Virgin Bride (2 page)

Lifting her head, she looked into eyes that shone with gratitude and brimmed with tears.

"Thank you," he said, his fingers gripping hers more tightly. Moments later he fell asleep.

Withdrawing from his chamber, Graeye quietly closed the door and turned toward the stairs. She had taken no more than a half-dozen steps when a sound behind her caught her attention. Chills creeping up her spine, she slowly turned to face the small chapel situated at the end of the corridor. As no torches had been lit beyond Edward's chamber, she squinted to see past the shadows that abounded there, but to no avail.

More than anything, she wanted to ignore the noise and return to her chores belowstairs, but she knew she must eventually face the memories that had haunted her dreams since that first night at Medland.

Squaring her shoulders, she drew a deep breath and walked forward. What was making the noise? she wondered, refusing to allow her imagination to believe it had anything to do with her brother's death. A rat, perhaps, or a breeze stirring the rushes about the chapel, she reassured herself.

As she drew near, the sound became that of scratching and quick, shallow breathing. Her heart leaping, Graeye stumbled to a halt and peered into the shadows. "Who goes there?" she demanded, her voice high and shaky.

Silence followed, but was soon shattered when a deep groan rent the air. In the next moment a large figure bounded out of the darkness and skidded to a stop before her.

Her hand pressed over her slamming heart, her mouth wide with the scream of fright that had nearly leaped from her lungs, she stared disbelievingly at the great, mangy dog. "Groan," she exclaimed.

Looking up at her with wide, expectant eyes, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, the dog wagged its tail so vigorously, its backside shifted side to side.

Limp with relief, Graeye sank to her knees and curved an arm around the animal. "You are a naughty dog, frightening me like that," she scolded, turning her face away when he tried to lick it.

As she stroked the dog's head, she smiled, remembering how frightened she had been of the beast when he had introduced himself during her first meal at Medland. She had rarely been around dogs, and certainly never one of such proportions, and had shrieked when he had laid his slavering chin upon her lap. That had gained her nothing but humiliation, for the dog did not move, and her father's men had roared with laughter.

In hopes that he might leave her if she fed him, she had tossed food to him, but always he returned to her. Offhandedly, Edward had advised that if she beat him rather than feed him, he would not bother her. At his callous words a feeling of protectiveness had assailed her and replaced her fright.

Since that day Groan—as she had named him, due to his penchant for making that horrible noise—had attached himself to her side. And he had more than once proved himself valuable.

With a shudder Graeye remembered the night, a week after she'd returned to Medland, when Sir William had cornered her as she'd readied to bed down in the hall. The vile man had taunted her, his words cruel and cutting, his hands bruising as they made themselves familiar with her cringing body. Though he was to be her husband, and it was likely she could not prevent the rape he intended, she had fought him with every ounce of her strength.

It had not deterred him, though. In fact, he had seemed to enjoy her resistance. Even as he had torn her bliaut and laid his hands to her bare flesh, he had threatened that if she bore him a child with the same mark she carried, he would kill it himself.

That had frightened her more than the inevitable violation of her body.

She had been about to scream for help when Groan had appeared. Snapping and snarling, he had circled William, his body bunched as he readied himself to attack.

The man who had thought nothing of exerting his greater strength over a frightened woman had retreated posthaste, leaving Graeye to offer profuse thanks to her unlikely champion.

Conveniently forgetting her resolve to face the haunting memories within the chapel, Graeye straightened. "Come," she said to Groan, "I will find you a nice morsel."

The dog, however, went back to the chapel door and began to scratch and sniff again.

Graeye pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. How much longer could she avoid that place? she asked herself. Sooner or later she would have to go within and brave her fears. Otherwise she would never be free of them.

"Very well," she said. "We shall see what it is that interests you, Groan." Taking the last steps forward, she laid trembling fingers on the handle. Then, swallowing hard, she pushed the door open.

Immediately, Groan rushed ahead, leaving her behind.

It was not like that first night when a shower of candlelight had greeted Graeye—quite the opposite. Today the chapel was dim, its only light coming from the small window that had been opened to air out the room.

