Chapter 14
“Gwendolyn!” Father’s angry bellow preceded crashing footsteps up the stairs.
Suffocating fear caught in Gwen’s chest. She watched as Rosalind froze midstroke with the brush poised over Gwen’s blond hair.
“Oh dear! Perhaps you should leave,” Gwen offered. How she wished she could escape Father’s temper. He had a special way of making her feel trapped, like a deer staring down an arrow in a deadly bow. But they had been getting along so well of late. Perhaps she could pacify him.
The pounding footsteps grew closer and louder. On second thought, she did not truly wish to be left alone with him.
“I . . . perhaps. . . .” Rosalind’s gaze darted from Gwen to the door and back again.
Father thrust the door open with a bang. “Out!” he shouted at Rosalind, pointing to the hallway.
The normally confident Rosalind scurried away like Angel had at a similar command not long before.
Gathering every ounce of her courage, Gwen forced a smile and a light giggle. “Father, do be kind to her. Rosalind so wishes to please you. She has not yet grown accustomed to your surly ways and does not understand that beneath it all you are a wonderful man who loves his family and only wants the best for them.”
Her father’s face lightened in shade from bright red to a pinkish flush, and that telltale vein she dreaded shrunk to half the size. “I have no complaint with your maid. She did a commendable job in Edendale. I am glad that someone wishes to please me.”
Gwen walked to him with her hands outstretched, as Mother would do in such an instance. “Goodness, whatever has gotten you into such a dither?” She took her father’s hands and led him to sit on the bed. “Let us talk about this. Surely we can find a solution. If I have offended you in some way, I deeply apologize.”
There. That did not hurt so much. Perhaps she could handle this feminine manipulation act. And in truth, she never did anything out of spite toward her father, although she often managed to displease him in the general being of herself.
“Perhaps I misunderstood,” Father said. “To see you now, so gracious and so kind . . . But I thought you realized that it was Gawain I wished you to woo. Sir Allen is entirely unacceptable. And I hear that after I was sent away, you spent extensive time with that peasant upstart.”
Gwen stuffed down her anger. She managed such an excellent beginning to this conversation. She must not muck up matters now.
Swallowing the biting tone she wished to use, she employed a gentle one instead. “Father, I am confused. I know you introduced me to Sir Gawain, but the situation has changed. Sir Allen has been chosen to the council. He showed such chivalry upon the battlefield, and earned great favor in the eyes of the duke. I thought that by winning his attention, I would bring honor to you. Was I wrong?”
Gwen topped off her ludicrous performance by looking demurely down at their joined hands and batting her lashes.
Father patted her hand. “Oh, my naïve little Gwendolyn. You do not yet understand the ways of the world. This Allen has no property. No connections. It is your duty to bring not only honor to our family, but wealth and power as well.”
“Would not being wed to a member of the council bring power?”
Father gripped her hand too tight, and she winced against the pain.
“Do not speak of wedding that whelp ever again. This Sir Allen is nothing but a passing fancy of the duke’s. Sir Gawain is from a strong family with roots and tradition and several fine holdings. Centuries from now the Ethelbaums will remain important in this region. What shall Sir Allen of Ellsworth be?”
Father spit on the floor in a rather unchivalrous display. “Nothing but dust in the ground.”
Her anger flared now. The world seeped to red all about her as her heart pounded hard in her chest, but still she maintained a civil tongue. “I do see your point, but matters could change. Sir Allen could grow in favor and holdings.”
“I doubt it.” Father sneered. “He is a nobody, and he is likely to remain such.”
Gwen could no longer keep the pleading desperation from her voice. “He is not a nobody to me. Do my opinions count for nothing? I have no points of common interest with Sir Gawain. He has yet to speak a civil sentence to me, but with Sir Allen I felt at home and conversed with ease. This is my life, my future we are discussing.”
“Your family is your life. I am your life, and soon your husband shall be! I have chosen Gawain for you, and now ’tis your job to charm him into desiring you.” Father’s face turned red again, and the throbbing vein protruded from his temple.
Gwen’s own anger built inside her head, like a steaming kettle threatening to explode. Through gritted teeth, she said, “I will not marry Gawain. He is a beast. Anyone but him.”
Father thrust her hands away and stood to his feet. His arms flailed about him as he yelled, “You will marry whom I tell you to marry! I will not stand for your rebellious fits. I was right to pick Gawain. He alone can tame your wild ways. You are a child—a girl child, no less. Weak and stupid. You are not fit to run your life!”
“Weak! Stupid!” Gwen stood as well, too furious to be afraid. “You did not find me weak nor stupid when I faced Sir Allen in the tournament.”
