CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Lady Hage,” the prince’s voice was soft, seductive. “I had heard you were an exquisite beauty. I can see that the rumors were true.”
Rory could hardly believe the situation she found herself in. It was dark in the wide and elaborate tent, with small braziers with glowing peat set intermittently in the area to warm up the space. The entire tent was as lavish as anything she had ever seen, with heavy, hide-covered chairs and a carved oak table that must have taken a dozen men to move. As she sat on a very soft chair somewhere in the middle of the tent, a man who had been introduced as John Lackland stood near the door, his dark eyes appraising her.
As Rory gazed back, she could see that every bad thing ever said about the man was true. He reeked of filth and evilness; she could just feel it. All of the carvings or paintings she had ever seen of the man didn’t do him justice. He was nothing like the homogenized artist’s portraits. He looked like a serial killer.
She tried to stay clinical about meeting him. She tried to stay calm as he moved closer. She inspected his long, thin fingers, his surprisingly rotund body, and the oddly smooth skin on his cheeks and neck. No stubble, no scars. The man had a lovely complexion. He had dark, stringy hair that framed his rather thin face and one droopy eyelid that gave him a rather dimwitted appearance. But she knew he wasn’t dimwitted; the man was legendary in his cunning and she was truly in awe. But she was also scared to death. It was well documented what the man was capable of.
John entered the room silently, almost as if he floated over the fine carpets that covered the grass beneath the tent, before coming to rest in front of Rory. The weight of the moment wasn’t lost on her and she fought to keep her panic down. She may as well be facing off against Genghis Khan for all of the terror she felt.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Hage,” John said pleasantly, his gaze devouring her. “I understand that you returned with your husband from the Crusades. Odd that you were in The Levant; what were you doing there?”
Rory realized she was trembling. She also realized he was looking for an answer. “I, uh, accompanied my brother there,” she replied, quivering, and then added almost as an afterthought: “My lord… uh, Your Grace.”
John smiled faintly, revealing yellowed teeth. “Your brother took you on a military quest?”
Rory tried to stick to the story that she and Kieran had told everyone. “My parents are dead. I had no one else, so I went with my brother.”
John digested her statement, scrutinizing her closely. “Where are you from, Lady Hage?”
She sighed faintly, miserable, not wanting to divulge too much. “From… from Ireland, Your Grace.”
John nodded as if he understood completely. “That explains much,” he muttered to perhaps the half-dozen advisors that were standing in the shadows behind him. “She has the beauty of the Irish and the foolishness of them as well.”
The men behind the king tittered and Rory lowered her gaze at the insult. Unsure as to what the prince’s intentions were, she thought, perhaps, her best option would be to try and take control of the situation and hope that she could negotiate her way out of this. She could hear Kieran in her mind, over and over, you will stay with me for your own safety. The man was always insisted she stay with him, or his brothers, never straying alone. For a modern, independent woman, she had resented what she saw as a controlling measure even though she knew, deep down, that it was for her own good. But she realized now, too late, that he’d truly meant to protect her. This was a perfect example. She should have never strayed from the castle. God help her, she knew it. And now she was in deep, horrific trouble.
“Your Grace,” she spoke boldly, hoping she could assert herself and convince the prince of her wishes. “As pleased and honored as I am to meet you, I really must ask that you allow me to return to the castle. I have a baby who needs me and I really must get back to him.”
John just looked at her. Then, his thin eyebrows lifted. “Ah, yes,” he nodded as if suddenly remembering. “The child. I had heard that you bore your husband a son.”
She nodded. “May I please return? The baby will be awake for his midnight feeding soon.”
John looked as if he were actually considering her request. Could it really be that easy? she thought anxiously. But she never, for a moment, truly believed that.
“I would be happy to consider your request, Lady Hage, if you will do something for me,” the prince countered.
Rory was torn between fear and agreement. “What would that be?”
John’s warm expression faded as he gazed into her eyes. Rory had difficulty looking into his droopy-eyed faced. He was a genuinely unhandsome man.
“All of this can be avoided, you see,” he explained as he waved his hands around at the tent, the people behind him, “if you will simply help me gain something that your husband holds. That is why I am here, you know. Your husband has something that belongs to me and I want it.”
“What is that?”
John’s joviality faded entirely. “When he returned from The Levant, he brought back with him something that was meant for the English crown. I want it.”
