Vow of Deception. Angela JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
Chapter Two
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.