Had she been aware during that endless plunge to the water at the time? Or had she already been blessedly unconscious? Pray God she had been unconscious! The thought was horrifying. Falling... spinning helplessly through the air like a broken-winged bird. Perhaps smashing into the cliff, then sinking under the flowing dark waters.
Imagine such a fall made her stomach twist with nausea. How had she survived? Possibly a fishing boat had been near and the occupants had rescued her. Perhaps she had floated downriver and washed to the bank before she drowned.
There was another possibility, perhaps a more likely one. It might be possible to dive safely from the castle into the river if one didn't first crash through the heavy leaded glass, and if one dived far enough out to avoid the cliff.
Had Lord Adrian risked his life to save her? That seemed more likely than a boat being in exactly the right spot, or her washing ashore still living. If the earl had saved her, she had to give him reluctant credit. He'd done his best to atone for his crimes against her.
Another unwelcome thought intruded. Yes, he had captured her, tried to break her will, but he had not forced her to attempt suicide. She'd had done that on her own.
If she had been stronger, more accepting of God's inscrutable will, she would not have been desperate to the point of madness. The earl had said he would release her, and she had responded by trying to kill herself, not once but twice.
She'd had no reason to disbelieve the earl's word. He had behaved wickedly, but he had never lied to her. Therefore, when he said he would free her, very likely he had meant it.
If Lord Adrian pulled her from the water, saved her from suicide, he had saved far more than her life. He had saved her soul, and at the risk of his own life.
A strange thought, that she had reason to be grateful to her captor. Meriel lay back on the straw, her body curling in an instinctive search for comfort. If there was a lesson to be drawn from her newly discovered memories, it was to try to endure this captivity with more strength and grace than her previous one.
Chapter 18
Guy returned from his mysterious journey in such good spirits that Cecily was immediately mistrustful. Her husband's good moods were invariably founded on some other poor soul's pain. He said nothing directly to her, of course, he never did. Silently she helped him remove his armor and ordered food and wine for him and Sir Vincent.
Cecily sat down at her embroidery frame and went to work, though candlelight made it difficult to set the stitches accurately. No matter, she could pull them out in the morning. It was more important that she discover what was going on. She'd learned early that being well informed was essential to survival.
As Cecily listened, her lips went tight with distaste. So Guy had used false pretenses to capture and imprison a Jewish merchant, his family, and his entire household, innocent people whose only crime was that they had wealth. Thank God Cecily's father was not alive to see such shame, that Chastain had become a den of thieves!
Of course, if her father were still alive, life would be unimaginably different. Guy would never have been allowed to defile Chastain with his presence, and Cecily would have been given a decent husband, a man of honor.
There was worse to come. Guy and Vincent began laughing uproariously as they worked out the wording of a message that was to be sent out immediately. At first Cecily was puzzled, but when she realized what they meant, she was so shocked that she accidentally stabbed herself with her needle, staining the embroidery with her blood.
Merciful Mother, they had captured Adrian of Warfield's wife and thrown her into the dungeon like a common felon! A Norman woman of gentle birth, and she was now imprisoned under Cecily's own roof!
Not for the first time, Cecily lamented that she was neither brave enough nor ruthless enough to have murdered Guy in their bed years ago. The world would be a better place without his wickedness, as would Chastain.
These lands had been in Cecily's family for so long that the first owners were lost in the mists of time. There had been British farmers, then Saxon, a Dane or two. After William conquered England, one of his knights married a daughter of Chastain and the blood of Norman and Saxon had mingled. Now the line had dwindled to her, a woman unworthy of her ancestors.
A tear fell on the linen stretched across the embroidery frame, then another. Cecily closed her eyes against her tears and prayed that if an opportunity ever came to retrieve her honor, she would have the courage to take it.
* * *
Her angel was holding her in his arms, his voice gentle and poignant with longing as he said, "I loved you from the moment I saw you, ma petite." Then he held her differently, not with tenderness but desire, whispering, "Behold, you are fair, my love, behold, you are fair.''
