‘Look at me, Rosamund,’ he demanded. ‘Tell Warrick that you have changed your mind. As long as you do not confess to speaking your own vows, the marriage does not exist.’
But it does,she wanted to say. Their marriage was as real as any other.
In the lines of his face, she saw the unrelenting fury. He would never forgive her for this, and as punishment, he would give her to another man. She didn’t know if it was possible to endure such a thing.
‘What will happen to Warrick?’ she whispered.
There was no sympathy on his face. ‘It depends on you. He will be whipped for taking you away. His father ordered twenty lashes.’
‘His own father?’ She had expected fury from Harold, but she had never imagined it from Warrick’s sire.
‘Yes. Afterwards, he will be sent away, and you will return with me to wed de Courcy.’ He sat down in the chair, and his face hardened. ‘Warrick will never touch you again. You will make sure he knows this, or I will double the lashes.’
She could feel the hatred rising within her. ‘You want me to lie to him.’
‘Would you not do this, to diminish his suffering? If you say you love him.’
She rose from the pallet and faced him with all her anger. ‘I do not understand why you are so eager to sell me off into marriage, despite my feelings.’
Her father opened the door. ‘I will tell the commander to give forty lashes, then. Would you like to watch?’
She felt sick to her stomach.Dear God, no.‘Let him go, Father. I beg you.’
There was no mercy in his eyes. Instead, he turned and shut the door behind him. The moment he was gone, her hands began to tremble. She had never felt so alone or helpless. This was about pride and wielding power, she realised. He cared more about appearances than his own daughter.
Though she had not been close to Harold, never had she seen this side to him. God help her, she didn’t know how to stop this nightmare. All of this was her fault. She should have known better than to cross swords with her father. And now, Warrick would bear the scars.
The bleak finality of their situation washed over her. She could not change her father’s mind, nor could she force him to accept her marriage.
But she could save the man she loved. Even if it meant slashing her own heart in two. She would do whatever she must to save Warrick’s life.
Rosamund pushed the door open and hurried outside. The sky was overcast, holding shadowed clouds. Her father was standing beside Ademar’s father, Rourke of Dolwyth. Both men appeared displeased with the sight before them.
The soldiers had chained Warrick with both arms outstretched, while another man held a whip in his hand. He raised it, and a loud crack resounded as the lash bit through Warrick’s back, drawing blood. He flinched but never uttered a sound.
Rosamund felt the blow as surely as if it had bitten into her own skin. She choked back a cry and rushed to her father’s side. ‘Please don’t! I will do what you ask.’
His face was stony, as if he cared nothing for her plea for mercy. She didn’t know how to make him stop, and the lash struck over and over. Once, she heard Warrick let out a harsh grunt, and his knees sagged. His back was covered in blood, and she got down on her knees before Harold. ‘I beg of you. Let him go.’
When he would not relent, she stared him in the eye. ‘If you do not release him, I swear, I will go and take the remainder of his punishment. I will bear the lash myself.’
Rosamund started to walk towards Warrick, but her father seized her wrist and squeezed tightly. ‘You will stay here.’
She tried to pull back, but his grip intensified until she feared he would break her hand. The soldier had struck the twentieth blow, and at last, Harold raised his hand. ‘Go to him. And end it.’
Warrick’s head hung low, and he slumped to his knees. The wounds were deep, and she despised herself for bringing him such pain. She didn’t know if she would have the strength to say what her father had ordered. Slowly, she crossed the inner bailey and moved to stand before him. She could not stop her tears, but she bit her lip hard and forced herself to continue.
He didn’t raise his head to look at her, and she knew he was in unbearable pain. At last, he spoke. ‘I would take every blow three times over for your sake, Rosamund.’
She swiped the tears away and anguish filled her up. ‘I am sorry, Warrick. But I cannot be with you any more.’
He stiffened as if her words were another whiplash. ‘You are my wife. You belong with me.’
‘No,’ she whispered. Though she tried to hold them back, her tears escaped. ‘I am not.’
‘Your father is forcing you to say this,’ he accused.
She could not bring herself to lie, and instead she murmured, ‘I never wanted this to happen to you. I blame myself. I should not have defied him.’
