Page 9 of Her Dark Seduction
Chapter 4
Dressing for dinner that evening, I told Harwyn about the poem. She was more suspicious than I.
“Oh, dear lady, please take care!”
“But the words, Harwyn. They’re so full of feeling. I cannot believe it’s a trap. I would be surprised if any of the men in my husband’s employ can read or write, let alone compose this.”
“Please, lady, I know you wish for an ally but compelling though the words may be, Mortlock may have employed a bard to write them.”
I shook my head, unwilling to believe her but she persisted.
“Remember your Maman. Trust none but yourself.”
Maman’s counsel had always been to take precaution. The day she died she gave me one last warning. I would be watched—every action and word noted, to be used against me, however my husband deemed appropriate. Papa had married Maman, despite her lineage, for her dowry. As a distant cousin of the Empress Matilda’s husband, Geoffrey D’Anjou, Maman was an enemy in Papa’s eyes. Before Stephen named Henry his successor to the throne, the civil war between Stephen’s and Matilda’s supporters had divided the country—pitching Englishmen against each other in bloody battles. Though Maman openly supported Papa, her true loyalty, and thus my own, lay with Matilda and with King Henry.
Even after Stephen publicly named Henry his heir, thus effectively ending the war, there were many barons who remained opposed to Henry taking the throne. They argued that he had poisoned Stephen’s oldest son, Eustace, and was not fit to rule. My own father was one such baron, as was my husband’s cousin, Wulfric Baron de Tourrard. Might my husband also be in opposition to the king? Was that why Papa had accepted his offer for me? To ally himself with another traitor?
On returning with Papa from the coronation of Henry and his wife Eleanor of Aquitaine at Westminster, Maman had been confined to her chamber, her face darkened with bruising. In less than a year, she was dead. A word, or look, out of place, was enough to secure Papa’s anger and punishment. If my husband knew of my loyalties then Harwyn was right. I was in as much danger here as Maman had been at Shoreton.
I remained silent, wishing that Harwyn was wrong. I dismissed her with a wave when she finished dressing my hair.
“Oh no—not again.”
I looked up to see her picking up a note from under the doorframe. She handed it to me and I read it in silence.
Your friend will be waiting for you tonight as the moon rises over the lake.
“What does it say, lady?”
I crushed the note in my hand and threw it on the fire. “Nothing of importance.”
During dinner, I watched the other diners for signs of recognition but saw none. Careful to avoid arousing suspicion, I hid my observations behind the haughty expression a lady would bestow on her subjects. After the meal, I excused myself quickly, eager to retire for the night. Watching the flickering light of the candle, I lay in my bed, reminding myself of the folly in heeding the note. Though my eyelids grew heavy, I could not sleep. When all sounds of activity ceased, except for the pacing of the night guard, I finally admitted to myself that I was going to the lake.
I pulled on the rough woolen gown I wore when tending to the herb garden, and my cloak. Opening my door a little, I checked to see if the passage was clear before slipping out. Unbolting the gate, which led through the bailey wall, I followed the path leading to the wild garden and, beyond it, the lake.
The night was clear and cold, the moon almost full, casting shadows across the path. The moon’s reflection was perfectly mirrored in the still waters of the lake, reminding me of the poem.
I waited, hidden in the shadows, until my hands and feet were numb. A sharp cry made me jump, but it was merely the sound of an animal—a mouse or some other creature caught by an owl. Poor thing—trapped in the talons of a predator.
Trapped…
The folly of my actions struck me. Had I lost my mind? Not only was I wandering about at night on my own, surrounded by all manner of predators, human and animal, but the bailey gate bolted from the inside. If the night guard discovered the bolt was not drawn and secured it, I would be trapped in the talons of darkness outside the bailey wall.
Another shriek, this time much closer. I panicked and ran, each breath sending clouds of terror into the night air. On reaching the gate, I almost sobbed with relief to find it unlocked. I had to stop to catch my breath, to ease both the ache in my side and the pounding in my ears. I cursed my rashness. Barely a month into my marriage and I was already betraying my mother’s memory by letting my emotions rule my actions.
I took a few deep breaths, counting each one until I reached ten. The exercise worked and, with a lighter heart and a resolve to act rationally in future, I picked my way back toward the main building.
A sound from behind made me freeze. My skin tightened, and the hair prickled on the back of my neck. Lord save me—I was being followed. I stopped, my ears straining, but could hear nothing. I took a few tentative paces forward, stopping after each one to listen. Rationality over rashness again. My imagination must be playing tricks on me. With these words in my mind I slipped back inside the building.
After a minute, I once again had that uneasy feeling of being followed. A breathy sound came from behind, but I dismissed it. With luck, I would soon be warm and in my own bed.
I approached the passageway to my room and my luck ran out.
The night guard was walking toward me. He had not yet seen me and I turned back down the staircase, careful to keep to the outside of the spiral, painfully aware of my slippers slapping against the stone steps. The passage on the floor below gave an alternative route to my room. Though it ran past the men’s quarters, I had to take the risk.
Each gust of wind sent the candles flickering, casting menacing shadows across the floor. A door ahead of me was flung open with a crash and I almost screamed. From the room, loud, raucous laughter erupted. Retreat was impossible; discovery was certain.
Behind me, I heard that sound again, like a soft whisper of a sigh. Before I could move a large hand clamped over my mouth, and a voice whispered in my ear.
