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Thinking if Hrolf had become a Christian the chapel of the house would be in use, she wandered along the front hall until she came upon the candlelit room. The fragrance of incense was sweet, but she felt a strange detachment, the same inexplicable feeling of uneasiness she had experienced since they had arrived upon French soil. Once the prayers had come to her lips without effort, but now she could remember only random verses, none complete. After sitting quietly by herself for a while, she was overcome with sadness for the lost world of her childhood, and she made her way slowly to the room she and Mylan had been given. She undressed in the darkness and climbed into the comfortable bed without bothering to wait for Mylan to appear. When he did finally return to their room he decided not to awaken her, if only to avoid another bitter argument. His head ached badly, but he was not half as drunk as Hrolf had been, and laughi
ng at the absurdity of that comparison he tossed his borrowed clothing aside and fell into bed beside his lovely bride.
After nearly a week filled with daily rides to enjoy the sights of the countryside, or hunting parties that netted generous amounts of game, followed by long nights of boisterous merrymaking, Celiese had had more than enough of Hrolf’s hospitality, while Mylan had become the duke’s closest confidant. He was obviously enjoying the easy life Hrolf provided in exchange for his company, but she was disgusted and was ready to leave.
Irritated that Mylan had apparently forgotten the real purpose of their visit, she drew him aside when he returned from yet another day in the duke’s company. The men had gone hunting for wild boar, but considering the beast too vicious to risk inviting ladies along to watch, they had left them behind in the city. The garden of the duke’s mansion was well tended, but the pleasant surroundings were in sharp contrast to Celiese’s dark mood.
“We are no closer to our goal than the day we arrived, Mylan. You may enjoy the leisure Hrolf provides, but I do not. Winter will soon be here and I cannot bear the thought of spending it under the villain’s roof.”
Mylan sighed sadly; sorry she had misunderstood his motives. “We have had little time to talk, and none to make love as we used to, and I am as dissatisfied as you are, but we will gain nothing until we have Hrolf’s full confidence. You have waited years for this opportunity to come home, and a week is not long to invest in your future.” Drawing her near, he tried to end her criticism with a sweet kiss, but she shoved him away rudely.
“Stop it! A few kisses will not still my complaints! I want to go home now, to rebuild my house where I can finally live in peace. Can’t you understand how desperately I want to go home? I despise this place and everyone in it!”
As Mylan glanced up he saw Hrolf observing their argument from a balcony overhead, but how much the man had heard he could only guess. He tried to smile as though the mysteries of love were beyond him, but the duke strode down the stairs and crossed the path to join them, his expression showing he was clearly not amused. “What is all this? Mylan is content as my guest, but it seems you most certainly are not. Why have we failed to make you happy as well?” He planted his feet firmly upon the path, daring Celiese to avoid his question by flight.
Tossing her curls as she turned to face him, Celiese spoke the truth she could no longer conceal. “Although I am here with Mylan, I am French by birth. My estate, the home of the d’Loganvilles for generations, is now under your control. I came here to ask you to return it to me, because I am the rightful owner and you are not!”
Stunned by the willful young woman’s hostile demand, Hrolf folded his arms across his expansive chest and stared down at her coldly. “Just where might this estate be?”
“Between the Seine and the sea, south of Yvetot and east of Rouen. The house lies in ruins, and the uncultivated fields are of no use to you, but it is my home and I want to return it to the prosperity it knew before France was overrun with Danish vermin!”
The back of Hrolf’s hand smacked Celiese’s jaw with the speed and force of lightning, knocking her to the path, where she lay barely conscious until he had summoned two men to carry her away. Through the bright haze of pain blurring her vision she saw Mylan remained standing by the Duke’s side. He had not come to her aid, nor spoken one word in her defense, and she could readily tell by his murderous glance that he had made his choice and never would.
Chapter 22
Celiese heard the men talking but lay perfectly still, sprawled in an uncomfortable heap where they had tossed her, hoping they would think her unconscious. The room was small, unlike the one she and Mylan had been sharing, and the echo of their deep voices reverberated around her with a hollow ring. They were whispering excitedly, but she understood all that they said.
“He had dozens of men searching the countryside for this woman, and all the while she was within his own walls!”
“Women! Who can understand them, but she’ll gather no resistance around her now. She is as good as dead, but perhaps before…” The man jabbed his friend in the ribs as he winked knowingly.
“You’ll not have this wench, Jaret, so cease your daydreaming. Have you not seen how her husband watches her every move?”
