How dare Royce interfere with her scheme and deny her any opportunity for escape from this foul hole?
She retreated to her chamber as if retiring for the night, well aware that Royce expected her to weep for her lost lover. He came to her, of course, intent upon proving his ownership and sated himself with tedious speed.
She pretended to sleep when he was done, and was glad to hear him leave. She smiled when he locked the portal to her chamber from the outside.
There were moments when it was good fortune to be wedded to a stupid man. Marie waited until the stairs had finished their creaking, until the floor overhead groaned beneath Royce’s bed. She waited until the squires had finished their scampering, and the tower had grown quiet.
Then she rose and retrieved the key she had stolen years before. It fit perfectly into the lock and the portal was opened with nary a sound. Emma followed her, keeping her distance at Marie’s gesture.
They reached the great hall, which had fallen into shadows. Only one candle burned at the high table. Gaultier stood there alone, his tabard mired and his hair disheveled. He lifted the cup that she had not deigned to empty at midday and drained it. Marie drew back into the shadows, unable to believe her good fortune.
Or her husband’s frugality.
Gaultier loved his wine, but Royce seldom shared with his men.
The Captain of the Guard cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, then drank the rest of the wine from the other abandoned cup on the board. He smiled when he lifted the small pitcher that had been poured for Royce and Marie, the one she had treated with the sleeping potion. He poured its contents into Royce’s cup and downed it, scarcely savoring it at all.
He had consumed two doses of the sleeping draught, perhaps on an empty belly. Marie hovered in the shadows, watching and hoping.
She did not have to wait long to learn that Finan’s concoction was potent.
Saturday, January 23, 1188
Feast Day of the virgin martyr Saint Emerentiana
Chapter Thirteen
Bartholomew ached in places he had not known he possessed. He would have sworn that his fingernails hurt, that his hair was bruised, that his very marrow had been smashed. Gaultier had been thorough in his beating, and Bartholomew had been tied down to ensure he could not defend himself.
Had he lost a tooth? All he could taste was blood and his lips were so swollen that he could not tell.
He understood now why Duncan had not been quick on his feet in their departure from Haynesdale. The dungeon was damp and dark, but his one eye was nigh swollen shut. Worst of all, Gaultier had discovered the mark on his chest. If he had not been condemned before, the mark sealed it.
The seed of Nicholas must die.
Bartholomew had been divested of his mail hauberk and aketon, then flung down into the dungeon. He lay on the dirt floor. He fought the desire to moan and could not help wishing that he did not awaken in the morning.
All was lost.
He had failed to fulfill Anna’s scheme. He had betrayed his parents’ memory. The people of Haynesdale would suffer for his arrival here, and it seemed there was naught of merit to result from his days.
He had many hours to consider his folly in the night, but in the end, he feared the night would be too short. He was to be hung at dawn. This was Royce’s justice and his heart ached that the people of Haynesdale would have to endure it forever.
The trap door overhead opened suddenly, loosing a beam of light into the dungeon that stabbed him in the eye. Bartholomew did moan then and rolled toward the darkness. It could not be morning yet, could it?
He moved just in time, for another man was cast down into the dungeon. The body hit the dirt floor hard, but his new companion made no sound of protest.
Was it a corpse?
Bartholomew drew back in disgust, but the rope ladder was suddenly cast down from the opening. He could see a woman descending with purpose and in silence. She gestured to him with a stern finger for silence.
It was Marie’s maid.
“Hasten yourselves!” the lady herself hissed from the floor above. She held a lantern so its light shone down into the pit.
Bartholomew sat up with interest. He saw that other man was Gaultier and no longer regretted his fate. That man rolled to his back and stirred, grumbling as he made to open his eyes.
The maid punched him in the face, showing unexpected strength. Her lips were tight and her expression furious. Gaultier fell back with a low moan and she struck him again. Bartholomew heard a bone crack. She then came to Bartholomew and untied his hands. She tugged at the hem of his tabard.
