Chapter 21

Wearing naught but a simple white chemise, Gwen sat before her looking glass, a luxury that had been bought by her father years ago to encourage her to take interest in her appearance. She observed the way her golden hair glowed in the firelight and brushed through it a few more strokes to watch it pool into gentle waves about her shoulders. Finally she believed it to be true.

She was pretty.

She must be if both Sir Allen and Sir Randel found her so. All her life she had thought herself ugly, had hardened her heart to keep from growing jealous of beauties such as Rosalind and the Duchess Adela. She had told herself she wanted nothing of that sort of silliness, that any attention to appearance was foolish.

Weak.

Drawn to the corner of the room like a moth to a flame, she floated in that direction. From beneath a loose floorboard, she pulled out a doll she had placed there nearly a decade ago. She returned to her seat with it and cuddled it to her chest.

Years earlier she had hidden the poppet her mother had bought for her. A gorgeous wooden doll dressed in a gown of silk. Her brothers had mocked it. Her father disdained it. And so she had buried it away, wanting to be strong and tough like them. Never wishing to be a victim like her mother.

But . . . she had taken it out when no one watched. She had loved it, admired it, stroked its polished, curving hair. Now with hesitant motions, she ran her fingers along its tresses, carved to perfection and painted a pale flaxen shade.

Then she returned her gaze to the mirror. The girl staring back at her did not look so different than that doll. She had a fine bowed mouth. Large wide-set blue eyes. A pert nose and a graceful slope to her cheeks. Smooth skin rose from the top of her chemise, and she protruded nicely where a woman should.

Yet she remained strong. Strong enough to thrive in a tournament. She could be both strong and feminine, could open her heart and be vulnerable without losing her passion and her fighting spirit.

She hugged the doll closer. How Gwen wished to care for a child of her own body like she once cared for this toy. Not merely nieces and nephews or village children, not only her little dogs as she had resigned herself to doing.

Perhaps a child with her blond hair and Al . . . or rather Randel’s warm brown eyes. Soon enough she would adjust to this idea. Surely Mother would convince Father of their plan. Gwen must believe her prayers would be answered.

Cradling the doll in her arms, she rocked back and forth several times. Until a tap sounded at her door. On long-established instinct, she slid the doll across the wooden floor toward her bed.

It slid beneath just as Mother tiptoed in without awaiting an invitation. “He is asleep at last. I thought his foul temper might never end, but he usually wakes cheerful in the morning.”

“I am sorry, Mother. I realized dinner was tense, but I did not know you continued to fight over my impending marriage.”

Mother sagged into a chair beside Gwen. “Yes, mostly while you were at the cathedral. But he lectured me about my errant opinions well into the night.”

“And?”

“He will not budge. Nothing I say can convince him.”

Gwen tensed and attempted to conjure that hard shield that had protected her heart all these years. Why had she ever let it down? Why had she ever dared to hope?

“I am so sorry, daughter.” Mother raked her fingers through her disheveled hair.

And that is when Gwen saw it. A bruise in blaring blue and purple sneaking out from the sleeve of Mother’s gown.

She jumped up and grabbed Mother’s wrist, pushing up her flowing sleeve and holding the injury to the firelight. “What is this? Did he hurt you?”

Mother snatched her wrist away and pulled the sleeve down again. She cuddled her arm to her chest and rubbed her thumb over the back of her hand. “’Tis nothing. Do not concern yourself. I only tried to escape his tirade and he grabbed me.”

“I do not believe you!”

Then Gwen noticed a slight redness and swelling around Mother’s right eye. She might have attributed it to crying, but that should affect both eyes equally, and given the evidence of the wrist . . . Gwen had seen such injuries before. “What else did he do to you?”

“Please, Gwendolyn, let it go. He has never hurt me in any permanent sort of way. It is my fault. I should submit to him. But I do not think straight when it comes to protecting you children.” Mother began to sniffle.

Anger roiled inside of Gwendolyn. “Nonsense! This is abuse, pure and simple. One must be an equal before one can submit. Yet he treats you like a scullery maid. This is your family too. You have a right to your own opinions.”