“Aye, that I have, but how is it possible a Dane has such a wife as this? Did he not understand who she was and the trouble she would cause before he brought her here?”
Shrugging, since the matter troubled him little, the heavier of the two men moved toward the door. “All wives bring trouble, this French one simply more than most.”
Still reticent to leave, Jaret bent down to stroke Celiese’s tangled curls with a fond touch. “She is a rare beauty, it is a shame we cannot stay with her a while longer.”
“Your appetites are insatiable in all things. A few minutes would soon turn into hours. Leave the woman before we find ourselves in as much trouble as she is.”
With a slow, shuffling step, Jaret left with his companion. After locking the heavy oak door, they returned to Hrolf to report that the elusive Lady d’Loganville would trouble him no more that day.
Attempting to rise, Celiese slipped back to the rough wooden floor, too dizzy to do more than attempt to focus her eyes. Hrolf had hit her such a forceful blow she was grateful her neck had not snapped, but finally having the opportunity to speak her mind as she had longed to do since the moment of their arrival had been worth the pain. He was no more than a rat, living upon the garbage heap of a once proud people, and she would never think otherwise. She despised him and all he stood for. Then, recalling his men’s words, she wondered how he had been alerted to her presence in France and why he had sent men to ascertain her whereabouts. One woman hardly constituted a threat of such proportions as to merit a search. Of what had he been so afraid? Did he honestly imagine she could assemble enough half-starved peasants to storm his stronghold at Rouen? She would have laughed had she not been in such great pain, but as she blacked out, Mylan’s hate-filled stare flooded her dreams with a terror far worse than any Hrolf could inflict.
The small tower room had only one high, narrow window, which faced the north. The reflected sunlight cast long shadows across the floor only at noon, the rest of the day an eerie twilight veiled the room in semidarkness. A small cot sat against the southern wall, the straw filled mattress none too clean, but Celiese managed to crawl upon it when she awakened. Uncertain as to the day, let alone the hour, she lay quietly trying to imagine what fate Hrolf might be planning for her. Prisoners had been kept locked away in towers for years, so the fact the man had not slit her throat instantly proved nothing.
Perhaps he might seek to trade her for further concessions from King Charles; that was a possibility whose details might take many a month, if not years, to arrange. In the week she had spent in Hrolf’s house, she had not once seen Gisela and had not dared ask where she might be, but it was not presumptuous to think the princess might intercede in her behalf. In truth they had much in common, and she hoped the young woman would be inclined to help her. A ransom was a popular Viking tactic, but who other than the king would be inclined, or able, to pay one for her?
Unable to foresee what the future would hold, she sat up slowly, being careful not to bring back the intense pain to her head by too sudden a move. From her place on the edge of the cot she could see the whole room. There was a small table, one low stool, and a pail in the far corner, but nothing else. Hardly fit quarters for a woman, even one being held prisoner, and she wondered how long she would have to endure the discomforts of such humble surroundings. Using her right thumbnail she made a light scratch beside the bed, marking the wall for day one as she wondered how she was expected to survive with neither food nor water. She had no idea how many days a person could exist with neither and had no desire to learn from experience. When Raktor had first taken her from her home she had gone hungry many a night, spent days with a thirst so great she could think of nothing but the cool, refreshing
trickle of the stream upon the rocks near her home, but even in those dire times she had known food and drink would not be withheld indefinitely. Now, she was not at all certain Hrolf had not decided just to let her starve. He might do it, he was ruthless enough; but if she had to avenge the wrongs he had done her countrymen as a ghost, then her spirit would haunt him until the last of his days. Determined to outlast the villain regardless of what cruelty he chose to inflict, she lay down and went to sleep. She would welcome all the rest she could possibly get to gain strength for whatever lay ahead.
Marcela carried the tray through the door and placed it upon the table, but rather than leaving immediately as she had been told to do, she went to the cot and after a moment’s hesitation reached out to touch Celiese’s shoulder. “Madame, please awaken. I have brought your supper, and it will grow cold.”
Celiese sat up slowly, and smiled as she recognized the petite maid as one who had frequently been assigned to her quarters. There was no harm in responding to her in French now, and she did so. “Merci, thank you. Do you know how long I have been here? I have lost all track of the time.”
Marcela looked toward the door to make certain the guard was not observing them before speaking. “Since yesterday. I am to bring your supper each evening beginning today. I know nothing more, my lady.”
