Vow of Deception (3 page)

Now more than ever it was imperative she take her vow of chastity.

“Very well. I've already made arrangements to travel to Lichfield. Once I meet with the bishop there, we can continue on to Westminster.”

“'Tis out of the question.” His voice was adamant. “The king has ordered me to escort you directly and forthwith to Westminster. You shall have to delay your audience with the bishop for another time.”

A throbbing pulse jumped at her throat. Oh, this was not good.

Rose raised her chin, bravely holding his intense stare. “My audience cannot be delayed. Bishop Meyland has agreed to take my vow of chastity. I wish to see it done immediately.”

A flash of surprise brightened Rand's eyes. “A vow of chastity? When did you decide to take such a monumental step?”

She dropped her gaze and rubbed her fingers in her lap. “I have been considering it for some time. I have no wish to be compelled to marry, or be dominated by a man who shall have complete control over my body and my estates. I imagine some ambitious lord may try to claim my wealth for his advancement. I shall never be at the mercy of a man like Bertram again.”

His voice a soft caress, Rand offered, “Not all men are like Bertram, Rose.”

She shook her head. “I cannot take that chance. The king can force me to marry any lord of his choosing. The character of the man shall not matter to him, only what advantage he may gain from the transaction. King Edward will not coerce me to marry once I profess to God my vow of chastity before the bishop. Unless he wishes to risk excommunication.”

“I am afraid you have no choice in the matter. Your vow shall have to be postponed. The king sails for Gascony in a fortnight.” He shoved up from his chair. “Our journey cannot be delayed for any reason. You may bring one servant and one chest of clothing for each of you.”

She scrambled to her feet. “What of Jason?”

His brow puckered. “We shall be traveling swiftly, with brief stops and mostly sleeping in tents out of doors. It would not be conducive to a child. Jason will have to remain at Ayleston.”

He waited patiently for her acquiescence. What choice did she have in the matter? she thought bitterly. She'd never defy King Edward and put her son's welfare in jeopardy.

“Very well. I have already begun packing. My attendant, Lady Alison, and I shall be ready to depart for Westminster, as you command,” she said, her voice monotone.

Rand nodded and left the dais to join his men. Will, Rand's brown-haired squire, said something to him. Rand threw back his golden head and laughed. Dimples creased his cheeks, softening the sharp angles of his face.

She dropped her eyes, her stomach agitated. Deep in thought, she stared down at the pale rose liquid she swirled in her chalice.

Ayleston Castle, Chester County
In the year of our Lord 1274, January 3
Second year in the reign of King Edward I

Rosalyn, the lady of Ayleston, froze in stunned horror at the landing of the Keep's stairs. Right before her eyes, Lord Ayleston whirled his arms like a windmill, teetering backward, one foot on the top stair. Her husband's handsome features—honed as if by the hand of God Himself—suddenly contorted in stark fear.

Rose clutched her infant son to her chest protectively, though he was asleep and cradled securely in the makeshift sling around her neck. Feeling sluggish as though swimming in deep waters, Rose at last reached out her free hand to Bertram. His fingers brushed her sleeve before he hurtled backward down the steps, an open O of terror on his lips. Thump, thump, thump, the sickening sound of his body hitting the rough stone stairs drummed inside her ears.

Legs moving without volition, Rose raced down the wide spiral stairs after him. When his golden head hit the last step, a loud crack echoed up the stairwell. Bertram landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

Rose stared wide-eyed at her husband, her temples pounding in rhythm with her agitated heart. Her cheek burned from Bertram's recent violent slap, while a scream of horror reverberated inside her head. It echoed like a pack of hell-hounds in Purgatory.

Light from a single torch illuminated Lord Ayleston. His body was facedown, but with his neck twisted at an awkward angle; his vacant eyes stared up at the heavens. With gory fascination, Rose watched a dark red pool of blood begin to form on the step beneath his head. It slowly spread, until a drop of blood dripped over the edge and plopped on the stone floor of the Great Hall.

A noise in the hall shattered her stunned observations. Beads of sweat popped out at her temples and her heart thundered as though it were going to explode. If she was found with Bertram's body, she might be blamed for his death, whether she was responsible or not. A hue and cry would be raised, and if accused of having killed her husband, she would be taken to gaol, away from her young son, a prospect she could not bear. Even more frightening, if she was indicted and convicted of killing her husband, hence her lord, her punishment would be harsh: burning at the stake.

Rose clutched her tunics in one hand, spun around, and made quickly for her chamber at the end of the corridor. After easing the door closed behind her, she rushed into her son's adjoining chamber. Jason's usually vigilant nurse remained sound asleep on a pallet beside the boy's cradle. Rose had slipped a sleeping draught into her drink earlier. When Rose's disappearance was discovered in the morning, she wanted Edith to be able to truthfully say she knew naught of Rose's intentions.

