Royal Feud

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"I see. Excellent idea, Father. 'Tis time that hideous wench was some use to us. I can just imagine Ishton's face when he sees his bride for the first time." Gerald chortled. "Twill serve his arrogance well, that he be cursed with such a grotesque wife." Both men laughed.

""Twas the only consolation I had until I thought of this plan," her father said. "Once the castle is secure, I shall marry Lady Lucy, and Ishton will be mine. Twill be no hardship to bed the widow. In fact, I am quite looking forward to it. She is still a comely wench." Hermione slid down the wall and landed in a puddle on the floor as if a puppet master had suddenly dropped her strings. She had bitten her fist so hard that the metallic taste of her own blood sickened her. 

Tears chased each other to drip off her nose, dribbled down her cheeks, and slithered off her chin.

"What will you tell Hermione about the marriage?" Gerald asked. "She need know nothing about it until Twelfth Night. She knows enough not to disobey me."

"Are you not worried that Henry will take Ishton away from you?" "That upstart will soon return to France. He will be forced to listen to the barons just as Stephen was. I have worked closely with the barons for the last few years. They will support me. After all, we English must stick together. We are too powerful for Henry to fight against."

"Ah, I see. "Tis a clever plan. As usual, Father, you have thought of everything." "Thank you, my boy." There was a clink of metal. Hermione pictured the two men toasting the despicable plan with their wine goblets.

"Once Ishton is secure, I will rule the entire valley."

"Aye, Father. 'Tis about time."

"If that weakling Stephan had not been so afraid of his own shadow, the valley would have been mine fifteen years ago. This track of land he granted me is almost worthless without water. Ishton has hoarded the river so his crops are flourishing, and our harvest is so poor it can barely support us. The villeins here are utterly worthless. Stephen acted like he was doing me a great favor by giving me Morefy, but he let Ishton keep the best land in the valley. I deserve more, much more than this pitiful holding." 

Hermione had heard this same rant from her father numerous times. He had never understood that it was his own tyranny that had so frightened and demoralized the people that they put forth little or no effort. Why should they work hard when he took everything away from them?

"Do not breathe a word of this to Percy," her father said after a short know that the boy can never keep a secret." "Aye, I know. You can depend on me, Father." pause. "You

"I knew I could. Gerald. I knew I could. You are a son of which any man would be proud."

"Thank you, Father. I like to think that I take after you." Hermione huddled on the floor, pressing her forehead into her drawn up knees. She shrunk into herself a doll whose stuffing had been yanked out, leaving a torn, hollow, and shriveled rag behind.

It seemed like hours before the earl and Gerald quit the solar. They had talked together a long time, refining their plan. Hermione stayed alert to every word and sound the men made. Once they finally left the chamber, she waited half an hour more before she quietly slipped out of the ladies' solar, locked the door behind her, and went upstairs to her room.

Her chamber was small. When her mother was alive, it had been the storage room, and she had shared the ladies' solar with her mother. Now she slept hard floor. Her one spare dress was hanging on a nail Damien had pounded into the on a pallet on the wall. The only other object in the room was her prized lute. Hermione picked it up and cradled it in her arms as she sank on to her bed.

How she longed to play the lute, but she dared not. If her father heard the music or if a servant reported to him that she was playing, she knew he would take the instrument away from her, as he had taken every other thing that gave her pleasure. She could not bear to have her lute taken from her, so had kept it carefully hidden. Music was her last refuge from the pain and heartache her life had become.

Rocking back and forth on the pallet, she mimed playing her lute. Her lips moved as she sang the words to the song, but no sound escaped her mouth. The music she played could be heard only in her own mind.

A soft knock on her door caused her to still. She counted to ten, then heard another quiet rap.

Damien.

She carefully put her lute on the floor at the side of the chamber, unlocked the door, and opened it. A look into Damien's warm brown eyes gave her a measure of calm, but she swiftly averted her eyes from his. He was too perceptive at reading her moods.

Damien entered the room, and she closed the door behind him. "I am sorry I am so late," he said. "Your father had a lot of orders for me this morning, and then I had to supervise dinner. Here is your food."

He held out a bundle wrapped in a cloth so Hermione took it from him. The cloying smell of the roast mutton caused waves of nausea to roil through her. Hastily she put the food on the floor in the corner farthest away from her pallet. "Are you not going to eat it?" Damien asked.

"Nay. I am not hungry."

She swallowed painfully, her throar dry and scratchy, fighting to control the biliousness in her stomach. Keeping her eyes averted from his, she sank back to the floor. Drawing her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them.

"You must eat, Hermione." His voice was soft. "I will eat it later." So she had ended up lying to him after all.

"Are you all right?"

He crouched beside her and placed his hand on her shoulder. His touch, as usual, gave her comfort. She glanced sideways at his narrow, elongated face, so dear to her. His expression was full of concern for her, his eyes entreating. Damien's brown bangs lay disheveled against his forehead, and his mouth was slightly parted as if he wanted to say something. A faint shading of whiskers shadowed his clean-shaven jaw.