Page 27 of Hers To Command
“If your father had been in his right mind, he would have turned you out for whoring.”
She gasped and Roald knew he had struck home—and there was more to gladden his heart. The Norman had given Mathilde a look that told Roald he’d had no notion of the kind of woman she really was.
A triumphant smile blossomed on his face. “She didn’t tell you about our little rendezvous, did she? Or why she wants to have her vengeance on me? I refused to marry her, you see, in spite of all her efforts.”
Mathilde knew what he was about to do, the truth he was about to reveal. She wanted to scream at him to stop, to be silent, but her throat felt too tight to breathe, let alone speak.
“And quite the efforts they were, too, weren’t they, Mathilde?” Roald continued, making a mockery of her shame and his crime. “But I wouldn’t marry her even after she came into my bedchamber and gave herself to me.”
Her chest clenched like her throat while Roald further destroyed her honor and her life.
“She wept and wailed and tried to force me to take her for my wife, but I had no desire to tie myself to a woman of such low morals. Why, she would have her husband a cuckold in a month.”
“Liar!” The word burst from Mathilde’s throat with the force of a dam bursting in the spring flood, her whole body tense as a drawn bowstring, her hands balled into fists. “Lying, villainous cur!”
“Ah, now we see the real Mathilde,” Roald taunted. “The harpy, not the soft and gentle lover. You’ll notice, my dear Henry, that she doesn’t deny she came to my bed. Because, of course, she can’t. Tell me, has she come creeping into your chamber at night, too, looking vulnerable and sweet as she never does in the day?”
Delight flashed in Roald’s eyes at the sight of Henry’s obvious shock.
Mathilde wanted to howl with anguish and humiliation and shame. What must Henry think of her? That she was no better than a whore? That she’d connived to bring him here under false pretenses? That she was a liar and deceiver, as Roald said?
If only Roaldwaslying. Of all the impetuous things she had done in her life, going to his chamber, stupidly believing his tender words, telling herself that what she felt was love, was the worst.
And more than she had suffered for it.
Even so, now that he had spoken, she would have the truth known. Yes, she had gone to his chamber, but in innocent naiveté, believing that he loved her. She had thought he would kiss her, and perhaps offer a proposal of marriage—and nothing more. “What happened that night was not of my will,” Mathilde declared, hating him and herself for her stupidity.
“Of course you wanted me to take you, or why else would you come to me at night in my bedchamber?” Roald taunted before he again addressed the expressionless Sir Henry. “And then, when I refused to marry her, she went crying to her father, claiming it was rape.”
“It was!” she cried as her gaze swept over the rest of the people assembled there—Giselle, white to the lips but her eyes full of compassion, for she had always known the truth. She had been the one to tend Mathilde after Roald had attacked her. She had washed the blood from her sister’s thighs and bound her wounds. She had listened to Mathilde’s wracking sobs and heard the whole truth told in a choked whisper.
Cerdic, tall and strong, stood immobile, aghast with shock. Behind him, the other soldiers muttered and whispered, but did not meet her eyes, as if she had ceased to exist. In their eyes, perhaps the noble Lady Mathilde was as good as dead. Dead because of desire. Killed by shame and weakness.
“Stop playing the martyr, Mathilde,” Roald sneered. “We all know that any woman who goes to a man’s bedchamber can hardly claim to be virtuous. Isn’t that right, Henry?”
“It would depend upon her reason,” the Norman replied, his voice grim and cold as his face.
Although he hadn’t condemned her outright, he must think the less of her. If he only thought her shameful and weak, that would be bad enough, but if he thought her no better than a whore…
“What other reason could there be but to make love with me?” Roald inquired. “That was certainly Mathilde’s reason. She didn’t pull away or protest when I kissed her.”
“Because I was a fool—ten thousand times a fool!” Mathilde cried, determined to make Sir Henry and everyone else in the hall understand that while she had made a horrendous mistake, based on pride and Roald’s flattering lies, he had vilely taken her virginity against her will. “I believed you when you spoke of love and marriage. I thought we would kiss and then you would ask me to be your wife.”
“Based on what? A few commonplace compliments? You see how she is, Henry,” Roald said, turning to the Norman and speaking as if she were not there. “You should bless your lucky stars I arrived to tell you the truth about Mathilde—although I grant you, Giselle is very beautiful and tempting.” His lips curved up and his eyes gleamed. “I may marry her myself.”
Giselle’s hand fluttered to her breast. Her eyelids closed and she would have fallen, except that Henry moved quickly and caught her as she lost consciousness. Kneeling, he gently laid her on the dais.
“You beast! You loathsome, despicable monster!” Mathilde cried as she rushed to her sister’s side. “She will never marry you, never!”
No matter what Roald did, what threats he made, he would never have Giselle, even if she had to die protecting her.
As Faiga hurried forward with a goblet, the Norman regarded Roald with coldly sardonic eyes. “I must say, Roald, this looks most unpromising. The very thought of being your wife seems to make the lady ill. Not that I blame her, of course.”
Looking murderous, Cerdic shoved his way through the soldiers. For a moment, Mathilde thought he was going to attack Roald with his bare hands, but instead, he pushed Roald roughly out of his way and knelt beside Giselle.
“I will carry her to her chamber,” he said, lifting her as easily as if she were a goose down pillow.
Her whole body trembling with rage and shame and despair, Mathilde faced Roald. “Get out, Roald, before I have these men drag you out like the dog you are.”
