Ondine (39 page)

Her sweet dream was suddenly and violently interrupted by a fierce pounding at her door.

She bolted up, hugging the covers to her chest, her heart slamming against her chest in a frenzy.

“Ondine! Let me in!”

“Ah, one moment, Uncle!” She spoke the words, but they barely came out. She had to moisten her lips and repeat them.

Yet that utterance broke the spell of terror upon her, she flew to her chest, anxiously ripping through her things. She found her heaviest nightdress and quickly clawed it over her head, struggling with the buttons even as she hurried to the door. Dear God! Whatever his quarrel, she had to get rid of him quickly, before Warwick could appear …

Breathless, her hair a tangled stream about her, she cast the door open.

He pushed her aside and marched in, striding through the sitting room, then into the bedchamber. He came back to her. For an instant in the flicker of the fire she saw his eyes and nearly quailed; there was such hatred for her there—a fanatical hatred, as if she had been the cause of every nuisance and injustice in his life!

Then, amazingly, he blinked, and that strange stare was gone as if it had never been, to be replaced by a cunning one, lacking all gentleness in its look of mockery.

“Ondine … ah, dear child, I was greatly worried!”

“Worried?” she repeated, pointedly dubious.

“Aye,” he murmured, moving to her fire, warming his hands there. She followed him, yet kept her distance, wondering what new treachery this act could be.

“I’ve been to town,” he told her, glancing at her over his shoulder. “Seems there’s a madman haunting our area, Niece. A killer, given motive and motion by the full moon, seeking out young maids through windows and balconies, butchering them where they lie.”

“A crazed killer, Uncle?” Ondine repeated, frowning but wide-eyed in her pretense of innocence, desperate lest Warwick arrive!

“As I heard of it, I immediately turned toward home, thinking how the oak stands next to your room, and how such a man— crazed!—might easily scale it.”

Ondine lowered her lashes, determined to test him, for above all, she had to be rid of him.

“Uncle, were there a crazed killer about, I believe you would gladly point him to the tree and boost him to the window. William, I am aware of all that you know about me; I know you would dearly love to see me dead. Perhaps you hesitate from murder only because of the king. So tell me, Uncle, what is this tale of yours?”

“Ondine!” he protested, leaving the fire to take a firm seat in the chair that angled from it. “Ondine … aye, ‘tis true, I know all about you. And I despise you for the conniving harlot that you are!” He smiled at her in an amazingly pleasant fashion for the bitter brutality of his words. “But, alas! That fool child of mine has set his heart upon you; therefore, I, the doting father, must do all in my power to keep you safe! And, my dearest child …” He rose, coming to her with such a silent tread that she did not think to elude him, and brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “Ah, yes! Dear child, were I to wish you slain, I would prefer the pleasure come from my own hands, and those of no other! Nay, rest assured, girl! Tonight I have come to protect you from whatever demons might attempt to scale those walls!”

White and trembling, she stepped away from him. He smiled once again and went back to the chair with a sigh of satisfaction.

She stared at him in ashen horror for long moments. He maintained his victor’s grin. She tried to think; her mind had gone numb with the rest of her. Then an agonizing realization rushed in about her. He did not intend to leave! He meant to stay in that chair, all the night long!

Nay, he could not! He could not! Warwick would come; he would leap within, unarmed. William would attack him with pistol and sword, and Warwick, unarmed, would be at his mercy.

“Girl, you look like a ghost, staring at me so!” William snapped furiously. “Go to bed!”

She couldn’t move. Surely he couldn’t suspect Warwick! He might have discovered that she was with child, but he must believe his son’s tale, since the tale had already been told. He must believe that she had married a thief in the forest, that from him came the child.

“Go to bed!”

I cannot, I cannot, I must stay near the balcony, and warn him if he should come near.

“A killer, Uncle?” she repeated, finding life at last. “A slayer of innocents, coming in the night?”

She hurried to the balcony doors and cast them open, praying that Warwick would be down in the snow, that she could warn him.

But there was no sign of her lover yet; no sign at all.

“Ondine! Get back in here!”

William was on his feet again, rushing to her, slamming the doors against the cold, and pulling her back inside. “Go to bed, girl! Now! I will sleep in the chair!”

Sleep. He had to fall asleep. That seemed her only salvation.

She lowered her head, nodded, and fled past him, jumping into her bed, pulling the sheets to her chin once again in misery.

Don’t come now, my love. Don’t come now! she prayed.

