A Rose in Winter Page 8

"Good. Sleep now." The palm of his hand pressed into her forehead, and she pitched back onto the bed against a mound of covers.

  The spinning darkness consumed her, but it was not complete. She was caught in a whirlwind of voices and faces, the unfamiliar mixed with the familiar. Her fa­ther, scolding her for disobedience. Adara, the maid, mocking her with her eyes, sneering. The nodding head of the stallion, disembodied, with a sick smile that grew and grew.

  She was caught helpless in the middle of the storm, struggling to speak to them, reaching out for them to have the images vanish through her fingers. Nothing mattered, she could not stop them, they would not stop circling her—Lady Margaret, Lady Elsbeth, her fa­ther's men, all the people she had once known laugh­ing at her, spinning and spinning.

  Damon was there, not laughing. Damon was talking to her, but the hurricane of others drowned out his voice. She reached for him.

  What, she cried, what are you saying to me?

  Her pleas didn't matter; still he spoke under the madness of the sounds, and she could not hear him, but she had to, because it was Damon, and he wanted her to know something, she could feel it. Something im­portant, important enough for him to shout it now, his face literally changing from the effort, his hair lighten­ing to yellow, growing longer, a rusty beard sprouting from his chin.

  He was screaming now to be heard, Damon and not Damon, and she was weeping because she could not understand him. The heads of the others became long and monstrous, their mouths gaping holes of blackness.

  The chorus of noise died at once.

  Awaken now! howled the Damon-thing.

  She sat up with a gasp.

  She was alone in the tower room, tangled in the covers of the large bed.

  "Lord have mercy," she said under her breath, re­moving herself from the layers of quilts and furs with very shaky hands.

  She had to grasp the post of the bed for balance at first, but soon she was able to take rapid steps to the door. She didn't know where she could go, but she had to escape this room.

  The door would not open.

  She tried the handle again, jiggling it furiously, but it remained locked, latched from the outside. She bent down and peered through the keyhole. There was nothing but darkness beyond.

  Something unusual did catch her attention though. The pads of her fingertips felt it first, clutching the cold iron latch.

  She pulled away and examined it curiously. Far from being a simple handle, it had been fashioned into a sort of animal, she saw, a horned animal. Perhaps it was a cow, or a hart, she thought, but it was not.

  It was a gargoyle, a hideous one, one of the worst she had ever seen. She pulled her hand back and looked again to confirm it. A gargoyle with bulging eyes and two horns that attached it to the panel on the door. Its arched body created the curve of the handle, the tips of its scaly wings meeting under the horns.

  But the worst part was the face. It was almost hu­man, too human, but with clawed hands shoving the remains of another human into its mouth.

  Solange backed away, filled with disgust. Why would Redmond allow such a repulsive thing in his castle, much less on her door? She shook her hand out away from her body, as if to rid it of any trace of the gruesome handle.

  She examined the room once more, and this time noticed immediately something else that was wrong: There were no windows in the walls, not one. Tapes­tries hung in the circle, eight of them by her count, each filled with scenes of the moon and sun, of hunt­ing and feasting, and some that seemed to show odd religious ceremonies. All of them featured twin animals of red and white, fighting dragons, flying griffins, and strange, monstrous creatures she had never seen before.

  Solange pushed aside each one to examine the stone beneath. She found two arched squares of stone that did not match the rest in either color or size.

  A tiny bubble of fright was forming under her lungs. Why would a man stone in the windows to a room? Especially a tower room, where views were vital to the security of the castle? There was no logical reason, she thought. It seemed completely mad to shut out the light of day like that. The only reason at all could be that this room had been redesigned to hold ... a prisoner.

  And this was her room.

  The bubble expanded. She took deep breaths to con­trol it. She was not a prisoner, she told herself sternly. Perhaps Redmond dislikes the sunlight, or the night air. He would tell her why he did this and all would be well. She must have faith that all would be well.