But everything had gone awry when Bertram had stumbled out of his chamber just as she had reached the stair landing.

Now, she slipped the cloth sling over her head, laid Jason in his cradle, and removed the swath of wool from beneath his warm body. The boy made not a sound as she pulled the colorful quilt up to his chin. Ever since his birth, Jason had been a quiet, happy baby. And Rose was thankful for it in this moment as she listened for any signs of a commotion below stairs.

She thought she had measured with exacting care the belladonna she put in Bertram's favorite evening wine, in order that she did not overdose him. But apparently she had been too careful. Rose tiptoed back to her bedchamber, hung up her garments on the pegs beside the door, and slid into her bed to wait for the raising of the hue and cry.

Her heart continued to pump sporadically. She stared wide-eyed up at the canopy, her lips moving in silent prayer. Not for her deceased husband, may God forgive her, but that no one would ever discover her involvement in this night's deeds. It was a confession she would take to her grave; she lived for her son alone now.

 

Rose jerked awake. Panic beat like the wings of a bird inside her chest. Her mouth was open, a scream deep in the back of her throat. But no sound escaped. It wasn't that she could not scream, but she knew better than to voice her discontent.

Rose blinked, but the solid blanket of darkness surrounding her did not lessen. She crawled across the soft mattress, gripped the velvet bed curtain, and yanked it aside. A glimmer of moonlight from her open shutters illuminated the disheveled sheets and coverlet of her canopy bed. Her medical books were on her table too.

A sigh of relief escaped her.

It was only a nightmare. She was safe in her own bed. Alone. Taking deep breaths, she willed her fear to recede. With her husband dead nigh onto three years, her degradation and humiliation at his hands was a thing of the past. But deep inside, she knew she would never be the innocent, naïve, happy young woman she was when she married Bertram. Her heart was a hard, cold lump—she was a frigid woman who despised a man's touch.

She reached for her Trotula medical book—a gift from her mother—and caressed its beloved well-worn Cordoba leather covering. When Bertram was alive she'd hidden her books because he forbade her to practice her healing arts. She put the text back and chose another book. It was a special collection of healing recipes, prayers, and charms collected and passed down through the generations by the women in her family. Upon Rose's marriage, her mother had gathered them together, then commissioned a local monk to transcribe and bind them into a beautifully illuminated manuscript. Flipping open the leather cover, she allowed the vellum pages to unfold, and closing her eyes, she stuck her finger on a random spot in the book. It was a ritual she performed as a way to ease her dark mood. Many times offering her insight and guidance and wisdom.

She opened her eyes and read the Latin script. She stopped midentry; scoffing, she snapped the book shut. She'd touched on a charm for making a man fall in love with a woman.
What superstitious nonsense.
Her mother had taught her to use her intellect and observation to deduce whether a cure was effective or not. No spell or charm could make a man love a woman. She knew. Had she not tried a similar love spell when she'd discovered Bertram had a mistress—on the night they wed?

Rose plunked the book back on the table and determinedly locked the memories away. She'd dwelled much too often of late upon the misbegotten cur.

Rose slid off the tall bed, and her nightshift dropped down to cover her bare feet. The cooler air of the room dried the film of perspiration that covered her completely. Her linen shift clinging to her skin in damp patches, she shivered. A chill seeped into the soles of her feet as she padded across the floor to her washstand, which stood against the west wall opposite a cushioned window seat. Double arched windows above the seat looked down on the ornamental garden next to the Great Hall.

Grabbing the open neck of her shift, she tugged it over her head and tossed it onto the bed. She plucked her chamber robe off the peg beside the washstand and slid into its enveloping warmth. Then Rose poured water from the chipped painted pitcher into the basin, splashed cool water over her face and chest, and finished her bath by drying off with a linen towel.

An instinctual sensation tugged at her soul, drawing her into the adjoining chamber. A small bed, a chest, and a stool were the only furniture in the room. No one could enter her son's chamber unless first coming through her bedchamber. Next to the small bed in the corner, Jason's nurse and fierce protector lay curled up on a pallet snoring loudly. Rose quietly approached the foot of the bed and stared down at her sweet, innocent son. He lay on his side facing her, with his thumb stuck in his pursed lips and his other dimpled hand clutching a curly lock of light blond hair.

Her heart seized with love, and she could not keep a huge smile from forming on her lips. It was a side of herself she revealed to only a few people. Though she adored her son, she took care never to indulge in sentimental excess. She controlled her inappropriate passions behind a stoic manner befitting a widow.

Jason's cherub lips drew down, and he kicked off his quilt. Rose pulled it back up under his chin, kissed his warm temple. She trembled with a sudden urge to grab her son and escape into the night. But her maternal instinct was stronger. Jason would be the one to suffer—loss of his inheritance, his title, and all the privileges that accompanied it.

