Shana Abe (10 page)

Redmond smiled to himself. Yes, he was quite satisfied with Solange. She would be perfect for his needs. He let her sleep on, steadily increasing the distance from Ironstag to her.

She drifted through layers of sleep to become aware that she was being carried in someone’s arms, someone with a beard that pricked her cheek. She opened her eyes as she was being settled upon a pallet of furs.

A strange man leaned over her, a man with a muddy red beard and shining eyes. She gasped, startled, then scrambled backward on the pallet to escape him.

“No.” He shifted his grip to hold her down firmly. “Don’t be afraid. Tonight you will sleep alone in your tent.”

She blinked up at him, placing the voice and the face, remembering the events of the past two days.

“I will be with my men. There is a guard outside if you need anything. I bid you good night, Madam Wife.”

Redmond left the tent, having to duck to exit through the low flap. She heard him talking to the guard, and then his footsteps crunched away on the fallen leaves littering the ground.

Solange sat up, rubbing her head. Her entire body ached, even as she rested upon the thick furs. It was nighttime; she had no idea how late exactly. She had been left no candle or lamp. The half-moon outside
added a faint light to the walls of her tent but not enough to see clearly.

She fumbled with the satin sash around her waist until it came free, then reached under the bodice of the loosened gown to rub circles on a section of skin beneath her breasts. The small, hard object had pressed a ring of red into her flesh, and she was thankful to finally be able to untie it from the ribbon drawstring of her undertunic.

She pulled out Damon’s ring and slipped it back onto her finger on the hand opposite the one that wore the signet ring of the earl. She had searched for it frantically on hands and knees that morning before the wedding. It was the one thing of Damon’s she could take with her, and she was determined to do so since he hadn’t wanted it back. If Redmond asked her about it, she would say it belonged to her mother. Surely he would have no objection to that.

The fog in her head would not leave. Solange felt neither hungry nor thirsty, and the siren song of falling back to sleep lured her. She thought vaguely of standing up, seeing where she was, talking to someone about how much farther there was to go.

Instead, she curled up on the furs and listened to the music of the crickets outside until she fell into a heavy, dreamless slumber.

T
he next day’s ride was almost identical to the one the day before, except now Redmond and she traveled surrounded by a small army of men; his
soldiers had caught up with them late the previous night. They carried with them her belongings, and so Solange now wore a more comfortable gown of soft green wool. She had pulled her hair back into a simple plait. It was all she could really manage to do without a maid, but Redmond didn’t seem to mind one way or another. His demeanor reflected neither admiration nor condemnation when he saw her. All Solange could perceive was his strong sense of possession of her, and his anticipation of something she could not guess.

He had shaken her awake that morning at dawn and informed her she had only a few minutes to get ready to leave camp. She had wondered at his haste but had no opportunity to question him, since he left as soon as she had sat up. He had tossed her gown down on the furs before exiting, and she had dressed as quickly as she could through her yawns. The thought of this man catching her in her undergarments was mortifying.

Solange sat aside the gray stallion in Redmond’s arms and considered that. The party of soldiers alternated between a walk and a brisk trot, which joggled her so much that her head soon throbbed. The end of her braid bounced up and down in her lap. She caught it and held it, stroking the tip, wondering what it would be like to be intimate with the man holding her.

She tried to imagine anything beyond the chaste kiss they had already shared.

Impossible. All she knew was Damon.

Logically she understood her body now belonged to the earl, and that ultimately—probably very soon—she would be surrendering it to him. But that was all it could be for her, a surrender. She would fulfill her end
of the bargain with her father, but her heart and her mind were still her own to command.

Her hair picked up burnished highlights from the sun and threw them back to her eyes, a weave of glinting colors twined in her fingers. She had always hoped that her children would have Damon’s glossy black hair.

“My lord,” she said, breaking the silence of the woods, “is your holding far from here?”

Redmond took his time answering. “Not much farther,” he said finally. “We’ll be there tonight.”

She let the silence rest between them.

He slid one arm around her waist and held her closer. “I have taken pains to welcome you to your home,” he said in a low voice. “You will appreciate my work, I think.”

She closed her eyes against the sun and tried not to think of her real home, many miles behind them now.

The horses plodded on. At noon they stopped to eat a plain lunch of bread, cheese, and tart autumn apples. Solange sat by herself on a boulder near a meadow, in plain view of the earl. He ate with his men, talking of the route they had left to travel and where the next scout would be found.

A cardinal scolded her from the branches of the closest ash. She scattered her bread crumbs beneath the tree for the bird to eat later.

It was another fine day. Lucky, she thought. A few thin clouds threaded the sky, foaming and dissolving in the wind. But Solange could smell the change in the air, had known of it since the morning before. Snow was coming very soon. She could taste the dull metallic flavor of it on the breeze. Whatever else awaited her
at Redmond’s keep, she would be glad not to travel through a snowstorm.

Lunch ended and they mounted up again. Many of the horses had a tense prance to their steps now. Solange thought they sensed the coming change as well.

By sunset they had reached the first of the sod huts that made up the outer boundary of the village of the castle. Her first view of Wellburn itself came upon them suddenly through a clearing of trees.

It was the endtime of dusk, when the last light glowed on the horizon, silhouetting all things in darkness against it. Through the hanging branches she saw the western sky drenched bloodred, and against it rose a sloping hill with a dun-colored wall that circled five dun towers: Wellburn, fortress keep of the family of Redmond for generations.

