Читать книгу Bride of The Beast - Adrienne Basso - Страница 6

Ten years later, early spring

“I have decided that you shall marry within the month, Bethan,” Sir Agnarr de Bellemare decreed. “I am done with your paltry excuses and maidenly foolishness.”

The self-proclaimed Lord of Lampeter made his announcement as the evening meal was being served. The hall bustled with activity, people, and noise, but Bethan felt several pairs of eyes turn to her. She imagined her stepfather had raised his voice intending to be overheard, intending to demonstrate yet again that he, and he alone, ruled this land and all who resided within it.

Bethan clutched her hands together in her lap so no one, especially de Bellemare, would see them tremble.

“Precisely who am I to marry, my lord?” she asked cautiously, trying to force a light, uncaring note into her voice. “’Tis over a year since any acceptable men have presented themselves to me as potential suitors.”

“The fault for your lack of suitors does not lie with me,” he spat out.

To her dismay, Bethan flinched. His words had struck a chord. At three-and-twenty she was well beyond the age when most women married. As she matured, there had been some interest, but any man that she was willing to consider quickly changed his mind when he tried to negotiate a bridal contract with her stepfather.

In the end, Bethan had not been too despondent, for she knew the one characteristic she required in a husband, above all others, was his ability to stand up to the Lord of Lampeter. Unfortunately, that man had yet to be found.

“I have been far too lenient about this matter,” de Bellemare announced. “I will select the groom myself and you will be pleased with my choice.”

“Your choice?” Bethan said in a clear voice that easily reached the end of the hall. “I agreed to an arranged marriage, my lord. Not a forced one.”

“Damn your insolent hide!” Lord Lampeter slammed his fist upon the trestle table so hard his goblet of wine shuddered, tipped, and fell over. The rich red liquid ran like a river to the edge, then trickled over the side.

Bethan straightened her shoulders. “Three years ago you agreed, sir, that I would have the final choice as to which man becomes my husband. Surely, you do not mean to break your promise to me, an oath sworn before God and our people?”

He glowered at her and Bethan felt a rising fear. ’Twas not prudent, or safe, to push his temper beyond a certain point, but she had to reestablish her rights in this process in front of witnesses. It was her only chance.

“You know your stepfather is a man of his word,” Lady Caryn said quietly. “He would never dishonor himself in such a fashion by breaking his promise.”

Bethan turned to her mother in gratitude, grateful for the support. The answering smile of encouragement she received nearly broke her heart. The once lovely Lady Caryn was thin to the point of gauntness, her complexion pale, bloodless. She was in so many ways a shadow of her former self, but her instinct to protect her daughter remained strong.

“I need no defense from you, lady wife,” de Bellemare grunted in disgust. “If you had given me a son, a proper heir, this matter would not be of such grave importance.”

Cowed, Lady Caryn bowed her head. The Lord of Lampeter never missed an opportunity to berate his wife over her failure to produce the requisite heir. Bethan felt it was especially unfair, since her mother had literally tried for years to bring forth a living child, becoming pregnant nearly every spring, and either miscarrying or burying a stillborn babe by fall. So much sadness and difficulties, both physical and emotional, had taken a toll on her health and spirit.

For a time Bethan thought he might put aside Lady Caryn and take a new wife, but surprisingly that had not come to pass.

Without a son to inherit, Bethan was heiress to Lampeter, a vast property of sizeable wealth. But de Bellemare had no intention of letting control of the property slip from his grasp any time soon. Though he left his true motivation unspoken, even a fool knew that Lord Lampeter meant to mold her bridegroom into his image, intending to train him to do his bidding.

Would they never escape this dreadful tyranny?

Bethan’s blood ran cold at the thought of spending the rest of her life joined to a man like her stepfather. Arrogant, violent, aloof, cruel. She would be better off dead. Or in a convent.

For a moment she let her mind wander as she contemplated life as a nun—serene, reflective, safe. It was tempting. Though she freely acknowledged she had no calling to do God’s work, the prospect of spending the rest of her life out from under the thumb of Agnarr de Bellemare held enormous appeal.

It was also a dream, a selfish dream. She could not abandon her mother, nor turn away from those who depended on her. De Bellemare was a harsh taskmaster. He slaughtered not only the soldiers he fought, but many of the innocent people they protected. He routinely burned villages, defiled women, cared not one wit when famine swept through Lampeter.

It was only through Bethan’s intervention these past years that so many of her own people survived. If she abandoned them now, they might all perish. Though it meant personal sacrifice, she knew she must do whatever she could to protect them.

That promise brought her mind to the book that awaited her in her bedchamber. Through means he would not divulge Father William had smuggled the missive to her and begun teaching her to read it. As a woman, she had not been given the benefit of learning, but the situation was so dire Father William could not refuse her pleas.

The book was an ancient tome, containing knowledge of pagan rights, the dark arts and the mystical, unholy creatures who performed them. There were accounts of men who could change their humanly form at will into an animal of prey such as a wolf; men who became glowing red-eyed monsters when the moon was full; others who possessed the upper body of a man and the lower body of a winged serpent.

There were tales of witchcraft, sorcery, and demons who made pacts with the devil. It fascinated and frightened Bethan, but she continued to study the volume each day, for what she sought was knowledge. Knowledge to understand her stepfather’s strange habits.

She was convinced he was not a man of this world. A witch perhaps? Or a wizard? ’Twas the only explanation for the things that could not be explained or understood. Nearly everyone in the castle feared de Bellemare too much to pay close attention, but Bethan had observed him for years.

While others had started to show the passage of time on their face and form, the Lord of Lampeter had not aged a day. Instead of declining, his physical strength had increased. Bethan had witnessed on several occasions his peculiar and disturbing ritual of drinking the warm blood of an animal he had just slain.

He was noticeably restless, edgy, and even more prone to strike out at others when the moon was full. He claimed the sunlight caused a pain in his eyes and thus avoided it, staying indoors on the rare days the sun shone brightly. But on such a day Bethan had been the only witness to a most bizarre event.

She had been tucked away in the corner of her mother’s solarium, enjoying a few moments of quiet solitude. Her stepfather had entered the chamber. Not finding what he sought, he turned to leave. But as he strode from the room he stepped too close to the window, passing his hand through a shaft of sunlight. The exposed flesh of his fingers had burst into flames.

Frightened, shocked, horrified, Bethan had curled herself into a tight ball, hiding herself behind the stone archway, praying she had not been seen. Cursing, de Bellemare had left the solarium. When he appeared at the evening meal, all traces of the wound were gone.