Rory was genuinely puzzled. She had no idea of John’s demands to Kieran the night he had come to Southwell those months ago, the night when Simon had died. She had no idea the prince had become obsessed with the Crown of Thorns. It was something that Kieran had never discussed with her, as he didn’t consider it of particular concern to her. She was understandably confused.
“What did he bring home?” she asked.
John watched her face as she spoke, watching the soft pout of her lips. He had already decided the moment he laid eyes on her that he was going to have this woman. The more she spoke, the more he wanted her.
“I believe your husband calls it Christ’s Diadem,” he said. “Do you know of this object?”
Rory didn’t know why but, at that moment, she felt like everything was lost. Any hope she had of being released was just torpedoed. Her first reaction was to deny any knowledge of it but, on second thought, it might work better if she told him the truth. It might get the prince off of Southwell’s front door and back to London to where Kieran was with a thousand-man army. It was a calculated risk and she decided to go with it. She couldn’t truly be in any worse trouble than she was. At least, she hoped not.
“I know of it,” she replied. “It’s not here. Kieran took it with him when he left for London to see de Longchamp.”
She watched the prince’s expression as he stared at her, pondering her reply. “Are you sure of this, my lady?”
She nodded. “Absolutely. He never lets the thing out of his sight. When he left for London, it went with him. It’s not here.”
John smiled, a gesture that Rory found frightening. The smile grew and Rory’s trepidation exploded. Suddenly, the king was turning to the men behind him, his arms out wide as if to embrace the whole lot of them. He began laughing a weird snort-type of laugh. Rory had never heard anything like it and it was horrifying.
“He has it with him,” he announced to the group. “Did you hear?”
The men nodded in various degrees of excitement, including the knight who looked exactly like Bud. Rory could see him back in the group, unemotional, watching her carefully. The prince began doing some odd dance across his carpets, turning to Rory after the first few crazy steps. He acted like a mental patient.
“A perfect situation, truly, my lady,” he said happily. “Your husband has something that belongs to me. I have something that belongs to him. I think he will easily give me my crown in exchange for his wife. Do you not agree?”
Rory’s jaw dropped open; she couldn’t help it. But she honestly wasn’t surprised. She felt about a thousand times stupider than she had when she had first entered the tent; the prince didn’t miss the golden opportunity presented.
No fanfare, no beating around the bush – he saw the value of holding Rory to gain Kieran’s compliance and Rory just hung her head. The tears were there but she fought them off, feeling sick and hollow and deeply sorrowful. She couldn’t believe she had gotten herself into such a horrific mess.
She wondered if Kieran would ever forgive her.
*
Tower of London
Two weeks later
“Kieran!” Andrew was taking the stairs two at a time as he moved to the fourth floor of the White Tower at the Tower of London. In his hand, he held a long, yellowed scroll and he extended it to his brother as he entered the small, well-lit room in a corner turret.
“This just arrived by messenger for you,” he told him.
Kieran was standing over a table with a large vellum map on it, pocked by years of commanders and kings pouring over it, marking their positions throughout England, France and the rest of the continent with great iron pins. Richard had used it and Henry before him. William de Longchamp sat next to the table, an old man who had seen much in life, as he and Kieran debated Richard’s current status. It was all they had spoken of for nearly a month, the whereabouts of the monarch and the general theories related thereto.
The missive was an interruption into their latest conversation as Kieran took it from his brother.
“Who is this from?” he asked before he looked at the seal, knowing that curious Andrew would have already inspected it.
But Andrew’s face showed no joy or curiosity with the missive. In fact, he looked rather hesitant and Kieran had no idea why until he uttered one word.
“John,” he said softly.
Kieran wasn’t so quick to panic. Calmly, he inspected the seal and noted that it was, indeed, the prince’s mark. There was no reason for him to be apprehensive as he slid his finger along the edge of the vellum to break the seal.
“He is probably demanding the diadem again,” he grunted. “This will make four such demands in the past year. I have yet to respond to any of them.”
Andrew leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “He is having quite a tantrum, isn’t he?”
Kieran snorted in agreement as William spoke up. “The diadem of thorns?” he clarified.
Kieran nodded as the parchment popped open. “I told you he wants it badly,” he said. “He insists that it belongs to him.”
Old William simply rolled his eyes, reaching for his pewter chalice of ruby red port. “Everything belongs to him,” he muttered into his cup. “The entire world belongs to him. That is why we find ourselves in this predicament.”
