Emerald Prince (45 page)

He appeared to consider his options — perhaps he wouldn’t mind if she was unwilling and fighting to the end. This thought caused her skin to crawl but, he nodded, crossed to the main door of her bedchamber, unbolted it and summoned his guard.

Alianor was not surprised they were there, but her face grew hot when she realized others would know her shame this night. Surely the guards were listening through the door, and she imagined them smirking and nudging one another. Humiliated, she sank down to perch upon the edge of the bed.

The King instructed his guards to release Liam from the dungeon. She watched and listened carefully, but could not ascertain anything untoward in his order or manner to cause suspicion. “Satisfied, my dear?” he asked as he shut and bolted the door again.

She nodded. “You have this one night, no more.”

The King’s face reflected victory, and his gaze staked possession of her. He said nothing; instead he paced in front of where she sat curled on one hip upon the bed. He looked like a buzzard examining its next meal. Alianor felt as helpless as a rotting carcass, unable to stop the ghoulish bird from picking away at her bones. When he finally spoke, his tone was curt. “Remove your gown.”

Alianor did not move but clutched the nightrail closer about her figure. It provided little coverage, modest though it was. But the thought of standing naked before those lecherous eyes was too much to bear.

The King stepped closer and leaned down across the bed, his hot sour breath falling upon her cheek as she turned her face away from him. “We will not ask again. Consider your next actions carefully, my dear.”

Alianor trembled, not from cold or fear, but from shame numbing her to the core. She closed her eyes, refusing to look any longer at the vile man who whispered vulgar promises of what he would do to her this night. Untying the ribbon at the neck of her gown, she started to slide it from her shoulders, but stilled. Nausea overwhelmed her and she realized she couldn’t do it. Not even to save Liam.

The King’s heavy breathing made his impatience obvious. Alianor’s eyes flew open when he grabbed her by the wrists, yanked her off the bed and pulled her flush against him. He was a man in his forties, his body soft where Liam’s was firm. His beard was coarse, scratching her skin as he nuzzled her neck, his lips wet and slippery with saliva.

One hand grabbed her by the buttocks, his vice-like grip painful as he pulled her closer, the bulge of his desire rigid against her stomach. His other hand tore at her gown and his tongue traced a path in between her breasts. Her flesh crawled and her spirit rallied, causing Alianor to push him away.

“No,” she cried, in fury and anguish. Despite her resolve to let him have his way for Liam’s sake, she instinctively fought back. She could not bear to have another man touch her, defile her.

Alianor saw the King do a double-take, and his dark eyes squinted in anger. “What is this resistance, woman?”

She pulled free of his grasp and backed away. “I hereby nullify our agreement.”

A sneer curled his lip. “We will not be denied. Not this time, you bitch.”

Alianor braced for his assault. She raised her chin. “I will not be raped like a peasant wench hurled upon the hay.”

The King responded with a low, gutteral growl and lunged toward her, capturing Alianor before she could flee. His mouth claimed hers in a fierce kiss, and his tongue demanded entrance.

The feel of his probing tongue sickened Alianor, and she refused to open her mouth. He gathered a handful of her hair and bent her head back until the pain forced her jaw open. His tongue plundered her mouth and he chuckled with smug victory — until she sank her teeth down on the foul intruder.

He grunted with pain and withdrew, but licked her cheek in passing. When she shuddered, he laughed again, Alianor’s legs were trembling so hard she could barely stand, but her fear only seemed to increase his desire.

Grinning like a fiend, the King seized her upper arms, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Methinks you sorely need a lesson in fucking, little hellcat.” He shoved her back onto the bed and fell on top of her. His tongue flicked out at her like a reptile, his eyes buggy and round. Alianor shut hers, refused to look at the revolting vision looming above her.

In that instant, her fear disappeared. Her anger became a tangible thing, rising inside her, lending strength and will that, only moments before, lay smothered beneath humiliation and shame. A growl escaped her, the sound so animalistic Alianor startled even herself.

She opened her eyes and saw the King looked taken aback too, common sense making him pull away despite lust’s frenzy. He did not withdraw swiftly enough. Alianor’s flailing hand encountered a heavy object on the table beside the bed, and she clutched it in her grasp.