Crossing herself, Graeye stepped inside. Instantly her gaze fell upon the high table that stood against the far wall. Her brother had been laid out on that table that first night, his ravaged, decomposing corpse emitting the most terrible stench. She could still smell it.

Though she did not want to, she found herself reliving that night when Edward had brought her here. She'd been unable to cross the threshold for the horrible smell that had assailed her, and he had thrust her inside.

"I would have you see Philip with your own eyes," he had said, "that you might know the brutality of his murder." Pulling her forward, he had swept the covering aside to reveal the festering wounds and Philip's awful death mask.

"See the marks on his hands and chest?" he asked, running his fingers over the stiffened corpse. "These he survived. 'Twas the arrow that killed him."

Fighting down nausea, Graeye asked, "Arrow?" She saw no evidence of such a wound.

"Aye, took it in the back," Edward said. In the glowing fight his face turned a horrid crimson and purple as he stared into the sightless eyes of his son.

Anxious to withdraw, Graeye touched his sleeve. "Come," she said, "let us speak elsewhere, 'tis not the place—"

" Twas that Balmaine bitch and her brother!" His accusation cut across her words.

Graeye's head snapped back. Balmaine? Was that not the family under which Philip had done his training to become a knight? Aye, she was certain their properties bordered upon those of Medland.

"I fear I do not understand, Father," she said. "The Balmaines are responsible for this?"

He looked up from the body, the hate upon his face so tangible, it gripped a cold hand about her heart.

"Aye, Gilbert Balmaine challenged your brother to a duel, and when Philip bettered him, that wicked sister of his put an arrow through his back."

Graeye gasped. Though her familial ties were indeed strained by the long years of absence, she was appalled that such an injustice had been done her brother.

"Why?" she whispered.

Edward gripped her upper arm. " Twas the Balmaine woman's revenge upon Philip for the breaking of his betrothal to her."

Graeye had not known of her brother's betrothal. Despair over the lost years gripped her fiercely. Mayhap things would have been different had her mother lived and Graeye herself had been allowed to grow up at Medland.

"Why would Philip break the betrothal?" she asked, and flinched when Edward's fingers bit deeper into her flesh.

"She was a whore—gave herself to another man only days before she was to wed Philip. He could not have married her after such a betrayal."

Graeye's hands clenched. What evil lurked in a woman's heart that would make her seek such means of revenge? she wondered. "When did he die?"

"Over a fortnight past."

Looking around her father, she glanced at the corpse one last time. "Why has he lain in state for so long?"

"He was returned to me nine days ago over the back of his horse," Edward said, the corners of his mouth collecting a froth of spittle.

"Whence?"

"One of the northern shires—Chesne."

"The north? But what was he—"

"Be silent!" Edward stormed, giving her a bone-jarring shake. "I grow weary of your questions."

Promptly, she closed her mouth.

"The Balmaine is my enemy—ours!" he bellowed. "Do not forget what you have seen here, for we will have our revenge upon them."

"Nay," she protested. "We must forgive, Father, for 'tis not for us to sit in judgment. That is God's place."

"Do not preach at me!" He threw his arm back as if he meant to strike her. "I will have my revenge."

She shrank from him, her gaze fixed on the hand poised above her. Then, suddenly, he released her.

"You will remain the night here," he said. "I would have you pray Philip's soul into heaven."

She shook her head. It was far too much he asked of her—the horrid smell, the decaying corpse.... If there was not yet disease in this small chamber, there would be soon. Panic-stricken that Edward might actually force her to remain within, she spun on her heel and ran for the door.

Abruptly, Graeye pulled herself back to the present. She did not need to relive any more of that night to exorcise her memories. There was not much else to them other than endless hours spent in prayer. Locked in the chapel, she had knelt before the altar and prayed for her brother's soul, and for her own deliverance, until dawn when a servant had come to release her. Since then she had not come near this place.

Groan's bark brought her head around. "What have you found?" she asked.

Crouching low, he pushed his paws beneath the kneeler and swatted at something that gave a high-pitched squeal.

