Spring's Fury (10 page)

"What are you doing?" Nicola screamed, catapulting out of his hold. She was crippled, exhausted, and weaponless now. Where the thieves had failed to wrench control of her body, he could succeed.

She scrambled farther from him only to cry in pain as her feet reminded her she was shoeless, as well. Seated flat upon the ground, Nicola turned toward him, her fists held up in defense. He would not find this, her final defeat so easy to come by. "You'll not take me," she snarled.

Although he sat within arm's reach of her, Gilliam only watched her impassively, his blue eyes unreadable. The moment stretched. "Can I help it if you tempt me beyond control?"

"Tempt you?" she cried out. This taunt was worse than any she had expected. She was an ugly woman with cropped hair and dressed as a boy. He was mocking her. Nicola's eyes narrowed in hurt, and she flailed out in attack. "Oh, so that's the way of it, is it? I’m dressed as a lad. I've heard there were men like you."

Her insult only made him laugh. "Aye, perhaps I have been a soldier too long. Come now, little boy, we must be on our way."

"I would rather stay here and die than go with you." She crossed her arms in finality.

"Now that is a strange thing to offer me when your father has no other heirs," Gilliam replied calmly. There was no anger or irritation in his expression. "If you die, Ashby becomes Rannulf's once more. He will yet give it to me, despite your death."

Nicola stared at him in shock. If what he said was true, why did he not kill her in this secluded spot? None would be the wiser. So would Hugh have done, she realized, given the same circumstances.

He seemed to guess her thought process, his responding grin slow. "How fortunate for you that you’ve misjudged me, no? It would appear I am no murderer."

She cursed her relief at his words. "I will go with you," she muttered.

He gave a small nod and stood. When he reached for her, Nicola thought he intended only to raise her to her feet. Instead, he lifted her into his arms as if she were but a child. She tensed, ready to be uncomfortable, but he was so blessedly warm. Nicola curled into his embrace, her teeth chattering loudly. When he shifted her to better carry her, she wrapped her arms around his neck to steady herself. He started as her hand touched his bare nape.

"You are as cold as ice." There was concern in his tone.

"That’s what comes from walking all the day long in the frigid rain without a cloak," she retorted sharply, her shivering taking much of the sting from her words. Her life would end before she told him about falling in the stream.

"And you called me dim-witted?" he said with a brief laugh as he carried her.

With each step, his hair grazed softly against her exposed wrists. The feeling was a pleasant distraction from her aches and bruises. When they were beside the horse, Gilliam loosed her legs, but did not remove his arm from around her back. Ever so briefly, she was again pinned against him, nose to nose. A smile flitted swiftly over his mouth and was gone.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered her until her feet touched the ground. Nicola caught back her gasp. How quickly the pain had receded, and how quickly it returned. She turned to put her foot into the stirrup. Only then did she realize her injured ankle would have to bear all her weight. Well, there was no help for it. Biting back her scream, Nicola thrust herself up and into the saddle.

Before she realized what he meant to do, Gilliam freed her foot from the stirrup and was seated behind her. She slid back against him. He wrapped his arm around her and drew her closer still. His nearness was suffocating. "I thought you would lead the horse." Nicola pried vainly at his arm around her waist.

He made a sharp sound of irritation. "Stop that. Unlike some fools I know, I have no intention of walking when I can ride. Now, be done with that or I will know you have decided you'd rather dangle over the saddle." She dropped her hands from his arm. "Good. You may rest your feet on my legs so your calves will not cramp." With a touch of his heels, he set the horse into motion.

Common sense suggested that further resistance was pointless and she was wasting energy better saved for their next battle. Pride chafed against this rationale, but she was simply too tired to worry over it. With a quiet huff, she relaxed against him. Her stomach, fully restored from its earlier sickness, took this moment to rumble hopefully.

"Are you hungry?" he asked in response to the sound. "I have bread and cheese."

"You do?" All other concerns disappeared as her stomach sang in expectation. He handed her a leather packet, which she fair snatched open. Inside was a good-sized chunk of dark brown bread, slightly dry, and an oily wedge of cheese.

Mouth watering, Nicola gnawed on the bread. It was heavy, but rich with flavor. She chewed in happy silence. Gilliam handed her a flask of watered wine. Although she was hardly full when she was finished, her stomach was thankful for what little it had been given.

Gilliam laughed when she returned his empty packet and the flask. "My, that was quick. Glad I am that I had it to give you."

Cringing slightly at this criticism for her lack of refinement, Nicola opened her mouth to explain that she'd not eaten since the prior day. She caught back her words in a rush of anger. Who cared that she'd insulted the rich man's son with her rustic manners? Certainly not she.