Did she have the right to steal it from him because of her fears, her insecurities, her cowardice?

Rose started at a loud bang that echoed from her chamber. She left Jason and went in the other room. The door rattled on its hinges. The sound of a deep voice, a soft giggle drew her curiosity. Rose opened the chamber door and peeked out.

Near a lit torch, Rand trapped Lisbeth up against the wall, his face pillowed between her indecently exposed plump breasts. The maid's hose-clad thigh curled around Rand's hip like a coiled serpent, pulling him flush against her, seeking to devour him inside her.

Rose inhaled sharply in surprise. A quiver of repulsion raced through her. The man was an incorrigible lecher. As far as she knew, Lady Elena was his current mistress, or had been when Rose was at court a couple of months ago. Apparently not content with Elena, Rand had to debauch Rose's castle servants too.

Rand glanced up just then, and stared, gaze glittering. He winked at her, a wolfish grin on his face. Flashing him a look of contempt, Rose pulled back and slammed the door shut.

Her gaze blurred as she stared at the oaken door. She regretted ever…Rose shook her head. The past was unalterable; she could only learn from her mistakes and never repeat them. Not that she had any desire to repeat them. Rubbing her arms, she turned and stared at her rumpled bed.

She should get some more rest before the long trip on the morrow. But she could not bear the separation from Jason, so she went to his chamber, crawled into bed beside him, and wrapped her arms around his sweet-smelling form.

 

When the oaken door to Rose's chamber slammed shut, Rand jerked. His vision blurred with too much drink, yet the fog of desire dissipated with the rapidity born of…what? Shame? Embarrassment? Certainly not, Rand assured himself. A man had a right to indulge his baser instincts when a comely maid showed an interest in his manly attributes.

Yet, his rock-hard shaft shriveled beneath his braies.

Lisbeth reached out and palmed him with her hand, with dismal results. Rand drew back and patted her derriere, winking. “Too much drink, sweet.”

Lisbeth huffed and, tugging up her bodice, she flounced away and down the stairwell.

He refused to acknowledge the real culprit of his shrunken cock: guilt. It niggled at the edges of his drink-induced haze as he recalled the fiery determination that sparked in Rose's gaze when she'd declared her aversion to marrying again. It'd been nigh on four years since he'd beheld such passion blazing in her eyes, albeit for a different purpose altogether.

It was a clear indication of the fear she bore, and he was leading her down the path of her affliction without any warning. But there was naught he could do to change the outcome. Rand groaned and leaned his forehead against his forearm, which he braced against the rough wall. He was torn between the duty he owed his king, and the loyalty he owed Rose for their past friendship and what they'd once meant to each other.

He could offer for her instead—the thought slipped unbidden from the recesses of his sluggish mind. Rand jerked back and stared at the flickering torch.
Jesu.
He must have drunk more than he thought. Rose would abhor marrying him as much as anyone else. Probably even more so considering the heated parting they'd had several years ago, which she pretended never occurred.

Even if Rose would agree to marry Rand, he'd never inflict himself upon the lady he admired above all others. She deserved a man who was not haunted by the demons of his past failures.

As he stared at the torch flame, images flashed before his eyes. His body jolted as he felt the burning beam fall on his back, felt the searing pain scorch his skin. Trapped, he stared wide-eyed in horror as his mother ran, flames engulfing her. The stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils, while his mother's agonized screams echoed in his ears, damning him.

God, would the nightmare never cease. He jammed the heels of his hands painfully into his eyes to dispel the grotesque image of his mother's charred body. But he could never escape the guilt he lived with every day, for it was his fault that she had died in the stable fire.

His sister was dead, too, because he'd let her drown to save himself.

Rand had even failed to protect Alex from being abducted in the Holy Land after they'd sworn an oath to protect each other as comrades in arms.

Anyone he loved was cursed to suffer abominably. For that reason, he could never marry Rose and risk growing emotionally attached to her.

Golan was not an ogre. Rand was sure once Rose married Golan she would come to see there were good men who would not wield their superior strength as a weapon over their wives.

Rand stumbled to his bedchamber door, shoved it open, and collapsed onto the bed fully dressed. Unable to sleep, he stared unseeing up at the canopy.

 

Rose knelt before Jason inside the large open door of the Keep. She clasped him by the shoulders and gazed into his tear-filled eyes.

“Mama, don't leave me. I want to come with you.” He knuckled away the moisture in his eyes.

She swallowed back tears. “Oh, darling, I do not wish to leave you. But the king has commanded my presence at court and the journey would be too taxing for you. I will not be gone long, though. I promise.”

“The king is a mean man,” he spouted, his bottom lip puffed out and his arms crossed.

Rose could hardly agree, but she did not have the heart to reprimand him. She hugged him hard. “I shall miss you terribly, sweetling. Promise me you will study hard with Brother Michael and obey Edith in all things. Will you do that?”