She measured the confines of her chamber, five paces long, six wide. She counted the stones in the wall. She prayed for patience, with minimal success. She requested a bath every day and stayed in the water so long that her skin wrinkled. She identified the number and variety of dried flowers mingled with the rushes on the floor. She thought wistfully of Lord Adrian's treasure trove of books in the next room, but of course asking for one was out of the question since Meriel the lowborn Welshwoman could not possibly know how to read.
On the fourth day, inspiration struck and she persuaded Margery to bring her wool, distaff, and spindle. The maid had been doubtful first, but Meriel prevailed with the argument that the earl liked people to make themselves useful and spinning was useful. Thereafter she spent most of her days spinning by one of the narrow windows where she could see the sky.
Sometimes when a bird flew by, her hands would fall still as her heart ached with longing to be free. Being unable to face a lifetime confined within walls was a great part of the reason that she had left Lambourn, and now Meriel was held in a far narrower confinement. Then she would resume her spinning, for it helped to have her hands busy.
The days were bearable, but anxiety haunted her nights and she often woke from restless slumber gasping with fear. How long could she maintain her composure, even with the Blessed Mother's help? How long until her mind and spirit shattered? There was no answer except prayer, and the hope that Lord Adrian would tire of his captive before she reaching her breaking point.
* * *
Cecily of Chastain tensed at the sound of heavy, familiar footsteps in the hall, then glanced up, her expression neutral. She had hoped her husband would be away from the castle for several days longer and did not welcome his early return.
The furious expression on Guy of Burgoigne's face when he entered confirmed her misgivings. He was a large man, so dark and broadly built that Cecily, with the secret dry humor that enabled her to keep her sanity, sometimes wondered if his mother had lain with a bear.
At Burgoigne's heels was his chief lieutenant, Sir Vincent de Laon, a Frenchman whom Cecily loathed almost as much as her husband. Scowling, Guy made an impatient movement of his hand and Cecily's three women instantly picked up their handwork and took flight to a more comfortable spot.
Scarcely looking at his wife, Burgoigne tossed her his helmet. "Unarm me."
Guy continued his conversation with Vincent as he bent over so that she could pull first his surcoat, then his hauberk over his head. He must have been living in his armor for days, because he stank like a goat.
Even for a large, strong woman, the chain mail was heavy. As Cecily turned, the hauberk slipped from her arms and crashed noisily to the floor. Annoyed by her clumsiness, Guy swung a surly fist at his wife. Cecily could have avoided it, but had long since learned that it was better to accept a glancing blow, for if he missed entirely, he would strike again, harder.
In a corner of the room stood a wooden frame for holding the hauberk. As Cecily arranged the mail over it, she listened to the men carefully, wondering what had put her husband in a mood that was foul even by his low standards.
"Damnation!" Guy swore as he peeled off his quilted gambeson and dropped it on the floor for his wife to pick up. "We should have been able to loot and raze three of Warfield's villages. Instead, the bastard was there even before we could burn the first one. How does he always know where to be?"
"A pact with the devil?" Sir Vincent suggested as he removed his own helmet. He was from Paris and never troubled to conceal his disdain for the crude northerners among whom he lived.
"Bah, that puling Christ-kisser would faint at the thought," Burgoigne snarled. "He's a monk in all but name."
"For a monk, he fights rather well," Vincent murmured. The French knight was the only man who actually conversed with his choleric lord rather than merely obeying orders. Sometimes he even dared disagree.
Guy gave the harsh bark that was his version of laughter. "Aye, I'll give him that, Warfield does fight well, though not so well as I. Someday I'll meet him in single combat and carve his heart out and feed it to the dogs. But just now, sending him to his savior is less important than capturing his lands so there will be no question who is the true Earl of Shropshire. He is the one collecting most of the shire's third penny in taxes, and it gives him a great advantage over me." He flicked his dark hair impatiently. "The only way I'll defeat him is by hiring mercenaries."