Too late Gwen clapped her hands over her gaping mouth. She did not just say that. Surely she had imagined the words but never spoken them. Except that Father’s stunned stillness told her she had.
Dear God in heaven, please wipe the last ten seconds away. Nausea overtook her stomach. Perhaps if she threw herself from her window, death would come swiftly. But with her luck, she would land like a cat without a scratch.
She cowered away from her father and hid her face in her hands.
He sank back to the bed. “It all makes sense now. Your stomach ailment. How young Lachapelle appeared for his supposed experience. I felt certain I knew him from somewhere. But . . . but . . . you would not . . . You could not . . .” Confusion gripped his face and turned it deathly pale.
Gwen seized to that small hope. She let out a nervous, garbled giggle and tugged inanely at her curls. “Of course I could not. I have no idea why I said that. I am just a foolish girl, as you mentioned. Such silly notions overtake me at times. Of course it was not true. Will you please forgive me?”
“No.” Father shook his head slowly. “No. It was you. I am sure it was.” His hands began to quake. The vein looked as though it might burst at any moment. He stood and growled, “Do not ever lie to me again.”
He reached for her and grabbed her shoulders.
She squealed.
“I cannot believe you would commit such outrages.” He shook her violently, but she was too numb with fear to feel the pain. “Dressing like a man! Committing perjury to fight in a tournament! Does your rebellion know no bounds? I . . . I do not even know what to say.”
Father pushed her away. She stumbled back several feet before crouching low to the floor. Her fighting instincts welled up within her. If he attacked again, she would not idly play the victim.
His eyes turned hard and cold. “You disgust me. I cannot imagine the shame, the humiliation you nearly brought upon this family. You are not to leave this chamber for a week. Rosalind may visit once a day to bring you water and a single crust of bread. I shall send the priest daily as well. You had best pray, and pray hard. If I cannot find a suitable husband for you, I might just throttle you yet.”
Dear God in heaven, what had she done?
Father walked out the door and turned the key in the lock. She sank to the floor and cried as she had not cried since she was a child, hoping against hope that somehow Allen and his God might save her from this desolation.
Warner ran his finger along the blade of his jeweled dagger and could not hold back a chuckle. The time had finally come. For nearly two decades he had fantasized about this moment. The dukedom would be his, as it always should have been.
His father should have been heir to his grandfather, Gregory DeMontfort, for the old duke did not trust his eldest son, Christian, to rule the region with the iron fist he expected. Duke Gregory had written his wishes into an official edict, but his councilors had deemed him senile in his old age. With the support of the dowager duchess and the people, the title had been given to Warner’s uncle, Christian DeMontfort, after all.
Christian, with his ridiculous precepts of law and justice for all. Of equality and joint leadership. Such rubbish! Warner’s father had rebelled, had tried to seize what should have been his, but he failed and was banished as a mere knight to his wife’s dower lands outside of North Britannia for good.
And so Warner had been born barely a nobleman at all, rather than a future duke, as he rightfully should have been. Instead, Christian DeMontfort grew in favor and in madness, passing his ludicrous government on to his son, Justus, when he died. Warner’s idiot cousin had expanded on his father’s absurd ideals for the past fifteen years.
Meanwhile, Warner remained a poor and vanquished knight. But enough was enough! Many noblemen on the outskirts of the region now sided with him against Duke Justus the Imbecile and longed to return to the old ways. With the new king and regent headed their direction, the time for change was nigh. They must supplant the supplanter now!
The fact that the duke had not yet produced an heir would secure the title for Warner. And while William Marshall might not overthrow the duke outright to put Warner in his place, surely he would support Warner if he held the title when the king’s contingent arrived. Perhaps Warner might take the striking duchess as his wife just for the added pleasure of stealing yet another prize from his hated cousin.
He smiled with satisfaction and tucked the dagger into his boot. Entering the castle kitchen, he took the tray that had been arranged for him to deliver to the duke as the idiot took his private afternoon rest. Dressed in livery of ivory, crimson, and black, Warner blended with the other servants of the castle. And because he had spent his life banished from this dukedom, he needed not even hide his face.
With full confidence he strode from the kitchen, across the courtyard, and past several of the duke’s strong knights. One nodded him through the portal.
He glided across the great hall smooth as could be.
As he rounded the corner a nobleman came flying at him from nowhere and nearly tumbled his tray, but Warner performed an evasive maneuver worthy of a swordsman and rescued the wine and bread with nary a slosh.
“I’m so sorry.” The preening fellow with his foppish plumed hat and peacock attire straightened the stack of parchments he had nearly dropped. “Please excuse me. My mind was elsewhere.”
“No trouble, all is well,” Warner said with an easy smile.
