If one were to take the worst, most scornful situation that ever a human had been in previously and doubled its effect, it still would fall a distant second to what Rosemarie was now feeling.
She watched helplessly from atop her steed as her loved ones staggered painfully along, with no food or water or rest provided. Their hands had been tied behind their backs, their wagons and possessions taken from them. Worse yet, the Dark Duke had decided to bypass Monastero and proceed directly to the palace in Belsden, a journey of over twenty-five miles. All along, they were pushed and kicked, smacked from behind with calls of “Move faster!” and “Get going!” “Come on, now! Move it!” Children were ordered not to cry, and if they did they were given a good hard wallop to shut them up. Mothers tried to take their hands, but then they too were smacked.
It was hot – dreadfully so – and the trees offered little comfort. The Dark Duke, meanwhile, contented himself by offering Rosemarie a drink from his “cool, refreshing” water jug every now and again, knowing full-well that she could not accept. He would laugh when she refused, then take it to his own lips, only to offer it again some while hence. He is an awful man, Rosemarie thought. Even more awful than I had thought before.
Mercifully, night proceeded day, bringing with it a cool air much needed and much appreciated by all but the vindictive Dark Duke. By now some of the commoners – mostly children and the elderly – had ceded to fatigue, and had to be carried along by the others. They tripped and stumbled, but were quickly righted by the cruel hands of the Guards, often with terrible results.
To the Dark Duke, however, it meant little whether they collapsed here or later in the Tower; for he had already decided their fate, and it was not a fortuitous one. In the Tower they would rot away in agony, and if any of them should have information regarding Taylor James, surely it would emerge. The Dark Duke’s Tower Dungeon was a terrible place, renowned across the land for its stories of utter torment. Many, there were, who went in and never came out again; and many more who asked for death rather than time in the infamous chamber.
The Tower was a tall stone structure with a wide, fortified base. It was said that the higher one went inside, the worse the abominable tortures became, with a single room up top known as The Punishment being the worst. Rats had made the Tower Dungeon their home for some years now, and crept and crawled along its walls as if it were a rodent living room. They left their feces on legs and arms, and gnawed into the rotting dead, who were often left there for many weeks at a time. But they were the envied ones; for their time was done, and they did not have to contend with the Guards of the Tower and their cruel, torturous ways; they did not have to fear The Stretcher, The Hanger, or The Scraper; they were dead and safe from such hells and the living envied them for it. A day in the Tower was a thousand days of nightmare, a thousand days of helpless despair. The Tower was surely the worst place on earth.
When they reached the Tower, many of the villagers collapsed from the very sight of it. The cold terror was bold even in night, menacing the great palace which lay only a few dozen yards beyond it. The walls of stone seemed to cry out in anguish, warning them not to enter. But before their tears had quite reached their mouths, the gate was raised and they were being marched in through its gaping mouth.
“My baby!” one woman cried, clutching her eight-year-old daughter in her arms. “You can’t do this to my baby!”
But a Guard just ripped the young girl from her hands and pushed her to the ground.
“We’ll take care of your baby,” he sneered. “And if we don’t, the rats will. Now, get on up n’ move!” He kicked the helpless woman hard in the ribs, then kicked her again when she bent in pain. “Get up, you wench!”
Rosemarie watched in horror as all this happened around her. She wanted to do something, to help them all somehow – but she knew that there was nothing that she could do. She knew not, even, what she herself was destined for – whether it be the Tower or worse. Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she witnessed her parents being led inside, her father gazing back at her as if to say, “I love you, my dear. Take care and don’t fear.” Then came Tibbie and Brianna, and then Soothie, all hopeless but strong, refusing to give the Dark Duke the satisfaction of their demise.
Rosemarie could take it no longer. In a breath, she slid from her horse and raced for the Tower entrance, only to be intercepted by a tall Guard with beady brown eyes. He grabbed her by her flailing wrists, and flung her to the ground. “Where d’ya think you’re goin’?” he said. But a moment later the Dark Duke was swatting him hard across the face with an iron glove.