Kieran grinned as he moved away from the table and began to read. Andrew wasn’t paying attention to him, looking at the map table instead, until Kieran suddenly came to a halt somewhere near the lancet windows that flooded the room with cool, white light. As Andrew looked up at his brother, he noticed that the man seemed to have lost his coloring. Concerned, Andrew pushed himself off the wall.
“Kieran?” he ventured. “What does it say?”
Kieran’s hand was over his mouth as the other held the missive, now shaking. He turned away from the window, eyes still glued to the parchment, and ended up stumbling back against the wall when he tried to walk. His reaction had Andrew moving to him and William out of his seat.
“Kieran?” Andrew pressed. “What is wrong?”
Kieran tore his eyes away from the missive and looked at his brother. He couldn’t even speak; he simply extended the missive to Andrew. His brother took it, deeply concerned, and began to read. About halfway through it, his eyes widened and he suddenly shouted.
“Bastard!” he yelled. “How… how in the hell did this happen?”
Kieran was almost beyond rational thought. He stood there with his hands to his mouth, his brown eyes wide with shock. William, leaning heavily on his cane, moved to Kieran and put a concerned hand on the man’s shoulder.
“What has happened?” he asked quietly.
Kieran was trembling. He took his hands away from his mouth, struggling to focus. “The prince has sent me a missive to announce that he has my wife.” His voice was hoarse.
“Your wife?” William repeated. “Why does he have her?”
Kieran shook his head. Then he snorted and dropped his chin to his chest, overwhelmed with the news. “The missive was another demand for the diadem, as I suspected,” he mumbled with great irony. His great head came up. “But this time, it is John who holds the power to force me to comply. He proposes an exchange – my wife for the Diadem of Christ.”
Andrew was livid. He threw the parchment on the dusty wood floor of the chamber and stomped to the door like a madman.
“I shall gather the army, Kieran,” he announced. “We shall be ready to leave by sunset.”
Kieran could only nod as his brother stormed off, cursing to the rafters. They could hear him as he moved back down the stairs. William stood there with Kieran a moment before going to retrieve the fallen parchment. He hobbled over with his cane and slowly reached down to pick up the missive. After reading it thoroughly, he set it on the table and passed a concerned glance at his young friend.
“He wants the diadem badly,” he commented. “I would not have suspected him to resort to this kind of treachery.”
“And why not?” Kieran half-muttered, half-demanded. “He is capable of worse.”
William knew that, perhaps better than anyone. “He says that he has taken her to Winchester,” he said, almost casually. “What do you intend to do?”
Kieran was struggling with his composure and his panic. But he couldn’t hold it back entirely and sank into the nearest chair. He put his hands over his face.
“How?” he breathed, removing his hands after a moment. “How did he get to her? Southwell is locked tight. There is no way he could have gotten inside to get her. And what of my son? Where is he? He does not mention my son.”
“He does not mention him because he does not have him,” William was trying to reassure him. “He would have said so. You know John well enough to know that he would gloat.”
Kieran was sick to his stomach, feeling more anguish than he ever thought possible.
“Dear God… Libby,” he breathed, raking his fingers through his hair nervously. “How did John get to her? Why did I have to hear this from him and not my father? Where has my father been during all of this?”
William could see how devastated Kieran was, which was something of a shock considering that Kieran was the strongest man he knew. He had spent the past month hearing of Kieran’s wife and child, a woman he clearly loved and a child he worshiped. He’d known Kieran for years and had never seen the man so happy or strong. This latest missive was a blow and William could see that Kieran was struggling not to crumble.
“Your father must have a good reason,” he said, trying to sound firm. “Get hold of yourself, man. You will be of little help to your wife if you fall apart. She needs your level head.”
Kieran glanced up at the old man, knowing his words were true. But it was easier said than done. Still, he had a point and the more Kieran thought on it, the more enraged he became. It shifted his focus off of his devastation and spurred him into action. He suddenly bolted from the chair, almost knocking William off his feet. He reached out to steady the old man apologetically, but William did nothing more than wave him off.
“I have been shoved aside by better men than you,” he quipped, a grin on his old lips. He could see Kieran’s expression soften in appreciation and he gave the knight a gentle shove. “Go and do what must be done. I will be here when you return.”
