Bolton lifted his head but didn’t release her. “Galway, go away.”
“Sir Roger is awaiting you in the great hall. He has all the Mansfield records ready.”
Isabel didn’t try to move. She studied Bolton’s face, saw the muscles in his jaw clench. He finally pushed away from the door, and her. She had been so close to getting him to admit his need. But it washerbody that seemed empty and alone without his touch.
“This discussion is far from over, Isabel.”
His warning hastened her flustered retreat from the room.
~oOo~
Isabel spent most of the day with Bolton, conversing with her steward about the scope of her father’s estates. At first Bolton hadn’t wanted her there, but it washerinheritance,herlife. Even Sir Roger agreed she should stay. But shock slowly seeped through her at the enormity of lands and manors and castles that were now Bolton’s dowry. His second dowry.
But that was inconsequential compared to the sick feeling that grew inside her stomach. Her father had been a wealthy man, but had lived like a pauper. She had less luxuries than a yeoman on Bolton’s estate. Her own people, thin, starving, whom she thought would look on Bolton as the enemy, today treated him as a savior. And she could not blame them. She had seen how even the poorest of his people lived, how he provided whatever they needed.
Isabel had known he needed money, that his first dowry meant much to him. She had thought he spent it all on himself, his garments, his travels, his luxuries. But that had been another lie she had believed with gullibility. The people on Bolton estates lived well. It washerpeople who were starving and mistreated.
The parchments spread out on the table were gibberish to her unschooled eyes. Bolton perused them with an intelligence she grudgingly admired. He was an educated man. For a moment, she had an inkling of how he must feel being married to her.
She knew in that moment a cold truth. She couldn’t have helped her own people without Bolton. She was too ignorant about learning, too different for anyone to ever look at her like the lady of the castle. There was no use in even trying to learn how to be a real woman. Her failure at attracting her husband was proof of that. There was an ache in her chest that would never go away.
~oOo~
That night, more people gathered in the great hall than she had ever imagined lived so near. She knew it was not to see herself, but her husband, resplendent in his court garments. Yet they greeted her with warmth, the women curtsied, the men knelt with bowed heads. She became caught up in the magic of hundreds of candles gleaming on silver table settings, the clean smell of the rushes, new tapestries from Bolton’s own looms keeping the warmth in the hall.
The cellars were thrown open, and the feast was beyond what she had ever seen. Tray upon tray were carried on the shoulders of servants, bearing roasted pigs, and large pies made of capons and hens. She saw grown men wipe away tears of gratitude at the abundance. Isabel’s throat was tight and her eyes stung. She realized she had to get away before Bolton saw her foolish sentimentality. His back was turned as he laughed with Sir Roger, her steward.
She piled a few morsels on a silver plate and crept from the hall. No one noticed her leaving amid the celebration. She retrieved a torch from one of the guards, and went out into the night. The wind caught her, swirled around her, and she shivered. But she had no time for her cloak. She walked to the simple graves of her parents, in a remote corner of the outer curtain wall. She shoved the torch into the packed earth and sat down to eat her meal.
The night was silent, except for the occasional shouts of the men above her as they patrolled the battlements. Well, at least that was one thing she could say for her father—his soldiers were well armed and well trained.
But children in the village starved. Anger and outrage rushed through Isabel, and she threw her plate down on her father’s grave.
“Did you lie to me about everything?” she cried.
A hoarse sob tore from her chest, and she buried her face in her hands. She cried until her eyes burned, until her chest ached. The torchlight flickered over the bare mounds of earth and threw eerie shadows on the stone wall. Her crying subsided into trembling, into finally a tired stillness. She sat with her legs bent against her chest, her arms wrapped about them for warmth.
Her father could not have been so deliberately cruel. Maybe he knew not how to care for his people.
She looked at the other grave, wishing she could remember more of her mother than a tired, sad shadow of a woman. Would things have been different had her mother lived?
“Mother,” she said awkwardly, looking up into the night, “what should I do? My revenge is a hollow thing now, and I know not what my life should be. I am such a failure.”
But there was no answer, only the never-ending loneliness that haunted her soul.
~oOo~
James began to realize something was not right after the third song he’d been asked to sing. He bowed to the applause, and jested with the knights who’d begun to speak to him with less wariness. Yet something nagged at him.
And then he noticed that Isabel was not in the great hall. He frowned, searching the room with his gaze. Galway saw him, and seemed to realize at once what was wrong—faster than James had. He continued speaking with one of the knights as Galway took the corner staircase to the second floor. A few minutes later, his captain returned and shook his head.
James excused himself and let the jugglers begin their entertainment. Uneasiness roiled his stomach. He tried to tell himself that this was Isabel’s home, that she could do what she wanted here.
Why was he worried? Surely, he just needed to know that she wasn’t plotting some new revenge against him. But she’d been strangely silent since they’d come to her father’s home. James had tried hard not to be openly scornful of the condition of the castle and the surrounding countryside. But the great poverty was hard to bear.
Deep inside he knew that although she was a skilled warrior, she was a naive woman. He remembered how she’d looked at his food, and he thought she’d been merely hungry. But he knew now it was because she had never imagined such luxuries existed.
Galway spoke to a guard in low tones, then approached James.
