Baldessare smiled a most unpleasant smile. “Good. Very good. Let him quiver with terror. I want him to suffer as I have suffered. And I want him to know who is responsible for his downfall.”
Jean-Paul nodded sympathetically, but he was secretly amused. As he had suffered? Did Baldessare have any conception of what real suffering was? He didn’t think so. Baldessare was no different from all the other greedy Norman barons who believed they had a right to take that which belonged to others. Baldessare would have made a fine Viking, rampaging and marauding throughout the country, stealing anything shiny he liked the look of and slaughtering those who stood in his way.
Jean-Paul despised him.
He had used Baldessare to punish Henry, though Baldessare believed he was using Jean-Paul. Baldessare did not particularly like the fact that Jean-Paul had given Henry a choice—he did not understand that the choice was part of Jean-Paul’s torture. It was a game. He wanted Henry to believe that it was within his power to decide his fate. But the truth was, Henry was trapped. Whatever path he now took would end in misery. If he chose to go back to court, leave Jenova to Baldessare, then he would suffer. If he chose to stay here, and the truth became known, he would suffer for that, too.
Jean-Paul smiled a satisfied smile. Whichever way Henry turned, he would be blocked, and as he sought a way out he would become more and more frightened and desperate. Until he realized it was a trap and he was caught firmly in it. With no escape.
Baldessare, who had been watching him, looked away uneasily. For so brutal a man, the baron was very squeamish when it came to his chaplain’s ruined face. Jean-Paul found enjoyment in that, too. Baldessare’s squeamishness gave him more power, more control. Oh yes, the baron might think he was in charge of the situation, but Jean-Paul knew differently.
“Oh, he will suffer, my lord. You may be certain of that.”
“And he will hand Lady Jenova over to me? To save himself? That is what you said would happen?”
Sacrificing Jenova, thought Jean-Paul, was what Baldessare would have done in Henry’s position. He would not understand self-sacrifice; it was beyond his limited imagination. “Undoubtedly,” he lied in a soothing voice. “He will abandon the woman he loves to save himself. Why would he not?”
But perhaps Baldessare heard a hint of the scorn he felt in Jean-Paul’s voice, because now his eyes narrowed in suspicion and warning. “I hope you do not mean to deny me Lady Jenova. I have decided she will be mine, and I want her, willing or not.”
“Do not worry, my lord. Even if Henry balks at using his skills of persuasion to send the lady into your arms, even if he proves difficult, I have someone else to fall back upon. A friend within Gunlinghorn’s walls. Not the groom who spies for you, but someone else, someone close to the family. So you see, my lord, you will have the lady, one way or another.”
“A friend?”
Jean-Paul could see this was news to Baldessare, and that it didn’t particularly please him. But Baldessare could do and think as he liked, that was not Jean-Paul’s concern. It was Henry he cared about, and as long as Henry was punished, then Jean-Paul would be content.
Beau Henri.
Jean-Paul had suffered for him. Oui, many times he had tried to spare Henry from Thearoux’s wrath. Many times he had brought him water and food when he was locked up and beaten. And many times he had hidden the fact that Henry did not do as he was told. What had Henry done in return? Jean-Paul had been left, abandoned in a burned-out shell. Le château de Nuit had been the only home he had ever known, and he had belonged there.
Jean-Paul clenched his fists, hard, and tried to calm himself. This was not the time to grow angry. Sometimes, when he was angry, he lost control of himself. He thought of Henry’s face, as he had stood on the wharf. He had changed, grown older, but he would still have known him anywhere. Henry, as handsome as ever, his eyes that strange violet-blue. Henry, turning white with shock when Jean-Paul had laid his future before him.
Henry had known that Jean-Paul was someone he knew, someone from his past, but he had not recognized him. But he would. Oh yes, he would. Jean-Paul wanted to save that unveiling until the end. Let Henry wait and suffer more. Let him understand just how it felt to have everything you loved taken from you. Until you were left, alone, with only your hatred for company.
Outside the door, Rhona held her breath. She had come upon the two men by accident and had stayed, lurking near the doorway, listening to their conversation. She had not realized until now that it was Jean-Paul who was Lord Henry’s enemy, and although it came as a surprise, she was not altogether shocked. She should have known—she had never trusted the disfigured priest. Although he had pretended to be her friend, she had never believed he would champion her if it were not in his own self-interest.
She wondered why he hated Lord Henry so much. Rhona could understand her father’s hatred, because she understood his vicious character, but whatever Lord Henry had done to Jean-Paul was a mystery, though one she was keen to solve. How that would help her and Alfric escape their father’s clutches she wasn’t sure, but at least this new information would be something to tell Reynard.
Today she was to meet with him.
Rhona could not believe how much she was looking forward to it. To seeing him, hearing his voice, being close to him. There was something about him that lifted her spirits, even when she was upset with him. And she was often that. He was a stranger and yet he was beginning to mean a great deal to her. Mayhap it was his manner, his confidence in himself and his future, his dreams of traveling to strange and distant lands. She wanted to go to those lands with him. She wanted to sail with him beneath the stars.
Rhona was so tired of being afraid. She was so tired of always trying to think ahead, of trying to say and do the things that would please her father and not stir up his temper. Always plotting and planning, even while she slept! She wanted to live a life where such things were unnecessary. She wanted to be happy….
She stopped and took a breath. Happy? Ridiculous! How could she ever hope to be happy? Survival was the thing. Staying alive long enough to escape her father’s grasp, to save Alfric, who depended upon her, to save herself. And yet, some days, she had the horrible sensation that she was turning into him—Baldessare. Plot and plan and scheme though she might to escape him, the very act of doing so was making her more like him. So even if she did escape, it might already be too late.
Some days it felt so hopeless.
A sob rose in her throat. Rhona choked it back. The sound she made was faint, but she froze in place, praying that no one in the room had heard her. If she was caught listening, she would be locked in her room, and then she would not see Reynard today.
And suddenly Rhona knew she could not bear that.
Seeing Reynard was the only thing that was keeping her from despair. He offered her hope, though of what she was still uncertain. Perhaps just the fact that a man like him was in the world, and interested in her, made her think she could make a better life. That she deserved something better than this….
“What was that?” Her father, his voice a low growl, like a savage dog that smells blood.
She would run. If he came toward her, she would run, and hope to reach safety before he caught her….
“It is nothing. Just a mouse.” Jean-Paul laughed softly, as if he had made a joke. “Do not worry yourself, my lord. All is in hand to see Lord Henry destroyed.