Spring's Fury (8 page)

Bucking wildly against their hold, Nicola managed to free one arm. The other man instantly released her and sidled away. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing up Dickon's rusty blade as she moved. The two men scurried into the brush like the mice they were.

"Wait for me," cried the lad as he wobbled unsteadily after them, hand over dripping nose.

Nicola stared after them, her hand tight on the sword's hilt, her heart dead within her chest. The heavens breathed for her, a keening, frigid wind. Icy sleet pelted her.  The empty coldness within her matched the air around her.

She drew a long breath and turned on Alan. He yet twisted on the ground, trying to drag air through his crushed throat. His dagger lay beside him. Nicola reached for it, vaguely surprised that her hand was so steady. She cut the ties on his vest so she could open it, then sheathed his knife in her belt and straightened.

With the flat of the ancient blade, she turned back the man's hauberk and rested the sword's tip against his heart. All she need do to take his life was lean on the hilt. Yet, Nicola stood frozen in place, her coward's heart incapable of allowing her to do cold-blooded murder. The emptiness within her expanded until she was void of all thought.

Only when Alan's movements ceased as he relaxed into death could Nicola shift her weight, her blade sliding into him. She turned without a sound and started up the road, following Tilda. For a time there was no pain in her feet or her injured leg. Slowly sensation returned and her leg began to burn, her ribs to ache, and her feet began again to throb.

It was about a half mile before she found the girl and the nag at the roadside. Nicola stopped to stare at her friend. One cheek bore the red mark of a slap, a great bruise now purpled her jaw, and her nose looked swollen. The silence between them was heavy and tense. Then Tilda's expression twisted in shame and sorrow.

Nicola opened her mouth to speak and tried twice before the words actually exited. "You left me." It was a shocked whisper. With it, the blankness within her receded further, exposing new emotional pain in its wake.

Like a key, Nicola's words released Tilda from the trap of guilt. The pretty lines of her face resolved themselves into an uncaring expression, and she casually shrugged. "They meant you no harm. You, after all, are noble born and worth something, while I am but a commoner. I dared not stay nearby when they intended me as their winter whore, to be killed when they were finished with me."

"You left me to save yourself, not caring whether I lived or died." Nicola released her breath in a shuddering sigh. Somewhere, deep inside, anger's warmth returned. It was welcome after the awful coldness.

"You seem to have survived well enough." Her friend's attempt at a smile was horrible in its falseness. She led the nag back onto the road. "Here, you ride the horse for a time. We must keep moving."

"Why?" Nicola's harsh question echoed against the leaden sky. She let her eyes narrow as she studied Tilda. "Whatever have you been doing these last four months, my girl? I think 'tis time we share secrets."

"What I do is no business of yours," Tilda retorted.

"On the contrary, your soul is tied to Ashby, and I am your lady. You had best tell me where you spent these last months." Nicola was startled by both the words and her commanding tones. It the first time she'd ever spoken so to Tilda.

Her friend's brows drew down. "I will answer to no one for my deeds, especially not you."

Nicola straightened to her tallest. "Then, shall I suggest a scene for you? Since the whole countryside knows Hugh keeps women, I think you have lived these last months at Ocslade as his leman. He never expected that contract to wrest me from Lord Gilliam, nor did he believe I truly meant to wed him. What Hugh needed was some tool with which to catch me. That was your role in this. You were not only supposed to steal me from Graistan, but to soothe me into his custody. Which brings us to one, final question: How much did he pay you to deliver me?"

Guilt again washed over Tilda's face, then disappeared behind a snide and superior look. "What difference does that make when you mean to go to him anyway? If he's fool enough to pay me for what he could freely have, let him pay."

"You did," Nicola breathed in aching astonishment. She hadn't realized how deeply she'd needed to hear Tilda's denial. "You really took coins in exchange for me."

Tilda only shrugged. "Aye, but what did you expect?  Ashby's burning cost me everything I had worked so hard to gain."

"Worked? I thought men gave you those trinkets as gifts for love's sake. Do you now say that you spread your legs for them in expectation of payment?" Nicola retorted taking no time to consider what she said. She gasped in shock, but it was too late to retract her words.

Tilda's face went white in hurt, then darkened in rage. "Who are you to chastise me? At least I accept what I am. Look at you. You so fear being a woman that you pretend to be a man."

"Nay," Nicola protested faintly, clapping her hands to her ears to shut out the vicious words, each one a knife's blow to her heart.