Slow waves of rapture swept through her as he did miraculous, exquisite things to her ardent body. And she responded in kind, discovering the wonders of his beauty, and of pleasuring him.
They joined and were one, body and spirit, and in the joining there was shattering joy, the closest mortals could come to the divine. She cried out, "I love you!'' and her body echoed her words with uncontrollable abandon.
Meriel was woken from her sleep by her own cry and the shuddering convulsions of her lower body. Gasping and dazed, at first she could not remember where she was or what was happening to her.
She focused on the evidence of her senses. Straw, stench, absolute darkness. Of course. Guy of Burgoigne's dungeon.
And she had just experienced the most vivid dream of her life for her loins still shuddered, replete with pleasurable warmth. Uncertainly she moved her hand beneath the heavy blanket and touched one of her tingling breasts. Shocking sensual delight shafted through her. Blessed Mother, what did it mean? What kind of shameless creature had she become?
Her fingers clenched the edge of her blanket and straw rustled beneath her as she shifted, trying to hide from the knowledge that she had dreamed of Lord Adrian. She had always thought him as handsome as an angel, the proud fallen Lucifer, who had chosen to rule in hell rather than serve in heaven.
But in her dream Adrian was not the dangerous, unpredictable man who had terrorized her. He'd been all tenderness and gentle love. And much as she loathed admitting such a bitter truth, Meriel could not deny that she had loved him back—totally, without reservation, she had loved him back. She had welcomed him inside her, not merely willing but eager.
Between them there had been such perfect love and harmony that on waking Meriel felt as cold and bereft as a babe torn away from its mother's arms. For what she felt now was not love, but the memory of love.
Was that perfect love the true tale of their marriage? Or was the dream her mind's attempt to flee dreadful reality by creating a happiness she'd never known?
Meriel bit her lower lip until it hurt. That passionate dream was only that, a dream. She could never have loved Lord Adrian. He was as much a monster as Guy of Burgoigne, and infinitely more dangerous because he was so fair. She could never have loved him, never...
Denying, she squeezed her eyes tight against the dark. But as Meriel slid once more into sleep, the edge of her blanket soaked in tears as she wept for losing what she had never had.
* * *
Alan restlessly paced across the dais at the end of Warfield's great hall. "We should be doing more."
The earl shifted restlessly in his high chair of state. "It's more useful to talk to the searchers as they come back, but I share your impatience. Perhaps you should take several men and ride out yourself."
"I prefer to stay where I can watch you," Alan said coldly.
Warfield accepted this churlishness as dispassionately as he had accepted his brother-in-law's other edged comments. At first Alan had thought Lord Adrian cold, but he'd come to recognize that tension had stretched the other man taut as a bow. Whatever his crimes toward Meriel might be, the earl did care for her, and even his rigid control could not disguise his fierce anxiety.
Sitting idle allowed Alan far too much
time to recall his own despairing search for Meriel several weeks before. Privately he recognied that the earl was likely accomplishing more here with his probing questions and quick decisions. The night before, they'd stayed in the great hall until past midnight, Lord Adrian interviewing his men as they straggled in and checking their information against a large map of the area.
But there'd been no news, and this morning had been no better. Because of the weather the previous day, visibility had been poor and few people were abroad, so Meriel's passing had left only the faintest of traces. A lady on a sorrel mare had been sighted several times between the point where she left her husband and the royal forest. Somewhere on her eastward trek, she had vanished.
Having faith in his sister's ingenuity and good sense, Alan was less concerned for her safety than Warfield. Possibly her horse had gone lame and she'd taken refuge with a forester in some remote cottage. Or perhaps she thought it unsafe to go to Avonleigh and chose another destination, though Alan was uneasy at the thought of her riding any great distance alone.
