How would he avenge his father and assert his birthright? The odds were considerable against Bartholomew’s success, greater than any man of sense might have hoped. He had expected a manor house, perhaps a small motte and bailey, but not a fortress. An appeal to the king’s court would be doomed to failure, if this baron was so allied with the crown that his marriage had been made by the king.
Nay, he must prove himself worthy, by proving the baron unworthy.
Somehow.
He was the seed of Nicholas.
He had to ensure that Anna and Percy were safe, even if all went awry.
Bartholomew touched his spurs to Zephyr’s side, sending the destrier forward more quickly. He led the party to the gates and raised his voice. “Hoy there! We seek shelter in the name of Christian charity!”
At his cry, the porter came forward. Their names were taken and in but moments, the portcullis of Haynesdale was raised in reluctant welcome.
“Into the very gates of Hell,” Anna murmured, and Bartholomew could only close his hand over hers and give a minute squeeze of encouragement.
*
Marie, Lady of Haynesdale, had believed for years that there could be no worse fate than to be an heiress. Paraded before men deemed to be suitable husbands day after day, compelled to be charming at meal after meal, forced to visit holding after holding had been a particular kind of torment. To always smile at the arrangements made for her approval, regardless of her thoughts on the matter, had left her cheeks aching and her attitude poor. She had been convinced that naught could be worse than to be well known as a bride with a hefty dowry—or to have had such an exacting guardian.
Now she knew better. Tohave beenan heiress was far worse.
She was but a wife. A barren one. And this life was horrific.
Marie stood at the window and looked over the bleak forests of her husband’s holding and despised what her life had become. There were no dinners, no visitors, no excursions, not even any parties led to hunt since her husband had vexed every living soul beneath his hand. Or executed them. There were no fawning suitors, no adoring troubadors, no men staring after her with such yearning that her heart raced. Even if a man with blood in his veins had dared to come to their hall, her husband’s foul repute would ensure that the guest never raised his gaze to hers.
There were only barbarians and brutes as far as she could see.
No doubt the greatest barbarian and brute was the one who came to her each night, took his due, then left her alone in that broad, cold bed.
The mercy was that she had only once been compelled to look upon him without the patch over his eye. To think that she had once imagined his appearance dashing, and mysterious. Dangerous and alluring. Seeing what was beneath the eye patch had curdled her heart.
He was marred.
He was unworthy of her.
He gave her no sons. She began to think he did as much apurpose, the better to keep her captive in this abode.
Marie supposed Royce had guessed the resentment in her heart, for he had ensured that there was never a weapon in her proximity.
How she loathed him.
How she hated his desolate holding.
No number of furs could keep her warm as she slept. No brazier could pierce the chill of her chambers. The floors might have been wrought of ice. The chill emanating from the stone floor was so vehement that she swore it would never be driven from her bones. Even the so-called summers in this foul abode offered only rain and tepid warmth.
She was tired of meals that filled the belly but did not delight the senses. She yearned to hear music again. She longed for the warm caress of the sun upon her face, the sound of laughter, the flavor of good wine.
She yearned even more heartily for the company of handsome young men. Knights. Troubadors. Princes and dukes. A king on occasion.
But there was only Royce, and as finely wrought as he once had been, knowing the truth of his nature vastly diminished his appeal. He had looked more appealing at the king’s court, where he had stirred himself to converse and to charm.
Mariehadbeen charmed, more fool she.
And now, she had no power, no control over her days, no ability to make demands or be heard. She was her husband’s property and so was all the lovely wealth her father had accumulated. Royce spent it with gusto and used the tale of it to borrow more.
She sat in a keep built with her father’s coin, as much a prisoner as that poor brat who had been dragged to the dungeon earlier in the day. Marie felt sympathy for the boy only because his plight was so similar to her own.
Granted, he had no food, no light, no bed, and likely shared his chamber with vermin, but Marie was inclined to overlook such petty details.
