Rodmilla's blood froze inside her veins, even though the summertime heat
oppressed the carriage. She sat properly, like she was born to do, but
despite this superficial calm, unpleasant thoughts pulsed through her
mind which made her nerves stand on end. She wondered what on earth
made her decide to do this, but she knew that no amount of wishing could
undo her choice. An overpowering uneasiness cretp into her stomach.
She could barely respire without feeling it. She remained quiet for
fear that the queasiness would make her ruin her beautiful crimson
dress.

The jerky movements eventually became unbearable. Rodmilla's abdoment
fomented and churned. Saliva flooded her mouth. Her head felt light,
and it swayed from side to side while the carriage progressed. She
needed air.

"Driver, halt!" she shouted. Her insides nearly ejected from her mouth
as the coach came to an abrupt stop. The door opened, allowing sunlight
and a weak breeze to circulate within the carriage. Rodmilla hurried
out, ignoring the offered hand of the driver. She nearly stumbled onto
the ground when she jumped in her delicate shoes. Skulking behind the
car, she held her belly tight as she gasped. Her stomach heaved and
convulsed in preparation for what seemed inevitable. She inhaled deeply
and exhaled shallow breaths. More than anything, she wanted to escape;
she wanted to run away so badly that her legs began to shake with the
impulse. She lingered where she was, clutching her belly like a newborn
child.

The annoyed tone of a creepy, iniquitous voice broke the stillness of
the scene. "What is wrong?"

It was the duke of the province, Pierre du Roche. He sat casually upon
his mount, a silvery gray mare of excellent quality. The bright, glossy
coat contrasted the black outfit of its rider. The rigid length of a
crop dangled against the mare's withers.

Du Roche's beady eyes rolled into the direction of the carriage. The
driver's voice trembled, "I- I think she's sick, your Grace."

"Well, then, if the lady is ill we must hurry her home," du Roche
insisted. He walked his horse over to his ailing wife. He looked down
at her. A tight, self-satisfied grin appeared on his lips. His delight
was so apparent that it temporarily made the scar on his left cheek
disappear, but it returned when his smile faded.

"We must make haste my lady," he coldly told her. "It will be dark soon,
and we must make it back to the castle before the wolves come to hunt."

Rodmilla wondered if she would be better off spending the night with the
furry animals rather than the one staring down at her. Still, she could
not argue; part of the agreement stipulated that she had to play the
perfect wife. She swallowed hard and slowly climbed back into the
carriage. It started as suddenly as it had stopped. Rodmilla's innards
quivered a little, but it eventually subsided. Rodmilla kept her head
in her hands for the duration of a trip, as if she were a sinner begging
forgiveness at confession.

The carriage stopped, and the door opened. Instead of finding sunlight,
darkness surrounded the manor. Despite this, the outline of the
medieval horror known as du Roche's castle was still obvious. It was
the very image of Satan's own house- decaying, decadent, and putrid as a
corpse. The sickly smell, when it reached Rodmilla's nose, made her
feel nauseous again. The only thing which kept her from actually doing
anything this time was the lack of items to regurgitate.

Rodmilla gathered her flowing skirts and gracefully stepped from the
coach, assisted by the burly driver. She stood in the courtyard. A
sense of foreboding overwhelmed her when she came to the realization
that this was her home and prison, and that dreadful man was her husband
and master, till death do they part. She glanced around, trying to
figure out her general direction inside her new residence. Du Roche
watched calmly as his wife slowly made her way around the castle. He
was amply pleased they had arrived in time for dinner. He took special
precautions to make this meal particularly to Rodmilla's taste. That
way, he knew, she would be more agreeable when it came time for her to
fulfill her end of the bargain.

When the newlywed aristocrats entered the dining room, it was already
decorated with the best dinnerware. It was obviously a dinner for two,
but nevertheless, the arrangement was a showcase of affluence.
Platters, cups, knives, spoons, and forks were made of the finest
silver. Silken napkins rested beside the empty plates. This
extravagant display would have impressed the bride had she chosen a
different groom. Du Roche situated himself at the head of the table and
motioned for Rodmilla to sit at the other end. The chairs were very
dark, but the craftsmanship made it seem as if they were carved from
human bones. Hollow skulls stared at Rodmilla with their empty eyes.
It was disgusting. Inside, she felt a little afraid at du Roche's very
real enthusiasm for the macabre. She stood at the chair, clearly
miserable beneath her placid expression.