Ah, how heavy time could hang when one lay in terror and misery! Every crackle of the fire, every gust of the wind, played upon her tortured nerves. She twisted, she bolted, she shivered horribly. The wind would not cease, nor the rustle of the old oak.

She sighed softly, then took up a position on the floor near the balcony. If he appeared, William would know. He might well seek to tear her hair out, beat her or even strangle her upon the spot. But Warwick, at least, would escape, for she would scream and scream until he was justly warned.

Time …

It ticked by. She tried to remain straight. She dozed, then awoke with a start, panicked at the scratch of a leaf against stone. Stiff she would remain, cold, aching, until she would doze again, awake again …

At last she awakened, startled by the cry of a bird, to discover that the dawn was breaking.

Dawn; he would not come now.

Tears filled her eyes; she did not know if Warwick had been forewarned, or if he had deserted her. Of if—oh, heaven forbid!— he had somehow been discovered and lay bleeding somewhere …

Where was Warwick! Oh, God, oh, God! What had become of him?

Ondine lay upon her bed until the sun began to rise, dispelling the shadows of night. Desperately she tried to fathom what events might have brought William Deauveau to watch over her the whole night through, and desperately she wondered what had kept Warwick from her. She tried to assure herself that nothing could have happened to Warwick. William was obviously suspicious of her nightly activities, lest why invent such a lie—a lie that entailed the use of her balcony? But if he knew that Warwick came to her, he would have surely discovered some means of doing away with Warwick, and if that deed had been fact, then why spend a night of misery in a chair?

Nay… Warwick had somehow learned of William’s suspicions, and had therefore not been caught upon the balcony! William had spent his night in vain, and Warwick was well.

She could lie abed no longer; she had to find a way to see Warwick, to assure herself that he was really alive and well. She couldn’t even concern herself with what her uncle knew or suspected. She had to reach Warwick—and agree that they should run now!

She dressed quickly, rushing in the hopes that she could get downstairs and out of the house before Berta could arrive and her uncle awaken. Clad in her warmest gown and fur-hooded cloak, she dared not breathe as she silently scampered past William’s sprawled form and to the door. Once there, she inhaled and exhaled, then held her breath again, praying that she might slide the bolt open without making a squeak.

Only when she was outside the room did she dare breathe again, and close the door as softly as she might.

She ran down the stairs and into the hall toward the entry, but paused there, for Raoul blocked the entryway, giving orders in his autocratic way to one of the tenant farmers. There was some disagreement: Winter was exceptionally harsh this year, and the farmers were behind in rent. It seemed that Raoul did not care; he did not intend to let the man in out of the snow, nor did he intend to give any leeway on monies owed.

For a moment Ondine’s heart seemed to pitch to her stomach. She felt herself the greatest coward, for these were her people, her father’s people, and any lord with a grain of kindness must know that blood could not be squeezed from rocks—that mercy now would but draw interest in the harvest to be reaped at a later date.

She bit her lip, wishing she might intervene. But she could not; she had no power here now, and no way to regain it when it seemed she was in some grave danger herself.

She could only be glad that the argument was taking Raoul’s attention, giving her a chance so that she might retreat through the hall and find an exit through the kitchen.

She raced through the still curtained and darkened hall to the pantry, and through it to the kitchens, aware that the servants would be up now, busy with their daily tasks, yet praying that neither Berault nor Berta would be among those in the kitchen. Pausing as she entered the sunny place, she held still, breathing deeply again, adjusting her eyes. There were but two servants here as yet; a young girl who turned a capon over the fire, and Jem.

“Jem!” she whispered happily, certain he would never give her away and grateful that he was here. He turned from the block where he sliced bread, and seeing her, his face seemed to light like the day, as if a grave concern had just been answered for him.

“Milady!” he gasped, then glanced quickly at the girl by the fire, saw that she gave them no heed, and shuffled quickly over to where Ondine stood, still against the doorway.

“Milady!” he repeated, his voice dropping to a soft and anxious whisper. ‘ ‘I’ve a message to you from the smithy. He’s taking you out of here, today. You’re to reach his cottage—the blacksmith’s cottage—before noon. Do you ken, lass?”

She nodded fervently. Oh, God be thanked! Warwick
was
unharmed, he had somehow been forewarned, and all would be well as soon as she could reach him.

“I barely slept,” Jem muttered, “knowing the urgency; not knowing how to reach you! Ah, milady—”

“Duchess, there you are!”