  Wasn't it odd, though, that the bed stood in the ex­act center of the room? It made movement around it rather awkward. At the head and the foot of the bed were branches and branches of unlit candelabra, a score of them at least. And on the floor directly beneath it all, created in intricate marble tile, spread the points of a star that reached to the walls. The star was black against a white background. There were no rugs on the floor.

  The door opened and two women came in carrying trays, followed by four men who carried a wooden tub of hot water.

  The men placed the tub on the floor, then bowed their way out the door. The women both came over to her, standing uncertainly by the bed.

  "Countess," said one softly. She had light hair wrapped in intricate braids. "We are here to prepare you." She placed her tray on the table against the wall and the other woman did the same. One tray held food and drink, the other, colored glass vials of bath salts and oils.

  Solange didn't realize how hungry she was until she smelled the steaming dishes. The thirst in her reawak­ened to accompany it.

  "Thank you," she said, reaching for the goblet of wine.

  It had a strange bittersweet flavor that drew her. Af­ter three swallows the blond woman stopped her by gently pulling her hand down. " 'Tis a special blend, milady, made here at the keep for only you. But you must not drink it too fast."

  "For me? Surely not. I have only just arrived."

  "Aye, milady, for you." The other woman, a red­head, spoke. "We have known of your coming for years now."

  "Years?"

  "Yes," said the other. "It was for you, the wife of our lord, that this wine was crushed."

  For the first time, Solange realized that both these women were not only well spoken but also extraordi­narily beautiful. They were dressed alike in gowns of blue and gray, one with red hair, the other yellow, like the earl. Their features were almost identical in deli­cacy and Saxon fairness. In fact, Solange thought she had never seen two more lovely people than these.

  "Pray, are you sisters?" she asked.

  The women exchanged amused glances. The red­head answered. "Not by blood, Countess. Now you must eat, and then we will bathe you. Your husband awaits."

  "Yes, of course, I . . ." For some reason Solange was having trouble finishing her thoughts. But it did not matter, for the women were helping her now, feeding her bites of bread and fowl, peeling off her bliaut, then her gown and undertunic.

  She closed her eyes, letting the familiar dizziness overtake her. These women, whatever their roles were here, were taking great care with her. The servants in her own castle had never been this friendly, had never chatted with her quietly about silly nothings such as clothes and jewelry. They had never washed her hair as sweetly as these two women did, taking care not to get the soap in her eyes, rubbing her scalp with skillful fingers.

  It was heavenly. Solange leaned back into the tub of water, smiling at them both. "What are your names?"

  "I am Celeste, and this is Mercedes," said the fair one with a nod to the redhead.

  Mercedes leaned over the water with a confiding smile. Her eyes were pale gray. They reminded So­lange of someone, but she couldn't think who. The goblet of wine was offered again. "It's delicious, isn't it, Countess? You'd like some more, wouldn't you?

  Their hands slid over her, washing away the grime of travel in a perfumed rinse that Solange thought she could live in forever.

  "No, no," laughed Celeste. "You must get out of the water. The earl will be here soon."
r />   Her thoughts were becoming a mire to her; Solange was uncertain of the difference between what she said and what she thought. Perhaps it didn't matter, perhaps they could read her thoughts without the bothersome knot of her tongue.

  They helped her step out of the tub, rubbed her briskly with strips of dry cloth until her skin glowed pink and white, until her hair no longer dripped. She wanted more food, but it was all gone. She wanted more wine, and they allowed her this, but only a little, hardly enough to ease her parched throat.

  A distant part of Solange watched this scene unfold with detached wonder. She saw herself standing naked, shivering barefoot on the circular marble-tiled floor while the two women looked her over, turned her this way and that, murmured to themselves approvingly. They threw a robe of white silk over her shoulders— surely they didn't expect that to keep her warm? And then the men came back in to remove the tub and the trays.

  Solange watched herself being led over to the bed. A blaze of candles brightened the room; Celeste had lit the candelabra while Mercedes had dried her hair.