This was almost too simple.
Almost.
But he would take his victory any way it came.
Gwendolyn’s belly clenched from emptiness. She had never before experienced these awful sensations. Father had always just whipped her with a leather strap and been done with it. Such ostracism and hunger were worse punishments by far. The red welts she’d endured as a child had been easier to ignore than the ravenous bird claws scratching mercilessly at the pit of her abdomen now.
During her five days of imprisonment, she had been left with little to do other than pray and read the book of sermons Father had thankfully failed to confiscate. Sitting next to the window for what slivers of sunshine she could gather into herself through the small opening was the only thing that kept her from complete despair.
A part of her was tempted to climb down the side of the castle and over the wall to her favorite tree. But she dared not risk increasing her father’s wrath. Instead she created a world in her mind where she might escape to battles and glory. A bright, colorful world where she would protect the weak and the innocent. A world full of stories she had escaped to all of her life.
Yet there were new stories as well. Stories of kisses and embraces. Of a little manor home with Sir Allen and a passel of children who sported his warm hazel eyes.
One way or the other, she needed to be far, far away from here.
If only she had been thrown in the dungeon like a proper prisoner, she could easily escape. She and her brothers had always suspected Father was capable of imprisoning them, and had made a game of planning several escape routes. But if she ran away now, it would have to be for good, and she was not that desperate . . . yet.
These past days she had been left with far too much time to think, and to regret. But while she regretted losing control with her father, she still felt she was right in her stance to refuse Gawain. And her prayers and reading of the sermons only solidified her conviction.
A tap upon her door jolted her from her thoughts. She had not expected Rosalind until the evening. But any company—other than Father—would bring a welcome respite. “Come in.”
Mother swept regally through the door, followed by Rosalind, who carried a heaping tray of bread, fruit, cheese, and even a huge roasted goose leg. Angel and Mischief trotted into the room at their heels. Spotting Gwen, the dogs ran to her and whined as she petted and kissed them in greeting.
“Set the tray on the bedside table.” Mother took charge before Gwen had fully processed the situation. “Gwendolyn, you must eat slowly at first. You do not wish to shock your stomach.”
“But . . . but what about Father? My week is not yet finished.” Gwen fought confusion. Perhaps this was not real. Perhaps her hunger-clouded mind had conjured them from her imagination.
“Your father had an urgent summons to the castle.” Mother’s hand upon Gwen’s shoulder felt so warm and real. This could not be mere daydreaming. “But never fear. We shall keep this a secret so that he does not add to your sentence. Be sure to feign hunger and weakness when he returns.”
Gwen reached for a handful of berries. Those would be light and fresh to start her first real meal in over five days. Angel stared up longingly at the food. “Not today, you little beggar.”
The tart sweetness burst in Gwen’s mouth as she bit into the fruit. She sighed in delight. “Oh, Mother, I cannot thank you enough. I thought I might lose my mind. And I vow I shall never see a single peasant go hungry if I can do anything to help it.”
Mother pulled over a chair and sat beside her, while Rosalind stood attendance nearby. “I tried to tell you. There are worse things in life than being bullied into a noble marriage by a father who, in his own way, loves you and wishes the best for you. And who chose a rather handsome young man for you, might I add.”
“Ha!” Gwen would have argued that Gawain was no such thing, except that she would rather eat. She tried to start slowly, but her very marrow cried out for sustenance. She quickly devoured a piece of warm, soft bread and took several gulps of wine. Angel jumped onto the bed and sidled up next to her as if to cuddle. But as Gwen reached to pat her head, she ducked under Gwen’s arm and stole a berry.
“Cease!” Gwen said. “That is my food, you thief.”
Mischief eyed her warily from the hearth.
“So now you want one too? ’Tis only fair, I suppose.” She tossed a berry to him.
He sniffed it, then turned up his nose in disdain and walked back to the hearth. Angel, the consummate opportunist, jumped from the bed, snatched it up, and joined him by the warm fire.
Rosalind just shook her head as she always did when Gwen spoiled her pups so.
“Foolish creatures,” Mother said, but she smiled at them nonetheless.
Gwen sighed. Despite the distraction of the dogs, she could not put off this conversation any longer. “I suppose Father told you everything.”
Mother shook her head and smirked. “Indeed he did, Sir Geoffrey. I know not whether to burst out laughing, bow in awe, or throttle you.”
“Father seemed fairly clear that throttling was the preferred course of action.”
That evoked the laughter Mother had fought to hold back, but it was short-lived. “Truly, Gwendolyn, ’tis not seemly for a young lady to function in a man’s role. I confess to knowing that you have often romped about the countryside playing with swords and bows. But truly, I never for one moment suspected you had intentions to fight in a tournament. This is not pleasing in God’s sight.”