"Is it a bird?"

A moment later she had her answer when a bird flew out from beneath the kneeler and swept the chapel, searching for its escape. Excitedly, Groan chased after it, but it was too fast.

It was a falcon—a young one, Graeye saw as she rushed to close the door so it would not escape into the rest of the castle. Had it escaped from the mews?

It took patience and much effort, but between Graeye and Groan chasing it about the room, the falcon finally found the small window and its freedom.

Holding onto the sill, Graeye watched the bird arc and dip its wings in the broad expanse of sky. She smiled and wondered what it would be like to be that bird. To fly free and—

At once she chastised herself for her foolish yearnings. There was nothing she had ever wanted as badly as to come home to Medland and assume her place as lady of the castle. In spite of all the obstacles she had encountered these past weeks, and the fact that she was to wed a man she loathed, she had never known greater fulfillment.

With the abbey forever behind her, her future was assured. That, no one could take away.

Chapter 2

T
here were to be no more discussions of Graeye's marriage to William Rotwyld. Simply, there would be no wedding.

An air of import surrounded King Henry's knight as he strode into the hall five days later, his armed retinue following close behind to position themselves about the room. Clothed in chain mail, they wore no smiles, nor congenial air, that might mistake them for visitors simply passing through.

Realizing that something serious was afoot, Edward ordered all, except his steward and William, from the hall that he might receive the king's missive in private.

Graeye had not long to wait to learn what news had been brought to her father, for his explosion was heard around the castle. Thinking it time to intercede, she hurried into the hall, stumbling to a halt when she saw the half-dozen knights clamoring to hold her red-faced, bellowing sire from the messenger.

Eyes wide, she searched out William and found him beside the steward, his expression reflecting the other man's. Shock, disbelief, outrage ...

She moved forward uncertainly, and looked questioningly at the messenger when he turned to face her. "What has happened?" she asked.

His gaze swept her faded bliaut before settling upon her face framed by its concealing wimple. "And who are you?"

"My lord," she said, dipping a curtsy, "I am Lady Graeye."

His eyes narrowed on her. "Sir Royce Saliere," he stiltedly introduced himself. "You are a relation?"

Graeye's eyes flickered to her father before settling once again on the knight. "I am the baron's daughter."

The man looked surprised, but quickly recovered. "No longer baron," he said with a token shrug of regret. "By King Henry's decree all Charwyck lands have been declared forfeit and returned to the sovereignty of the crown."

Edward roared louder, raising his voice against God as he continued his struggle to free himself.

Feeling as if she had just been delivered the mightiest of blows, Graeye shook her head. It could not be true, she told herself. That King Henry would take from the Charwycks that which had been awarded to them nearly a century past was unthinkable. Surely this was some kind of trickery by which another thought to wrest her father's lands from him now that he was without an heir.

"Methinks you lie," she said boldly.

Sir Royce's brows arched high. "Lie?" he repeated.

"Aye, King Henry would not do such a thing. My father is a loyal subject. He—" The parchment thrust into her face halted her torrent of words.

"Can you read?" Sir Royce asked, his tone patronizing.

"Of course I can read," she replied, uncertainty creeping over her as she stared at the document he offered.

When he waved it at her, she took it, her gaze falling immediately on the broken wax seal gracing the outside. Though she had never seen the royal signet, she knew with certainty that what she held had, indeed, come from the king. Heart sinking, she unrolled the parchment and read the first lines, but could go no farther.

"Why?" she croaked, groping for something to hold to, but finding naught. If the Charwyck properties were lost, what was to become of her father, an old man no longer capable of lifting his sword that he might earn his fortune? And what of her? She would not be needed to produce a male heir—thus, of little value. Certainly William would not wed her without benefit of the immense dowry she would bring to their union.

"For offenses committed by your brother, Philip Charwyck," Sir Royce explained as he pried the document from her fingers before she damaged it.

Graeye swayed, but managed to stay on her feet. Taking a deep breath, she looked entreatingly at the man. "I do not understand. What offenses do you speak of?" She stole a glance over her shoulder to where her father had grown quiet.