Berta! Behind her! Oh, God, of all the things she did not need, it was this wretched bovine spy upon her!

“And all dressed up in your lovely cloak, milady! Like as if” you were to be going out!”

She straightened regally from the wall. “I am going out, Berta. The heat of the house has oppressed me; I feel quite desperately the need for some fresh air!”

She started across the kitchen and was amazed when Berta actually grasped her arm, stopping her. She stared at Berta’s hand upon her as if it were no better than dirt, but her utter disdain did not affect Berta in the least. The woman smiled. “Not now, you’ll not, Duchess. Your uncle is awaiting you. That dear man was distressed to find you gone when he awoke! After guarding you the night long, milady!”

“I shall walk before breakfast—” Ondine began, but Berta kept smiling as she raised her voice and called sharply, “Berault! Berault!”

That awkward hulk of a man instantly made his appearance behind Berta.

Ondine realized that they meant to take her back to the hall, whether she walked, or whether they dragged her. She lifted her chin and shook Berta’s hand from her arm, dusting the fur carefully as if Berta had sullied it. Best to come willingly now; after breakfast she would escape. She gazed up at Jem and saw that he was watching her helplessly, so she smiled an assurance to him, then turned to Berta with a great display of impatience.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! If I walk later, I shall walk later!”

Berault looked upon her suspiciously, as if she still might need his urging to return to the hall.

“Berault?” She lifted an eyebrow delicately. “You will excuse me, please?”

He moved aside. Ondine swept on through the pantry into the hall; Raoul stood by the fire, surprised to see her enter by way of the kitchen.

“I’d thought to take a walk in the snow this morning,” she said coolly, in response to his unuttered question. “It seems that others have different ideas for my actions.”

“What—?” he began, frowning at Berault and Berta, who hovered behind her.

Neither needed to give a response; William Deauveau made his appearance then, still rumpled from his night in the chair. “Ah, there you are, ingrate of a chit!” he exclaimed to Ondine.

“What is going on here!” Raoul demanded in frustration.

William sauntered casually into the room. “I learned in town of a madman,” he told his son briefly, “and saw fit to stand guard myself all through the night for your betrothed. And after my sacrifice, the girl disappears on her own! Berta, take the duchess’s cloak; she’ll not need it now.”

Berta complied, taking Ondine’s cloak and leaving to return it to her room. Raoul protested.

“A madman—” he started to query, but his father silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Aye, some fellow out after women, poor wretches. Nothing to worry on; we shall protect our own. I’m impatient only with Ondine, since she thought not to thank me, but to worry me further!”

“I wished to take a walk!” Ondine exclaimed. Oh, Uncle, you are a devious liar! And, Raoul, you are a devious idiot!

Yet she was still as confused as he; she had no knowledge of what her uncle knew to make him act so strangely. She could only be grateful that Warwick had been forewarned, and that she would fly to him as soon as she could.

“I shall take you for a walk as soon as we’ve dined,” Raoul assured her.

Nay! she thought, yet that worry was oddly taken from her by William himself.

“I’m afraid, Son, that you’ll be too busy to take your betrothed walking. You must set out today for Framingham—”

“Framingham!” Raoul protested. “That is a day’s journey, a night’s stopover! Why should I go to Framingham?”

“To meet with a Spanish merchant carrying the finest silks from the Orient—”

“Silks! Rubbish! What need—”

“A gown for your bride, Son, and wedding clothes for yourself! Have you no interest—”

“A new gown!” Ondine declared, clapping her hands with joy, and thinking that, yes, Raoul must depart for the day! She must be able to escape to the smith’s cottage alone.

Berta reappeared in the room, slinking in silently to stand behind Berault once again. Raoul ignored them both, still looking disgruntled. “Father, a merchant should come to us—”

William shook his head, inclining it toward the servants and warning his son that disagreements should not be voiced in front of them. “Berault! See to our meal!”

Berault disappeared, with Berta thudding along at his heels. William smiled, pulling Ondine’s chair from the table for her. “Sit, my dear,” he said, smiling, yet staring at her with such a secretive pleasure, she shivered, wondering at the workings of his mind.

“Ondine … ?”

She came and sat. Raoul took his place, still scowling at his father. William, too, sat, folding his hands above the table. “Raoul, last night I learned of this man in Framingham. If you would be a duke, you will have the adornment and bearing of one! He has no plan to come this far north—you must go to him. Remember, this man has the finest materials—you must settle for nothing less.”

