Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T he ale was going down smoothly, as smoothly as anything Dane had ever imbibed. Ale that reminded him of Grier with every sip, every swallow, because he could only think of the night when drinking the ale in the hall had gotten her drunk.

That was when he'd seen how eager to please she was.

Grier had been trying so hard to make the men happy, to be a fitting tribute to the Shrewsbury name even if she hated the father she was representing. So much of the woman's life had been tragic, proven by the scars on her back and by her slender, starved body. Not that Dane had ever doubted those stories from her.

He wasn't sure why he couldn't bring himself to believe her now.

Perhaps, it was because this story involved another man.

Perhaps, that was the crux of it; he was jealous and he had no idea how to deal with it. He was sitting in Garreth's former solar, a solar that had always belonged to the duke since the time the keep was built. Dane sat back in his chair, looking at the paneled walls, the lavish furnishing, the precious glass in the windows. Generations of de Laras had sat in this very chair, conducting the business of Shrewsbury, building it into one of the most respected titles in England.

But the de Lara males had died out, and now it belonged to a de Russe. Dane very much wanted to be worthy of the position and he always believed he would be. But what he hadn't counted on was falling for the heiress, the very key to the entire dukedom.

He was glad that Dastan and Charlisa were gone. Dastan had been here for years and he didn't want the man to see his shame or witness his downfall. He wanted, and needed, the man's respect. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep up the charade of his wife's illness too much longer. People were going to start talking, and if she was still "ill" when Dastan and Charlisa returned, then Dane's credibility would surely be called into question.

Therefore, Dane needed to deal with this situation and deal with what his wife had done. He was thinking that he needed to send word to his father or his brother, Trenton. Perhaps, they could help him sort through all of this, for God only knew, he needed help.

A knock on the solar door roused him. He wasn't particularly interested in speaking to anyone, but before he could tell them to go away, Boden stepped into the chamber.

"Dane?" he said. "Might I have a word with you?"

Dane sighed heavily, motioning his brother in. "Come," he said. "Drink with me."

Boden came into the solar, with its fine leather chairs and expensive carpet all the way from Italy. He noticed the half-full pitcher of ale on Dane's table, reminding him that his brother had been drinking fairly heavily since the incident with his wife.

"What are you drinking?" he asked.

"Ale. What else?"

"Watered?"

"Of course not."

Boden shook his head. "It is a little early to be drinking ale that has not been watered or cut, don't you think?"

Dane's answer was to pour more into his cup, unhappy with what he perceived as criticism. "What do you want?"

Boden could already see this was going to be a difficult conversation and he braced himself. He was taller than Dane, and perhaps even stronger, but Dane was as fast as a cat and twice as deadly. He didn't want to get into a confrontation with him. Wrestling with William was one thing, but fighting Dane because he'd upset the man was entirely another. Therefore, he moved out of arm's length of Dane and into the man's line of sight. He had something to say and he was going to say it without fear of flying fists.

"Dane, I am concerned," he said.

"What about?"

"You," Boden said simply. "You and your wife. You will recall that I was the one who gave you the letter from your wife's servant, who has since disappeared. No one has seen the woman. And now your wife has not been seen since I gave you that letter and you are telling everyone she is ill. Dane, I am your brother. I love you and I am concerned with what has happened. Will you let me help you?"

Dane was staring off into the chamber, his gaze not really focusing on anything. Taking a long swig of ale, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I appreciate your concern," he said, "but there is nothing you can do."

Boden didn't sense outright hostility, so he moved a little closer. "Dane," he hissed, trying to get his brother's rather distracted attention. " What has happened? Please tell me."

Dane looked up at Boden, who was looking at him with genuine concern in his eyes. Boden, who was headstrong and foolish at times, but an excellent knight. All of Dane's brothers were excellent knights, but Boden had in him something that, if brought out with experience and training, could be truly great.

That was why Dane had brought Boden to Shrewsbury– he believed in Boden's greatness– and it had been Boden who had been commanding the battlements and the outer bailey. He may have been young, for he was a full twelve years younger than Dane's forty years, but he was wise beyond those years.

He was also family. Dane was determined to keep his problem with Grier to himself, but the ale was loosening his tongue. Perhaps if he confided in Boden, he would be keeping the issue with Grier in the family, and the man might help him see clearly in the situation. In truth, he had no one else he could turn to.

