Unbidden (The Evolution Series) (38 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Rochelle woke to a tentative knock
. Her neck and back protested as she straightened from the slumped position she’d slept in. She had no window to tell her if it was day or night. The hall beyond her door had gone silent.

Another soft knock sounded
.

Magnus snuffled at the door, unalarmed, so Rochelle rose with a groan, lifting the bar to open it just a crack
. Ingrid’s wide hazel eyes peered in at her. “If you need to use the privy and take your dog outside for a little walk, this’d be the time,” she whispered.

Rochelle peeked around the door
.

“The
men are in their quarters. You should hurry. Them that drink too much don’t always sleep long.”

Rochelle did hurry, the smell in the privy enough to drive her back into the wretched house
. She stood by the fire trying to get warm until she heard the first stirrings of men behind a door adjacent to her own. She slipped into the depressing storeroom that represented safety, grabbing a fresh torch off the wall on her way.

She paced the room as she conside
red her quandary. Soon Ingrid knocked again. Rochelle was surprised to see a large pile of clothing in her arms. Behind her stood Drogo.

“You will earn your keep
. Do this mending,” he announced. “I do not like noblewomen in my hall, but you will come out for dinner tonight.”

Rochelle
nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She wanted to lecture him with righteous indignation and tell him exactly what she thought of his hospitality. She silently backed away so Ingrid could drop the clothing inside the door. She poked at the pile with her toe. The girl returned shortly with thorn needles, thread, and a small oil lamp. Rochelle could have wept with gratitude when she dragged two chairs in the room, then sat down with her.

They sorted through the dirty clothing, apparently Drogo and Doeg’s based on the quality of the clot
h. Each chose an item to mend, with Rochelle choosing the easiest repair she could, hoping she did not leave the garment worse than she found it.

“Are you married?” Rochelle asked companionably.

“My husband died last winter.”

“Oh
. I am sorry.”

“Me too
. He was a good man.”

“Y
ou came to work here after he died?”

“I worked here as a girl
. Had to come back so I could take care of my son.”

R
ochelle nodded. “The men here seem rough. Do they bother you?”

“Not any more
. Doeg went after one of them for hitting me once. They leave me alone now.”

Rochelle nearly dropped her sewing
. “Doeg defended you?”

Ingrid nodded.

“Why?”

Ingrid lifted her thin little shoulders in a shrug
. “He don’t like the women to be hit. He could take the lot of them drunks on, even with his bad arm. I’ve seen him do it.”

Rochelle ha
d trouble melding Ingrid’s indication of Doeg’s morality with her own observations. “It did not seem like the women were well treated here. I guess I was wrong.”

“I didn’t say we were treated nice
. We don’t get smacked very often. Almost anything else goes.” She worked her needle with jerky tugs. “We are still just women. Men have no end of ways to break a woman down without using fists, if you know what I mean.”

Rochelle considered the ugliness of that idea while making a hash of a sagging hem. “Y
ou are expected to, umm, accommodate these men?”

“I don’t,” she said, shak
ing her head vehemently. “The others do, mostly for the money.”

“Y
ou are not forced to?”

“No.”

“Because of Doeg?”

Ingrid shrugged again
. “Like I said, it didn’t used to be like this here.”

Drogo summoned Rochelle for dinner by beating on the door and shouting at her. She walked out stiffly, her hand curled into Magnus’s fur, fingers sore from a day of accidental needle pokes. Drogo pointed to the chair at the opposite end of the table from him. At least she wouldn’t be sharing a bench with any of the clods watching her like hunters tracking a doe. There were fourteen men at the table, including Drogo and Doeg. They came in all shapes, sizes and ages, and to a man stared at her, a few with suggestive leers. The redheaded brute to her right actually licked his lips.

The heavy-bosomed
serving women carried in platters of gristly meat and plain boiled vegetables. Wine and ale began to flow. Rochelle nibbled at some bread, watching with horrified fascination as the men gobbled at the meat, leaving only large bones behind. They drank freely, though she noticed Drogo hardly ate or drank at all. He leaned back in his chair, seeming amused by her presence despite his distaste for noblewomen.

“How does our food compare to that at your own home?” he yelled down to her.

The room quieted. Excitement bloomed on the men’s greasy faces.

“It is a fine meal,” Rochelle said clearly
. “I thank you for the food.”

“And the hall?  Doeg makes it sound as if David is now richer than me.”
Doeg sat to his right, rigid and forbidding as always.

She tried to be diplomatic.
“Alda’s hall is very dull compared to your own.”

The men laughed appreciatively
. “To Drogo’s hall!” they shouted, slopping their drinks on the table.

“In what way
is it dull?” Drogo probed.

She pointedly watched one of the serving women approach
. “It lacks some of the baser comforts. Nor do we entertain nearly as much company.”

His eyes narrowed
. “I wonder at David sending you here.”

Rochelle glanced at Doeg
. “It is not for me to question.”

“Indeed not.” He scratched his cheek. “
Did he put a babe in your belly yet?”

The table
’s occupants erupted in hooting laughter. Rochelle felt the stain of a blush rise up in her cheeks.

“Do not look so shocked
. I just wonder at him. I hardly let my wife out of the house until she gave me two sons. You look comely enough, and Lord knows he is a great strapping man.”  He looked at Doeg, his eyes darkening to a cruel chill. “Perfectly wrought.” 

Doeg did not react, while the other men
stared at her even more intently. “She is comely,” the redhead agreed.

“I do not think David would approve of your discussing my appearance so freely,” Rochelle said with force.