Still, she'd not want him to think she had no manners at all. Even enemies could be civil. No matter how she felt about him, Gilliam's kindnesses deserved recognition. She cleared her throat. "My thanks for sharing your meal and your help with my feet." The words came out forced and stiff, hardly grateful.

"You are most welcome." Even though she could not see his face, she knew she had surprised him by managing even this much.

"Now, do not mistake my words as a change in my feelings for you," she added in swift amendment. "I only thought your aid deserved acknowledgment."

"So noted." There was subtle pleasure in his voice.

The silence between them lengthened, punctuated by the soft whispering of the wind in the trees and the horse's snorting breath. When Nicola shivered in the cold, Gilliam pulled his cloak around them both, offering another layer of protection. She had to lean against his chest to hold it shut.

With the cloak's hem tips tucked beneath her legs, she was surrounded in a cocoon of his warmth. Her muscles relaxed into limpness as exhaustion nibbled at her. Although she swore she would not do it, a moment later her head rested on his shoulder. She could not lift it. She sighed and shifted slightly to find her ease. His arm around her waist tightened, and she heard him draw a quick breath.

"Are you settled now?" he asked, his voice husky. With her head pillowed on his shoulder, his words fair brushed her cheek. This woke a strange sensation in the core of her being, but she was so tired, she spared no energy wondering over it.

"Aye," she breathed. "Be warned that I will fight you once again, after I am rested."

"I know that." It was a gentle reply. "This is but a suspension in our hostilities, no?"

"Just so." She yawned. "How did you recognize me?" Nicola didn't realize she'd spoken her thought aloud until he answered her.

"You are wearing my gown." There was amusement in his voice, but it was harmless.

Nicola closed her eyes in resignation. No wonder she'd had to fold back the sleeves. "Are we returning to Graistan?"

"Nay." He moved his head, rubbing his jaw softly against her hair. It was soothing.

"Then where?" she insisted tiredly.

"Home" was all he said.

Within the hour, they arrived at a hamlet. Twenty cottages there were, all tucked into one corner of a wide field. The persistent wind lifted smoke from thatch roofs long since gone moldy. A wall of interwoven branches surrounded this tiny spot, this poor defense missing more than a few sections. Children, clothed  in naught but undyed homespun and faces permanently stained with dirt, giggled at the new arrivals through these openings. The adults knew better than to interfere with what happened outside their boundary; they stared from a distance.

They stopped here to wait for Gilliam's men. Nicola dozed against her captor's shoulder until the soldiers appeared. Within their ranks was a horse with an empty saddle and a sullen lad on a sturdy pony. Her heart flinched for the child; he was the picture of misery, his nose reddened from the cold and his cheeks burned raw.

"My lord," one soldier called, "there was none who saw us coming."

"Good work, Walter. Surround us, so my bride is not tempted to run before I mount the other horse," Gilliam called. The power of his voice made her ears complain. He leaned his head down to say more and added softly,"We must be parted now. I cannot tell you how this makes me ache." His jibe reawoke her anger.

"So you would say," she snapped.

"So I do," he replied, his tone filled with amusement. When his men encircled them, he dismounted, bringing the reins over the horse's head.

Nicola glared at him. He was not going to let her guide her own horse. She was well and truly caught; all that wanted doing was for him to lash her to the saddle as Lord Rannulf had done when they traveled from Upwood to Graistan. Her need to be free rose to frantic proportions, and she stiffened automatically, ready to fight.

One of his men handed him her mantle, and Gilliam offered it to her, a teasing glint in his eye. "Since you no longer own a pin, you must knot it around your shoulders." When she did not immediately take the garment, Gilliam cocked a brow as he studied her face. "I will not tie you," he said softly. "I only seek to ensure we travel in the same direction."

Gratitude rushed through her before she could stop it. She stomped on the emotion to keep from spilling thanks over being made only half his prisoner. She snatched the mantle from his hand, then remembered it had no hood.

At that moment, Nicola would have given her life to cover her head. Why had she sacrificed her precious hair? Even as Tilda cut the first strand, she had known full well there was no possible outcome to her escape attempt, save recapture. She would wear proof of her foolishness atop her head for years to come.

"Jos," Gilliam called over his shoulder, "ride you alongside my lady and bear her company."

"I am not your lady," she warned in a harsh voice.

"You will be. When we arrive at Ashby, we will wed." It was a flat statement.

"You cannot force me where I will not go," she retorted, but a kernel of fear awoke in her heart. She had betrayed her folk. They had no reason to support her against him

“We shall see."

'Twas the boy who responded to Gilliam's call, drawing his pony beside her taller palfrey. He stared at her, the expression in his brown eyes far older than his youthful features.

"It’s rude to stare," she snapped.