The only report of any interest was that a large body of armed men had been seen crossing the northern edge of Warfield territory the morning before, then returning later the same day. The earl frowned when he heard that, but it didn't seem likely that Meriel would have been so far north, so the news was set aside as not relevant.
When they found his sister again, Alan might exercise his brotherly prerogative and tan her little backside for running off alone again. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew that he would do no such thing, for he had never struck his sister in his life. But for a sweet, mild-tempered girl, Meriel had certainly been causing more than her share of trouble lately!
The bad news came in late afternoon. Alan had been roaming the hall, talking to those Warfield retainers who were about. He learned that Meriel was universally popular, which did not surprise him, and that the earl was also, which did.
Then a messenger arrived, a travel-stained man wearing a blue-boar badge. The man bowed, then handed his parchment to the earl. Alan heard the sound of a seal being broken.
He looked up and watched his brother-in-law. As Lord Adrian read the message, his face turned cold and hard as carved marble. Savagely he crumpled the parchment, saying in a deadly voice, "Tell your master that I shall bring my army to Chastain to discuss this with him. Now, get out if you value your life!"
No fool, the messenger left faster than he'd come.
The earl turned to one of his retainers. "Send a message to Montford. Richard must come immediately with his full complement of knights and men-at-arms."
As the servant hastened away, Alan said sharply, "What has happened? Does it concern Meriel?"
White-faced and wordless, the earl handed over the parchment. It took a moment for Alan to decipher the script. Then furious, annihilating rage swept over him.
The message said that Guy of Burgoigne, who styled himself the true Earl of Shropshire, had captured Meriel of Warfield. And if her husband did not meet the ransom demand. Lady Meriel would be returned to her home in pieces.
* * *
Guy was dining when the message arrived from France. The earl immediately handed it to Sir Vincent to read aloud. "It must be from Ulric. When will he be arriving with his troop?"
Sir Vincent hastily wiped his greasy fingers on a piece of bread and took the parchment. After scanning it, he pursed his lips in a soft, not unadmiring whistle. "He isn't coming. Lord Adrian found out you had hired him and paid him more to stay away. Ulric said that he's sure you'll understand that this is strictly a matter of business and no personal insult is meant. The money you offered him on account will be returned to the London goldsmith whom you used for your initial payment. By the time you receive this, he and his men will be on their way to Italy on a new commission."
"What!" Guy roared. "How dare that bastard interfere with me!" He leapt up and swept his arm furiously across the table, scattering meat, trenchers, and tankards to the floor.
Half a dozen dogs converged on the unexpected bounty. Swearing, the earl kicked out viciously, catching one of the hounds in the ribs. The dog yelped, then snatched the joint of beef in its jaws and raced away, pursued by its fellows.
Ignoring the canine byplay, Sir Vincent said, "But you don't need Ulric now that you have Warfield's wife. You'll be able to get whatever you want from him, and will be saved the cost of paying mercenaries as well."
"That isn't the point!" Guy said savagely. "That effete bastard thinks he's so clever! He thinks he's stolen a march on me. Well, by all the saints of hell, he'll be sorry for this." The earl whirled away from the table. "Get his wife and bring her up to my chamber. Now!"
* * *
When Meriel woke in the morning, she discovered an unexpected blessing: the dungeon was no longer completely dark. High on the wall, an air shaft led to the outside. Because of its height and the thickness of the massive walls, she could not see out, but fresh air and a little light managed to find their way in. There was a world of difference between absolute blackness and even the dimmest of illumination, and she was passionately grateful for that narrow slit above her head.
The trap was lifted and she was required to send up the previous night's empty tankard before receiving more bread and ale to break her fast. After she had eaten, Meriel sat cross-legged on her pallet and relaxed.
Though it wasn't easy, eventually she was able to attain a state of meditation where her circumstances no longer mattered greatly. She was aware of her body and of the danger that surrounded her, but her spirit was serene, and in such a state time flowed by easily.
