The Duke and the Enchantress

Chapter Seven - Accommodations

Chapter Seven

Liam froze near the door and looked back at the woman, who was merely holding the baby and looking at him with that flat, expressionless face.  “Madam, I’m going to assume you are a common villager and are not aware of the decorum required to address a duke.  In the future, do not mistake me for a servant who will fetch you things.” 

“I’m thirsty, and you are the only person present.  I’m nursing a baby and I don’t know where the cisterns are.  Who am I supposed to ask?” She shifted in the chair.  “And you hadn’t ought to assume anything about me, your grace.”  She over-emphasized his title with biting sarcasm. 

The duke’s face darkened.  “Mrs. Short!” he bellowed, making both the woman and the child startle again.  The baby let go of the n****e to give another unhappy wail, which only flustered the duke more. 

Mrs. Short rushed into the room breathlessly, “Yes, your grace?” she panted. 

“Get... this woman...water.”  He still didn’t know her name, and what he wanted to call her would be neither flattering nor appropriate.  “And then assign a maid to attend to her.  She is to be confined to the Keep and must not be allowed to wander alone.  Do I make myself clear?”  He watched the woman, and saw something like irritation flash in her dark eyes.  He was satisfied that he had gotten some reaction, however small.   

“Perfectly, your grace.”  Mrs. Short bobbed a curtsey, and then glared at the woman again, before she left, presumably to fetch a cup of water for the wet-nurse.   

He had resolved all the situations at hand, so the duke turned on his heel and departed quickly.  His daughter had a source of breastmilk, he had taken a wrongfully imprisoned woman out from the dungeons under the keep, and he had assured her comfort and security for the next year.  Then why did he feel so unsettled?  Why was that woman’s face haunting him?  Her dark, expressionless eyes seemed to be on him, constantly, as though she were judging him.   

She probably would have been a beautiful woman, before the ravages of her time under the Keep and pregnancy had taken their toll on her body.  But that was nothing to him.  He had unlimited access to any number of beautiful women, all of them more pleasing than that dark haired, dark eyed wench with her biting tongue.  Perhaps it was just guilt that itched at his conscience.  She should not have been in the dungeons.  Had he kept his attention on what was going on beneath his own feet, he could have prevented her undo suffering. 

His feet turned of their own accords toward the stables.  A ride before dinner would clear his head.  Yes, a feisty horse between his legs would help him forget the feisty woman. 

----- 

Willow looked down at the child.  She wanted to hate it... she wanted to hate it for being alive when her child was dead.  She wanted to pour all the rage she felt somewhere... but she couldn’t pour it out on this little creature.  Violet was a perfect name, because her eyes matched the color of the purple wild violets that blanketed the hills in the spring perfectly.  Willow had never seen eyes that color.  But aside from her unusual eyes, the newborn looked more like a wizened old woman than a soft pink baby.  The little soft spot on her head was sunken in from dehydration, her body was frail, and her face was crumpled in a scowl.  Willow could feel the baby’s stress, and couldn’t help but empathize.  “It's a cruel and unkind world you’ve been born into,” she whispered to the baby, soothing her after the duke’s hollering had upset her again.  She covered her breasts and relaxed back into the chair. 

A tankard of water was thrust into her face, and the baby was snatched away.  Mrs. Short deposited the child back into the hands of the elderly nurse who had been caring for Violet since her birth.  Willow took the water, only because she was dying of thirst.  If not for that, she would have thrown it right back at the haughty housekeeper.  Behind Mrs. Short, the small maid named Justine hovered.  Willow put the mug to her mouth and swallowed big, deep gulps until it was empty. 

“I know what you are,” Mrs. Short hissed in a low voice, “Devil’s w***e!” 

Willow stared at the woman without saying anything.  Mrs. Short was apparently a faithful follower of the Priesthood.  Such accusations no longer had any power or any sting.  She was dead to those words now, and narrow-minded bigots like Mrs. Short could go rot. 

“See to her, Justine.  And keep both eyes on her.  She’s not to be trusted, and the duke has ordered her confined to the Keep.”  Mrs. Short wrinkled her nose up in disgust.  “Take her to her room.” 

Willow stood shakily, and was glad she had been relieved of the burden of the baby.  She wasn’t sure if she could even manage to carry the tiny bundle and keep herself on her feet.  Nursing her seemed to have drained not only the milk from her breasts, but the last of the strength from her bones.  Justine cast a fearful look at Mrs. Short, and then motioned to Willow.  “This way, if you please,” she barely whispered. 

Mrs. Short had given her a room far from the main halls.  It seemed to be in a neglected wing of the keep, as there was plenty of dust and cobwebs in the halls.  Justine twisted her hands fretfully as she pushed open the heavy oak door to reveal a small room.  A sagging bed occupied the center, with a small fireplace opposite a narrow window.  The space was spartan, but it had been hastily cleaned and prepared with fresh linens.  There was a basin and pitcher of water on the side table, and the firewood rack was full.  To a woman who had spent the last year in the dungeons, it looked like a chamber for a queen. 

“The duke has ordered that the child’s cradle be brought in here,” Justine said, her tone still apologetic.  “And I have a cot in the next room, if you should need me.” 

Willow nodded absently, and went to the window, pushing open the leaded glass panes to let the fresh, cool air blow in.  “At least I have a window,” she murmured.  With a sigh she went to the bed and sank down on it.  The mattress was old and lumpy, and she could feel the ropes beneath.  Mrs. Short had no doubt meant to insult her with these poor accommodations, but for Willow, it was like sleeping on a cloud.  She was already drifting into an exhausted sleep when she heard Justine.  “Do you require anything?” 

“Water,” was the last thing she murmured, “more water.”