"You're thinking of bringing in outside troops?" Vincent asked, surprised, " 'Twill be costly."
"Which is why I've not done it yet. But with fifty good mercenaries, I could raze Warfield's lands and have him mewed up in his castle before the summer was done," Burgoigne said, "No chance of taking Warfield Castle, more's the pity, but no matter—if I can stop him from interfering for a month or two, I'll have all Shropshire under my hand."
"There is still the matter of Richard FitzHugh and Montford Castle," Vincent said. "He may be his brother's lapdog, but he is not to be dismissed lightly."
"All I need do is lay siege to Warfield Castle when FitzHugh is visiting and they'll both be out of the way. Or mayhap the bastard can be bribed to turn his coat in return for being enfeoffed with some of his brother's lands." Burgoigne brooded. "The question is, where can I find the gold to hire the mercenaries? The worst of them are a greater danger to their master than his enemies, and the best will not settle for mere promises of future plunder."
"Does the lady of Chastain," Vincent nodded to Cecily with mocking respect, "have any jewels worth selling?"
"Most of them went last year, for rebuilding the wall. Unless she held some back, like the sly cow she is." Burgoigne raised his voice. "Wife, attend me!"
Cecily dared not disobey; rebellion had been beaten out of her before her wedding night was over. When she was within her husband's reach, he grabbed her arm and twisted it harshly behind her. "A good and faithful wife like you would not withhold any of her treasure from her lawful lord, would she?"
She tried to keep her expression impassive, knowing how much her husband enjoyed the sight of another's suffering. "No, my lord," she said, then gasped as he twisted harder and pain lanced through her shoulder. "You have had most of the gold plate and all of my mother's jewels, save for a few valueless trinkets."
"Bring me your jewel box," he commanded, shoving her away so hard that she almost fell.
Clumsily she caught her balance, then crossed to the wardrobe and removed the small chest that had once contained her mother's jewelry. Removing the key from around her neck, she unlocked the casket before presenting it to her husband. With no real hope he poked around in the interior, sneering at the simple enameled brooches and glass beads. "Bah, I've seen village whores with better."
"Very likely," she agreed with a trace of dryness, then cast her eyes down when he glared at her.
"They're good enough for a fat cow like you," he said as he removed a pretty circle brooch. "I'll take this one."
"Yes, my lord," Cecily murmured as she returned the casket to her wardrobe. She knew that Guy would give the ornament to one of the whores currently enjoying his favors. The brooch had been a gift from her father when she was a child and she had cherished it, but if it helped keep her husband from her bed for a night or two, she'd not regret the loss.
"Who has money, apart from Adrian of Warfield himself?" Vincent mused, then answered his own question. "The Church and the Jews, that's who."
"What good does that do me?" Burgoigne snapped as he sat in his tall chair of state. "Once the Church gets its greedy hands on gold, it never lets go, and the Jews are all in London."
"I agree, it would be folly to risk excommunication by plundering any of the Church's treasures," Vincent admitted as he sat in the chair that was usually Cecily's, "but the Jews, now, that's a different story."
"You've a plan?" Burgoigne said with interest.
Cecily did not doubt that the Frenchman had a plan; it was his evil, fertile mind that made hi
m so valuable to his master. Silently she poured silver goblets of wine for both men, served them, then took her embroidery and retreated to a stool at the far end of the chamber. She would have preferred to withdraw, but her husband required her to be available to wait on him.
"It's true that all the Jews used to live in London, since that was where the old king had invited them. But I heard something interesting at Stephen's Easter court. Over the last few years Jews have moved to smaller cities. Now there are Jewish communities in Norwich, Lincoln, Oxford, several other towns as well." The French knight paused to sip his wine. "Perhaps some of them can be persuaded to bring themselves and their gold to Shrewsbury."
"What good will that do me? Shrewsbury is Warfield's city, not mine," Burgoigne growled. It was a sore point with him that his rival controlled the shire's largest community and its revenues.