Kieran nodded, suddenly looking hesitant and sorrowful. “The diadem,” he said. “As much as I revere Richard, my wife’s life is worth more to me. I am afraid that I must retract my offer of the diadem to pay for Richard’s ransom.”
William nodded. “I knew that your offer was rescinded the moment you read John’s missive,” he replied. “Moreover, we do not yet know if Richard has been kidnapped. We’ve not received a ransom demand yet.”
Kieran thought back to everything his wife had told him, events that were now coming to pass. “You will,” he muttered. “When you do, I will provide fifty thousand crowns for his return. Remember that.”
“Fifty thousand crowns?” William repeated, incredulous. “Are you so certain of this, Kieran?”
Kieran nodded. “Do not ask me how I know because you would not believe me,” he put a giant hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I will contribute what I can towards the king’s release. But for now, I must go retrieve my wife. That is my more pressing task.”
“Go,” William ordered softly. “Give John what he wants and regain your lady.”
Kieran simply nodded, his mind moving in a thousand different directions. The diadem, the very reason he believed that he and Rory had been returned to his time, was going to be used for a purpose unlike any they had envisioned. The path they were on was taking an odd and unpleasant turn.
Descending the Tower stairs, he ran into Andrew again as he neared the entry level. Andrew had, in his hand, a missive from Jeffrey Hage. It had just arrived, minutes after the missive from John. Kieran didn’t have to guess what it said; he already knew. At least he thought he did. With shaking hands, he opened it.
When he read the part describing Tevin’s safety and constant appetite, he openly wept.
*
Winchester Castle had been built in 1067, a year after William the Conqueror had taken control of England. It had been the seat of government for quite some time until the government was moved to London, so it was a strong and well-historied castle. It was also impenetrable, dank, gloomy and cold, smelling of dirt and rot and ghosts. It was a horrid and creepy place.
It had been Rory’s home for almost two weeks. As she sat by a thin lancet window, gazing into the cloudy countryside beyond, her dulled mind mulled over the past thirteen days and what had brought her to this point.
When she’d realized the prince intended to abduct her, she had turned into a wildcat. She’d tried to escape and ended up slugging it out with the Bud look-alike knight, a man who was strong and muscular for his average frame. But the man had finally subdued her and had taken her to another tent, where he tied her up and left her sitting on wet grass for the remainder of the night. When the army had pulled out at dawn, she had gone with them. But it had been kicking and screaming the entire way.
Traveling with Kieran, in spite of the primitive conditions, had been a cakewalk compared to traveling as a prisoner of the prince. The ropes she had been tied with irritated her damp skin and she had ridden in the back of a wagon, tied up, for days. The only time she was untied was to allow her to eat and relieve herself, and then she was tied right back up again. The welts around her wrists were bleeding and, she was sure, were becoming infected. More than that, she traveled in the clothes she had been captured in. And although they were well made and fine pieces of clothing, they weren’t holding up well over the days of travel. By the time they reached Winchester, they were damp, dirty and reeking. Rory had never been so miserable in her entire life.
At Winchester, she was locked in a room in the oddly shaped keep, an extremely small chamber with a stool in it, a filthy disgusting vessel she assumed was a chamber pot, and nothing else. It was horrifying beyond belief. But she was grateful that they had at least untied her; the wounds around her wrists and ankles were in various degrees of irritation and she had a nice infection going on her right ankle.
With no antibiotics, she was very concerned that the infection would rage out of control. When they brought her food on the second night of her arrival at Winchester, it included a big loaf of yeasty bread. She soaked the bread in the wine that accompanied the meal and applied it to the wound, hoping the alcohol and bread would kill whatever was breeding on her skin. It didn’t cure it but it seemed to ease it.
Oddly, the prince had stayed away from her. From everything she’d read about the man, she had expected a daily rape attempt. But he’d stayed away and she was very curious as to why; thankful at the reprieve, but nonetheless curious. When her thoughts weren’t full of fear for the prince’s appearance at any moment, they were centered around Tevin and Kieran.
She wept almost hourly for the baby. Although Tevin had started eating solid food, he was still nursing and she was deeply fearful and concerned over his health. Never mind that her breasts had been painfully engorged for about a week before finally drying up; her little boy was without her and she missed him with wild desperation.