“That is my bride, you fool!” he cried. “Now pick her up! And be thankful that I don’t throw you into the Tower with the others.”
The Guard quickly obliged, lifting Rosemarie by her arm back onto her feet. Five more Guards then came and surrounded her. The Dark Duke, cherishing the moment, took off his glove and rubbed her tear-worn face with his hand. His lip curled into a cruel, devious smile.
“You will make a wonderful bride,” he said.
Rosemarie did not flinch. She had only hatred for this man.
“I have only one love,” she retorted, “and I will never be your bride.”
The Dark Duke’s expression changed so in that moment, that Rosemarie could not help but show fear in her eyes. He grabbed her chin hard in his palm.
“Listen here, you stupid, stupid girl,” he said, his tone even rougher than his grasp, “I am not one to be trifled with, and you should only do so if you wish to speed the deaths of yourself and your loved ones. Do you understand?”
But Rosemarie did not honor him with a response. She stood stagnant, her lip trembling though she wished it did not. Had she had anything to say, it most certainly would have been to curse him, but she would not pay him that respect. And he would not wait for it. He snapped his fingers and called out his instructions: “The peach room.” – and suddenly Rosemarie felt the Guards dragging her off away from the Tower. She struggled, but her struggle was futile, and soon she felt her eyes begin to close from utter exhaustion.
When she woke, she found herself lying in a large, peach-colored bed, with pillows all around her. Light was pouring in from a window to her right, and she could just make out the peach of the walls mixing with the marble of the furniture. There was a door in the corner to her left and, in bitter hopes, Rosemarie tried for it, only to discover that it was indeed locked. Next to it, though, she noticed a bureau with a pitcher of water and a cup on top of it. She thought for a moment of letting it sit, but knew that such stubbornness would do nobody any good, and so at last she drank.
Then, going to the window, she peeked out, and saw that she was in fact many feet above ground within the palace walls, which, by her estimate, were surrounded by over a thousand men around the walls, grounds, and hills, even on such a calm and pleasant day as this. She felt helpless, trapped – more desperate than she had ever been. I must do something! she thought. And so, time and time again, she searched the room in meager hopes of an escape route. But, of course, she found none, and eventually she retired herself to the bed again, where she sat for many hours before finally falling once more into a slumber.
Who knows how long she slept, for there were no clocks in the room. When she did at last wake, she sincerely wished that it was a nightmare she was having; for, standing directly before her in front of the bed, was the frightful figure of the Dark Duke, undone of his armor and clad instead in robes of red and gold.
“Did you sleep well, my dear?” he asked.
“Yes I did as a matter of fact,” Rosemarie replied, “for I was dreaming of your death. A long and agonizing one it was, I assure you.”
The Dark Duke did not grimace, though his smile did fade. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace to and fro.
“I believe,” he said, “that your stay here would be a lot pleasanter, my dear, if you were to cease in your hatred for me.”
“My stay here will never be pleasant
,” said the lovely Rosemarie, stopping him in his tracks. “Indeed I cannot imagine a more horrid place.”
“Ah, but there are, my dear,” said the Dark Duke. “Be certain. And I suggest that you get used to living here – I do intend to make you my wife.”
“Never.”
“Oh, yes,” the Dark Duke continued. “You see, I’m afraid you haven’t much choice. As king, I do get to choose my bride from any in the land. The plans are already being made, I’m afraid. So I do hope you change your state of mind – it would be terrible for my son to have to grow up without a mother.”
“You think, then, that I would bear you a child?” said Rosemarie, rising slowly in her bed. “Well I won’t, I tell you. So you can forget the idea.”
Not a second had it been since the words left her mouth, than did Rosemarie feel the Dark Duke charging at her and slapping her hard across the face. The shot brought tears to her eyes, but she turned away rather than let him see.
“I warned you, woman!” the Dark Duke scolded, his finger at her face. “And I’ll warn you again. The next time, it will be far worse than a slap on the face that you receive.”
He turned, and, whisking his robe behind him, stormed from the room, locking and bolting the door once again.
Chapter 32
A Plan is Formed