  The women laid her down on top of the covers, and then she saw what they had given her was not a robe, but a cape. A cape of silk, very fine. Very cold to the touch.

  Each woman lingered for a moment, adjusting the cape, the curls of her hair. They covered her bare skin with furs. Then they were gone. She was alone.

  Awaken now, she thought, but the words no longer had the power to break this strange spell. This was more than nervous exhaustion brought on by the wildly shifting events of the past few days, she knew. The wine, that special wine, had evaporated in her mouth to cloud her brain. She could not tell how much time had passed since the others had left. A ratio­nal thought intruded through the haze: It wasn't right, she should know the time, she should be aware of this simple thing.

  She tried to lift her hand and couldn't. She tried to lift her head and managed to roll it to the side a little, enough to witness the door to the room opening again.

  The earl entered. For an hour, or a minute, he sim­ply stood by the entrance, still as a statue. The glow from the candles obscured his features so all she saw was the black shape of a man, but she knew it was he. A loose-fitting robe flowed around him, belted at the waist. She was reminded of a picture of Merlin the ma­gician she had seen in one of her father's books.

  The thought stuck in her head. Merlin, the sorcerer. Merlin was here, a traveler through time. He had come to take her away—no, he had married her. She was the wife of Merlin!

  He came closer, past the candles, so that the light now fell full on him. The magician shifted into the fea­tures of Redmond; that was right, she had married her father's enemy to make him her father's friend. She had agreed to become their shared pawn in the elabo­rate game they played.

  Why had she done this thing? Solange frowned, try­ing to remember. Something about sacrifice . . .

  The man in front of her wore a robe of bright red, silk like the cape she wore, but with designs embroi­dered on it. She couldn't make sense of them, circles and squares, moons and suns, outlines of hands and eyes too. It was the earl, and his hand reached out and lifted a lock of her hair. He brought his head down into it, inhaling.

  Strangely enough, Solange saw that her hair was com­pletely dry. Redmond dropped the strand and moved to touch her face.

  She could not avoid him, but she wanted to. Some­thing was terribly wrong. This was her wedding night. Why was she caught frozen in her own body like this?

  "You may move, my angel," said her husband, sit­ting beside her. "You may move for me."

  So she did. Her lips parted on a deep breath, and she sat up. He supported her back, pulled her forward so that the furs fell beside her, and the cape opened and revealed her body in soft shadows. She clutched the edges of the cloth together.

  "No," said Redmond. He pushed her hand aside, letting the material flow free. "You may not hide from me."

  He was breathing heavily, as if he had run up the stairs again. He pushed the cape completely over her shoulders, baring her to the cold air. She felt his eyes devour her.

  "Please," she whispered, finding her voice. He was relentless; his bold appraisal embarrassed her to the bone. Her head bent forward, bringing down a curtain of her hair where the cape had been.

  "Silly girl," chided Merlin. "What did I just tell you? You are going to learn to obey me. All good wives obey their husbands." He reached in through her hair and caught her nipple with unerring accuracy. "Pull your hair back."

  When she did not comply immediately, his fin­gers tightened and twisted, sending a sharp jab of pain through her breast that brought her head up. She quickly gathered her hair in one hand and tossed it back. A bright red blush was stealing over her body.

  He let go of her, leaning back to take her in again. "You are everything I knew you would be. You were made for me, little wife. You belong to me."

  No, she wanted to cry, I am not yours.

  Redmond snaked one arm around her waist and nuzzled her neck. With his other hand he put her arm around his shoulders, then lifted her to sit on his lap.

  The blush was banished to frigid cold. She felt her skin prickle as his lips closed on the tender flesh under her ear. He locked her closer, biting her now, his free hand creeping up her thigh.

  "Stop," she said clearly. "This is not right."

  "Solange," said Merlin.