She swung the makeshift weapon and it collided with his left temple. Blood splattered her nightrail, gushing from the cut the marble statue left across his brow. The King screamed, grasping his head as blood trickled between his fingers and ran down his face. He scrambled off the bed, dropping to one knee on the floor.

“Bitch,” he swore as he stared up at her, stunned and in pain. “’Tis treason to strike your King. Now you will die alongside O’Connor’s bastard.”

“Liam is free. I heard you give the order.”

He laughed harshly and it echoed in the chamber. “’Twas simply an act to placate you. We had no intention of letting him go, you foolish trull!”

The King’s gloating incensed her beyond control. She had known better than to trust him, but still the bald-faced lie appalled her. Still clutching the small statue, she slid off the bed. Ironically, she had struck Lackland with a likeness of the Virgin Mary, a symbol he no more respected than he did the Church.

A peculiar calm overtook Alianor as she stood over England’s anointed King. He cringed as she weighed the marble statue in her hands. One more blow, and he might die. They both knew it. He was bleeding like a stuck pig, which she thought a fitting way for this pig of a man to die.

“I could kill you,” she said softly, “and take great satisfaction in it. I have nothing to lose, for you’ve sworn I shall die anyway.”

The King’s eyes darted wildly about. Yet there was nothing he could do to stop her, no weapon within reach, and his strength ebbed upon the floor in a pool of blood. He could call for his guard, but she could strike before his cry brought aid. Like a frightened child, he huddled upon the floor, a pathetic visage in his royal nightwear.

The door flew open with a bang and a voice, cold with malice, interrupted. “Aye, strike and be done with it, Alianor.”

Startled, both the King and Alianor turned to stare at Quintin de Lacy. He leaned against the doorjamb, a crude bandage wrapped about his waist, a stain darkening it. In his hand he gripped a sword, its edge dripping with the blood of the guards positioned outside.

“Kill Softsword, wife, and spare me the effort.”

Shocked by his appearance, Alianor didn’t reply. De Lacy’s face was twisted with pain, his broken nose swollen and crusted with blood. He was blotched with sweat, his eyes fever-crazed. Yet, he read the surprise on her face. “Did you hope I had died, my dear?” His voice was soft, yet menacing. She didn’t know what to say.

De Lacy gestured impatiently at the King with his sword. “Do it,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “or I will.”

“Nay,” Alianor said, lowering the statue she held in her hands, “I cannot.”

Relief touched the King’s eyes, but de Lacy became furious. “Idiot woman, seize the moment. You are already condemned!”

She shook her head. “I think not.”

With a savage growl, de Lacy stepped forward, sword raised to strike when she wouldn’t. Alianor put her hand up, staying him. “I’ve more patience than you,
husband
.” She emphasized the word with a tinge of mockery. “Instead, I will bide my time. I will exercise patience. On my oath, justice will be done, but in my time and for my reasons, not yours.”

Alianor turned her attention back to King John. He had managed to drag himself to his feet and she waited until he looked at her. She wanted him to know she spoke the truth, and her tone turned pleasant as she contemplated her promise.

“It may not be today. Maybe not tomorrow. Perhaps not even in ten years. But I will see you reckoned with when I damme well please. I want you to waken every morning henceforth and wonder — wonder if it shall be your last day on earth.”

The dark delight of holding someone’s fate in her hands was heady. Did it make her as evil as these two? Perhaps, but she would avenge her brother’s death and her attempted rape. “Mark my words, Sire, no one will ever know it was me. That’s the beauty of it, don’t you think?”

She tossed the bloodied statue upon the bed as de Lacy shoved her aside. But before de Lacy could dispatch the King, noises outside the door — the sound of running feet and clanking armor — warned him opportunity was past. With an oath, he grabbed Alianor’s wrist and pulled her along with him into the hall.

“You’ll rue this day,” the King screamed after them. “I’ll not rest until you’re both dead.”

De Lacy met the approaching soldiers head on. It amazed Alianor how strong he was despite his injuries. Even his cruel grip on her did not lessen as he battled through the guards, bodies littering the hallway as his sword hacked away with crude but savage efficiency.