"My pardon, Lady Ashby, but I have never seen a woman dressed as a man " It was a considered response, not at all a child's impulsive blurt. "Walter said you killed those thieves. Did you?"

"Aye." Once again, her sickness returned. She thanked God that it lacked its original intensity, when she should have thanked Gilliam.

Ahead of her, her captor called his men into motion. The boy's short steed trotted alongside hers, making the child bounce in the saddle. "Will you kill Lord Ashby?"

"He is not Ashby's lord." She shot him an angry look, but behind it lurked the knowledge that killing was not as easy as she once believed. "Who are you, anyway, and why do you ask these questions?"

"I am Jocelyn of Freyne, squire to Lord Ashby." He made this sound like a fate worse than death.

"You do not wish to be a squire?"

He lifted his scrawny shoulders in a dejected shrug. "It does not matter what I want. Maman says that I am too weak and small to tolerate the life of a squire. I will soon die." He sighed deeply, his brows peaked in a hopeless look.

Nicola again studied him, this time with her healer's eye. His skin was pale beneath the chafed spots on his cheeks, but this was his natural coloring. There was no sign of the dark rings under his eyes that sometimes indicated a consumptive illness. "You appear hale enough," she said after a moment.

"What do you know of it?" he shot back in indignation. "I have been forced here against my will, and now I will die."

"So, we are captives together, are we?" she asked as the boy reflected her own emotions back to her. "Well then, if I win free of this trap, you can come with me."

"Where would we go?" he asked, a trace of interest in his brown eyes.

Where would she go? No matter what direction she fled, there was some man waiting at journey's end to capture her. Nicola grimaced. "It was but a wishful thought."

"At least we have each other," the boy offered, some of the sullenness leaving his expression.

"Aye, at least we have that," she agreed. "You are a strange boy, Jocelyn of Freyne, but I like you."

Her statement seemed to please him, for his mouth lifted into a small smile. Gilliam called for a faster pace, and there was no possibility for further conversation. They rode, long and hard, continuing even after night settled around them.

The sun's setting brought an end to the rain, but the wind only rose to take its place. Its icy breath battered them in their steady northward journey, while it swept the sky free of clouds to reveal a moonless night.

Jocelyn had given way to exhaustion and now rode with his lord much as Nicola had earlier done. For herself, she couldn't remember ever being so tired or so cold. Her mantle did little to protect her from the sharp wind. She shivered and caught herself wishing she also rode with Gilliam.

This wayward thought brought her bolt upright in her saddle. What sort of daughter desired comfort in her father's killer's arms? Damn him, but Gilliam was using kindness to lure her into complacency. Aye, here was the explanation for why he kept asking after her well-being and stopping when she requested it.

Clutching the pommel, she glared at the plain saddle until her hate was fully restored. Let him think he had succeeded. They were but a stone's throw from Ashby. Her folk would rescue her from him.

She hoped.

Nicola scrambled to reassure herself. Surely her villagers would never allow her to be forced into a union with their lord's murderer. Despite Papa's lazy ways and slipshod management, they had loved her father. They would deny Gilliam if only to honor Papa's memory.

As they rounded the last bend separating her from her homeland, excitement drove away all other worries and concerns. She peered about her, eager to catch every nuance. Starlight showed her only glimmers and shadows of landmarks, still she heard the tumble of the river alongside her road and the rush of the wind through her thick forest. With every breath she found familiar scents, the smell of fires on hearths, the richness of turned earth and resting meadows.

They rattled across the bridge, the tolltaker long since gone to bed, and entered the village compound to a chorus of dogs and geese. Nicola gaped in surprise as they passed cottage after cottage, the gentle roundness of their thatched roofs outlined against the dark sky.

In June past, Gilliam had burned every one of them to the ground before laying siege to Ashby itself, and November was too soon to expect the village to be rebuilt. How had her folk managed to so swiftly restore their homes?

Instead of riding for Ashby's gateway, Gilliam led them to the right and halted before the church used by both noble and commoner. Caught into a corner of Ashby manor's defensive wall, the church's stone tower was a solid square of black against the airy darkness. The barnlike extension of the church proper was lost against the wall behind it.

Nicola grinned in smug confidence. How foolish of him to think he could marry her this very night. The villagers would resent being awakened from a sound sleep, and Father Reynard cherished his quiet evening hours.

"All of you save Alfred leave the horses and go to the reeve's house," the tall knight called out. "Walter, tell Thomas what I intend this night, then help him rouse the village. I want every man here to witness in no less than a quarter hour. If you must, use your blades to spur them on to speed."

"Aye, my lord," his man replied. Saddle leather protested, iron rattled, and steeds stamped and blew. Five men dismounted, their stride stiff-legged as they moved off toward Tilda's father's house. In a moment, they were only shadows in the night.