"Murder, pillaging ..."

Remembering her brother's disposition, the accusations should not have surprised Graeye, but they did. "Surely you are mistaken," she said, desperation raising her voice unnaturally high. "'Twas my brother who was murdered. Why do you not seek out the perpetrator of that crime?"

Looking bored, the man rolled his eyes back as if he sought guidance from a higher being. "As I have told your father, Philip Charwyck was not murdered. His death is a result of his own deceit."

"What did—"

Sir Royce held up his hand. "I can tell you no more."

"You would take all that belongs to the Charwycks and yet refuse to tell me what, exactly, Philip is accused of having done?"

Sir Royce folded his arms across his chest. "Your fate rests with Baron Balmaine of Penforke. " 'Tis his family the crime was committed against, and King Henry has given the care of these properties to him."

Graeye barely had time to register this last shocking news before her father erupted again. "Curse the Balmaines!" he yelled, renewing his struggles. "With my own sword I will gut that bastard and his whore sister."

His patience worn through, Sir Royce signaled his men to remove Edward.

Rushing forward, Graeye came to her father's defense as best she could. "Nay," she cried, following the knights as they half dragged, half carried Edward across the hall. Her efforts to halt their progress were to no avail, for she was thrust aside each time she stepped into their path. Neither William, nor the steward, were of any help. As if great pillars of earth, they remained unmoving.

Desperate, she hurried back to where Sir Royce stood watching impassively. "Where are they taking my father?" she asked, touching his sleeve. "Surely he has committed no offense."

"He must needs be held whilst he is a danger to others," he said, looking pointedly to where her hand rested on his arm.

She dropped her hand but continued to stare into his hard, unmoving face " 'Tis a great blow he has been dealt," she said. "Not only has the king taken everything he owns, but he has given it into the hands of my father's avowed enemy."

"Lady Graeye," the man began, running a weary hand through his cropped silvery hair, "I do not fault your father for his anger. " 'Tis simply a measure of safety I take to ensure Medland passes into Baron Balmaine's hands without contest."

"Then he will be coming soon," she concluded.

"A sennight—no sooner." Finished with her, he turned and walked to where his knights were gathered near the doors.

So many questions whirled about in Graeye's mind, she thought she might go mad, but she knew that pursuing the matter would be useless. Lifting her chin, she turned and looked across at William and the steward.

"All is lost," she said, pushing the words past the painful tightness in her throat.

At their continued silence she left the hall. Without benefit of a mantle to protect her against the lingering chill of morning, she set out to discover her father's whereabouts.

She knew full well the precipice upon which his mind balanced, and was worried for his welfare. Also, she needed to ask him whether she would be allowed to remain at his side to care for him, or if he intended to return her to the service of the Church.

It was no great undertaking to discover where Edward had been taken, for with expressions of concern castlefolk pointed Graeye to the watchtower.

Along her way there, she became increasingly uneasy by the great number of the king's men positioned about the walls. They were alert, ready to stamp out any signs of uprising. That unlikely possibility almost made her smile. Not only was the number of Edward's retainers considerably depleted from Philip's foray to the north, where he had given up his life for a cause as yet unclear to her, but few would be willing to challenge the king's men for their lord. They disliked him so.

At the watchtower a surfy knight halted Graeye's progress. "You would do well to return to the donjon, my lady," he said. "No one is allowed to see the prisoner."

"I am his daughter, Lady Graeye," she explained. "I would but see to his needs."

Shaking his head, the man placed his hands upon his hips. "My orders are clear. No one is allowed within."

"I beseech you, let me see him for but a short time. No harm will be done."

He wavered not a notch, though she thought perhaps his eyes softened. "Nay."

Later Graeye would question what drove her to be so bold. Grasping her skirts, she ducked beneath the man's elbow and managed to make it up the flight of steps before encountering the next barrier. The first knight close on her heels, she came to an abrupt halt when faced with the two men who guarded the room where her father was imprisoned. They had heard her advance, for their swords were drawn and trained upon her.

