“Don’t, oh, don’t,” Melisande whispered. “You don’t have to tell me, you don’t.”
He looked at her, puzzled and sad and tragic. “They tortured them. Burned them. The sticks were red-hot, and the women wielded them—the women! And then Munroe’s eye. God! That was the worst. I screamed at them to stop, and they spit at me and cut off the men’s fingers. I knew then to be silent, no matter what they did, because crying out, showing any emotion, only made it worse. And I tried, Melisande, I tried, but the screams and the blood . . .”
“Oh, my dear, oh, my dear.” Melisande had moved to him. She bent and held him in her arms, his face against her breast. And she couldn’t hold back her tears now. She sobbed for him.
“The second day, they brought us to the other side of the camp,” Vale whispered against her breast. “They were burning Reynaud there. He was crucified and on fire. I think he was dead already, because he didn’t move, and I thanked God again. I thanked God that my dearest friend was dead and could no longer feel the pain.”
“Shh,” Melisande whispered. “Shh.”
But he didn’t stop. “And when the fire had died out, they took us back to the other side of camp and went on with it. Munroe’s face and Horn’s chest. On and on and on.”
“But you were saved in the end, weren’t you?” she asked desperately. He had to leave these dreadful images and go on to the hopeful part. He’d survived. He had lived.
“After two weeks. I’m told Corporal Hartley led back a rescue party and ransomed us, but I don’t really remember. I was in a daze.”
“You were in despair and wounded.” Melisande tried to comfort him. “It’s understandable.”
He pulled violently out of her arms. “No! No, I was perfectly well, entirely intact.”
She staredƒ="3ent. “But the torture . . . ?”
He ripped open his shirt and revealed his broad chest. “You’ve seen me, my sweet wife. Is there a scar on any part of my body?”
Her eyes dropped, puzzled, to his unmarked chest. “No—”
“Because they didn’t touch me. In all those days of torturing the others, they never laid a hand on me.”
Dear God. Melisande stared at his chest. For a man like Vale, being the one left unscarred would be worse than bearing the wounds.
She took a deep breath and asked the question he so obviously expected. “But why?”
“Because I was the witness, the most senior officer after they’d killed Reynaud, the only other captain. They made me watch, and if I so much as flinched at what they did, they cut deeper, dug the burning brand in harder.”
He looked at her and smiled awfully, the demons shining from his eyes. “Don’t you see? They tortured the others while I sat and watched.”
Chapter Sixteen
Princess Surcease ate her soup, and what should be at the bottom of the bowl but the silver ring? Well, the king roared for the head cook, and the poor man was again dragged before the court. But no matter how they questioned him, he swore up, down, and sideways that he did not know how the ring had come to be in the princess’s soup. In the end, the king had to send him back to the kitchens again. All the people of the court leaned their heads close and wondered who had won the silver ring.
But Princess Surcease was silent. She merely stared thoughtfully at her fool. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
Melisande woke the next morning to the sound of Mouse scratching at the door. She turned and looked at Vale. He lay with one arm flung over his head, the covers half off his long form. In the last couple nights, she’d discovered that he was a restless sleeper. He often draped an arm or leg over her in his sleep, and sometimes she would wake with his face buried in her neck. More than once he’d rolled over, taking all the covers with him. She didn’t mind. It was well worth the cost of lost blankets to sleep with him.
But after last night’s harrowing confession, he needed more rest. Melisande carefully slipped from the covers and got up. She found a simple bodice and skirt to put on, wrapped a cloak about herself, and left the room quietly with Mouse. They pattered down the stairs and made their way through the dark hallways to the kitchens.
Melisande paused. The kitchen had a vast, wide-arched ceiling, plastered and painted with flaking whitewash. It looked terribly old. In the corner, she saw that two pallets had been laid out. Suchlike was fast asleep on one, and Mr. Pynch raised his head from the other. Melisande nodded silently at the valet before slipping out the kitchen door.
Outside, Mouse ran delightedl†ntly in circles before stopping to do his business. There was a long, sloping lawn here, uncut and wild, and farther on, terraced gardens that must once have been magnificent. Melisande began strolling in that direction. It was a lovely day, the bright morning sun just beginning to blow off the low mist from green hills. Melisande stopped and looked back at the castle. In the daylight, it wasn’t so frightening. Of weathered pale pink stone, it rose up to crumbling stepped gables, and chimneys stuck out here and there. Round turreted towers projected from all four corners, making the whole look solid and ancient. She couldn’t help but think the castle must be cold in winter.
“She’s half a millennium old,” a deep rasping voice came from behind her.
Melisande looked around just as Mouse raced up and began barking.
Sir Alistair stood with a dog so tall its head was above his waist. The animal’s fur was a shaggy gray. Mouse stood in front of it and barked frantically. The big dog didn’t move. It simply looked down its long nose at Mouse as if wondering what manner of dog this little yapping thing was.
Sir Alistair frowned at the terrier a moment. This morning, his hair was brushed and clubbed back, and he’d covered his damaged eye with a black eye patch.
“Whisht, laddie,” he drawled in a broad Scots brogue, “dinna fasht yourself.”
He hunkered down and held out his fist to Mouse, who trotted over and sniffed. Melisande saw with a little tremor of horror that Sir Alistair’s right hand was missing the forefinger and little finger.
“He’s a brave wee lad,” Sir Alistair said. “What do you call him?”
“Mouse.”
He nodded and stood, looking away, down the sloping lawn. His big dog sighed and lay down by his feet. “I didn’t mean to frighten you last night, ma’am.”
She looked at him. From this side, with his scars nearly concealed, he could’ve been handsome. His nose was straight and arrogant, his chin firm and not a little stubborn. “You didn’t. I was merely startled at your sudden appearance.”