Mother sighed. “But you know all of this.”
“I do. And yet I do not. Oh, Mother, I wish I could convey to you how wonderful it is staring down an opponent over the tip of a lance. The rush of exhilaration that comes in battle. ’Tis nothing short of heavenly.”
Mother tapped her chin with her finger. “And what has your role been in all of this, Rosalind?”
Rosalind lifted her gaze to the ceiling and rocked back and forth upon her heels.
Gwen gripped her mother’s arm. “Leave Rosalind out of this. She has only ever obeyed me as a proper lady’s maid should. This is my fault alone.”
Mother sat pondering for a moment. A bemused smile turned her pretty pink lips. “You were amazing in that arena. There is no denying that. Why, you might have come in third or fourth had you not been pitted against Sir Allen from the start.”
“She is indeed a sight to behold.” Rosalind finally dared to speak. “Strong and determined, like the goddess Athena.”
“Like the famed Amazon warriors of old,” Mother said.
“So you understand, then? A little?” Gwen prayed it might be true.
“Only a little.” Mother shot her a hard glare. “You could have disgraced our family. And I have no idea how offensive a sin this might be.”
“According to Father Michael, I have committed the sins of deception, pride, covetousness, and disobedience, not to mention the more repulsive sin of dressing outside my gender. But I put little faith in his opinions. After much searching of my motives, the only part I truly feel remorseful about is the deception. Although I long to be obedient, ’tis difficult when one’s father is a tyrant with moods like a tempest.”
A subtle sadness swept Mother’s features. “Yes, but you could obey me. I do my best to soften Father’s moods and protect you from the worst of his temper.”
Gwen had always suspected her mother’s bruises had more to do with standing up for her children than anything else. Otherwise, she would just charm or relent as always.
“I am sorry. I will do my best to obey you from now on, and to not let bitterness keep me from obeying Father in the areas that I can. But I must also stand up for myself when it comes to issues that affect my entire future. Like marriage.”
Mother beseeched Gwen with open palms. “We have told you again and again. You must marry. There is no way around it.”
Gwen set aside her half-empty plate as a wave of nausea swept over her. Her mother had been right about not eating too fast. In fact, Mother was right about a surprising number of issues. “I am adjusting to the idea of marriage. But I wish to marry a kind man, a man like Sir Allen of Ellsworth. Not a brute like Sir Gawain.”
Mother smiled. “We shall work on your father together. I have already heard rumors that Sir Allen is growing in favor. And truth be told, I prefer him for you as well.”
“Thank you, Mother. Oh thank you!” Gwen fell to her knees upon the floor and threw her arms around her mother’s neck, hugging her smaller frame tight to her own hulking one.
Mother kissed her atop her head and held her far enough away to look her in the eye. “I said I would try. But I make no promises.”
“That is all I could ever ask.” Gwen returned to her chair. The food caught her attention again, and she stared at the goose longingly as its scent wafted toward her, tempting her against her better judgment.
“I will leave you to eat. Keep the tray until this evening. There is no chance of your father returning until nightfall, and more likely it will be in a day or two.”
Her mother left and closed the door behind her. Gwen wondered how she had dealt with the guard beyond it, but Mother had her own way of maneuvering people.
“I am so relieved to see you happy!” Rosalind said.
“Perhaps after I have finished dinner, I can read you my book, as I promised.”
“Of course, and after that we might sneak through the window and out to your favorite tree. Most of the guards have left with your father, and not a one of them is pleased with the way he has been treating you. And I’ve brought your pipe.”
Gwen marveled at how well her maid knew her thoughts. “That is precisely the thing to cheer me. Oh, Rosalind, I know I should not say it, but you are the best friend I have ever had.”
Rosalind sat in the open chair and took Gwen’s hand. “You are mine as well, but you must promise never to let your father know.”
Gwen winced. “Yet another secret we shall keep safe from him. Although I wish I could trust him and tell him all.”
“Of course you do, but it is a child’s wish. A man as selfish and cruel as your father cannot be trusted. Forgiven, yes, for the good of your own soul. But not trusted.”
Gwen would have thought she had cried out a year’s worth of tears during the past days, and yet a few more found their way to her eyes. “I wish he did not hold my fate in his hands.”
“He does not.” Rosalind gripped tighter to her hands. “God holds your fate in His hands. You need only to trust and follow God’s leading in your heart. Is that not what your book says?”
How Gwen wished it might be true. Deep within, she suspected that Allen of Ellsworth might be the only man for her. She would spend the rest of her imprisonment praying—nay, crying her heart out to God—that somehow, someway, matters might work out for the good.