"I fear we have a traitor among us, Boden," he finally said. "I should not have trusted her."

Boden's brow furrowed. "Who?" he asked.

"Lady de Russe."

"Your wife?"

Dane nodded, looking at the table in front of him. It was cluttered with maps, parchment, an open writing box, and ink that was in danger of spilling. He shuffled a couple of things around until he came to a badly distorted piece of parchment, which he held up to his brother.

"Read it," he said simply.

Boden took it hesitantly, noticing that, when folded, it looked like the letter he'd given Dane, the one that was written by the duchess. Curious, Boden began to read, which he finished quickly because there wasn't much there. Truthfully, it didn't clarify the situation for him one bit.

"What is this?" he asked. "And who is Eolande?"

Dane was staring at his cup, deep in thought. "The sister of Davies ap Madoc, the same bastard who conducted the raid on the marketplace three days ago. She is an oblate at St. Idloes."

Boden's brow furrowed. "Is this what your wife wrote?"

"Aye."

Boden looked back at the careful writing. "I don't understand. Why does she want to arrange a meeting with ap Madoc?"

It occurred to Dane that Boden knew nothing about ap Madoc's quest to marry Grier. Both he and Syler hadn't been present at the tavern in Welshpool when William and Dastan spoke of the subject, so he had no idea who Davies ap Madoc was, other than he was involved in the raid that took Syler's life. He sought to educate him so the man could see what he was seeing in the carefully scripted letters of that missive.

"Davies ap Madoc is part of Godor, a Welsh lordship that once belonged to Dafydd ap Gruffydd," he said. "The lords that rule over it are minor Welsh royalty. Their lands butt against the northern portion of Shrewsbury lands. Two years ago, Davies approached Garreth about a marriage to Grier but he was denied. When I asked my wife about it, she swore she had no feelings for the man, but the Welsh prisoner we interrogated told us that Davies had come to Shrewsbury not simply to raid the marketplace, but to kill the duke. According to the prisoner, Davies evidently believed he killed me when Syler fell. Is this making any sense to you so far?"

Boden hadn't heard the part about the marriage offer. He always seemed to be on the fringes when Dane was interrogating prisoners or dealing with important affairs. He was more of a follower than a leader, and lived under the assumption that if Dane wanted him to know anything, he would tell him. Now, he was telling him, and Boden was shocked, and he was starting to understand what had Dane so upset.

"Do you think that your wife has knowledge of the raid, then?" he asked, holding up the letter. "Is that why she is sending missives demanding to meet with ap Madoc?"

Dane sighed heavily, raking his fingers through his messy hair. "She swears that she has had no contact with the man for quite some time," he said. "She swears there is nothing between them and that in sending that letter to the man's sister, she wanted to meet with him to tell him to cease his harassment of me. She said that she thought she could help."

Boden watched his brother's features close. "But you do not believe her."

Dane didn't say anything for a moment. Then, he finally shook his head. "I do not know her," he said hoarsely. "The truth is that I have only been married to her for a short time. I do not know her. She says she only wanted to help me, but how do I know that is true? Boden, what would you think if you intercepted a message like that right after a raid that saw one of your men killed? What in God's name would you think?"

Boden swallowed hard. Looking down at the missive, he was genuinely trying to be objective about it. After a moment, he set the missive back on Dane's table and found the nearest chair, sinking heavily into it.

"I don't know," he finally said. "But she did not want to marry you. We all knew that."

Dane waved him off. "And I did not want to marry her, but that does not mean it was because I had a secret lover."

Boden looked at him, his dark gaze intense. "What did you do to her, Dane?"

Dane leaned back in his chair, weary and slightly tipsy. "She is locked in our chamber," he said. "I have not done anything to her. I simply locked her up until I could decide what's to be done."

"And what is to be done?"

"I do not know. I wish I did."

They fell silent for a moment, each man to his own thoughts. Boden had the advantage of not being emotionally involved in the situation; he knew that. He'd had limited contact with Lady de Russe but from what he'd seen, she didn't seem the subversive type. He had a feeling that he knew why Dane was so upset about this; he'd seen the man with his new wife. He'd seen the way he looked at her.

Like a man in love .

Matters of the heart were always the most painful.

