Chapter 4
The day progressed, despite all hope that it would not, and just after Sext, Rowena was married to Lord Godwine Lyons of Kirkburough. Naught had happened to save her. Before witnesses, with man’s blessing—she would like to think God withheld His—she was given over from the control of one man to another, her new husband. Feebleminded as he was, he had slept through the entire mass.
A feast had been prepared to last the rest of the day. Rowena sat beside her husband, watching him gum the slops he was forced to eat because of his lack of teeth. But graciously, or perversely, since he had noted she was not eating, he piled her own gold plate high. If she had tried to swallow anything, she was certain she would vomit.
Gilbert was in highest spirits. He had done what he had set out to do, so naught could sour him, not even her silence each time he spoke to her.
He sat on her other side, ate with gusto, downed chalices of wine with even more gusto, and bragged endlessly of how he would now run Fulkhurst out of their shire, if he could not actually kill him, which was what he would prefer to do. And Mildred had spoken true. Gilbert was not even allowing Lyons’ men to participate fully in the celebrations, to which there were many outspoken grumbles, but had them leaving the keep in groups of one hundred throughout the day. They were being sent to his own stronghold, to join his army there, which already had orders to march to Tures with the new dawn. He was not even going to wait until he could hire more men. He wanted Fulkhurst besieged at Tures before the warlord could slip away.
Rowena was not the least bit interested in his talk of war. She hated Gilbert enough now that she hoped he could not wrest Tures away from Fulkhurst, even though that would mean it would never be hers again. She no longer cared. Gilbert was as much a warmonger as Fulkhurst was. Heartily, she hoped they killed each other.
When the time came for the ladies to usher her off to the nuptial chamber, Rowena was so beset with dread, she was sure she was going to be sick. Her skin was as pasty white as her husband’s, and her eyes hurt from fighting back tears all day.
There were no bawdy jests or crude advice, as was the custom at weddings. Looks of pity were all she received, and the women made fast work of preparing her and getting out of there. She was left in her thin shift. No one had suggested she remove it, not that she would have. Godwine was so blind he might not notice, and that would leave at least something between her skin and his.
As soon as she was alone, she slipped her bedrobe on and made haste to put out all the candles except those by the bed, which she could douse without leaving it. Then she headed for the table where she had already noticed the bottle of wine and two chalices, with only one filled. She hesitated in reaching for the drugged wine, however. The potion was to last only a few hours. What if her husband did not come to her for a few hours? Should she wait a while more? What she should have done was ask Mildred how long she must wait for the potion to take effect.
The door flew open without warning and Gilbert came swiftly forward, his dark eyes on the hand reaching for the chalice. “Nay, leave that,” he ordered tersely, ready to stop her if she did not heed him. He carried his own bottle of wine and set it on the table. “’Tis lucky I thought to wonder at your docility.”
“What else can I be, when you hold my mother prisoner?”
He ignored her words, scowling down at the chalice of wine. “Did you mean to poison him?”
“Nay.”
His scowl got darker as it turned on her. “Yourself, then?”
She let out a laugh, near hysterical, wishing she had the nerve. He grasped her shoulders and shook her.
“Answer!”
She shrugged off his hands. “If I would poison anyone, ’twould be you!” she hissed, angry enough to show him all that she was feeling in the look she gave him.
He looked flustered for a moment. And it occurred to her that he had actually been afraid that she might do herself harm.
He did not meet her eyes when he said, “You make too much of this.” She was aware he referred to her marriage. “The sooner you get yourself with child, the sooner I will get rid of him for you.”
“So you do mean to kill him?”
He did not answer, for he had left the door open, and they could hear the party approaching with the groom.
“Get yourself to the bed to await him.” He gave her a little shove in that direction. “And behave yourself as befits a bride.”
Rowena whirled around. “Youaught await him there, as this marriage is your doing,” she whispered furiously. “He is so blind, mayhap he will not notice the difference.”
Gilbert actually grinned. “I am pleased to see you still have the spirit I ofttimes noticed. Indeed, ’tis wise of me not to trust you, so I will take these with me.”
“These” were the bottle of wine and the filled chalice that had been standing on the table. Rowena had to bite her lip to keep from begging him to leave her the cup at least. But more determined would he be to take it if he knew how much she wanted it. Either way, ’twas lost to her.
With a dry sob, she ran for the bed, and had just covered herself when the groom arrived, carried in by the few remaining household knights who had yet to depart. Their crude laughter and jests ended at the sight of Rowena in the bed, and it was Gilbert who curtly ushered them out when he noticed them ogling her. In less than a minute, she was left alone with her husband.
He had been prepared for her. He wore a black bedrobe that made his skin look even whiter. The tie had come loose on the way to the bedchamber, and he did not bother to tighten it, but let it part completely with his first step forward. Rowena had closed her eyes briefly, but that image of his body would not leave her inner mind—legs whittled down to mere bone, ribs protruding, sunken belly, and that tiny thing between his legs. She had heard it called many things, all denoting some monstrous weapon, but that was no weapon to strike fear into her.
She almost laughed, but she was too close to tears. She began to pray silently, that she could bear this, that it would be over with quickly, that she would not be rendered mad when he was done with her.
“Well, where are you, my pretty?” he asked peevishly. “I am too old to go a’hunting.”
“Here, my lord.”
