It was Constance, the woman Alice hated so much. “Be still,” he said quietly, his rich voice purring. “I won’t harm you.” Cautiously, he moved his hand to touch her hair. She looked up at him in fear, and he felt his heart go out to her. Who could have treated a woman so to make her so frightened?
She cradled her arm against her side as if in pain. “Let me see,” he said gently and touched her wrist. It was some moments before she released her arm enough so he could touch it. The skin was not broken nor were any bones, as he at first suspected. In the dim light he could see it was reddened, as if someone had viciously twisted the skin.
He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, but her terror of him was almost tangible. She was shaking with fear. He knew it would be kinder to let her go than to force himself on her any longer. He stepped back and she fled quickly. Jocelin stood looking after her for a long while.
It was very late at night when he slipped into Alice’s bedchamber. She was waiting for him, her arms open and eager. For all his experience, Jocelin was surprised at the violence of her actions. She grabbed him, her nails clawing into the skin of his back, her mouth seeking his, biting his lips. He drew away with a frown and she growled with keen irritation.
“You plan to leave me?” she demanded, her eyes narrow. “There were others who tried to leave me.” Alice smiled when she saw his face. “I see you’ve heard about them,” she laughed. “If you please me, you will find no cause to join them.”
Jocelin did not like her threats. His first impulse was to leave. Then the candle by the bed flickered and he became acutely aware of how lovely she was, like cool marble. He smiled, his dark eyes glowing. “I would be a fool to go,” he said as he ran his teeth along the cord of her neck.
Alice leaned her head back and smiled, her nails again digging into his skin. She wanted him quickly and with as much force as possible. Jocelin knew he hurt her and he also knew she enjoyed it. He did not receive any pleasure from their lovemaking; it was a selfish demonstration of Alice’s demands. Yet he obeyed her, his mind never far from the idea of leaving her and her household on the morrow.
Finally she groaned and pushed him from her. “Go now,” she commanded and moved away.
Jocelin felt sorry for her. What was life without love? Alice would never have love, for she never gave any.
“You did please me,” she said quietly as he started to open the door. He could see the marks his hand had made on her neck, and he could feel the rawness of his back. “I will see you tomorrow,” she said before he left.
Not if there is any chance of escape, Jocelin said to himself as he walked down the dark corridor.
“Here you, boy!” Edmund Chatworth said as he threw open his chamber door, flooding the corridor with candlelight. “What are you doing here, skulking about the hall at night?”
Jocelin shrugged idly and refastened his hose, as if he’d just answered a call of nature.
Edmund stared at Jocelin, then at the closed door of his wife’s chamber. He started to speak, then shrugged his shoulders as if to say that it wouldn’t be worth pursuing the matter. “Can you hold your tongue, boy?”
“Yes, my lord,” Jocelin answered warily.
“I don’t mean about a small matter—but one larger, more important. There is a sack of gold in it for you if you don’t speak.” He narrowed his eyes. “And death to you if you do.”
“Over there,” Edmund said as he stepped aside and poured himself a flagon of wine. “Who would have thought a few taps would have killed her?”
Immediately, Jocelin went to the far side of the bed. Constance lay there, her face battered almost beyond recognition, her clothes torn off her body, hanging by a seam about her waist. Her skin was covered by scratches and small cuts; great lumps formed on her arms and shoulders. “So young,” Jocelin whispered as he sank heavily to his knees. Her eyes were closed, her hair a mass of tangles and dried blood. As he bent and pulled her body gently into his arms, he felt her cold skin. Tenderly, he smoothed the hair away from her lifeless face.
“The damned bitch defied me,” Edmund said as he stood behind Jocelin and looked at the woman who’d been his mistress. “Said she’d rather die than bed with me again.” He snorted in derision. “In a sense, I only gave her what she wanted.” He drained the last of the wine and turned to get more.
Jocelin did not dare to look up at him again. His hands were fists beneath the girl’s body.
“Here!” Edmund said as he tossed a leather bag next to Jocelin. “I want you to get rid of her. Tie some stones to her and throw her in the river. Only don’t let it be known what happened here this night. The news might cause problems. I will say she went back to her family.” He drank more wine. “Damned little slut. She wasn’t worth the money it took to clothe her. Only way I could get any movement from her was to hit her. Otherwise she lay like a log under me.”
“Why did you keep her then?” Jocelin asked quietly as he removed his mantle to wrap the dead girl in it.
“Those damned eyes of hers. Prettiest things I ever saw. I could see them in my sleep. I set her on that wife of mine to report what went on, but the girl was a poor spy. Would never tell me a thing.” He chuckled. “I think Alice hit her to make sure she said nothing. Well,” Edmund noted as he turned away from Jocelin and the girl, “you have been paid. Take her away and do what you want with the body.”
“A priest—”
“That old bag of wind?” Edmund laughed. “The Angel Gabriel couldn’t waken the man after he has had his usual nightly flask of wine. Say some words over her yourself if you like, but no one else! You understand?” He had to content himself with Jocelin’s nod. “Now get out of here. I’m tired of looking at her ugly face.”
Jocelin neither spoke nor looked at Edmund as he swung Constance into his arms.
“Here, boy,” Edmund said, surprised. “You left the gold.” He dropped the bag onto the stomach of the corpse.
Jocelin used every bit of strength he had to keep his eyes lowered. If the earl saw the hate that burned there, Jocelin would not live to escape in the morning. Silently, he carried the body from the chamber, down the stairs and out into the starry night.
The stableman’s wife, a fat, toothless old crone whom Jocelin had treated with respect and even affection, had given him a room atop the stables to use as his own. It was a warm place set in the midst of bales of hay. It was quiet and private; few people even knew of its existence. He would take the girl there, wash her and prepare her body for burial. Tomorrow he would take her outside the castle walls and give her a proper burial. Perhaps not in hallowed ground, blessed by the church, but at least in someplace free and clean of the stench of the Chatworth castle.
The only way to reach his room was by climbing a ladder set against the outside of the stables. Carefully, he settled Constance across his shoulders and carried her aloft. Once inside, he placed her tenderly on a soft bed of hay then lit a candle beside her. The sight of her in Edmund’s room had been a shock, now it was a horror. Jocelin dipped a cloth in a bucket of water and began to wash the caked blood from her face. He did not realize there were tears in his eyes as he touched the battered form. Taking a knife from his hip, he cut away what was left of her dress and continued bathing her bruises.