“I’m no tailor—”

“Raoul! You will see to this yourself!”

Berault came back into the room, followed by both Jem and Berta, and the table was quickly set, the food served. Raoul did not care who heard his complaints.

“Overnight? And how am I to deal with this merchandise?”

William waved an arm in the air, adding sugar to his tea. “Take one of the land laborers with you! I care not how you manage it, Son, but this wedding will be the event of the countryside, and you will—at least!—see to it yourself that you and your bride are suitably attired.”

“Women’s work!” Raoul uttered disdainfully. Then his eyes brightened. “Ondine can accompany me.”

She nearly cried out and just barely restrained herself. Jem, removing an empty tureen from the table, did not do so well. He dropped the silver server, drawing a cuff on the shoulder and a chastisement from William.

“Get back to the kitchen, you bumbling old man!” His anger stayed with him as he turned on Raoul. “She’ll not go with you! She’ll stay right here.”

“Father—”

“You trust her; I do not. She has set the month deadline. When she is your bride, she will be your domain, yours to control, if you’re capable of doing so! Until then, she is my concern, and I do not trust her. She will stay here.”

“It doesn’t matter, Raoul,” Ondine said quickly, feigning a humble sigh.

He grunted something, then bit into his food. The meal progressed in silence. Ondine ate without noting what was in her dish; she burned with the fever to escape and could barely stay in her place.

At last William mumbled impatiently, then turned on his son again. “Are you not finished! Go, get your things together! You must hurry upon the road, or the merchant will be gone before you ever bring your lazy carcass to the town!”

Raoul let out an oath, tossing his fork to the table, but rising at his father’s command. Ondine kept her head lowered, thinking it somewhat intriguing that William and Raoul would betray each other if they could.

Raoul came around to the back of her chair. He placed his hand upon her hair, then bent to her.

“Just a night, my love. And I shall buy you the finest material you have ever seen. Your gown for our wedding will be splendid.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. She was even able to keep from flinching as he kissed her cheek; she would never have to bear his touch again.

He left the room, and she heard his footsteps as he ran up the stairway.

She waited just a moment, then yawned and pushed her chair back. “Ah, I do feel so lethargic! Now that the meal is over, I believe I shall take that walk.”

William’s hand clamped down around her wrist in a cruel vise. He stared at her, smiling with naked malice.

“Nay, my dear niece! You’ll go nowhere!”

Ice seemed to blanket her; she felt like a cornered animal, trapped by a rabid bear. She had to shake herself to clear her mind from the awful hypnotism of his eyes.

“Really, Uncle!” she drawled petulantly, casually trying to free her hand. “I just wish to take a walk—”

“You wish to run to your lover, my dear. I’m afraid I’ve other plans for you both. Go to your room.”

“No!” she gasped, stunned by the assurance of his words, wrenching now with fevered resistance against his hold. His eyes raised; she barely noted it in her efforts to free herself, but quickly discovered the reason.

Berault was behind her, lacing his field worker’s arms around her to halt her fury. She would not go down without a fight, she wailed desperately inside.

But it seemed that she was, indeed, going down. She screamed; she clawed at her uncle and managed to draw blood down his cheek. Then Berault’s heavy hand closed over her mouth, and she found herself desperate to breathe. She was carried in his arms, staring into stupid eyes, still feeling his hand crushing not only her words, but what breath she had in her lungs.

“Don’t hurt her! Don’t mar her!” William snarled out softly. “I’ve promised her in good shape!”

Berault nodded, but it did Ondine no good. His hand remained too tightly over her face, no matter how she squirmed and twisted. She tried to inhale for desperately needed air, she could not get enough. No matter what her will, her strength began to ebb from her. She couldn’t see clearly, everything was spinning. Berault’s scent was sickening, his touch a horror that cast her into a swimming chasm. She was smothering, she realized bleakly, she was going to die …

She did not die, but the world slipped from her. Arms that had flailed in fury fell slack. Berault carried nothing but an empty shell, for consciousness had totally deserted her.

Jem had been sent from the hall, but he had lingered, unobserved, in the pantry. Ashen, he had knit his old-hands into tense knots at his sides when the lackey, Berault, had taken hold of Ondine.

Then he stood miserably in agony and indecision. What should he do? Try to reach her, stay to see that she was all right? Yet what could he do? Gladly he would rush into any fray, but his bones and body could do her little good!