Chapter 19

Some folk said ye could never escape yer destiny, Brodwyn hadn’t believed it until now, until she realised her life had come full circle and that she had only herself to blame. She had wanted … over much. Not greed as such, it had been a hunger gradually growing inside her until it ate her up. Fool that she was, she had imagined Harald’s death had put an end to it—an end to her when she was sold to the Irish—but had been a green death, the way a tree dies in the winter yet pushes a out a soft fresh bud in the spring.

It wasn’t as if her strength was rooted in her body; nae it was her mind that wouldn’t die—refused to give up.

The cruelty of it all was learning she would always pick the wrong man; she had in the beginning, she had in the end—for she couldn’t see any respite in her future.

She glanced out the solar window through the rain and wished for winter to end. The few weeks left were too long, yet not long enough. As he did most days, Henry had gone out hunting with St Clair, though she was sure it wasn’t the season if he wanted fawns to repopulate a depleted forest; but Henry gave nae thought to the future, not if it was to be without Harry and Ralf, though he’d make do with Harry alone if need be.

Not that he shared his thoughts with her. Nae she was simply a body he took his frustrations out on when he wasn’t shooting arrows into small animals who never hurt anyone and werenae worth eating. She’d heard the first victim of his wrath was to have been Ronald the auld woodcutter, but it seemed the man had been wiser than limber and had disappeared, leaving only an empty hut for Henry to take his wrath out on. And that is how he proceeded, having the hut broken into a thousand pieces and scattered to the winds as if it had never been. That was how Henry dealt with places and folk he nae longer had any use for, and she dreaded the day she outlived her usefulness.

For the moment, her only certainty was that when Henry returned, the air in the manor would become fraught, balanced on the jagged edge of tension. To that end, Brodwyn put up with his small cruelties as if she had never expected anything better, but she always did, always had. That was her problem and she had grown weary of looking for solutions that might let her win.

She was downstairs to greet the men, Henry and St Clair, when they returned frae the hunt, shaking the rain off feathered hats and handing off their damp cloaks to their squires for drying while she bustled about, chivvying the servants to build up the fire until it roared up the chimney. Mugs of mulled wine sizzled, steamed and were passed around the company.

Henry had begun surrounding himself with young men, and if she didnae know frae personal experience, she might have suspected him of being tarred with the same brush as William Rufus. Yet there was little of the effete about the men who had begun to gather at Wolfsdale. All were tall and well muscled with the build and strength warriors aspired to—needed to hold sword and lance—one she modestly pretended not to notice, an act she had perfected to escape punishment. She had to put up with Henry’s wicked flights of fancy; self flagellation she didnae dare indulge in. Besides, she had little need for Henry’s cohorts to remind her of Jamie and his supple young body.

Well beloved or not, he would never have married her. Gavyn Farquhar for one wouldn’t have let him, and his father and the Ruthven clan would have called her a witch, a spellbinder, a seducer; and they wouldn’t have been far wrong. Yet he was the only one she had ever loved.

By the time spring showed itself by pushing a scattering of tiny pale blue flowers with dark centres out of the forest floor and the sun remembered how to shine, Brodwyn’s apprehension had grown to the point where she had begun spying on Henry. Ach, she never left the manor house, for she had nae need to. Nae as the weather grew warmer, Henry and the men who appeared to look up to him would disappear of an afternoon. To her amazement they appeared to vanish at the same shrub-covered area where Rob had carried the Baron’s grandsons, never to reappear, unlike Henry and his followers.

Sometimes she wished they wouldn’t return, a futile hope as whatever they were doing meant Henry returned with renewed sexual vigour—as he would now.

“Brodwyn.” His voice reached up frae the Hall, searched her out, making it clear there would be nae escape.

“Brodwyn!” harsher now, louder. She could tell he was on the stairs. Her buttocks clenched, stung in anticipation of what was to come when he spanked her, mostly with the flat of his hand, but more frequently with his belt. She stepped out of the solar. “I’m right here, Henry, awaiting yer arrival, “she called out, walking along the gallery to the head of the stairs as Henry climbed steadily toward her, one thumb hooked under the silver buckle of the heavy leather belt worn around his rich velvet tunic. “How can I serve ye, Master?” she asked obsequiously.

How low would she have to grovel to restore his strength of self?

To return him to bright, shining knight she had met at Winchester?