In her detachment, at first she did not notice that the trapdoor had opened again. Only when the ladder was dropped into the cell did her awareness return to her circumstances, and at first she was a little disoriented.
Someone was calling her name, and when she didn't respond, Sir Vincent himself came down the ladder.
"Come with me, countess," he said gruffly, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to her feet. "The longer you keep the earl waiting, the angrier he'll be, and believe me, you won't want him any angrier than he is now."
Obediently she climbed the ladder, Sir Vincent right behind. A man-at-arms waited above. Did they really think it would take two armed men to keep her from fighting her way to freedom? She must look more dangerous than she realized.
The two men led her up an endless series of stairways and passages until they were a floor above the hall. Then Sir Vincent grasped her upper arm and escorted her into the lord's bedchamber. "Here she is, Lord Guy."
When the earl saw Meriel, a look of dangerous gratification crossed his face. "You may go now, Vincent. Unless you would like to stay and watch, and maybe have her yourself when I'm done?"
Sir Vincent's hand tightened on Meriel's arm, then fell away. "She holds no charm for me, my lord," he murmured, then bowed and left the room.
Outside in the corridor he hesitated, uncharacteristically perturbed. It was one thing to rape a peasant girl. Serfs were scarcely more than animals and didn't matter, for chivalry was a code of behavior among nobles and had nothing to do with the lowborn.
But Warfield's wife was a lady, and ravishing her was outrageous even by Vincent's flexible standards. Worse, in his present mood the earl might get carried away and kill her, like that wench last year in Nottingham. It would be a great waste, since alive Warfield's wife was valuable. Dead she was worth nothing at all.
Sir Vincent had too much respect for his own neck to suggest that when Guy was in such a rage, but there was one person who might be able to do something. If Sir Vincent could find her in time, and if the stupid cow had the courage to interfere. It was a long chance, he decided, but worth trying.
Inside the bedchamber, Burgoigne very deliberately unfastened the brooch that held his mantle in place, then tossed the garment over a stool. "Your husband has interfered with me, and you are going to pay the price for it. Come here!"
Meriel's calm fractu
red at his unmistakable meaning. Her eyes fixed on him, slowly she began backing the length of the room. No matter how hopeless her case, there was no way she could make herself approach him voluntarily.
Swearing impatiently, he closed the distance between them in a few quick strides and grabbed her by the wrist. "Come here, you whey-faced bitch! And don't flatter yourself that I am doing this from desire."
Rationally Meriel knew that fighting was useless and would increase the likelihood that he would seriously injure her, but her revulsion was far stronger than reason. As he started to pull her toward the bed, she furiously raked his face with the nails of her free hand.
Burgoigne stared at her, so startled by her opposition that he was not yet angry. Then his complexion turned wine-red with rage and he struck the side of her head with his open hand. He was enormously tall and broad, double her weight, and the force of his blow caused her vision to dim and her knees to buckle.
Still she continued to struggle feebly. Infuriated by Meriel's resistance, Guy shoved her to the floor. She struck so hard that all her breath was knocked out, leaving her temporarily helpless.
Face savage, he stripped off his belt and outer tunic. "Perhaps I shall let you live to go back to your husband. If you do, he'll never be able to take you again without remembering that I have had you too, that my shaft has reached depths his puny rod never will," he jeered. "If you bear a child soon, he can wonder whose it is. He will never be free of the knowledge that his meek, virginal little wife has been my whore."
Frantically Meriel tried to scrabble sideways away from him, but Guy dropped to his knees and grabbed her tunic so that the fabric tightened around her throat with choking force. He shoved her flat on her back again, pulled her skirts up and straddled her thighs so that she was immobilized, then ripped her bliaut and shift to her waist.
Guy smiled evilly at the sight of what lay beneath the loose, oversize clothing that Sarah had lent Meriel. "You are less boyish than I thought," he growled as he opened his chausses. "There may be some enjoyment here after all."