Journey in Time (Knights in Time) (21 page)

Shakira dawdled as long as she dared in the garderobe. After she returned to the council chamber, she dawdled over the goblet of wine the attendant poured earlier. Unable to delay further, she, Dankworth, and four of the king's guards finally left Westminster.

The sun stayed hidden behind ominous dark clouds that threatened to drench the city. Her armpits were slick with nervous sweat and the wool gown itched like crazy. She fidgeted and dug at herself trying for a satisfactory scratch, an impossible task through the heavy garments.

At the same time, she did her best to keep track of where they were. Little resembled the London she knew. She used what resources she had—observing landmarks and tradesman’s signs to commit the journey to memory, in case running away became the final option.

Their route was straight. They kept the Thames in sight and always on their right, which meant they’d traveled east from the palace. Green fields dotted with wild flowers and brambles covered the opposite bank-
Lambeth Moor
, when it was still a moor. She wished herself there. Better alone on a moor and possible prey for a highwayman, than in the clutches of an oily merchant. She shot a sideways glance at Dankworth. He hadn’t said or done anything inappropriate. He simply gave her the creeps.
  

They hadn’t ridden long when Dankworth and their escort turned onto a busy road that bordered the river. Elms lined the banks, a rarity from what she’d seen on the ride. Most of the lanes had been denuded of trees to make way for cramped houses. They stopped in front of a wood and stone building, the largest private home on the street.

London Bridge was visible, but far off. She calculated the landmark’s distance, factored in travel time, and estimated their location was near Temple Church. The old Knights Templar headquarters was about a mile-in-a-half from Westminster. Running distance? Yes. She’d have no trouble physically. With no money, weapons, or protector, safety was a major concern until she got word to Alex. How she’d get word to him was a whole other can of worms. Under different circumstances, she’d write off her fears as wild paranoia. But the way things went down, the prince’s convenient hunting trip, the king’s lies, the secrecy, and her worst worries were well grounded.

Dankworth dismounted while a stable boy helped her.

"Welcome to my home," Dankworth said.

She smiled and pretended interest in his house. By the standards of the time, it was exceptional. The lower floor had one high arched double door entry of black oak with an attached covered passage. She scanned the exterior as Dankworth issued orders, possible escape plans not far from her mind. There were no windows on this level--storerooms, no doubt. They’d be locked tight both front and back, unless in use. Escape through here was impossible.

Gothic style leaded windows lined the second story. For a private residence to have glazed windows reflected his wealth. The third floor had much smaller, glassless windows. Servant’s rooms, she guessed.

Dankworth finished, and the young man took the horses and their escort to the rear stables.
 

Dankworth led her inside to the drawing room where servants removed their cloaks and a well dressed woman greeted him. "May I present my mother, Cybill Dankworth," Dankworth made a compact gesture her direction.

Small boned and parrot-faced, his mother stood silent to the side. With her pointed chin and a beak for a nose, she was a shorter, homelier version of him. Shakira curtsied, uncertain what else to do.

His mother made no pretext of courtesy. When Shakira straightened, Cybill stepped close and rubbed the lace on the sleeve of Shakira's dress between her fingers. Then, she lifted the gown’s skirt and peered at Shakira’s undergarments, which were few, but pretty and soft.

"What are you doing?" She grabbed Cybill’s wrist.

Stars exploded before Shakira’s eyes and her feet went out from under her. She remembered reaching for a chair as she tried to break her fall. Sprawled on the floor, her cheek throbbed as she tried to figure out what just happened. She saw the chair on its side and the answer became evident. Dankworth struck her and sent her flying into the wall.
 

"Get up whore." A painful jerk on her hair accompanied the order.

She struggled to her feet, while she tried to ease her braid from his fist.

"Never question or touch my mother again." Dankworth turned to the servants who lingered at the edge of the room. "See to the king's guards and bring me a flagon of wine."

He pulled down hard on her braid. "You probably did not notice us last evening, my mother and I. Courtesans rarely notice merchants, even rich ones."

Dankworth ran his hand up under her skirt. She wore no panties, only a chemise, her stockings and garters. He shoved a finger inside her. She yelped at the sudden invasion.

"How dry you are now. I imagine you creamed nicely for the prince during dinner and even more so for the Baron Guiscard afterward."

A second finger was shoved high inside her. She winced and bit her cheek to keep from crying out again. He’d enjoy hearing her whimper.

The voices of the guards carried into the drawing room as they entered the kitchen. In a rush of hope, her eyes darted toward in the direction of the loud talk.

"Make a sound and I’ll claim you attacked my mother and I was forced to subdue you,” Dankworth said. “Who do you think the king's lackeys will believe?"

"I am under the king's protection." The words strained against the taut skin of her throat as he held the braid in a vise-like grip.

Dankworth slid his fingers out and lifted the tips to his nose and sniffed, then released her.

The servant set the wine on a corner table and left. Dankworth poured himself a goblet and then picked up the riding crop he'd laid on the table earlier. His contemptuous examination started at her ankles and worked its way up, violating her by inches. He struck his leg with the crop in a slow rhythm while he sipped the wine. Each swat connected with a pop. Each snap of the leather meant to send a message. Pain. The beginnings of an erection pushed outward. He was a sadist for whom pain and pleasure were one entity equally enjoyed. The self-flagellation was just another twisted turn-on.