Tilda set her hands on her hips. "If you are an impossible woman that no man could love, you are even worse as a man. How clever you thought yourself, Colette. 'I'll hold the walls against Graistan's brother, Tilda,' said you to me. 'When Lord Rannulf sees how capable I am, he'll give me Ashby as my own.' Meanwhile Lord Gilliam's ballista battered our walls to dust, and you did not open our door." Her voice rose to a painful cry. "Now Ashby lies in ruins, and my mother is dead, Colette. You killed them both, my mother, your father. You killed them."

"Not my fault," Nicola pleaded quietly to herself, yet guilt ate at her. She had been so certain of her abilities, so sure of herself that she dared risk all her folk by helping her stepmother hold Lord Rannulf prisoner, even in the face of his brother's attack. From the recesses of her memory came the terrible ringing of stone crashing against stone, the roaring of the flames, the screams of her dying folk, and the sight of Gilliam FitzHenry’s blade burying into her father's body.

Tilda stepped close and clutched at the front of Nicola's capuchin to force the tall noblewoman to look at her. "How do you bear the weight of what you've done?" she whispered cruelly, then turned her back on Nicola.

Nicola squeezed shut her eyes. The wind moaned around her, holding within its airy depths the pleas of those who had died. They had looked to her for protection, and she had betrayed them for her own selfish purpose.

"Nay." She backed unsteadily away from the girl, repeating the litany that had shielded her from her sin these last months. "It wasn’t my fault. None of this would have happened if Lord Rannulf hadn't married that witch to Papa. His meddling is the cause for this. Damn you, it’s not my fault. Not my fault," she repeated, barely louder than a whisper.

Tilda turned to glare at her. "For revenge's sake, I sold you to de Ocslade. Now, I will go fetch your bridegroom for you, Colette. Know that he is disgusted by the thought of wedding you and intends to chain you like a dog. Whilst he does so, know that what he pays me will guarantee me a long and rich life in freedom." She turned and mounted the sorry nag.

"Tilda, it wasn’t me who killed your mother. I saw her die on FitzHenry's blade, just as my father died. You must listen to me," Nicola cried suddenly, but she no more accepted this excuse than Tilda did.

"Nay!” Tilda shouted back.  “Your pride cost her life. We are finished, you and I, but I leave you with this warning: If you do not wish to be Hugh's prisoner, go another direction." With that, she set her heels to the poor creature's sides, and the horse trotted down the road.

Nicola stared after her, her pain so deep it rooted her to the ground. The rain had ceased, but there was a curious wetness warming her face. She reached up to brush it away and was surprised to find she wept.

The need to sit reached through her hurt. She left the road for a giant oak, which sported around its huge bole a thick curtain of brush. Once hidden from any travelers, she slid down to sit on the damp ground, her back against the trunk.

Her trembling started as a tiny shudder, then grew until she shook like one palsied. With her head tucked against her knees, Nicola fought to regain control. Was it not enough that her folk and her father had been murdered and her home destroyed? Now, de Ocslade had turned her dearest friend against her. Soon, he would come for her. If Tilda spoke true, Hugh would hold her captive for the remainder of her life. Nicola gently rocked herself, but there was no comfort in it. This was the price she paid for betraying her folk.

But hadn’t Tilda just betrayed de Ocslade's foul plans to her?  This tiny whisper, rising from the farthest corner of her heart, brought Nicola bolt upright in surprise. She dragged in a healing breath. Tilda must hold some love for her, else she'd not have denied herself that rich reward with her final warning,

She could not go to Hugh, and she could not return to Graistan. Then where?

Ashby.

A shudder shook Nicola to her core at that thought. Home. Nicola closed her eyes in relief.  She would go home.

Heart steadied, she reached toward her sliced leg, meaning to see what damage had been done. The blood of her victims yet fouled her gloves. Her stomach turned, but she shut out her emotions. Now was not the time for this. When she was safe and beyond Hugh's reach, then would she think on what had happened. For now, she wiped her gloves as clean as she could on the grasses by her feet, then carefully and slowly pulled the torn area of her chausses away from her leg.

She eyed it with a healer's insight. It was a neat slice, needful of stitching if it was to heal smoothly. That wasn’t going to happen here and if she was to manage the walk to Ashby, then this must be bound shut. Using her dagger to cut a strip from her gown's hem, she wrapped it around her leg and knotted it in place. That would prevent any further damage until she was home again.

Home.

