“Go,” he said, half-laughing as he threw open the door. “You have learned your lesson well.”
Blanche was out of the room before the door closed. She ran down the stairs and out the manor house. She kept running through the castle yard, through the open gate. She did not answer the calls of the men from atop the walls. She only knew that she wanted to be away from anything to do with the Chatworth estate. Only when the pains in her side forced her, did she stop. Then she walked, never once looking back.
Jocelin slipped four plums inside his doublet; he knew how much Constance loved fresh fruit. In the last weeks, his life had begun to revolve around what Constance did and did not like. Watching her unfold, petal by soft petal, had been the most delightful t
hing that had ever happened to him. Her gratitude for every pleasure, no matter how small, was warming, though his heart ached at the thought of her life before—that a bouquet of flowers could make her cry.
And in bed, he smiled wickedly. He was not such a martyr as to forgo all selfish pleasures. Constance wanted to repay him for his kindness and wanted to show him her love. At first her anticipation of pain had made her rigid, but the feel of Jocelin’s hands on her body, knowing they would not hurt her, made her wild with passion. It was as if she wanted to crowd all the love she would ever know into a few short weeks.
Jocelin smiled as he thought of their future together. He would stop traveling and settle down, would make a home for Constance and himself. Then they would have several violet-eyed children. Never in his life had he wanted more than freedom and a comfortable bed and a warm woman. But never had he been in love before. Constance had changed his whole life. Just a few more days—as soon as Constance was well enough to stand the long journey, they would leave.
Jocelin was whistling as he left the manor house and walked past the kitchen toward the stables. He froze when he saw the ladder leaning against the wall. Of late he had been careful to remove the ladder. The stableman’s wife kept a sharp eye on it for him, and Jocelin rewarded her with numerous smiles and a few genuinely affectionate hugs. He did not think of any danger to himself, but only to Constance.
He ran the last few feet and sped up the ladder. His heart was beating wildly as he searched the tiny room, as if he’d find her beneath the hay. He knew without a doubt that Constance would not leave on her own. No, she was like a fawn, timid and fearful.
Tears blurred his eyes as he made his way down the ladder. Where would he find her? Perhaps some of the women played a joke on him and he would find her safe in some corner, munching on a raisin bun. Jocelin did not believe it, even as he pictured the dream.
He was not surprised when he saw Chatworth at the foot of the ladder, flanked by two armored guards. “What have you done with her?” Jocelin demanded as he jumped from the second rung of the ladder, his hands going for Edmund’s throat.
Edmund’s face was beginning to turn blue before his men could disengage Jocelin. They held him securely by the arms.
Edmund pulled himself from the dust and looked with disgust at his ruined clothing. The velvet would never be the same again. He rubbed his bruised throat. “You will pay for this with your life.”
“What have you done with her, you piece of pig’s offal?” Jocelin sneered.
Edmund gasped. No one had ever dared talk to him like that before. He drew back his hand and slapped Jocelin across the face, cutting the corner of his mouth. “Indeed, you will pay for this.”
He stepped out of range of Jocelin’s feet, more wary of the jongleur than he had been. Behind that face lurked a man he had not guessed existed, thinking Jocelin only to be another pretty boy. “I will enjoy this,” he sneered. “Tonight you will spend in the oubliette, and tomorrow you will see your last sunrise. All day you will suffer. But tonight perhaps you will suffer more. While you sweat in that jar, I will take the woman.”
“No!” Jocelin yelled. “She has done nothing. Let her go. I will pay for taking her.”
“Yes, you will. As for your noble gesture, it is hollow. You have nothing to bargain with. I have you both. Her for my bed, and you for any other pleasures I choose. Take him and let him think on what it means to defy an earl.”
Constance sat at the window of Edmund’s room. Spirit was gone from her. No more would she see Jocelin again, no more would he hold her in his arms and tell her he loved her more than the moon loved the stars. The only hope was that he had managed to escape. She had seen the way that Blanche ran from the room. Constance prayed that the woman had gone to warn Jocelin. She knew that Blanche cared for him, had heard her call for him. Surely, Blanche had warned Jocelin, and together they were safe.
Constance felt no jealousy. In truth, she wanted only Jocelin’s happiness. If he’d asked her to die for him, she would gladly have done so. What did her poor life matter?
A commotion and the sunlight on a familiar head drew her attention. Two burly guards half-dragged a struggling Jocelin across the yard. As she watched, one of the men cuffed Jocelin hard on the collarbone, causing Joss to slump to one side. With difficulty, he kept on his feet. Constance held her breath, wanting to call to him, but she knew it would endanger him more. As if he sensed her, he twisted and looked up at the window. Constance lifted her hand. Through her tears, she could see the blood on his chin.
As the guards jerked Jocelin around, Constance suddenly realized where they were taking him, and her heart stopped. The oubliette was a horrible device; a jug-shaped chamber cut into the bowels of solid rock. A prisoner must be lowered through its narrow neck by a pulley. Once inside, he could neither sit nor stand, but must half-squat, his back and neck continually bent. There was little air and quite often no food or water. Nobody could last more than a few days, and only the strongest that long.
Constance watched the guards strap Jocelin to the pulley and lower him into that hellhole. She stared for a few moments longer as the cover was fastened, then looked away. There was no hope now. Tomorrow Jocelin would be dead, if he lived through the night, for Edmund would surely devise some additional torture.
On a table a large wine beaker and three glasses were set. These glasses were for Edmund’s private use, as he saved all the most beautiful objects for himself. She did not think of what she did, for her life was over and only one last act was needed to complete the deed. Smashing a glass against the table, she took the jagged base in her hand and went to the cushioned window.
It was a lovely day, summer in full bloom. Constance hardly felt the sharp edge as she slashed it across one wrist. She looked at the blood flowing from her body with a sense of relief. “Soon,” she whispered. “Soon I will be with you, my Jocelin.”
Constance cut her other wrist and leaned back against the wall, one wrist in her lap, the other on the windowsill, her blood seeping into the mortar of the stones. A soft summer breeze blew at her hair and she smiled. One evening she and Jocelin had gone to the river, spending the night alone in the soft grasses. They had returned very early the next morning before the castle was fully awake. It had been a night of rapture and whispered love words. She remembered every word Jocelin had ever spoken to her.
Gradually, her thoughts became lazier. It was almost as if she went to sleep. Constance closed her eyes and smiled slightly, the sun on her face, the breeze in her hair, and thought no more.
“Boy! Are you all right?” a voice called down to Jocelin in a hoarse whisper.
He was dazed and had trouble understanding the words. “Oubliette” meant chamber of forgetfulness, and it earned its name.
“Boy!” the voice demanded again. “Answer me!”
“Yes,” Jocelin managed.