"But the road from London to Shrewsbury crosses your territory," Vincent pointed out. "When they pass through, you can relieve them of the gold they've leeched from honest Christians."
A slow, unpleasant smile crossed Burgoigne's face. "Do you think you can persuade a rich Jew or two to make the move?"
"I think it quite possible, if they are assured of the personal protection of the Earl of Shropshire." Vincent held out his empty cup. Across the room, Cecily saw his signal and quickly refilled both men's goblets with wine.
"If you like the idea, I will go to London and see if I can find a lamb for our fleecing," the Frenchman continued. His smile broadened. " 'Twill be a particularly nice touch if I say that I represent Adrian of Warfield. Then he will be blamed for the robbery, which will do his lily-pure reputation no good."
Burgoigne roared with laughter, his earlier ill-humor gone. "I like it well. The king would be displeased if he knew I had robbed some of his Jews, but he'll not find out." And to ensure that there would be no hint of Guy's involvement, he would take their lives as well as their gold. "Go you to London and use that silver tongue of yours to persuade a moneylender to bring his business to Shrewsbury."
Cecily's lips thinned and she jabbed her needle into the fabric with unnecessary violence. Even if they were Jews, she could not help but feel sorry for anyone fool enough to fall into her husband's web.
Chapter 6
Meriel glanced up, surprised when the key turned in the lock, for Margery had already brought dinner and should not be back until suppertime. But it was Lord Adrian who entered, and when she saw him, Meriel felt an odd twist of emotion, not quite fear, certainly not pleasure. Perhaps it was... anticipation, for now there would be a break in the tedium.
As the earl entered and closed the door behind him, she saw that though he wore his sword, he looked scholarly and contained today, with no dangerous wildness in his eyes. The thought also occurred, and was hastily suppressed, that he was dangerously handsome. "Good day, Meriel," he said, his voice mild and reasonable. "Have you been served well in my absence?''
She gave a wry chuckle. "Since when does the jailer ask his prisoner about the accommodations?"
He looked uncomfortable. "I am not your jailer."
Her dark brows rose. "What then?"
"Perhaps I am your fate."
"You flatter yourself, my lord." As they spoke she remained seated, her deft fingers twisting thread onto the spindle.
"Who set you to work?" he asked, eyeing the distaff and spindle with disapproval.
"No one. I thought to make myself useful. Since it is well known that you don't believe in slothfulness, it was easy to persuade your servants to let me spin."
As his mouth tightened, she said quickly, "The fault is mine, my lord. Do not punish any of your people."
"I won't, but it's obvious that I should have given more detailed orders." As the earl spoke, he stared at her with such intensity that Meriel began feeling uncomfortable. He had been calm enough when he entered. What was it about her that made the man become unbalanced?
She braced herself, expecting him to ask her if she had reconsidered his proposal, but he surprised her. "Would you like to go for a ride?"
Scarcely daring to hope, she asked, "You mean go outside?"
"Of course." He smiled. "I have heard of knights who ride their horses inside their keeps, but I like to think that we are above such behavior here."
Meriel laughed, so happy at the thought of leaving her prison that anything would have amused her. Laying down her spinning, she accompanied him downstairs, through the great hall, and outside to the stables, delighting in the fresh scenes and faces. She was interested to note that everyone from knight to stable lad treated his lord with deference, but there was no fear, and not a few friendly smiles from his people. It was very much the way people at Avonleigh behaved with Alan, and implied that the earl was better liked than she would have expected.
Meriel herself was studied with open curiosity, and, in the case of one or two young females, with hostility. Knowing what everyone was thinking embarrassed her, but Meriel kept her head high. She was not here of her own free will, nor was she responsible if the lord of the manor was neglecting his usual bedmates.
Two saddled horses were waiting in the stables. It was not surprising that he thought she would accept his offer. Or had he intended to force her to come, no matter what her own wishes? She would do well to remember that his courtesy did not change the fact that she was entirely in his power.
