“And to act against Pickney in any way will get us killed, yet we would not have halted his crime.” Henry grabbed her empty tray. “I have no wish to die and, curse it, certainly not to die in some fool’s attempt to stop that which cannot be stopped.”
“You cannot blame us for this,” John cried.
Snatching her unfinished tankard of wine from the tray, she said, “Oh, I do not blame you. I know how the pinch of hunger can drive a man to do most anything for coin. I know most men cannot see the wrong in Pickney’s grasping what is not his and doing it through murder—nay, nor in the theft of a bride from one man’s bed to set her in another. Sadly, such things happen often enough to be accepted. Nor do I blame you for wanting to stay alive. I should like to do the same. So go—go and keep yourselves safe. I will not condemn you for it.”
She was not really surprised when they left in an angry mood, the slamming of the door behind them accentuating it. While she had offered forgiveness with one hand, she had slapped them with the other. She did understand what had pulled them into the mess and why they could not extricate themselves. But her life and her child’s were also at risk, and she could not help but resent their not aiding her. She did not ask for sacrifice, simply help. Unfortunately, they saw helping her as equal to signing their own death warrants and she doubted she could ever change their minds.
“So I am on my own,” she muttered, walking back to the window as she sipped her wine.
Staring out at the fires in Thayer’s camp again, she plundered her mind for an idea. What few she came up with did not stand up to any close looks. One failure or weakness after another revealed itself until the plan had to be cast aside. Worse was the constantly recurring need for at least one other person to make it work.
The sound of someone entering her prison made her briefly wonder if fate was sending her that other person. When she saw it was Robert, she decided fate had a cruel sense of humor. Robert gave her a look that was an odd mixture of adoration and terror.
“What do you want, Robert?” she demanded, feeling a strange mix of pity and hate for the man.
“To see that you are not being mistreated.”
“Mistreated? Nay. ’Tis quite comfortable in my little tower prison.”
“’Tis more to keep you safe,” he stuttered.
“Is it now. Odd, but with the door barred from the outside, I saw it more as a place to hold me in than to keep others out.” She leaned against the wall by the window, set her tankard down on the ledge, and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “You could come in. I have yet been able to get out.”
Robert pushed his hand through his fair hair. Gytha looked as beautiful as ever, despite the cool anger in her fine blue eyes, despite the rounding of her belly with Thayer’s child. She also looked as inaccessible as ever, far out of his reach. He wanted her so badly it robbed him of sleep at night, but Thayer held her—big, red, plain Thayer. It seemed an injustice.
“You do not want to get caught in the midst of the battle,” he said, struggling to keep his nervousness from echoing in his voice.
“Battle?” Gytha gave a short, bitter laugh. “What battle? Your uncle has no stomach to fight Thayer. He uses me to bring Thayer to his death, like a lamb to the slaughter.”
The discomfort, even shame, reflected in Robert’s sorrowful expression did not really touch Gytha. As far as she was concerned, he should be wallowing in shame. He stood meekly by as his uncle murdered his kin.
“I do not wish to talk about that,” muttered Robert.
“Nay, nor look at it. Such blindness will not save your soul, Robert.”
Starting to pace the room, Robert murmured, “I will be a good husband to you, Gytha.”
“Do you truly believe I would allow you to be anything to me after you aided in the murder of my husband?”
“You will have to marry me. ’Tis part of Uncle’s plan.”
“Oh, aye, he can probably make me wed you. Between the pair of you, I can probably be forced to share your bed. I cannot be forced to care about you, nor even like you. Considering that your uncle means to kill my child…”
“Nay! Nay, ’tis not true. He did not say that.”
“He said it. Aye, and you heard and understood. But, ’tis clear you have since convinced yourself otherwise. Well, you will not be able to do that when you stand over the grave of this innocent. T’will be too late then.”
She suddenly realized that the door was unbarred and, because of his pacing around, she was now between Robert and the door. It was possible to get out of the room. The question was—what could she do after that? She would still be stuck inside the walls of Saitun Manor, but there was a chance she could slip out, a chance she could hide. Both were very small chances, but, she decided as she bolted for the door, they were better than no chance at all.
“Nay, Gytha! Wait!”
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Robert finally beginning to move after her. She flung open the door, but her rush to flee the room came to an abrupt halt against a square male body. Her high hopes, so briefly tasted, were shattered. Even before she looked up, she knew whom she had run into. Hands tightly enclosed her upper arms as she was shoved back into the room. Stumbling backwards, she looked up into the hard face of a furious Pickney. Behind him came Thomas and Bertrand.
“What are you doing here, Robert?” Pickney demanded. “Besides nearly losing us our prize.” Pushing Gytha towards her bed, he strode over and slapped Robert so hard the younger man staggered backwards.
Gytha frowned as she sat on her bed watching the exchange. Robert had made no move to avoid being struck. He had not even tried to run, let alone defend himself in word or deed. She found it hard to understand how a grown man could allow himself to be treated like that. There was only the smallest hint of rebellion in the sullenness of his expression.
“She had only just begun to run,” Robert murmured. “I but sought to ease her worries.”