Disgusted, yet mesmerized, Shakira followed the steady motion, like the gaze of a mouse follows the snake who shares the cage.

The tip of the crop snagged on his hose. When the tip unhooked she saw the tiny metal spike no longer than her fingernail. Wrapped around the sharp end were two long white hairs, no doubt from the mane or tail of his grey mount. She’d seen the scars and welts on the stallion’s flanks. Cruelties his horse had endured would be hers. Her mouth watered with the salty taste of bile that rose in the back of her throat.

Dankworth stared at her over the rim of the goblet. "You claim the king’s protection. Do you really believe he gives a whit for you? I assure he does not, and neither does your precious baron."

He swallowed a mouthful of wine and refilled the cup.
 
"No one wanted a scene, especially one by a castoff lover. Women are such fools for the nobility, even minor nobility, like Guiscard. Your beloved needn’t have gone with the prince. He wanted to be away--away from you." His lips twisted into an arrogant sneer.

More lies.

One of the servants interrupted Dankworth’s compulsive self-flogging. "The king’s men drank a tankard of ale apiece and are ready to leave."

"Tell them I am grateful for their diligence and will report as much." He turned his attention back to Shakira. "Go to your chamber and disrobe. Give your dress to the maid."

"Disrobe? Are you sending the rest of my things up?"

"Your things? Nothing of
yours
is here. Anything you left with was intended as a gift for my mother." He looked her over, his hungry gaze boldest on her breasts and between her legs. "Your chemise too, I could not help but notice the fineness of the cloth. The maid will find you another."

A different servant led her from the room. At the foot of the staircase, she glanced back to see Cybill rummaging through the trunk of clothes.

Survive and escape. Survive and escape. The silent mantra buoyed her courage as she climbed the stairs. She was certain Dankworth's intentions went beyond rape. He couldn’t let her return and report his abuse to Alex and the king. Somewhere down the road, when he tired of her, he'd kill her. He’d probably beat her to death, and then lie about her disappearance. Her best hope was escape. Her immediate threat minimized the specter of the unknown dangers lurking between Dankworth’s and the palace. Whoever said, "Better the devil you know," never met Thomas Dankworth. If escape proved impossible, she’d fight like a lion. She'd lose any physical battle to his superior strength, but he'd damn well know he'd been in a fight.

A male servant and a maid led her to the top floor and stopped in front of the last door. The girl pulled a black metal ring of skeleton keys from her pocket. Seven keys. Household keys. Shakira eyed them, gauging her options. Grab the ring and run, or just run? If she simply ran, she’d have to dash down the stairs and across the drawing room and into the street before Dankworth had a change to stop her. If she couldn’t make the entry door, then she’d have to cut through the kitchen and past several servants. Either door might be locked. In that event, she’d need the keys, but there’d be no time for her to find the right one.

She paid little attention to the man as he moved behind her. She stumbled into the room, surprised more than hurt by the blow between her shoulder blades. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the poor lighting. Only thin lines of light seeped through the slats of the barred window. For a brief moment, she imagined she had the strength to rip the boards from the frame. She rejected the crazy notion. Even without the wooden crossbars, no adult could get through the opening. In her desperation, she gave no thought to the twenty-foot fall. The drop to the ground frightened her least of all.

The male servant left. The maid remained, not bothering to shut the door. Fingers laced together, she stood expressionless and patient. When Shakira made no move to undress, the sallow-skinned girl stepped forward and plucked at the ties of the gown.

Shakira slapped her hands away. "Why are you doing this? You must know what he plans. If you help me get out of here, I swear the Baron Guiscard will find employment for you. He’s a friend to the prince. You won't be sorry." She searched the girl's face for some sign of sympathy, some sign of agreement. "Please."

The maid cocked her head as though listening to another voice. "No."

"Why?"

"While he mounts you, I will have peace."

The girl’s mouth was full, flush with youth’s natural color. Her face was smooth-skinned and chubby with unshed baby fat.

"How old are you?"

"I am ten and two."

"How long have you worked for Dankworth?" She wanted to keep her talking. Maybe she could win the girl's trust.

"He bought me when I was ten summers."

"Where was your mother?"

"My mother was a whore. Like you. I heard him call you so. She sold me to him, in Marseilles." The maid circled around Shakira. "It will hurt,” she said, smiling, enjoying her moment of superiority, comfortably making the transition from victim to tormentor. “He likes it to hurt."

"What is your name?"

"I am called Marguerite, but I will speak to you no more of the master." The girl tugged on the back of the dress. "Hurry and give me your clothing."

"We can be friends," Shakira said in a smooth voice she used to reassure clients. She had to ingratiate herself with Marguerite and sway the girl to her side.
 

 
Vacuous brown eyes stared back. "Our shared pain does not make us friends." She pulled at the dress again, popping several buttons. "Merde."

“If you are not my ally, then you are my enemy.” Shakira gave the smaller girl a rough push into the wall. “Lay a hand on me again, and you’ll get more than a push.”