"Sit," du Roche invited her. He said it very politely, but in spite of
that, it sounded like a veiled threat.

"Sit? Here?" Rodmilla asked, the taint of disdain showing on her face.

"Yes," du Roche answered, in a way that was obviously an effort to be
charming. He marveled at how she had grown more stubborn with such
powerful temptation. It puzzled him how a person who had so much and
had lost it could just turn her nose up at her chance to have
everything.

"I prefer to stand," said his bride, ever more haughtily than in the
past.

"Sit down," he sternly commanded her. Although he did not yell at her,
his voice became more sinister, as if he were threatening her with the
very pitch. But his eyes, his wolfish eyes, glared at her across the
long table. He did not seem like any man she had ever met. There was
an element about him that suggested that something was- wrong- with
him. Rodmilla decided that this was not the time to pick an argument.
Half starving and in a strange place, she was clearly at a disadvantage.

She sat mechanically in her chair. She waited for the servants to bring
the entree. She was definitely hungry, though. She had not eaten since
she left her humble existence at the royal palace. Now, her body
demanded what her mind would not allow.

Rodmilla's stomach almost screamed in excitement when she saw a servant
bring in a huge platter of meat. Upon closer inspection, she caught the
form of two golden-brown pheasants with steam arising from them like
fog. Immediately after this appetizing appearance, others followed.
Three more servants arrived, each carrying her own dish. One servant
carried a bowl full of roasted truffels. Another carried sauteed
carrots. The last bore bread in a basket. The scents and visions of
this food made Rodmilla salivate, but she restrained herself from
showing that most primal of instincts. She swalled her spit, and her
hunger, as she faced du Roche at the other end of the table. She licked
her lips, and she tasted her lipstick. It was almost good enough to
eat, but not nearly as good as roast pheasant and sauteed truffles. The
servants began to distribute the cuisine to each person sitting at the
table, oddly putting food onto Rodmilla's plate before placing any on du
Roche's. She watched them carefully, her hungry mouth quivering. She
wanted to wolf down every bit of food given to her, but she resisted.
Despite her undeniable famish, Rodmilla refrained from touching the
food, even the silverware. She just sat at the table, staring into
empty space.

Her stomach tightened when du Roche attempted conversation. "Come now,
my lady, you must be voracious after the fast you have endured," he
said, his voice slithered towards her like it was made of flesh.

Rodmilla did not even look at his face. She averted her eyes away from
him. She focused instead on the tasty morsels in front of her. But she
only looked. She refused to give that horrid man the satisfaction.

"I am not very hungry at all," she said.

"Really now, my lady, then there must be a tiger sitting under the
table," he jested, but it was not amusing to her.

"How very witty, your Grace, but I do not wish to eat anything."

"Very well. If the lady does not wish to eat, she does not have to do
so until she is ready."

With that, he snapped his bony fingers. The servants instantly removed
her dishes while allowing du Roche's to remain. To Rodmilla's surprise,
he did not eat like the filthy swine he was. His manners were quite
polished, considering his background and acquaintances. He ate all his
food like a ravenous vulture at a pile of carrion. He cut, forked, and
chewed his food with a kind of viciousness she had only seen in dogs,
although on the surface he ate like a human being. Du Roche quickly
finished his meal, and hte dirty dishes were promptly removed. Du Roche
yawned, and he semi-casually began to speak again.

"It has been a long day. I hope you will sleep more readily than you
eat. Come. Let us prepare for bed."

Rodmilla got out of her seat and hurried out of the dining hall. Du
Roche grabbed a candlestick and proceeded behind her. He followed her
in a leering, predatory way that made her feel uneasy, like he was
hunting her as he would a deer in the forest. She felt suddenly
helpless. She could feel his hot, stinking breath upon her as he closed
the distance between them. The light provided some reassurance, but not
enough for her not to be wary. She ambulated slowly, her head always
turning behind her momentarily to make sure du Roche did not transform
into some frightful beast. Yet, every time she paused to take this
precaution, du Roche would be standing there, to all appearances
congenial, and he would take that skeletal hand of his and gently usher
her forward into the darkness ahead.

They climbed twisting stairs, turned down winding halls, and walked
through eternal passageways before they reached the bedroom. It was
also dark, but as the candlelight spread gradually throughout the room,
Rodmilla saw an elegantly, if simply, decorated room. The centerpiece
was a large bed with long, sweeping canopies and a thick blanket. She
wished du Roche would give her the candlestick so she could find her way
into the berth and let Morpheus take her away. Instead, he guided her
to their resting place. He lighted another candlestick, but this one he
left in the room.

