“She’s incredibly wealthy, so the king is expressing his gratitude.”
Galway sighed. “She’srich?”
James grunted in reply.
“He couldn’t just give ye another manor?”
~oOo~
Isabel sat on the pallet beside William, who was dozing with his chin on his chest. Another day was half over, another day of wondering what Bolton would do with them, when he would be back. Six days had passed since he had kissed her. She’d been fed well and left alone. To keep from feeling as if the weight of the entire castle pressed down on her, she and her squire had trained hours at a time with imaginary swords. But always her thwarted revenge simmered inside her.
She had been thinking long and hard how to escape. Whenever they dropped the bucket in with food, she debated a quick climb to the top. She knew she could do it, and she didn’t think they’d cut the rope to injure her. But what would she find in the tower? Three big soldiers with weapons. Even she was not that foolhardy.
Yet every day that passed, a knot of anxiety tightened deeper in her stomach. What did Bolton plan? Was he sending her to London and the king’s justice?
The trap door suddenly opened, and a shower of dirt fell to the floor. The rope came down—without a bucket. She got to her feet warily.
“Lady Isabel?” called an unfamiliar voice. “Please step onto the loop.”
William stood up beside her. “What do you think this means?”
She shrugged. “I shall go up. We cannot sit here forever. I’ll be back for you.”
She stepped into the loop and held on. They pulled her up through the hole and she leaped onto the floor. A large man with Viking looks stood impassively before her. She put her hands on her hips and waited.
“I am Galway, Lord Bolton’s captain of the guards. You will come with me to the great hall.”
When he moved to take her arm she pulled away. “Why would I run? My man is down below. And I cannot escape your guards on foot.”
He inclined his head and led her into the inner ward. Isabel took a deep breath of fresh air and sighed. The breeze smelled of harvest and apples and the coming winter. How she’d missed the freedom of the outdoors.
She felt the hostile stares of the soldiers as they passed the barracks perched atop the stables. The smithy ceased his hammering to come out and glare. Isabel’s chin rose with pride not defensiveness. After all, if they knew what their master and his family had done, they wouldn’t support him. It was her duty to make sure they all found out.
She walked up the stairs and entered the great hall just ahead of Galway. There were trestle tables being set for supper by maids who gasped and pointed at her. Groups of soldiers and servants and travelers were waiting for their meal, and they too turned to stare as if she were the evening’s entertainment. A dog raced up to greet her, sliding through the rushes as it came to a stop. Galway pushed it aside. The smells of hot food were almost overwhelming, but she was brought back to the peril of her situation by the sight of Bolton standing at the hearth next to a black-robed priest.
Isabel’s bewilderment was replaced by dread. She felt her steps slowing, saw the priest’s mouth drop open. Galway took her arm and led her closer, and she knew it was useless to resist. What was happening?
Bolton stood like a dark, impassive statue. His narrowed eyes bored into hers and she detected a smoldering rage she had never felt from him before. He disdainfully raked her body with his gaze. She stiffened and turned away from him.
The white-haired priest was obviously trying to collect himself. He looked at her garments, at her face, then away, and harrumphed. When he again lifted his gaze, a patronizing smile spread his lips.
“God’s blessings, Lady Isabel,” he said, nodding his head briefly.
She ignored him and turned back to Bolton. “Why have you brought me to a priest?”
“Ever to the point, dear Angel,” he said, and his voice was laced with dark sarcasm.
He suddenly didn’t seem like the same man. For the first time in her life, she wanted to run.
“Your presence is requested at a wedding, Angel,” he said. “ ’Tis a shame you didn’t dress for the occasion.”
The room suddenly seemed to press down on her like the rock walls of the dungeon. Her breath came hard with foreboding.
“And you are the bride.”
She knew her face went white; her chest felt clutched by a massive fist. This couldn’t be happening.
Isabel swallowed to moisten her parched mouth. “What kind of torture is this?”