Nicola grimaced in pain that had nothing to do with her wounds. She had betrayed Ashby's folk. What sort of greeting could she expect from them? What if FitzHenry had not lied this morn when he said her peasants had given him their love?

"Nay, not my fault," she breathed to herself, her voice rising as she continued. "My folk love me still, and I am going home," she said aloud to the thick clouds above her. "When I return to them, they will rise against FitzHenry and put me in his place." The words rang as hollowly in her own ears as they did in the glade, but she pretended not to notice.

She came carefully onto her feet and struck out to the north through the woods. Once she was certain she'd eluded all those who chased her, she would return to the road.

"I am going home," she said to herself as she set one, aching foot in front of the other. "I am going home."

Gilliam reined in his massive black steed and signaled his men to stop. In the center of the road lay the mercenary who had escorted Nicola from Graistan. No matter what the man's skill as a soldier had been, his throat was crushed and he now harbored a rusty blade in his chest. Three others, ragged commoners all, were strewn nearby. There was no sign of either the petite lass or his bride.

"Robert, keep my squire back beyond that hedge," he called behind him. "You, two"—he pointed at the men—"search the right and you, the left," he told two more. "Walter, look to these poor souls. See if any retain enough life to tell us who they are and what has become of the women."

Even as he uttered the commands, Gilliam was certain of what had happened. De Ocslade must not have withdrawn beyond Graistan's borders, but had waited here. He killed the soldier, and these unfortunates who stumbled upon him, then took the women. Damn, but he was too late.

Reacting to his master's tension, Gilliam's battle-trained mount raised himself on his hind legs in excitement. Gilliam cursed himself for riding Witasse instead of a calmer palfrey. Without his armor, he was not heavy enough to satisfy the great twit. Now, between the unfamiliar weight and the smell of blood, Gilliam would need all his strength to keep the steed from striking out at his own men.

He leaned forward and whispered gently into the horse's ear, "Cease, Witasse, or I will beat you bloody." Responding to the tone, if not the words, the dangerous beast deigned to relax, but only a little.

From either side of the road, men reported that they'd found nothing. "My lord," Walter said from beside the slain mercenary, "they are all dead, but only just so, for they yet retain some warmth."

"Jesu Christus," Gilliam swore. "Then, de Ocslade cannot be far from here. Hie, we must catch him before he leaves our lands." He set his heels to his steed, the great beast leaping into motion before his men had mounted.

Even at his fast pace there was no sign of either his bride or his neighbor. When he finally caught sight of men in the distance, there was no mistaking the green of Ocslade's surcoat, but the troop was riding toward Graistan, not away. Relief warred with irritation. While this meant de Ocslade did not have Lady Ashby, where on God's earth was she and who had killed those men? Gilliam raised a hand to stop his men.

"We stand here, our swords loose," he commanded, "but we avoid conflict. Ashby cannot afford to war with our neighbor just now." At Walter's sign, the men brought their mounts into a line across the road.

Gilliam glanced behind him, searching for Jos on his sturdy pony. The boy was yet pasty-faced with the death he had witnessed. "Jocelyn, draw your steed behind Walter's and keep you close to the woods. If this comes to battle, you must guide your mount into the trees and wait quietly for the outcome."

"Aye, my lord," the boy managed in a shaky voice, then set his pony into motion.

Gilliam almost smiled. The lad's education was moving far more quickly than intended, but Jos was taking it better than his lord expected. "That's my lad."

When de Ocslade halted, it was no more than a lance's length from Gilliam, which sent Witasse into yet another frenzied attempt to free himself of his rider. By the time Gilliam had regained control, his neighbor's men were clustered untidily behind the small landholder.

Gilliam scanned them for any sign of Nicola. There was a girl riding pillion behind one of his neighbor's soldiers. He looked more closely and recognized the woman he'd seen at Graistantown's gate. Her face was battered, but he was certain it was she. So here was the one de Ocslade had used in his attempt to steal the heiress from Gilliam.

"My apologies for trespassing," the smaller knight offered evenly, "but I seem to have lost something during my travels."

De Ocslade boldly surveyed Gilliam's men, and a smile tugged at the corners of his narrow lips. "I see you have not found it either. How reassuring. This means I can withdraw and wait until it comes to me." His meaning was as clear as the insult in his words.

Although Gilliam knew full well he was being goaded, anger still flared in him. "We both know you have no lawful claim on her. She is mine. Lay a hand on her, and you do so at your own peril."