"I know your wife even less than you do," he said after a moment. "But from what I have seen of her, she does not seem bitter or underhanded. I have heard that the kitchen servants adore her, and Lady du Reims seemed quite fond of her. The woman has been living in a convent all of these years and I do not think they teach them treachery or subversion there. If she knows ap Madoc and is trying to help you with the man, then mayhap you should believe her because, in all honesty, the letter does not seem a certainty of betrayal. The timing of it is simply terrible. Mayhap, that is all your wife is really guilty of."

An unbiased view of the situation confused Dane even more, because after the rage and hurt had faded, that was exactly what he'd been thinking, too.

Was that possibly the truth?

"Then you think I have jumped to conclusions?" he asked.

Boden shrugged. "I do not know," he said truthfully. "Mayhap, you should interrogate your wife the way you interrogated the Welsh prisoner, for certainly, all I heard the day you were given the letter was a good deal of growling and weeping from behind closed doors. I cannot imagine that conversation with Lady de Russe was very productive. Did you give her a chance to explain?"

Dane shrugged. "I asked her," he said. "She… tried to explain."

"I am thinking that, mayhap, you did not really listen to her."

He was right. Dane sat up in his chair, thinking of his brother's advice and wondering why he couldn't have seen that. Leaning forward, he put his head in his hands.

"I am sure that I didn't," he mumbled. "Boden, I do not know how this has happened, but the woman has broken my heart. I thought I was quite immune to such things."

Boden wasn't surprised to hear that. It was the confirmation of what he'd suspected. "You fell in love with a woman who is your wife," he said. "That is something men hope for but seldom experience. You feel as if she has betrayed you, but I am willing to believe she has not. Dane, I have seen the way the woman looks at you. Any man should be so lucky for that. I cannot believe she has a lover somewhere, not from the way she looks at you."

Dane lifted his head, looking at him. "Then you think I was wrong?"

"I think you must calmly speak with her. Only then will you know for certain."

"I feel like such a fool."

"That is not something I usually hear from your lips."

Dane grinned weakly, looking at the pitcher of ale, the empty cup, and thinking he should probably sober up a bit before trying to speak with Grier. He didn't need the complication of alcohol twisting his already-heightened emotions.

"And it is not something you will hear again," he said. "Thank you, Boden. You are surprisingly wise when you are not wrestling with Willie."

Boden chuckled. "I will not let it go to my head," he said as he stood up from the chair. "If I can do anything more, I am happy to."

"You have done enough, Brother. You have my gratitude."

Boden gave him a smile before heading from the chamber, passing by Dane's chair and putting a hand on the man's shoulder. It was a strong, reassuring hand, and Dane was grateful. It gave him the confidence to do what he needed to do.

He had a wife to see.

*

He'd left the door unlocked.

It was a thought that had very slowly occurred to Grier. After Dane had left her, it took some time to realize she hadn't heard the lock turn again. The sound of the big iron key in the lock was loud and distinctive, and she'd not heard it. That meant that the interior bolt she'd thrown was the only thing keeping that door locked.

If she opened the bolt, then the door, too, would open.

Wearily, Grier sat up in the chair she'd been curled in, thinking that rather than die in this chamber, she should simply return to St. Idloes.

Flee.

Remaining locked up in the keep of Shrewsbury like a prisoner for the rest of her life wasn't a better option than returning to the abbey where she'd been starved and beaten. In truth, she had a routine there, and it was the only thing she'd known, so the few days she'd spent as the Duchess of Shrewsbury would surely be forgotten, in time. It had been the glimpse of a life she was never meant to have.

She had to get away.

Looking around the well-appointed bower, she thought quickly on what she could take with her. The woolens she'd worn from the abbey were gone; after she'd vomited all over them, she had no idea what had happened to them, only that they'd been taken away. Dane had purchased four dresses for her, all beautiful and fine things, but the only one that wasn't an expensive feast for the eyes was a linen dress that she hadn't worn yet. It was plain enough, and she had to have something to wear.

She didn't want Dane thinking she'd taken the most expensive things he'd given her.

Quickly, she changed into the linen gown, which was too long for her, just like the others were. Because the shoes she'd worn from the abbey were in tatters, she did have to wear the solid leather slippers Dane had purchased for her, but that would be all. She had a shawl she'd brought with her, which had wrapped up her meager belongings of a comb and a clean shift, so she found the shawl and her shift where Euphemia had put them in the wardrobe. That was what she had come with and it was what she would leave with.