“Too bad he is not here,” Drogo replied. “Then we could ask him.”

One of the men grabbed a serving woman, pulling her into his lap to squeeze at her breast
. She put her arm around his neck and waited placidly while he kneaded her flesh. The other men cheered him on. Drogo watched for a moment before addressing Rochelle again. “Maybe he has lost interest in you. Or perhaps he is hoping you will learn to become a good Bavarian woman.”

“Father,” Doeg said softly
. “Do not tease her.”

“Shut your yap,” Drogo ordered amidst the
rising turmoil.

Rochelle sensed oncoming danger as if it was a material thing moving through the room, as if she could reach out to touch it. The men either stared at her or watched the man fondling the woman in his lap. He abruptly dumped the servant on her feet, then grabbed her hand to pull her toward the sleeping quarters.

“Not so fast,” she cried. Her protests ended when he whispered something in her ear. “Well, why did you not say so!”

The youngest of the group, probably no older than Samuel
, but built like a bull, followed them drunkenly. “You told me I could watch this time,” he whined. “You promised.”

The three left the hall with a yell and a giggle, and all the attention that had been on them now turned toward her
. She felt a sinister shift as danger moved closer.

Rochelle pushed back from the table as regally as possible
with quaking legs. She made it out of her chair and partway to the door when she heard a slurred protest behind her. Two hands clamped onto her waist like iron. She cried out in pain. Magnus snarled as he attacked, chomping down on the red-head’s forearm with a vengeance. The man howled as he let go of her, but Magnus did not loosen his hold.

“The cur is eating me!” he shrieked
. “Get if off!  Kill it!”

His protests provided
entertainment to the other men, giving Rochelle the chance to run to the storeroom door. “Magnus!  Stop!” she screamed. “Come!”  He was her only protection. She couldn’t leave him in the hall.

He backed off the man with a snapping growl
, then trotted to her with his bloody tongue lolling out of his mouth. She noticed Doeg behind the redhead with his spata drawn, but she didn’t wait to see what he would do. She slammed the door shut, dropping the bar home with shaking hands.

She backed to the opposite wall, certain the door would be bashed in at any momen
t. She heard Doeg talk sharply. The redhead bleated about the bite on his arm, then Drogo’s shout silenced them both. The sounds from the room soon returned to those of the prior night as the men apparently resumed their drinking and eating and wenching. Disgusting pigs. After awhile, she staggered to the pallet where she curled into a corner, rubbing her tender sides. The man had grabbed her with ferocity.

This was hell
. She was in hell and David’s father was the head demon. She couldn’t even picture her husband here. How did he live with such honor when he was the spawn of such depravity?  His mother must have been an angel to override the effects of the foul seed she’d carried.

Why
had he wanted her to come here?  Was he so angry over the argument about the salt that he wanted to see her punished?  Did he test her loyalty?  Or was it, as his father had said, that David wanted her to become more submissive, like those poor serving women?

The questions did not stay in her mind long
. Her situation demanded all her attention. She was five days from home, utterly alone, cowering in the corner of a storeroom.

When the sounds from the hall had nearly died, she heard heavy footsteps outside the door.

“Daughter,” Drogo’s voice called. “You are not doing nearly enough mending. Tomorrow night you will come out to help the women serve. You can show us how our hospitality differs from that of Francia.”

Rochelle did not answer
. Her refusal would only worsen her situation, she was sure of it. He would never get her agreement.

“Do you hear me?” he yelled.

“I hear you,” she said, hating the high quaver in her voice. He walked away.

T
hat settled it. She had to leave. Tonight, while everyone slept. She had no food, a little money, no idea where her horse was stabled, and only the faintest notion of where on earth she was. Winter had set in and it was the worst possible time of year to travel, much less be on foot. But she would die alone in the forests of Bavaria before she let herself be used by those men.

Her only ally was a dog who had defended her more than once
. She knelt next to Magnus on the floor to bury her face in his fur, never so alone in her life. She allowed herself a moment to indulge in panicky sobs.

Then she got to work,
fashioning wraps for her feet, hands, and head from pieces of a heavy wool blanket. She layered on every piece of clothing she’d brought before adding some from the mending pile. As prepared as she could be, she waited for silence in the hall, occasionally describing for Magnus what they were about to do, and how quiet he must be.

After an hour or so, she carefully opened her door, sucking in her breath when she saw Doeg in a chair by the fire, his bac
k to her door. He was not alone. Ingrid sat in his lap. Rochelle heard him say something, prompting Ingrid to slide to her knees in front of him. When his hands clamped down on the arms of the chair, Rochelle made her move, carefully closing the storeroom behind her before slipping stealthily through the kitchen door and out into the frigid winter night.

She found the stable easily enough, but when she cracked the door
, she saw the young voyeur sleeping in a pile of hay. He stirred and muttered in his sleep. She knew she’d never get Regret out without raising an alarm. Her only chance of escape was to get a substantial head start.

S
he set out reluctantly on foot, hoping to God she at least knew where she was going, and if she was very lucky, met up with a trustworthy stranger to help her.

A burgeoning anger drove her
. She’d never been in so many life-threatening, emotionally exhausting situations in her whole life as she had since she’d met David. Two interviews with the emperor, road bandits, attempted kidnapping, a tournament, Doeg dragging her off to her depraved father-in-law. Now she marched in the dead of night, with only a vague idea of direction and snow burdening every step. Only a few layers of wool, a willing dog and her own determination stood between her and certain death.