The knight behind needn't have gone to the trouble of seizing hold of her, for she could go no farther. "You—" He snapped his teeth closed on his next words.

Unable to check the tears flooding her eyes, she looked up at him. "Just a moment," she choked. "'Tis all I ask."

The angry color that had flooded his face receded; then, miraculously, he acquiesced. "Very well," he said, a corner of his mouth twitching in a slight smile, "but only that—a moment."

Releasing her, he motioned for the guards to stand away. They resheathed their swords and stepped back, their eyes never leaving her.

After a brief hesitation, during which Graeye was certain he had reconsidered the wisdom of allowing her to see her father, the knight threw back the bolt and opened the door.

Murmuring her gratitude, she stepped past him and entered the frigid room. She had expected to be given privacy with her father, but the man had no intention of allowing that. His great bulk throwing a shadow across the floor, he stood in the doorway as she crossed to where Edward huddled in a corner of the room.

She lowered herself to the floor and waited for her father's acknowledgment. His forehead resting on arms propped upon his knees, he seemed not to notice he was no longer alone.

Her heart swelled with compassion for the pitiful heap he made. True, he had often been unkind to her, had never loved her, had not once inquired as to her welfare at the abbey, but he was her father. He was a man who had lost everything—his son, the grandson who would have become his heir, his home, and now his dignity. Everything gone. Would the remainder of his mind go too?

Her eyes pricking with tears, her throat tightening, Graeye laid her hand to his shoulder. She wanted to embrace him, yet knew she risked much with just this simple gesture. "Father," she said softly.

He did not move.

She spoke again, but still no response. Was he ill?

Moving nearer, she slid an arm around his shoulders. "Father, 'tis I, Graeye."

Lifting his head, Edward stared at her. Then, suddenly, he came to life. "You! 'Twas you who brought this upon me. Aye! Spawn of the devil." Swinging his arm, he landed his hand to her chest, knocking her over.

Her back to the cold floor, Graeye drew a shuddering breath, surprised she was able to do so at all.

"I should have left you with the Church!" Edward roared, lurching upright to stand over her before she could gain her feet. "For this offense I am to be punished to everlasting hell!"

Glancing at the knight, who remained unmoving in the doorway, Graeye slowly rose and stepped back a pace. "I have come to see to your needs," she said, clasping her hands before her.

"My needs!" Edward spat, then thrust his face close to hers. "And what else have you come for?"

She met his stare. "I would also know what is to become of me," she answered truthfully.

He laughed, a loud, raucous noise that died abruptly. "And what do you think your fate should be, daughter?"

"I—I would stay with you."

"Stay with me?" he repeated, mimicking her voice.

"And of what use would you be now that all has been taken?"

"I would care for you. You will need—"

He seized hold of her. "I do not need the devil on my shoulder."

" 'Tis not true—"

"Know you that twice your mother bore me sons. Sickly things that lived no more than a few days? Then she bore me you with the devil's mark full upon your face—strong and healthy. And then no more."

This was the first Graeye had heard of it. Never had her mother spoken to her of those children who had come before. It explained so much of her father's treatment of her. But now that she knew, mayhap she could do battle with it—find a way to reach him.

"Nay," he continued, "you will return to the abbey. As the Church has already received your dowry, your place there is secure. That Balmaine cannot take from me."

She pulled free from his punishing hands. "I do not wish to return!"

"Think you I care what your preference is?" he ground out, hate coursing from his every pore as he advanced on her again. "You are ungrateful. Many a daughter would vie for the soft life of a nun. But you— 'tis the devil in you that resists. Nay, 'twill be my final offering to God. You will return."

"You need me!" she declared. Deny it he might, but it was true. What would become of an old man alone in a world so changed from what he had previously known? And what of her? She could hot simply wander out into the world without a man to protect her.

"Need you? Nay, I needed but your body. Blood of my blood. A vessel for the heir you would have made with William. Now— ," he gave a short burst of crackling laughter—"you may either return to the abbey or go back to the devil whence you came. That is the only choice I give you."