But one thought kept her sane. She knew Margaret and knew the woman would stop at nothing to ensure that Tevin remained happy and healthy. That was a great comfort to her, knowing he was undoubtedly very well taken care of. But almost more than her fears and concerns for Tevin were her fears and concerns for Kieran. She knew that the prince had sent word to him of her abduction and she knew that Kieran was more than likely already on his way to Winchester to negotiate her release. She was vastly fearful for her husband, knowing he would move heaven and earth to rescue her, including giving up the Diadem of Christ. There was no doubt in her mind that Kieran would hand it right over. She sincerely hoped it would be that simple to gain her release but, somehow, she didn’t think so. Something told her to expect the worst.
Rory still couldn’t believe she’d gotten herself into such a predicament. She promised God that if she made it out of this safely, she would never again disobey Kieran or do anything foolish. Her situation was stupidity in the worst way because it could have been avoided. Now, Kieran and his family were at the mercy of the prince, and it was all her fault.
Leaving the window, she huddled up in the corner of the room and fell into a fitful sleep. With no bed in the room, she had slept on the floor since her arrival and was somewhat becoming used to it. When she awoke on the morning of her fourteenth day of captivity, she awoke to a stiff body and an aching right leg. Lifting up her skirt, she could see faint red streaks running up her leg from the wound that didn’t want to seem to heal. She knew immediately that it was some kind of blood poisoning.
“Oh… no,” she breathed, fingering the puffy wound and examining the red streaks. “God, please no. Please don’t let this be as bad as I think it is.”
Her leg was hot to the touch and she had never felt so much panic in her life. If untreated, a systemic infection could kill quickly. Looking over to the remains of her meal from the previous night, there was a small amount of wine left in the cup. Rory picked at the sloppy scab on her ankle and peeled it off, exposing puffy pink tissue beneath. Taking the wine, she poured it directly into the open wound. She didn’t know what else to do.
It stung like crazy but she bit her lip, refusing to cry out. Eventually, the sting faded and she sat on the floor with her leg extended, letting the air get to the wound. She tried to think of everything she could about natural medicine and what could be done to ease the infection. But all she could think of at the moment was wine and the alcohol in it that killed germs, but what she had was different from common germs. She had an infection.
Focused on her leg, she was startled when the door to the chamber suddenly opened and an older woman appeared. Rory didn’t say a word. She hadn’t seen the woman before and she glared balefully as the woman suddenly entered the room and began snapping orders to servants out in the hall. There was a great deal of activity that Rory couldn’t see and the next person who entered the room was the knight who looked so much like Bud.
He had been her jailer since the moment of her capture. She didn’t even know his name; he’d never said more than two words to her. But he was always around, bringing her meals and lingering near the door. He didn’t seem particularly hostile but she knew he was there to make sure she didn’t escape. He stood back out of the way as several servants rushed in and, suddenly, the little chamber was awash with activity. Rory huddled back against the wall, uncertain, angry, ill and fearful of what was going on.
A big tub was brought in and there were piles of material and other items being brought into the room. Several servants began filling up the tub with hot water; Rory could see the steam rising. As she watched from her perch against the wall, a tub was filled, bedding was put on the floor, and someone even brought in a bucket of smoldering coals meant to give off heat. The mature woman snapped orders, shoved people around, and finally got the entire room organized with a great deal of help. Then she chased the servants out, politely asked the knight to leave, and turned her focus to Rory once the door was shut.
Rory was still glaring up at her. The woman didn’t say a word, patiently extending her hand; the implication was obvious. Ill, exhausted and dirty, the lure of the hot tub was too much to resist and Rory stood up on unsteady legs, ripping off her dirty clothing and throwing herself into a tub that, she realized as she sank into it, was full of floating rose petals. It was warm and wonderful and sweet. Settling down in the tub was the most profound physical experience of her life; greater than an orgasm, or at least it felt like it at the moment. The hot, delicious water covered her and she doused herself completely, losing herself in the joy of a simple luxury.
The mature woman produced a cake of whitish soap with rose petals flaked into it. She began to lather up a stiff horsehair brush with the soap but Rory, still without saying a word, reached out and took both the soap and the brush from her. She didn’t want anyone bathing her, least of all one of the prince’s servants. With the soap in one hand and the brush in the other, she scrubbed her entire body furiously, including her hair. As primitive as it was, it was better than the spa treatment at a five-star resort. Once Rory rinsed all of the rose soap from her hair, she felt like a new woman.