“But he is the head of this home, not to mention the lord of our barony.”

“Why do you let him treat you thus? Why do you take the blame for his brutality?”

“What option do I have? I am a weak woman from a poor family. I knew what he was when I married him, but I wanted the life he could offer. I made a choice and gave my pledge. I must accept it.”

“I will not!” A red haze filled the room. Fury gathered in Gwen’s head to the point that she feared it might explode. There it was. The fierceness. The strength. The armor about her heart. She found it again in her anger over this injustice, in her driving need to protect her mother.

Gwen marched to the leather chest at the foot of her bed. She grabbed out her leggings and boots and tugged them on. She tossed her split tunic over her head and thrust her arms into the openings. Next she tucked her dagger into her boot . . . just in case. She would not face the man unprepared.

“What on earth are you doing?” Mother pressed a hand to her mouth.

“What someone should have done long ago.” Why had Hugh, why had Gerald, never stood up for their mother? She simply could not fathom.

Mother waved her hands before her. “Please, wait!”

“The time for waiting has passed.”

Gwen stormed down the hallway and shoved open the door to her parents’ bedchamber with a crash.

Father bolted upright upon his bed, tangled in blankets with his hair sticking straight toward the ceiling. “Who . . . what . . . ?”

Anger seethed within Gwen, pressing to be released through her fists. She balled said fists at her sides and planted her feet wide. “Do not ever hit my mother again. If you do, you shall answer to me.”

A sleepy haze of confusion clouded his face. “What is the meaning of this?”

“’Tis about the bruises on my mother’s arm. Do not ever touch her again, or I swear I shall thrash you. You horrible brute! You wish me to marry a man like you, but I shall never.”

“Do not be ridiculous! You shall marry whomever I say.”

“I swear that I will not. Just try and make me.”

Father rolled out of bed. He pointed an accusing finger at her. “To whom do you think you address such impertinent words? Unclench those fists, you devil spawn.”

“Never!” she shouted, pulling them up closer to her chest and shifting her feet to a lunge out of instinct.

“I mean it.” He clenched his own fists at his sides.

In the dying light of the embers from the hearth, she watched his vein throb. Her own heart similarly pounded, but she did not relent.

“Fine,” he said. “You think yourself a warrior, then prove it.” He readied his fists for battle.

Gwen had not truly meant to fight him. Only to confront him over his shabby treatment of her mother. She faltered for a second as she considered her next move, but in that brief moment he snatched her right wrist and twisted her arm behind her back.

“Now we shall see who is the man.” Then he shoved her away.

She fell hard upon her hands and knees but ignored the sting and sprung up to a crouched fighting position in a flash.

Though well into his middle years, Father towered over her, and his hard-muscled, mammoth girth stretched to twice her width. No doubt he expected her to tremble at his mere presence. But she was done cowering to this bully. Gwen was quick and agile, and now boiling with fury as well. She would not back down until she had inflicted a score of bruises upon him, as he had done to her mother over and again.

Feinting high and right, she slammed a blow into his gut. Her fist burst with searing pain as if she struck a stone. But his grunt of shock was all she needed to continue. She jabbed his jaw from the underside and followed it with another blow to his face.

Father stumbled backward, clutching his face. Blood dribbled from his mouth. His next words emerged garbled by his injury. “That is enough! I shall squash you like the pesky gnat that you are.”

He roared toward her now. A sharp backhand across her face sent her sprawling toward the hard timber wall. Her shoulder hit first, then her head cracked upon it. Pain radiated through her in surging waves. Bright white spots flashed before her eyes, and a thickness filled her body, as if she moved through syrup, but still she would not give up.

Diving straight toward his middle, she slammed her head into his gut like a battering ram.

He tumbled backward onto the bed, but he rolled off just as quickly. “You disgust me. You hoyden. You maggot.”

Stepping closer, he said, “I knew a girl child would bring nothing but trouble.”

He glared down at her now with pure hatred. “I knew I could never love you.”

Then through clenched teeth he ground out, “I should have snuffed out your life in the cradle.”