"Jocelyn, you must mount your pony once more," he said to his squire as he set Jocelyn's feet onto the ground. The boy staggered to his mount, failing twice to insert his foot into the stirrup before rising into the saddle.

Gilliam dismounted and turned to the remaining man. "Alfred, ride with Jos into yon walls and rouse the serving folk. Take these." He handed the man his cloak and sword. Nicola stared at his belt. Gone, too, was his dagger. She grimaced when she realized it was because of her.  He wanted to give her no opportunity to take his weapons.  Ah, but in doing so he also left himself disarmed against her.

"Send two grooms to come fetch the horses," Gilliam was saying. "Only they and the guards at the gate may linger within the manor walls. Everyone else will stand as witnesses, even the pigherd. Bring with you fodder for fires and torches. I'll have a blaze at either side of the church door and torches held all around. I want it as near to day's light as we can achieve. All must clearly see what is done here this night."

"Aye, my lord," the man replied as he and the boy rode for the gate, some hundred yards distant.

Gilliam came to her side and set his hands at her waist. When he tugged slightly, Nicola clung to her saddle. It was time to make her stand, and she would make it with every ounce of her being.

"So our peace is at an end," he said without emotion. "As you will, but take heed my lady. I am already tired and hungry.  Do not make me angry as well."

"If you wish to rest and eat, go within yon walls and do not let me stop you." Her voice was hoarse with cold. "Why persist at this? I have already said I will not marry you, and you cannot force me where I do not wish to go."

"Free your feet from the stirrups or pay the price in pain when I pull you off the saddle." Again, there was no anger or irritation in his voice.

Resisting was fine, but not at the expense of her poor feet. Suddenly empty, the stirrups swung free at the horse's sides. Gilliam slid her into the cradle of his arms, then carried her around the church to the cottage behind it. It was a squat, square house with thatch for a roof, just like the other cottages. Father Reynard's few sheep murmured sleepily in their pen near a dormant garden.

Gilliam made his way up the well-worn path to the wooden door. When he shifted her weight into a single arm to pound upon the panel, Nicola teetered unsteadily in his grasp. Her arms came rushing up to latch around his neck. Beneath her fingers his shoulder muscles were corded and tight. He pounded a second time. "Father Reynard," he shouted, "come, open up to your lord."

The wind swirled around her, tangling in, her hair before it reached down her bare neck. With her mantle only knotted around her shoulders, it gapped to allow the cold air to enter into her clothing. She shivered, turning her head into his shoulder. Just as he raised his fist for yet another knock, she caught the priest's reedy call.

"I come!" Two simple words, yet the very sound of Father Reynard's voice as familiar to her as her own, woke within her a wondrous sense of safety and security.

Nicola caught back a sudden and happy cry. Home! She was home. Here, folk cared for her and loved her; they would never let her be misused.

The bar lifted, and the door swung open with a soft sigh of oiled leather. "Come in," the priest called as he turned back into the cottage's single room. Wooden-soled sabots thudded dully on the beaten earth floor. "Give me a moment to fetch a lamp, then tell me what it is that brings you here so late."

Nicola followed the sound of his shoes to find the man Reynard glanced over his shoulder. Caught in the starlight from the open door, his face floated out of the darkness, round as the moon and equally as pale. Her memory gladly supplied his features.

There was a great beak of a nose above a wide mouth and a dense beard streaked with gray. Beneath thick brows, his brown eyes were trapped in a web of creases along his cheeks. Nature gave him his tonsure, removing fine dark hair in an ever-expanding circle atop his head.

"Father!" she cried out, incapable of containing her joy at homecoming any longer, " 'tis I, Nicola."

"My lady," the priest crowed in excitement, "God be praised. Oh, damn my fingers, I cannot get hold of the fire cover."

There was a shuffling sound, then the clink of an iron hook against clayware.  The glow of embers appeared against the darkness as the pottery shield that protected the house from its own heat source was lifted. He touched a frayed rush to a coal until it glowed, then touched the burning stalk against the lamp's wick. A tiny flame appeared and grew, fed by the rancid fat in the bowl. "My lord, it’s so good of you to bring her here to show me she is well and whole."

Now encircled in a yellow bubble of light, Father Reynard turned. The glow turned his pale skin an ivory color, and made dark hollows of his eyes. Silver glinted in his beard where the shadow of his nose did not obscure it. He wore a farmer's rough tunic, no doubt hastily donned, its worn collar loose around his scrawny throat.

"That was not my purpose in coming," Gilliam said. "Although I am glad it pleases you to see her once again. Father, you must wed us this very moment."

Nicola looked up at the man who held her. The lamplight showed her his profile, even and strong. His calmness worried her. She found herself wishing he would rage as another man might have done, so she could know how to battle him.