Not needed, the mature servant stood near the door in complete silence, watching Rory bathe herself. It was a little voyeuristic but Rory couldn’t have cared less. She was simply glad to be clean. Even her leg felt better, having been soaked and scrubbed. The red streaks were still there but they hadn’t gotten any worse. As she ran her fingers over the red streaks on her leg, the mature woman suddenly vacated the room and shut the door softly behind her.
Rory was glad to be left alone, examining her wound and hoping she could control whatever bacteria was growing with regular dousing of wine or maybe packing it with salt. There wasn’t anything else she could do or use, and she didn’t want to tell anyone for fear that the prince, who had so far left her alone, would be reminded of her presence. Maybe he had forgotten about her, although she knew that wasn’t the case. Still, she was grateful he hadn’t shown his face.
The door to the chamber opened again but Rory didn’t look up. She was still examining her ankle and assumed it was the mature serving woman. But a whiff of stench hit her nostrils a split second before a voice reached her ears.
“Lady Hage,” the voice was male and horrific. “I find you most compromised. I should have knocked first, I suppose. How rude of me.”
Startled, Rory swung around and water sloshed out of the tub. John was standing only a foot or so away from her. His droopy-eyed gaze was lascivious and terrible. Rory’s heart began to pound, terrified by the look in his eye. Everything she had feared suddenly came crashing down around her and it was difficult to maintain her composure.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted, furious and fearful.
John smiled seductively. He began to toy with the tassels on the sash binding his tunic. “I came to see how you were faring.” His eyes were riveted to her naked body beneath the waterline. “I fear I’ve not been a very attentive host; illness has kept me away from you. My sincerest apologies.”
“Illness?” Rory was backing away, moving against the opposite side of the tub as he came towards her. “Don’t come near me if you’ve been sick. I don’t want to catch anything. And a good host wouldn’t be coming into the room of a bathing guest.”
John laughed softly, pulling on the edge of the sash. It came untied and he let it fall to the ground. Rory nearly vomited when she realized what he was doing. He began to pull the edges of his tunic apart.
“I thought we could become better acquainted,” he purred.
Rory didn’t care if she was naked or not. There was a huge piece of drying linen to her right and she suddenly bolted out of the tub, yelling as she grabbed the linen.
“I don’t want to become better acquainted with you,” she clearly informed him. “Get out of here!”
John lifted his eyebrows, still pulling the tunic off and still advancing towards the tub. He wasn’t deterred in the least.
“It is an honor to become acquainted with a prince,” he told her. “I will be king someday. You will have the comfort of knowing a king found pleasure with you.”
Rory was outraged, moving away from him as he came around the side of the tub. She was wrapped up tightly in the linen, trying to stay one step ahead of him.
“You’re not going to touch me,” she hissed. “My husband is going to kill you when I tell him what you tried to do.”
That seemed to ease John’s amorous intentions. His soft expression hardened and he stopped his advance. “He cannot lay a hand on me,” he growled. “I am Richard’s brother and by virtue of my birth, untouchable to man. If I see something that I want, I take it; daughter, wife or mother. It matters not to me. If I want you, I shall have you and your husband cannot do anything about it.”
Rory’s mouth was dry with fear. “Touch me and I’ll kill you, you bastard,” she snarled. “Get out of here before you get hurt.”
John’s anger was overtaking his lust. “You threaten me?”
“Absolutely!” she shouted. “If you thought I’d be an easy conquest, think again. You’ll get the fight of your life.”
The prince stared at her. Rory watched his dark eyes shift with the concept of his unwilling quarry. His jaw began to tick.
“Get in that tub,” he rumbled. “If you do not, I shall make you wish you were never born.”
“Never,” she seethed.
“Do it!”
His high-pitched yell startled her but Rory kept her head about her, moving away from him as he began his advance again. He was beginning to tremble, his jaw working furiously as he advanced on her.
“Get out,” she growled in return. “Get out or I swear you’ll be sorry.”
Threats from a woman were too much for John to take. With a howl, he threw himself at her. Rory was fast but there was nowhere for her to run; the chamber was too small. In little time, he had her by the arms and was shoving her over to the tub. Terrified, Rory struggled to fight him off and keep the towel on her at the same time. But the towel fell away and John made a grab for her full breasts. With a yelp, Rory batted him away but he had a good grip on her. The two of them struggled viciously until Rory backed up against the tub and tripped on it. Falling backwards, she smacked her head on the wall.