Those words stretched out and struck Gwen with more force than his hand could ever muster. She felt them like a blow to the stomach. All air exploded from her in a pained gasp. She knew it. She’d always believed he had never loved her. But to hear him say it . . .

Gwen’s fight drained from her like water from a broken cistern. Seeping out about her feet and puddling upon the floor. As her shoulders drooped and her arms fell to her sides, her father took that opportunity to punch her in the gut.

She flew backward and landed with a sick thud. He kicked her hard in the ribs and face over and again for good measure. But none of his assaults could hurt her, could wound her deep to her core, the way his words had.

“Get out!” He hauled her to her feet and threw her out the door. “And do not ever forget who is the man in this house.”

Gwen stumbled in the direction of her room. Her vision failed her completely for the moment. She groped with her hands along the walls and around the corner until she came to the opening she knew to be hers. She made out the shape of her mother kneeling next to the blazing fire.

Wiping away her tears, her tangled hair, the blood pouring from a cut that throbbed over her brow, Gwen saw her mother’s hands feverishly clicking beads upon a string. Mother’s eyes clenched tight as her lips muttered Hail Marys.

Worthless words. Useless prayers.

“It is over,” Gwen whispered.

“Gwennie!” Mother ran to her and caught her in an embrace.

Gwen groaned and grabbed her ribs.

“What has he done to you?”

“As you like to say, nothing permanent.” He had only broken Gwen’s heart.

“No.” Mother choked out the word. “I cannot let this happen. Gwendolyn, I promise that I shall do something to help you.”

Gwen could not imagine what. Neither of them had a shred of power against the fiend who ruled over them. Rosalind had been mistaken. God did not hold her future in His hands. Father did, and he would snuff out all hope as he had just snuffed out her very reason for living. A hollow, aching dread filled the void left when her father broke her spirit.

He did not love her. He’d never wanted her. If one’s own father wished one dead, why exist at all?

“This is ridiculous.” Allen gripped the rounded edge of the table in his frustration as he stared down the council. “I am to rule this dukedom soon, but you will not allow me to defend it?”

“Our best defense is to see you safely wed to the duchess.” The old historian, Lord Fulton, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“But if Warner DeMontfort and his dissidents try to invade, we shall need every last warrior.” Allen’s hand itched to draw his sword even now. He had been wrapped up in tutoring and mundane legal obligations this past week. Other than their hunting trip, he had barely been outdoors to see the sun lighting the sky.

“If we are so worried about an invasion, then perhaps we should move up the wedding date,” said Hemsley, dressed in a garish ensemble of red, gold, and purple this day. “That is our best guarantee for a secure dukedom.”

“I would not advise that,” the bishop said. “We are rushing matters as it is.”

“Absolutely not!” Duchess Adela slapped her delicate hand atop the table. “It is too fast already. We have a feast to prepare. A tournament to organize. Surely you jest.”

Hemsley’s ostentatious purple plume flopped over his eye. “We can have the nuptials first and then celebrate.”

Tears slipped down the duchess’s cheeks.

“No!” Allen stood to his feet. “I refuse. It shall be eighteen days hence as planned or not at all.”

“Let us all calm ourselves.” Fulton pressed his hands in a downward motion against the air. “The wedding date shall remain as planned. And Sir Allen shall remain safe in the castle until it occurs. All those who agree, raise your right hand.”

Hands shot up all around the table, sealing Allen’s fate.

Allen dropped to his seat with resignation. “What about after the wedding?”

“Sir Allen, you must understand.” The bishop offered him an apologetic grin. “As a duke you might someday lead a grand campaign, but you shall be the protected, no longer the protector.”

The subject turned to a new issue. Clearly the matter was closed. Allen wished to bury his head in his arms and sulk, but of course he could not.

He would soon be a duke. Only the king would rank above him in this land. And yet he would trade the unbelievable honor in a heartbeat for an hour upon the practice field.

Dread filled him, threatened to suffocate him. Had he made a terrible mistake? This was not the life he wanted. Not the tediousness, nor the title, nor the weight of responsibility, and most assuredly—despite how lovely she might be—not the wife.