The mount Lord Adrian had chosen for her was a sorrel mare, as pretty and sweet-tempered as her own Rosalia. Meriel almost asked why the mare did not carry a sidesaddle, but just in time recalled that as a female of humble birth she would be expected to ride cross-saddle. No matter; she was experienced with both styles and would have ridden bareback to get out of Warfield Castle.
Since Meriel preferred that the earl not have opportunities to touch her, she swung into the saddle without waiting for his help. "What is the mare's name?"
"Call her whatever you wish," he said as he mounted his own black stallion.
"Rose," she said, deciding on a humble version of her own mare's name.
The day was sunny with a stiff breeze whipping fluffy clouds across the sky. As they trotted out of the village gate Meriel threw her head back and laughed from sheer delight. Never in her life had she so much appreciated God's sweet green world. The sky was bluer, the flowers brighter, the very air tasted better than she had ever noticed before.
As they came onto the broad meadow that stretched beside the river, Lord Adrian remarked, "I don't suppose I need to warn you that it would be futile to try to escape."
"No, my lord," she replied, casting a sapient eye over his stallion. "Even the swiftest of mares could not outrun that great black devil of yours." Her eyes gleamed mischievously. "That doesn't mean that I will forgo the pleasure of feeling the wind in my hair."
Meriel loosened her reins and urged the horse forward, leaning over the mare's mane as they went tearing down the meadow. Rose had a pretty turn of speed and Meriel gloried in it, feeling very nearly free as the wind whipped her braids out behind her and fluttered her skirts above her knees. Vaguely she was aware that the earl was keeping pace with her, staying a stride or two behind, and she was grateful that he made no attempt to stop her wild flight.
As they approached a small flock of grazing sheep, Meriel slowed down so as not to disturb them. Her eyes glowing, she turned to her companion. "That was wonderful! Rose is a superb mount."
Reining back his own horse, Lord Adrian said, "This is just a taste of what you might have if you agree to my proposal."
Meriel's pleasure died and she turned away, ignoring him as if he had not spoken. Rather to her surprise, the earl was content to ride in silence rather than pursue the point. The trail swung away from the river's edge, and soon they were traveling through light woodland. Good country for hawks, though not suitable for falcons.
Even as Meriel enjoyed the ride, part of her mind was calculating the chances for escaping. Granted that her horse could not outrun the earl's in an even
contest. But what if he dismounted for some reason and she had a good lead before he came after her? Better yet, what if she could lead or drive his stallion off and leave her captor on foot? He would never catch her then.
She glanced askance at her companion, then gave an inward sigh. In spite of his casual air, it was unlikely that Lord Adrian would be easily caught off-guard. But if by some chance an opportunity arose, she'd be off with a speed that would do credit to Chanson.
After two or three miles, the trait entered a wide area of wasteland. Meriel frowned as she considered it. Wasteland was fields that had once been farmed, then abandoned, usually in the troubled years after the Normans conquered England. But these fields had been cultivated more recently. Judging by the size of the scrub trees scattered across the old fields, perhaps ten or twelve years earlier.
The unmistakable flattened cone shape of a motte rose before them. The top of the mound was crowned by the blackened ruins of a tower. To the right lay the bailey, a mass of vines and tall grasses obscuring the sad remnants of stables, workshops, and living quarters. An unnatural silence lay over what once had been a Norman keep, as if even the birds and insects preferred to keep their distance.
The overgrown trail led to the ditch that surrounded the motte and bailey. Meriel reined her horse in at the edge, her gaze scanning the ruins.
As the earl drew up beside her, he said, "This was the original Warfield keep."
Puzzled, she asked, "Did you destroy the keep after the castle was built so that robbers could not take it over?"
"It was burned by Guy of Burgoigne." His voice was flat, but there was an underlying note that caused Meriel to glance at him. Catching her gaze, he smiled humorlessly. "The other Earl of Shropshire. Were you aware that there are two claimants to the shire?"