Stars burst before her eyes and, for a moment, she was stunned senseless. It was enough of a break for John to yank off his tunic and pull his hose down, releasing his enormous and lopsided member. Saliva dripping from his lips, he fell to his knees and roughly pulled Rory’s legs apart. He was preparing to ram himself into her tight body when Rory suddenly came around, saw what he was doing, and brought a knee up that caught him right in his aroused groin. John screamed and collapsed on the floor.
Rory was in full-blown panic mode. She scrambled out from under him, trying to shake the cobwebs out of her brain, when John reached up with one hand and grabbed her bad ankle. The pain was excruciating and she screamed, falling to the floor as he grabbed at her with his other hand, digging his nails into her tender flesh and bruising everything he touched.
“After I take my pleasure with you,” John breathed as his saliva dribbled onto her skin, “I shall have you killed for your insolence. Do you hear me, you worthless, foolish whore? I will kill you!”
Rory was in a haze of panic. She knew he meant every word and she further knew that, at this moment, it was her survival against his. Rory wasn’t one to give up or surrender; she had every intention of living a long and healthy life. She had been brought back to this era with a purpose. So much had happened since she and Kieran had appeared on that rocky beach in Nahariya; a love that had defied all odds to flourish and thrive. She could see Kieran’s face, hear his gentle laugh and feel his loving touch. No, she wasn’t ready to give up yet, certainly not to a spoiled prince who would make a terrible king. She didn’t even care about the consequences of her actions at the moment. All she was concerned with was surviving and seeing her husband and son again. It was all she ever wanted. She had to live.
John was coming close. Rory’s flailing hand came into contact with the stool she had been sitting on, the only piece of furniture in the entire room until just a few minutes ago. She felt the leg in her hand, hard and solid. She knew what she had to do. It was her survival against his.
Gripping the leg, she swung it at the prince’s head with all her might. Even when he fell off her, she swung it again and again, frantically beating the man’s head in and watching his brains bleed out on the floor. When the panic faded and the blood spattered, and she realized he was never going to get up again, it suddenly occurred to her what she had done. The bloody stool fell to the floor.
Realization turned to horror. She had just accomplished everything she had feared, everything she had instructed Kieran not to do. She’d spent the past fourteen months terrified that somehow, someway, Kieran was going to do something inadvertently to change the future. Her future; the world she knew and came from. But in a sickening twist of fate, she was the one who ultimately accomplished, in one swift and panicked action, that which she had feared more deeply than death itself. She had just irrevocably changed the course if history with a stool. She had just killed the next King of England.
Her mind began to short circuit. She could see the dead prince on the floor but she refused to believe what her eyes were telling her. It was like she was unable to process the truth. The door to the chamber opened and the knight who looked so much like Bud was standing in the doorway, shock all over his face at the scene before him. But Rory couldn’t summon the energy to defend herself. She just stood there, unmoving, feeling oddly unstable as the world around her began to rock.
It was then that she noticed the chamber turning peculiar shades of gray. It was almost like she was looking at the walls from underwater; they were undulating, turning darker. It gradually occurred to her that they weren’t turning darker; she was. She was fading. A glance to her hands showed the truth; like a ghost, she could see through them. Her greatest fear was coming to pass as somehow, someway, she had altered the future.
Generations of those who came before her were now altered, DNA that used to exist no longer existing. Somehow it carried down family lines as those who should have been killed as the result of John’s reign and subsequent English history were no longer dead. Those who should be living were no longer living. Her world was changing before her.
“No!” she suddenly cried, trying to grasp for walls that were no longer solid, now like clouds. Her hands slipped through them. “Please don’t let me die! Please… don’t let me go! I don’t want to go!”
The walls faded into oblivion and Rory with them. The sounds of her cries echoed off the old stone, still remaining, even though her body had vanished like a puff of smoke. In seconds, she was gone and the future world as she knew it also vanished. All that was left was a dead prince and a knight with a gaping mouth.
The knight with the ice blue eyes would swear to the day he died that Lady Hage had been but a dream. He couldn’t explain it any more than that, not even to her devastated husband when the man had shown up with an entire army to retrieve her. The woman had disappeared right before him.
But Kieran knew what had happened. God help him, he knew.