The earl stopped his steed and let her look.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It has stood five centuries of war, with only my ancestors to conquer it. I have made a few … improvements to the original design. You must tell me what you think of them.”

“How will I know what you’ve done?”

“You will know, Solange. It’s one of the reasons I’ve brought you here.”

This rather mystifying remark was the last thing he said to her until they had reached the inner courtyard. The soldiers, who had entered ahead of them, were waiting in rows, along with a plethora of peasants and a few nobles who hung in groups near the main doors.
All chatter ceased as Redmond pulled in his steed and dismounted.

Solange attempted to smooth her gown, but then Redmond grabbed her by the waist, swinging her down to the ground.

He stood away from her, faced the crowd.

“Behold,” he called. “My lady wife.”

There was a long silence in the smoky twilight. As curious as the boisterous noise of her first meeting with Redmond was, she found this hushed watchfulness even stranger.

There were no welcoming smiles, no bowing servants. Even the horses were still. Solange kept her face blank, attempting to match the looks she was receiving. She scanned the mass of people, but there were no exceptions, not even her husband, who was also staring at her as if she were some foreign thing.

Fine, she thought defiantly, let them take good measure of me. If I am not liked, it will not be the first time in my life. She straightened her aching shoulders with cool disdain. But her hands were clenched tight in the thick folds of her skirt.

Redmond’s stallion snorted behind her, jerking his massive head away from the boy who held his reins and rearing up to scream and paw the air by her head.

She turned but did not step back from the hooves. In an instant the horse was down again, the stableboy lunging for the fallen reins.

The stallion was docile now, head hanging, eyes mild. He blew through his nose at her. She fancied she could even see him give a crafty smile.

The noise behind her made her face the people
again. They were talking now all right, talking and pointing, as if there were someone else standing right behind her, a devil.

Redmond came over, his mouth downturned.

“Were you frightened, my angel?” His hands pinched her shoulders.

“No,” she said.

“Of course you were,” he chided her. “We must get you inside so you may recover.”

He pulled her past the hissing crowd into the hallway. Solange had a blurred image of dozens of faces following them into the castle, of the uneven stones of the courtyard changing to smooth marble beneath her feet. Redmond kept his arm about her shoulders, steering her past a cavernous hallway, up a set of stairs that crawled the outer wall to a second floor, and then up again to the third. They passed colorful tapestries in the dimness, doors that were closed with ornate iron locks, statues of armor in platform niches.

“My lord, could we not slow down? I am breathless to keep up with you.”

He answered her request by sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her with him. She grabbed up her trailing skirts as best she could to keep him from tripping on the steep stairs.

The curve of the steps tightened considerably. She knew this meant they were actually in a tower now. Still, he did not slow until they had reached a door at the end of the steps. It was open a crack. Redmond pushed at it with his foot until it opened the rest of the way, then crossed the threshold with her still in his arms.

He deposited her near the center of the circular room, then backed away from her as if to admire his placement of some bauble on a table. He was breathing heavily from the climb.

“Yes, yes.” He raked his hair back from his face with a peculiar laugh, staring down at her.

Solange stood perfectly still, aware of dangerous layers of meaning in the moment that were beyond her. Her eyes shifted from the right to the left, but the room appeared quite ordinary except for its roundness. She couldn’t fathom what the earl was excited over, but there could be no doubt something was making him act so oddly. He was sweating and smiling at her in a way that brought back the chill of his touch at the reception. He said nothing now but watched her closely.

She touched her hand to her throat, a nervous gesture. “My lord?”

“My name,” he said in his mellow voice, “is Stephen.”

“I think I might—”

“Say it.”

She swallowed. “Stephen.”

“Again.”

“Stephen. It feels a bit—”

“You have no idea how long I have waited for you, Solange.” As soon as he said her name, the time displacement came rushing back to her, swimming in her head, forcing her to follow the movements of his lips closely to match the sound with the action. She lifted a hand to press against her forehead. She felt hot suddenly,
crackling hot, though she saw no fireplace in this room. Her mouth was so dry.

“You will rest now, Solange. You will rest, and when you are through you will be prepared to receive me tonight. Tonight, Solange, I will come to you. Do you understand me? Do you understand what I am saying, Solange?”

With every repetition of her name her sense of displacement grew, until she found herself sitting on the edge of a great posted bed, unaware that she had moved or been moved there. She was so tired.

“Tell me you understand, Solange. Tell me how happy you are that tonight is the night we will be together.”

She tried to speak, but it was too complicated. She could barely keep her eyes open.

“Solange,” he said, and it reeled through her.

“Yes,” she whispered, only wanting him to stop.

“Good. Sleep now.” The palm of his hand pressed into her forehead, and she pitched back onto the bed against a mound of covers.

The spinning darkness consumed her, but it was not complete. She was caught in a whirlwind of voices and faces, the unfamiliar mixed with the familiar. Her father, scolding her for disobedience. Adara, the maid, mocking her with her eyes, sneering. The nodding head of the stallion, disembodied, with a sick smile that grew and grew.

She was caught helpless in the middle of the storm, struggling to speak to them, reaching out for them to have the images vanish through her fingers. Nothing mattered, she could not stop them, they would not
stop circling her—Lady Margaret, Lady Elsbeth, her father’s men, all the people she had once known laughing at her, spinning and spinning.

Damon was there, not laughing. Damon was talking to her, but the hurricane of others drowned out his voice. She reached for him.