His rival raised a sardonic brow. "How careless the young are these days. When I was your age, I'd have thought twice about antagonizing a warrior of some twenty years experience."

Gilliam's anger solidified into cold fury. His grip on the reins tightened and Witasse pranced in worry. This time, the distraction was welcome, for it prevented him from drawing his sword. As he fought the horse into submission, he also subdued his own emotions. Calmness brought with it the realization that two could play at de Ocslade's game.

He forced himself to smile. "I would suggest to you that it’s equally foolish to judge a man's skill by his age. Perhaps I should warn you that I won my spurs in the Holy Lands killing the Infidel. Our king himself delivered my
colee
, wishing to honor me for my prowess in battle. Now, have we finished taunting each other? If so, it’s time you returned to Ocslade."

Hugh shrugged nonchalantly. "I think I will set my camp where the road turns north toward Ocslade and Ashby and start my journey afresh in the morning. Aye, that’s an excellent site, for I do so enjoy watching the travelers."

Once again, there was no mistaking de Ocslade's implication. If Gilliam found Nicola and tried to ride for Ashby with her in his custody, Hugh would be there to challenge him. Well, the solution to that was simple enough as there was more than one way to reach Ashby.

Gilliam paused in surprise. Why would the man be so open with his plan when it cheated him of the very opportunity he sought? Understanding turned his smile into one of genuine amusement. Like Lady Ashby, it seemed his neighbor had also taken Gilliam's great size to indicate a lack of intelligence.

"As you will," he said pleasantly. "I shall wish you good journey back to Ocslade and be on about my business. Once all this is settled, I hope we can put aside our animosity and know peace as neighbors should." He held up a hand as if a thought had just occurred to him. "Ah, I have just the thing. Perhaps you will agree to stand as godfather to my firstborn?" The goad struck home.

De Ocslade's eyes narrowed, and rage darkened his sallow skin. Without another word, he signaled his men into a turn, then roweled his horse around on the roadbed. As he started away, he called over his shoulder, "Boy, I'll have Ashby, one way or another."

"I shall await your attempt," Gilliam retorted to de Ocslade's receding back.

"My lord," Walter said a moment later, "I think that man intends you harm."

Gilliam laughed. "Nay, Walter, he intends me dead should I wed Lady Ashby. Come, since he doesn't have her, we must assume she yet remains within these woods and at the mercy of whomever killed those men." He turned his nervous steed and started back toward the battle site.

Although Walter suggested they wait at the road for Rannulf's foresters to come, Gilliam could not bear to be idle. He had a groom bring him a calmer steed from Graistan, leaving the big warhorse in the man's capable hands. With Jos lingering at the campfire, he and the soldiers scoured the road for some clue to his bride's passage. They quickly found their first sign beneath a huge oak.

Gilliam stared at the crushed and bloodied grasses. The thought of his bride's death should mean nothing to him save his freedom. With her demise, ownership of her lands returned to Rannulf, and Gilliam's brother would still install Ashby upon him.

Unbidden came the memory of the tall girl caught tightly against him while they stood atop the church porch. Their fine garments proved no barrier to sensation; he had been intimately aware of her body touching his and how well they fit, one against the other.  He sighed

Having more than learned his lesson by his sin with Rannulf's former wife, Isotte, Gilliam had used only whores since then. These women always charged him extra for his unusual weight, and never let him lay atop them. Until today and his talk with Geoff, he'd not dared to even consider the possibility of lying with Nicola as a man lay with his wife. Aye, there would be a brief communion to break her maidenhead and stain the sheets, but he expected no more than that.

Now, the memory of her lips, pliant and warm on his, made Gilliam's breath catch in his chest and his blood heat. Their kiss had deepened far beyond any intention of his. Had she not cried out he'd be kissing her still. Nay, they'd be doing far more than that.

He swallowed and closed his eyes as a fiery desire rushed through him. Why had she kissed him that way, if she hated him so? By God, who cared why? She had.

"My lord?"

Gilliam started and opened his eyes to see Walter standing before him. Concern was written in the soldier's plain features.

"We have found a trail leading toward the north." The man paused, then continued hesitantly. "Are you ill? You look as one fevered."

It was a fever, true enough, but not one of sickness. Gilliam nearly choked on his own foolishness. Nicola would never join him in love play. It was more likely they would have naught but a single rape between them.

"I am fine," he said. "Come now, let us find that bride of mine."

