in the copper brazier. Shivering despite the heat, she climbed into the bed, pulling up the fur-lined coverlet. When Henry returned, he undressed in silence, then got into bed with her. He held her close, then slowly began to caress her, as he usually did, kissing her lips, stroking her breasts and soft flanks. When at last he covered her body with his own, for the first time she did not resist, and though she stiffened when he started to enter her, the overwhelming terror she had felt, the compulsion to scream and throw him off her was, while not entirely gone, greatly diminished. Gentle as he tried to be, she found the process painful, but not unbearable. She steeled herself for the breaking of her maidenhead, but it was soon very obvious that she had none to break. Once inside her there was nothing to hinder him. Unable to stop herself, Rosamund burst into sobs.
When it was over Henry held her in a close wordless embrace, cradling her in his arms as if she were a child. Even in this moment, when the exorcist was proved right, Rosamund had not the slightest recollection of when her deflowering had occurred, how old she might have been, or even if it had occurred more than once. But what she had thought was a horrible dream was suddenly painfully real.
“I know how hard this must be for you, poppet,” Henry whispered. “It might help to air your troubled thoughts.”
But she could not give voice to the dreadful realization that against her will, while she screamed in pain and terror, her father had brutally assaulted her body and her trust. Equally horrifying was that her mother had known the truth and her sister, Anne, as well. Perhaps even Gwennyth had known, tried to do something about it, and this was why she had been sent from Bredelais. While Rosamund, the soiled victim, had been hurriedly packed off to Godstow like a leper. Perhaps it was the only way her mother had of protecting her?
The betrayal, the shame of her violation, was so overwhelming that Rosamund felt her heart would break. Sobbing in anguish, she clung to Henry, all she had left in a threatening world she no longer understood.