Sharon Lanergan by The Prisoner

unusually warm and his color was quite pale. Today he looked worse yet. His skin was an odd pasty white and around his extraordinary eyes were ugly red circles.
    She reached over and felt his forehead. He shrank back.
    “I will not hurt you, sir,” she assured him softly. His flesh scorched. Likely feverish. “But I do think you are ill.”
    He nodded and lifted up his torn shirt to show her festering sore on his abdomen around his ribcage.
    Constance gasped. “How did you get that?”
    “I am sure you can imagine,” he replied.
    Loutrant, of course. Was there no end to the fiend’s cruelty?
    “But surely even he would not let you suffer so,” Constance protested, thinking even as she said it Finius would probably derive great pleasure out of this man’s suffering.
    The man laughed, a hollow laugh filled with despair.
    Her heart wept. She had to do something to help him.
    “Tomorrow, when I bring your meal, I will bring something to cleanse your wound,” Constance promised.
    “He will not let you.”
    “I will sneak it past Owen somehow.” She only wished she could somehow get herbs to ease the pain and clear up the infection.
    “You are very kind,” the man said after a moment. “But I would not want you to face his wrath for me.”
    “It will be all right.” Constance touched his cheek. “How did he do this?”
    He smiled sardonically. “He kicked me.”
    “This from a kick?” she asked, surprised.
    The man shook his head. “You don’t want to know, Constance.”
    She frowned. Lord, this man was stubborn. He would share naught of himself or so he had not so far, but she would learn his secrets.
    He glanced at the trencher and grimaced.
    “I am sorry,” Constance said. Despite the many evils she endured from Loutrant, she ate quite well.
    He leaned his head back against the wall and shook his head. “No matter. I must eat it. But later. Right now I want you to tell me about your life. How you came to be here.”
    Constance studied her soiled fingers. Soiled with dirt and sweat from him. He wanted to know about her.
    “I came from a loving family. One I took for granted.”
    Constance looked up at his sharp intake, concerned.
    He shook his head. “I am fine. Just a twinge. It appears, little one, you and I have more in common than I believed.”
    “Oh?”
    “I, too, took my family for granted.”
    Constance continued to stare, willing him to say more about himself, but he lapsed back into silence. Waiting for her to continue.
    “My father was a great warrior. And the best of friends with a powerful baron near here. The baron, Hugh Fitzroy, fought by my father’s side in many battles, and when Hugh settled at his castle, my father and mother went there too. I was born there and the Fitzroys were as good to me as they were to their own sons.”
    Constance paused for a moment, letting the warmth of her memories wash over her. They were a comfort to her even if they brought with them sorrow.
    “Pray continue,” the man urged. He seemed intently interested in what she had to say.
    “It was my father’s wish I marry one of Hugh’s sons.” Constance laughed a little. “Somehow the natural choice was Nicholas. I adored Nick, of course. He’s handsome, strong, kind, and responsible. Who wouldn’t adore him?”
    “It does not sound like you love him.”
    Was she so transparent? Constance shook her head. A romantic nature had been her downfall.
    “I think Nick is wonderful, but nay, I did not feel that kind of love. I tried to.” Constance felt the burn of her blush. “I even allowed him to make love to me. I thought I’d feel something more.”
    “But you didn’t.”
    “Nay,” Constance whispered. “It was nice, but only nice.”
    The prisoner nodded, and she thought she saw real understanding in his gaze. As though, mayhap, he’d experienced something similar.
    “But I did intend to marry Nick,” Constance continued. “Shortly before our wedding was to take place, my father