As she wrapped her possessions up in the shawl, her gaze fell on the table near the bed. The marriage brooch was sitting there, in one of the rare times she set it down, and all of her rapid movements came to a halt when she saw it.

Seeing that beautiful brooch was like a dagger to her heart.

A modest wife knows a chaste bed.

With a heavy sigh, she went to look at it. Not touch it; look . She wasn't going to touch it again. Dane had given it to her on the event of their marriage, but the relationship they were building was gone. Hanging on to it as if it were the last vestiges of something she had lost was foolish. The truth was that it reminded her of Dane, and she wasn't going to keep something that reminded her of the man she loved and lost through a mistake she'd made.

In fact, she slipped the gold wedding band from her finger and set it next to the wedding brooch. She knew everything was her fault, but it was made worse by the fact that Dane simply wouldn't listen to her. He'd made up his mind that she was a traitor the moment he saw the letter.

She couldn't fight a man's preconceived perception.

She was going to return to St. Idloes and never look back.

Grabbing her belongings, Grier headed to the chamber door, noticing the stone-cold food still on the tray next to it. She hadn't eaten in three days, so she grabbed the stale bread and the dried-out cheese, stuffing them into her mouth. She wasn't sure when she would eat again, so she broke the bread in two, eating one half and stuffing the second half into her belongings. The bread was so hard she nearly broke her teeth, but she had to get something into her stomach.

She had a long trip ahead of her.

Very quietly, she opened the chamber door, peering out into the corridor and half-expecting to see a guard there. But there was no one in the dark, cold corridor, and she took a few timid steps outside, looking for any sign of anyone who might try and stop her. The corridor remained still and dark, so she quickly closed the door behind her and made her way to the end of it only to hear footfalls on the staircase that led up to that level.

Someone was coming. In a panic, she thought to run back to her chamber, but she would have been seen, so she pressed into the shadows of the nearest doorjamb just in time for William to walk past her.

He didn't see her hiding in the darkness as he continued on to the master's chamber door and began to knock. Startled, and thinking he'd come for her, Grier bolted out of her hiding place and raced down the steps, hearing William as he called to her through the closed chamber door. He was calling her name. She continued to run from the keep, running outside into the cool November sunlight, rushing to the inner bailey gatehouse and ignoring the guards there.

They let her run past.

Across the bridge that spanned the moat encircling the inner bailey and the keep, she continued into the outer bailey. It was full of people, as it usually was, but Grier didn't make eye contact with anyone. She was terrified Boden or William or Dastan might see her and stop her; it was imperative she get through the gatehouse unimpeded. Once through, she was hoping she could lose herself in the town and find her way to the road to St. Idloes. She wasn't afraid to ask for directions, but she was afraid of what would happen when Dane realized she was gone.

He would probably think she'd run straight into the arms of the enemy.

If he thought she was sending Davies a letter to conspire with him, then surely he would think running from the castle was a solid indication of her guilt. She wasn't entirely sure he would come for her, to be truthful, because if he was angry enough, perhaps he'd be pleased to be rid of her. On the other hand, she was his wife. It was possible that he viewed her as a possession, and he would want to reclaim that possession.

Grier couldn't be sure that he wouldn't come for her, so she began to re-think her destination of St. Idloes. If he came for her there, she could only imagine that Mother Mary Moria would turn her over to him. He was her husband, after all, and she was his property. She would be back where she started.

With that thought on her mind, she thought it would be best to lose herself in any number of the villages in England or Wales, and, perhaps, even find work as a seamstress. She could even work in a tavern, serving food and cleaning. She'd never done it before, but surely it couldn't be too difficult. She could learn. As she pondered what the dismal future held for her, she was nearing the gatehouse. Just a few more yards and she would be free and clear of Shrewsbury castle, and free of Dane and his anger.

It was difficult to take those few last steps, but she knew this was for the best.

… wasn't it?

Wiping at the tears that were leaking from her eyes, she nearly crashed into a man coming through the gatehouse. Startled, she looked up to see more men coming through, and one man in particular that she recognized.

And one woman, too.

Startled at the sight, she came to a halt, hardly able to believe her eyes. But in the same breath, she knew if the man she recognized had come to Shrewsbury, it would mean death for Dane. Bold as sin, he was walking in through the gates, looking for his victim.

In her last effort to protect the man, she began to scream.

After that, everything turned to panic.