settled down for the night.
One of the squires eventually brought her a crust of bread and a chunk of moldy cheese, with a bag of water. She had no appetite for the food, would likely be sick if she tried to eat it. But she was grateful for the water. She did not bother tosay so, however. If they would not talk to her, why should she talk to them?
She wished she had not been brought to such a keen awareness of her predicament with Sir Robert’s arrival. It had been much easier to deal with when her mind had refused to grasp all the implications.
She now knew his name, the man who was sending her to his dungeon. She had heard the name Warrick de Chaville earlier, but had not known the speaker had been talking about the Lord of Fulkhurst. His dungeon—God’s mercy, a dungeon ! It no longer lacked reality. A dungeon. And she would be there on the morrow at the rate they were traveling.
He must have known her, and that she was the rightful owner of three of the properties that had recently surrendered to him. Why else?—but how could he know? She had never met him, never even seen him before. But he could have simply heard that she was to wed Godwine Lyons, and she had given him her new name. Aye, why else would he want to put her away in a dungeon? People died in dungeons, from neglect, fouled food, or any number of other reasons. If she died, she could not make claim on her properties—and neither could Gilbert.
Ah, God, then it was not to be even temporary, her imprisonment. Fulkhurst wanted her to die, he just did not want to murder her with his own hands. She could see no difference, but he would.
She wished she were not an heiress. She wished she were a lowly serf with naught to hername that men would covet. Tures and all it entailed had brought her naught but grief since the d’Ambrays had decided to kill her father so they could have it.
Little did she sleep that night, but Rowena was not tired the next day. Her anxiety would not give her mind peace. And the day passed much too swiftly, as did the miles.
They arrived at Fulkhurst just as the sun was setting. The red glow on the castle walls so reminded Rowena of her first sight of Kirkburough that she was close to trembling. Had it only been four days ago that she thought she was entering hell? This, she knew, would be much worse—the home of the fire-breathing dragon of the north.
It was an impregnable fortress, a stronghold similar to Tures Castle. But whereas Tures just stretched toward the sky with a keep five stories high, Fulkhurst stretched and spread out over the land. An outer bailey had been added only in the past ten years, which was why the inner bailey was larger than normal. The walls of both baileys were massive in thickness and fronted by deep moats.
The larger outer bailey was almost like a town, it contained so many buildings, including a new hall under construction that would be only two floors in height. Arms practice was still done in the inner bailey, however, since it had so much yard space.
The stone keep was merely four stories high, though larger than the norm. But Rowena soon found that there was one other floor dug outbeneath it. Reached through a trapdoor in the storage basement, the dungeon was another addition Lord Warrick had added to his castle.
The stairs led down to a small guardroom with stone walls and wooden floor that was presently empty. The only door was made of iron with an iron bar set across it. It led to a corridor no more than six feet long, with another iron door at the end, and two on either side. The cell at the end was the largest, though Rowena would not have guessed this, for it was only an eight-by-eight square. The floor was beaten earth, the walls well-set stone, the ceiling an iron grid similar to a portcullis, with the wooden floor of the basement seen above it.
This cell was entirely empty, without even an old rag to lie on. It was not exactly cold, for it was summer, but a draft seeped in
One of the squires eventually brought her a crust of bread and a chunk of moldy cheese, with a bag of water. She had no appetite for the food, would likely be sick if she tried to eat it. But she was grateful for the water. She did not bother tosay so, however. If they would not talk to her, why should she talk to them?
She wished she had not been brought to such a keen awareness of her predicament with Sir Robert’s arrival. It had been much easier to deal with when her mind had refused to grasp all the implications.
She now knew his name, the man who was sending her to his dungeon. She had heard the name Warrick de Chaville earlier, but had not known the speaker had been talking about the Lord of Fulkhurst. His dungeon—God’s mercy, a dungeon ! It no longer lacked reality. A dungeon. And she would be there on the morrow at the rate they were traveling.
He must have known her, and that she was the rightful owner of three of the properties that had recently surrendered to him. Why else?—but how could he know? She had never met him, never even seen him before. But he could have simply heard that she was to wed Godwine Lyons, and she had given him her new name. Aye, why else would he want to put her away in a dungeon? People died in dungeons, from neglect, fouled food, or any number of other reasons. If she died, she could not make claim on her properties—and neither could Gilbert.
Ah, God, then it was not to be even temporary, her imprisonment. Fulkhurst wanted her to die, he just did not want to murder her with his own hands. She could see no difference, but he would.
She wished she were not an heiress. She wished she were a lowly serf with naught to hername that men would covet. Tures and all it entailed had brought her naught but grief since the d’Ambrays had decided to kill her father so they could have it.
Little did she sleep that night, but Rowena was not tired the next day. Her anxiety would not give her mind peace. And the day passed much too swiftly, as did the miles.
They arrived at Fulkhurst just as the sun was setting. The red glow on the castle walls so reminded Rowena of her first sight of Kirkburough that she was close to trembling. Had it only been four days ago that she thought she was entering hell? This, she knew, would be much worse—the home of the fire-breathing dragon of the north.
It was an impregnable fortress, a stronghold similar to Tures Castle. But whereas Tures just stretched toward the sky with a keep five stories high, Fulkhurst stretched and spread out over the land. An outer bailey had been added only in the past ten years, which was why the inner bailey was larger than normal. The walls of both baileys were massive in thickness and fronted by deep moats.
The larger outer bailey was almost like a town, it contained so many buildings, including a new hall under construction that would be only two floors in height. Arms practice was still done in the inner bailey, however, since it had so much yard space.
The stone keep was merely four stories high, though larger than the norm. But Rowena soon found that there was one other floor dug outbeneath it. Reached through a trapdoor in the storage basement, the dungeon was another addition Lord Warrick had added to his castle.
The stairs led down to a small guardroom with stone walls and wooden floor that was presently empty. The only door was made of iron with an iron bar set across it. It led to a corridor no more than six feet long, with another iron door at the end, and two on either side. The cell at the end was the largest, though Rowena would not have guessed this, for it was only an eight-by-eight square. The floor was beaten earth, the walls well-set stone, the ceiling an iron grid similar to a portcullis, with the wooden floor of the basement seen above it.
This cell was entirely empty, without even an old rag to lie on. It was not exactly cold, for it was summer, but a draft seeped in
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