“Only when ’tis needful, which is not often. But I was just rousted from my fire to be told only I am to have the care of you. ’Tis late in coming, that order, though better late than not at all. That whoreson did not hurt you, did he?”
Which whoreson? she almost asked, but realized in time that he was speaking of the other jailer. “Nay, he did not touch me. But then, ’tis your lord’s order that no one is to touch me, to assist me or otherwise, nor am I to be spoken to. Were you not told that you are not to speak to me?”
“Nay, no one said aught of that, nor would I mind it if ’twere said. I do as I will and always will, though I have a few stripes on my back that tried to convince me otherwise.”
’Twas incredible, the anger she felt on his behalf. “Whowhipped you?”
“Nay.” He chuckled. “Never you mind. ’Twas long ago, and my own stubbornness the cause. Now, let me see what I can find for you at this late hour. The kitchen is like to be locked up tight by now, but I warrant there will be some fruit at least in the “stores above.”
He found her four plump apples freshly picked, which more than satisfied her hunger. But that was not all he found. He brought in a narrow wooden frame and a plump mattress heaped with warm bedding. He found an old, faded rug that covered nearly all the floor space. Another trip produced a crate to set her candles on, and a box with a supply of replacements so she need not deal with the darkness after all. There was a chamber pot, a bucket of water with cloths for washing up, and cold, fresh water to drink.
John Giffard was a godsend. He turned her dungeon cell into a room that was, if not pleasant, at least very comfortable. He brought her two large meals a day, food that was fit for the lord’s table. He kept her well supplied with fresh water as well as bathwater. He brought her a needle and thread to keep her hands busy, and himself to keep her mind busy. He spent a great deal of time with her every day, gossiping about this and that, mostly nonsense. He simply loved to talk, and she loved to listen to him.
She knew she had Sir Robert to thank for John Giffard. He must have known what the other jailer was like, and also that this one had a good and kind heart. Robert had taken pity on her after all, though Warrick de Chaville was not like to thank him for it. But she would thank him if ever she had the chance.
The days turned into a week, then two, then three. When Rowena finally noticed that the time of her monthly flux had come and passed without flow, she sat down and laughed hysterically. Gilbert’s plan had actually worked. That damn churl’s seed had taken root with only three nights’ trying. But Kirkburough was gone. From the road they had stopped to watch the smoke billow above the treetops as every wooden building and floor caught fire. There was naught left for a child to secure; a child conceived for only that purpose was useless now.
After the mad laughter came tears, a veritable flood of them mixed with self-pity. What had she done to deserve this ill fate? What would happen when Warrick de Chaville returned to Fulkhurst?
John Giffard would no doubt be taken from her, that was what, and all the comforts he had given her. That other jailer would return, or one like him. And would de Chaville even care that she was with child? Nay, he wanted her to die. She did not think that begging him at least for the child’s life would work. He had not wanted Kirkburough. He had destroyed it, so he would not care about the child if she said it was Lyons’ heir. But the child was hers, too, and his purpose in getting rid of her would be defeated if she left an heir to all that was hers.
She would not have to worry about giving birth in a dungeon. She would not be allowed to live that long—unless Fulkhurst did not return. And would not his war with Gilbert, who still had Lyons’ army, keep him away for long? If she could just have the child before Fulkhurst even knew of it, she was sure she could convince John Giffard to find a home for it.
Rowena was not certain when the child became her first concern. It might have been conceived for the wrong purpose, might have lost its usefulness, but she considered none of that. It was hers. It did not even matter that its father was an overlarge lout who had hated her every touch. Its father…
She had too much time to think in that dungeon, and too often her memories dwelt on Lyons’ substitute. She did not like that, but she seemed to have no control of it. If she closed her eyes, she could still see him stretched out before her, his body had been so memorable. She could still recall what it had made her feel like, the heady power in being able to control that body no matter how much he fought against it.
She had not lied when she had told him she was glad it was him. She had not enjoyed taking him, but after the original pain, it had not been unpleasant to touch him, or to taste him. He did not repulse her, did not make her gag with his clean smell. And he was very appealing to the eye—except for those silver eyes of his that hated her with such passion. But before she had first spoken to him, those eyes had been lovely, had made him very handsome despite the gag that had distorted his mouth.
She had not heard John approach until the door opened with its usual creak to draw her from her pensiveness. He was not wearing his usual pleasant smile and seemed disturbed about something. And then…
“Are you breeding, Lady Rowena?”
She stared at him in amazement. She had not been sick of a morn, as some women suffered, nor had her breasts enlarged the tiniest bit yet.
“How did you know?”
“Then you are?”
“Aye, but how—”
“I had not thought of it this soon, but my lord asked if you had had your—ah—woman’s time yet, and I realized you had not asked me for extra—ah—cloths. Why did you not tell me?”
“I only just realized it myself. But what do you mean, your lord asked? When?”
“Just now.”
Rowena lost what color she had maintained in that sunless room. “He has returned?”
“Aye, and I am to bring you to him now.”
Chapter 15
Rowena did not beg John not to take her to his lord. There would be no point to it. If he did not take her, someone else would come and get her. But she wanted to plead. All she could remember of Fulkhurst was his bigness and that slash of cruelty that was his mouth—and that icy coldness in his voice when he had sent her to his dungeon.
She barely noticed the Great Hall as she was led through it. ’Twas only the middle of the afternoon, so there were not so many people about, mainly servants busy at some task, a few soldiers, a few knights of no great stature.
It was to the lord’s solar that she was taken, a large room beyond the hall. It was bright with sunlight streaming in through two deep-set window alcoves, one on each side of the hooded fireplace. The large bed was four-posted and finely curtained. It was set against the stone wall that divided the hall, so in winter it would have the added warmth of the great hearth in the hall heating the stones behind it.