Leaving Jos at their makeshift camp along with two men who would also run messages and meet the foresters, Gilliam sent two others to scour the road all the way to Rannulf’s borders. Meanwhile, he and Walter followed the meager trail north.

The weather chose not to cooperate, rain turning to sleet, then back to rain again. Even walking behind the shield of his mount, the wind penetrated his layers of clothing to sting his skin. Their passage was achingly slow to keep from missing any sign. The morning slipped into midday, hour after long hour without success. Impatience gave way to worry.

They had nearly reached the end of Rannulf's holdings when the sound of someone walking through the brush caught Gilliam's attention. He strode swiftly in the direction of the noise, Walter trotting behind him. Coming toward him was Hobbe atte Lea, one of his brother's huntsmen. Caught in Hobbe's fist was the bony arm of a starving lad.

"What have you found there, Hobbe?" Gilliam called out.

The slight man dressed in a forester's green garb raised a hand in greeting. "My lord, I had no idea you were so far afield. You've saved us quite a walk back to camp and fortunate that is. I think I may have found a clue to your missing woman."

As they skirted brush and bush to close the gap, Gilliam saw that one of the boy's eyes bore a dark ring and blood stained his peaked face. He arched a brow in surprise. "Hobbe, was there truly a need to beat him? He hardly looks capable of putting up a fight."

The woodsman's smile was a weasel's snarl. " 'Twasn't me who abused him The lad claims he got the eye from a beautiful witch woman, who lay a curse upon him and his fellows, leaving four of them dead. He is so afraid of her, he leapt from hiding to beg me lead him to the nearest church for protection."

"A witch who killed four?" Gilliam asked in wary disbelief.

Unwanted within him awoke a new and shocking explanation for the dead bodies on the road. Nicola could wield a sword. Had she not attacked him with her father's weapon after John's death? True, she did not have his strength, but she was skilled enough to thrash poorly armed commoners.

Nay, it could not be. Not four men by herself. "Ask him to describe his witch."

As Hobbe translated the question, Gilliam once again found himself wishing he spoke the peasants' language. Even though he trusted Ashby's reeve and priest enough to depend on them, he felt crippled by his lack of knowledge. It could serve him well to understand what was being said around him.

When the boy fell silent, Hobbe turned to his lord, a grimace of disappointment on his face. "My pardon, Lord Gilliam. I was wrong. The lad's tale is so far-fetched that I fear it could only have been brought about by hunger."

Gilliam shook his head. The empty branches clattered and rustled in the wind. He drew his cloak more tightly around him against a brief spate of icy rain. "Tell me everything."

"He says the witch was dressed as a man and wore her hair also like a man's. Not only that, but in the boy's fevered dream, she fought better than any soldier. As I said, beyond belief." The forester shrugged in apology for wasting his lord's time.

The corners of Gilliam's mouth lifted in sudden respect, and he touched the pin at his shoulder. "She did it all alone," he said quietly.

"My lord?" the forester asked.

"Hobbe, this is no dream. The boy has indeed seen my bride."

Hobbe blinked and said, "Condolences, my lord."

While his better judgment screamed warnings of his own future, Gilliam dared to grin. "Hobbe, taming this woman will be a feat worthy of legend.  Even better than that, Lord Graistan will lose his wager. Walter, best you tell those men who have bet against me that they should rethink their positions."

"Aye, my lord," the soldier replied, but the look on his face said he believed his lord to be mad.

Turning to Hobbe, Gilliam asked, "Does the boy know where Lady Ashby is now?"

A moment later, the man translated. "His two remaining companions have been following the witch—your pardon, Lady Ashby—in hopes of capturing her for ransom. While the boy is terrified of confronting her again, he fears being alone even more. Thus, he trailed them. My lord, they can be no more than a half mile distant, for I have only just now found the lad."

"I have her!" Gilliam called out in triumph, then paused. With Ashby again secure in his hand, plots and plans swam through his head. He grinned.

"Now Hobbe, here's a terrible wicked thought. Since the boy wants the security of a church, you must take the poor creature into Graistantown, to Abbot Simon. The child should tell his tale of witches in our forest, but make you no explanations. This should keep the monks in an uproar for months."

The forester laughed under his breath, and nodded.

Gilliam turned on Walter. "As for you, bring our men and my squire, along with a horse for my lady, to that hamlet north of here. Do you know the place?" At the man's nod, he continued. "Do not come by the road, but cut directly through the chase. We'll ride from there to Ashby."