"Now darling," he smirked, "I must take care of some final details
before I too retire. But, you must promise me you won't go to sleep
until I return, or you may miss something quite special."

He tried to stroke Rodmilla's face with his fingers, but she jerked away
from him as a cold glare emited from her eyes. He did not look hurt by
the gesture. An excited smile spread across his face. He held the look
as he walked out of the bedroom. He stalked back into the dining hall.
A few servants scattered about, and he called to one of them.

"You," he said, pointing to the servant farthest from him. It was a
young man, no older than twenty. "You," du Roche repeated, "Get me the
leg of that pheasant you prepared this evening."

The boy nodded, and he hurried back with the morsel in hand. Du Roche
coldly snatched it from the boy and headed back to the bedroom.
Rodmilla was still awake, but now she reclined on the bed in her
nightgown. Du Roche smiled at her mischievously. Although she was no
spring chicken, she was still very beautiful. She had an air about her
that only an older woman would have. He could not really explain it,
but it was untamed and exciting. He had a mare like her once. A very
spirited animal, it often kicked, bucked, and bit at him. However, she
was a terrific ride and wonderful on the hunt; she was fearless,
confident, and wise about the wilderness. But, one time that beautiful
horse made the mistake of throwing him while he was on the chase. It
never happened again after a thorough breaking. He felt fortunate to
have such an attractive an vivacious companion again. He wondered if
breaking people was as pleasurable as breaking horses.

"I've got something for you," he teased, waving the pheasant leg at
her. With a grimace, he watched her eyes follow the limb closer than a
cat does a mouse.

"Do you want it?" he taunted. Rodmilla remained silent. "Come on,
darling," he continued, "Realize now that I can be generous. All you
have to do is ask, and you shall receive."

Rodmilla was transparently annoyed. She gave him a gaze of utter
contempt and scorn, but her words came out differently, "Please, will
you give it to me?"

"Why of course, my lady," du Roche responded, that broad smile still
adhered to his face. He dangled the meat in front of her, and she tried
to grab it, but he deftly maneuvered it out of her reach. She repeated
the action, but got the same results. Du Roche placed the leg next to
her hungry mouth. He slid it across her labrum in a most beckoning
manner. She parted her lips and bit off a huge chunk of the meat. She
seemed to swallow the dainty whole, not even bothering to chew or taste
it. He only allowed her to take this single morsel. He withdrew the
leg from her voracious lips before she could eat the whole thing.

"Now, now, my lovely," he told her, "You must do something for me
first."

Rodmilla froze. She could not believe he would take advantage of her
hunger like this, but she already knew she had an ultimatum: let du
Roche have his way or starve. The latter would be the pure, honorable
thing to do, she knew. But after tasting hunger, she did not crave it
again. Not only that, but she had made an agreement with du Roche to
behave like a wife is supposed to, and that included nighttime conjugal
duties.

She complied with his wish only to receive the rest of the meal. The
details of du Roche's activities were such that he had carefully
restrained her to keep her screams from being heard all over the
castle. There was some blood, but not enough to bestow the gift of
death. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before, and something
she hoped would not be repeated again. However, du Roche's taste for
the bizarre and perverted made her realize that it was an impossible
dream at best.

After she had satisfied both his hunger and her own, she lay awake in
bed. Her eyes were still somewhat pink from the many tears shed during
that interlude. She wondered what had happened to her that made her
give in so willingly. She had struggled, naturally, but not as much as
she could have and wanted to. She felt weak. Rodmilla curled herself
into a cocoon and closed her eyes. She tried to forget the things that
had happened to her. She felt hard, cold skin stroke her hair and the
side of her face. She wanted to vomit on him, but she could not, for it
would only make her hungry again, and she did not want to endure that
episode once more. The touches were gentle, almost regretful, but
Rodmilla lay frozen.

"Don't touch me," she said sharply. "Don't ever touch me again. Ever."

Rodmilla felt du Roche breath a short, quick pant, almost a smirk, onto
her neck. She could hear him move to the other side of the bed, perhaps
asleep. When she was sure he could not possibly be awake, she wrapped
the covers about herself, curled into a ball, and wept until she fell
asleep.