Alianor struggled to get free, and finally de Lacy was forced to let go to fight as more soldiers swarmed around them. Seizing her chance, she turned and ran. She hurried through the twisting maze of corridors, hearing the shouts of men not far behind. Blind to any particular destination, she kept going, desperate to find a way out.

The sounds of pursuit grew closer. She was almost out of time; they would be upon her in minutes. A nearby door creaked open and Alianor froze, whirling about in panic.

Queen Isabella peeked out, her dark eyes round with worry. When they came face to face, Isabella looked like a frightened doe, indecision clear on her face. Another round of shouts echoed through the hall. The men were almost upon her.

The Queen motioned for Alianor to enter her chamber. Quickly.

T
HE TWO WOMEN STARED
at one another, each uncertain what the other might do or say. Alianor didn’t want to place the Queen in danger by being there, but she didn’t know where else to turn. Hesitantly, she obeyed Isabella’s invitation to enter her chamber.

“I shouldn’t be here, my Queen.” Humiliation scorched her face and she could not look at Isabella. She dropped her gaze and took a step backwards. How could she explain what had happened, how the King ended up in her bedchamber this night?

“Nora, please.” Isabella shut the door and bolted it. Her voice was gentle, quivering with emotion. She reached out and took Alianor’s hands in hers and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “To my shame, I can guess what has happened this eve.” She looked at the blood on Alianor’s nightgown, and bit her lip.

“Your Grace,” Alianor said, “it’s my shame to bear, not yours. You could not know what the King and de Lacy arranged between them.”

“In my heart, I knew. And I did nothing.” Isabella’s eyes filled with tears.

“There was nothing you could do for my sake without risking your own, Your Majesty. You must not take risks on my account.”

“Tell me one thing — is John alive?”

“Yes. He is wounded, but I didn’t kill him.”

“In truth, I do not know if I should feel disappointment or relief.” Isabella murmured, and crossed herself. “However, to strike a King is treason, whether or not he lives or dies. The consequences are the same, my dear.”

“I know.” Alianor patted Isabella’s hand in turn. “It matters not. My choice was clear and I acted in self-defense. Now, think on this no more, I shall find my own way from this coil and spare you further upset.”

Isabella shook her head, and pulled Alianor further into the richly decorated chamber with its velvet settees and fringed tapestries. The Queen’s tiring woman, Lilith, waited there, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“Nora, I am so sorry about your brother,” Isabella said, her sorrow and anguish clear. “I wish I could have intervened, stopped the terrible circumstances from unfolding as they did.”

Alianor nodded, and her own voice trembled with emotion. “Camber’s greatest wish was to serve God, however he might. I must think of him in Paradise, receiving reward for his gentle devotion.”

“My confessor has promised me he will see Camber given a proper Christian burial within the Black Abbey cemetery at Cill Dara. I hope this is what he would have wanted, and brings you comfort.”

“Your Majesty …” Overcome by emotion, Alianor choked on her words and could not finish.

Isabella hugged her, and the two women clung together in mutual despair and grief. Finally the Queen withdrew, and looked ready for business. “You will need my help to get out of the castle undetected.”

“It’s too risky, Your Grace, and I cannot ask it of you.”

Alianor did not want to place Isabella in a difficult situation. King John would already be intent on seeing her punished; he’d have little forgiveness left in his heart for Isabella if his own wife aided her escape.

Isabella smiled. “How many times have you risked his wrath for my sake? If not for you, Nora, I daresay I might not be Queen today.”

“Of course you would be.”

Isabella shook her head, remaining firm. “Let me help you. My husband does not exercise common sense when it comes to you.” Her gaze assessed the blood-splattered nightrail Alianor wore. “You will put on Lilith’s clothing. You two are much the same size. With God’s help, we can leave the castle without causing a stir. Be quick; we must not waste time.”

Lilith was already removing her clothing. Noticing Alianor’s hesitation, Isabella said, “Dearest Lil has served me faithfully for nigh a decade; she is sworn to secrecy and will not betray either of us.”

“No, that is not what troubles me.” Alianor’s heart grew heavy and her next words held a silent plea. “The King ordered Liam to the dungeon. I cannot leave him to hang — I cannot.”