Page 79 of Ondine

Warwick sighed despairingly. “Nothing! Ondine thought she was on to something, but when I scaled the walls to retrieve this evidence she had discovered, it was gone. Charles—there is no hope here! She must understand that. She is blinded by that love she bore her father, too proud to retreat. If she finds these documents—these forgeries—they hold over her head, to what avail is that? It does not prove that her father did not raise his sword against you. I’ve told her I’ll give her three days—including this one—and that is all.

I’ll take her from this country if need be; but I will take her from here, as is my right, so help me God!

Those two are evil in the extreme, and we have come too far; she has endured enough.

How many times may one woman cheat death? ”

Charles stared at his passionate servant and sighed.

“Ah, Warwick, that is why I determined to come now. I assumed that once they had seen me—and I had seen Ondine here, beneath their care—they would think twice before seeking to harm her.” He hesitated a moment.

“I am in accord with you, though. Linger here no longer than three days more. ’Tis better to forfeit the lands than her life. ”

Warwick nodded tensely.

“I must leave; I stay with a smith too long. ’Tis well I’m known for a liking of the common man!”

“Charles!” Warwick called when the king would leave. Charles turned back curiously. Warwick knelt to him once again, and this time in all sincerity and truth.

“Thank you. For your belief, for your care.”

The king grinned slowly. “You saved my life once upon a time. Remember? And Chathams have remained loyal; I’ll not forget the blood spilled on my father’s behalf.

You see, Warwick,” he added, grinning crookedly with pain, “I understand Ondine’s feelings well.

My father, too, was killed by treachery, though it was of a different nature.

Get off your knees now, for in all honesty, you are not a man to do well upon them! ”

Warwick stood, and the king embraced him, then hurriedly took his leave.

Following him and standing at the doorway, Warwick was able to hear the king cheerfully comment that he was well pleased with his knife.

He watched the royal party depart, then turned back to the fire, glad that there was work to do, work to keep his hands busy while his mind remained in eternal worry and chaos.

Yet he paused when he would have set to melting steel, for with the king’s departure, William and Raoul Deauveau had not returned to the house. They came back toward the forge, engaged in a fierce argument.

Warwick came to the open doorway and hovered just behind it in shadow, straining to make out their words while remaining beyond their vision. It was not difficult to do, for the tenor of their voices kept rising.

“I tell you it’s true!” William rasped in fury.

“And I tell you it is no more than supposition!” Raoul retorted.

“Supposition! So tell me, Son, does that supposition not dismay you?”

“You’re taking the word of a thick-bodied and thick-minded stinking peasant!”

There was a long silence; then came a long, long expulsion of air from William Deauveau.

“Berta is large, yes—I needed a large woman, in case your lovely and devious betrothed decided to be troublesome. But she is bright and knows women well. She would not make a mistake. Your sweet little virgin is definitely with child.”

Warwick was so startled that it seemed his heart ceased to beat; coldness . . . a blanket of coldness, like a river of snow, seemed to engulf him. His mind raced blankly for a moment, then pitched into a fever of emotion.

By God, he felt like thrashing her with a thousand lashes! How could she have done it! Left him, left Chatham, when she was carrying his heir? How could she play this dangerous game, when even more than their own lives was at stake?

Oh, fool that he was! A chambermaid had noted it, and he had not! He, her husband, who held her and cradled her and loved her through the night . . .

“I knew that she was no virgin, Father. She came to me with the truth—a truth she dared not tell you. And what matter does it make to you? I am the one taking the bride! One tryst, and virginity is lost; the difference is but a night—”

“You’re not listening! The girl is not only deflowered, but carrying some lout’s child!”

“That, too, Father, is easily handled! We need only keep her hidden once her condition is discovered; the child can be disposed of with little effort.”

“She’ll surely love you and serve you well once you’ve slain her child!” William scoffed.

Raoul began to laugh. “What matter that, sir? We’ve already slain her sire!”

“We need to get rid of her now—”

“What? The king would surely be suspect! Damn you, Father, I will have her!”

“You are a fool! All sense and mind tucked into your pants!”

“Father—”

“Nay, I’ll argue no more! Marry the bitch if you are so keen upon her! Take her—you but take yourself straight to hell!”

Warwick wound his fingers into fists of tension at his sides.

Nay, Raoul Deauveau and sire William, he thought, so enraged that before his eyes the world had turned red. Blood red. It is I who shall take you straight to the gates of hell!

“I wash my hands of it!” William exclaimed, then said on a curious tone that was by far lighter, “Do what you will, Raoul. Ah, see to things here, Raoul. I’ll not be about for our evening meal.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere special. I’ve received a message from an old friend; I shall spend some time with her this evening.”

“A woman?” Raoul chuckled. “Ah, Father. The fires of lust still burn brightly, eh?”

“Umm. Perhaps. We shall see. I shall go now, so you may have your precious beauty all to yourself for the evening. Your black widow, that is!”

“Father, I tell you, she has been broken to my will!”

William answered something, but they were walking away, and Warwick could hear them no more.

Perhaps it was good that they walked away. The awful anger, the anger that washed the world in a mist of red, was still within him. Had they lingered longer, he might have emitted a primal, tearing scream and rushed out to slay them both with his bare hands, or die in the attempt.

Ah, foolish action! For if he were to die, he would but leave Ondine at their mercy. Ondine . . . and their unborn child.

Yet one thing was certain: It was no longer Ondine’s battle alone. In his heart, to the depths of his soul, he knew that the two usurpers must die—in fair fight—by his hand.

Ondine . . .

He set his mouth grimly, for at the moment he also had a most serious argument with his wife!