  Time did its dance again. The quivers of his voice rumbled through her, knocking out her protests. He rubbed his beard against her skin. When he pulled back she saw herself, tiny and round, shining in his eyes. A cry caught in her chest. He ate it up with his mouth over hers, swallowed it whole with a moan of his own. His grip tightened to pain.

  She couldn't breathe, she had to breathe, he was smothering her, he would kill her now, oh, God, and she couldn't stop him. The weakness was back in her, her arms and legs flopped uselessly. The haze tilted her head back, left her swimming without logic or reason.

  "Now, my wife," he said lightiy against her. "Now I will take you somewhere I vow you never thought to go."

  He pushed her down into the bed and straddled her in one motion. From under the folds of his robe he pulled something, something long and thin and bright.

  A dagger. A silver dagger in his left hand.

  His smile was gentle now. The sliding light on the blade hypnotized her. He handled the dagger lovingly, as tenderly as he did her arm, which he lifted up.

  As if it were happening to someone else, Solange watched as the blade met the inside of her wrist.

  A line of blood welled up, crimson rich in the candle­light. It gathered and hung as a drop in perfect balance at the bottom of her wrist, growing larger as he pressed on her skin.

  Pinpricks of blackness became a rushing tide that overtook her. She surrendered to the welcome dark­ness without a sound.

  Outside the walls of Wellburn the first of the long winter's snow began to fall.

  Chapter Five

  france, I287

  He was so different.

  The memory of her childhood companion refused to agree with this hard man in front of her now. Oh, his features remained nearly the same, she could have drawn them from her memory and matched them now with ease. The same chiseled lips, the same strong jaw, the flowing blackness of his hair just as pure.

  He surely was the object of admiration from the women across the room. Solange could understand why. There could be no doubt he was larger than the youth she knew, taller and much more muscular, with the solid confidence of a man who is certain of himself in any situation. The lines in his face had deepened, but this added only a mature handsomeness to his features.

  Perhaps the main difference had more to do with his bearing, she thought. So stiff and formal, no trace of the familiar comfort of old. Those lips she loved were flattened into a grim line, and his eyes slid off hers too easily.

  Solange swallowed a trace of panic. She could not afford to lose Damon now, not again. She need
ed him much more than he could appreciate. She could not let him know how much. She could not let anyone know.

  The women at the other end of the room were openly watching them, silent to record every word spoken between them, every little gesture. They were a school of sharks, ready to shred her later, when she could not escape.

  "My lady," Damon repeated softly.

  She came back from these thoughts with a guilty start. Damon shifted his feet on the dais. She still touched his shoulder with her hand.

  "Can you explain this to me, that you have no lord?"

  "The earl took a grave illness," she said. "It was a fever that lasted three days and three nights."

  Damon studied her now. "He is dead?"

  "He died tonight."

  She was lying. He knew it as surely as he knew any­thing. Oh, she did it very well, much better than she had as a child, but his sensitivity to her had not abated during their separation. The signs were fairly shouting out at him: the deliberate set of her lips, the pale pink-ness high on her cheeks. She didn't shift her eyes from his. What sort of fool was she playing him for now?

  And her question, that unbelievable thing she had asked him: Would he have her? He would never have trusted that the words left her lips had he not seen it for himself.

  It was a part of her game, he saw suddenly, this un­fathomable game she was choosing to subject him to. The idea that she would even consider giving herself over to him, in any form, for any reason, was ridiculous enough to be laughable. Aye, and that must be what she was doing right now, laughing at him, turn­ing him into some mockery for her own wicked amusement.

  Time had made her harsh indeed. He did not travel all this way to be ridiculed.

  The line of his mouth grew thinner. "My sympa­thies on your loss, Countess. You must be distraught with grief. I am sorry I carry only more bad news for you."

  Now she blinked and took her hand away.

  "What news?"

  "Your father, my lady."

  Her hands clamped together, but her face showed no signs of emotion. "Yes?"

  "The marquess died a fortnight past, my lady. It was a hunting accident."