Hearts of Fire

by Anita Mills

  “Who goes there?” he demanded loudly, raising his sword again.

  His voice and his footsteps echoed eerily in the open room as he advanced on the tapestry. Pulling it aside, he discovered the sleeping area beyond, also empty. Mother Mary, but he could not like the feel of the place. The wind from the storm outside whistled through two narrow high windows, blowing the heavy material beside him. With his free hand he signed the Cross over his breast before exploring the doorway that led to a narrow passage, probably to the kitchens, he supposed.

  “Jesu,” he muttered under his breath. From the courtyard he could hear Everard demanding answers of Beaumaule’s men, but inside, it appeared the castle was deserted. The smell of the burning hair lessened in the passageway, replaced with that of baking bread. Reassured somewhat by the change, he eased his tall frame, stooping to clear the doorway, into the narrow hallway.

  3

  Gilliane waited in the scullery, not knowing how her ruse had fared. The shouts in the courtyard seemed far away as she strained to hear anything, to gain some sign that Brevise had been taken—or, failing that, that he had fled. Heavy, booted footsteps sounded outside the kitchen door, sending a tremor of apprehension through her body, tightening the knot that gripped her insides. She pulled her hood forward and bent her head low over the pot she stirred. And under her boy’s tunic, her heart thudded painfully, almost drowning out her swift, silent prayer.

  The door burst open, admitting a stranger, and Gilliane knew fear. It was as though in one brief moment everything stood still. A complete hush descended over the kitchen as the tall, scowling knight stepped in, bringing a sudden chill with him.

  “Do not move—any of you,” he ordered harshly, his dark eyes scanning the wide stone-walled room warily.

  For answer, the cook, a stout florid woman, turned to face him, while a scullery wench continued to chop onions on a board and two spit boys turned meat over a fire. Their faces flushed from the heat and shiny from the grease, they stared apprehensively at the armed man who loomed over them with his sword in his hand.

  And then Richard noted the boy who sat at the steaming pot. Despite the warmth of the kitchen, the boy’s hood fell forward, the coarse wool shadowing all but the lower part of his soot-streaked face. But the hands that ceaselessly, rhythmically stirred the thick stew were strangely clean and white.

  “I’d have food for thirty men,” he announced as he advanced into the kitchen, sheathing his sword. “And I’d have the fire tended in the hall—my men are nigh frozen.” He walked slowly, deliberately toward where the iron caldron bubbled over the fire, and as he stopped there, he thought he could hear a sharp, collective intake of breath that seemed to come from every peasant there. The spit boys ceased their endless turning, and the scullery girl was suddenly very still. But the boy he faced still stirred with an even, deliberate motion, ignoring his presence.

  “How are you called?” he demanded.

  Gilliane’s heart jumped in her chest, beating against her ribs painfully as she kept her eyes averted. To hide the terrible fear that stabbed at her chest, she dipped the heavy wooden spoon to scrape the scorched bottom of the caldron before daring to answer, “Erman.”

  “Stand up, Erman, that I may see you.”

  “Nay.” The instant the word escaped her, she knew she’d made a mistake. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the knight’s jaw harden and his dark eyes flash ominously above the nasal of his helmet.

  Richard’s free hand snaked out to grasp the coarse wool of her hood, yanking it forcefully, pulling her to her feet. She stumbled, nearly falling into the pot, and the rough material which had been merely wrapped and hastily secured with a rope gave way, suddenly baring her. “You forget your manners, Erman—scullery boys do not gainsay their betters,” he growled—and then saw she was not a boy at all. “Holy Mary!” he breathed as he looked at her bared white breasts, and his jaw hung agape. Her face flushed a dull red beneath her cropped red hair as he stood transfixed for the moment.

  Furious at discovery, she took advantage of his surprise by flinging a full spoon of hot stew at his face. He turned his head, and the gravy spattered harmlessly against his helmet, while the vegetables dripped down onto his bloodstained cloak. He recovered, reaching for her again, swiping at her over the steaming pot.

  “God’s bones, but you would scald me!”

  Instead of backing away, she grasped the hot vessel by the serving rings, burning her hands, and threw its contents at him. As he raised his mailed arm to shield his face, she dodged beneath him and ran, clutching Erman’s poor tunic about her.

  The fiery mess scalded the flesh on the back of his hands and clung to the links in his mail before slowly sliding down his ruined mantle. Through his burning fingers he saw her take the stairs behind the kitchen, and, still wiping the hot mess off him, he started after her, the fury in his face sending the others scurrying out of his way.

  Seeking refuge in the storeroom, thinking to hide among the foodstuffs stored there, Gilliane crouched beneath a row of barrels containing salted meat and tried to relap the rough wool across her breasts. Praying silently that he would not find her, she held her breath and waited. Her worst fears had been realized—Beaumaule had been taken and they were at the mercy of Brevise’s men. Aubery would fall into the hands of her brother’s murderer, and she . . . She dared not think what might happen to her. She willed herself to remain very still as the invader’s footsteps neared her. A rat, disturbed by her presence, skittered past her so close that she felt it brush against the tattered tunic.

  It was dark and dank in the storeroom, and Richard was at a disadvantage from a lack of familiarity with the place. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and then he walked slowly, keeping his body between the stores and what he suspected was the only exit.

  “You’d best come out before my patience is at an end,” he called out in the darkness.

  She flattened herself against the floor and held her breath at the sound of his spurs clinking as he walked. His heavy boots crunched on spilled grain, moving with deliberation, drawing closer. To her horror, it appeared that he meant to walk behind the barrels.

  He edged along the standing casks until his spur caught in something. Bending over in the darkness, he felt along the ground until he touched the coarse woolen cloth. It moved in his hand as she shrank further back.

  “I’d see the rest of you, I think,” he murmured, knowing he’d caught her.

  But as his hand grasped the hem of the tunic, Gilliane sank her teeth into the soft web between his thumb and forefinger, biting until she tasted the salt of his blood. “God’s bones!” he gasped from pain. “Art a vicious witch!” Groping for what was left of her hair, he found it in the dark and pulled hard. “ ’Tis enough of this, I’ll warrant.”

  Tears welled involuntarily in her eyes, but she kept her teeth embedded in his flesh. Furious, he released her hair to deliver a resounding slap to the side of her head, and as she cried out, he disengaged his bleeding hand. Jerking her upward, he pulled her toward the slit of light that illuminated the stairway.

  “Wait!” She tried to wrench free, but found she could not. Her stomach knotted with fear, she nonetheless managed to dig in her soft slippers against the packed earth floor, slowing him. “I … I claim the protection of the Crown!” she spat out defiantly. “You dare not ravish me!”

  “There’s none to wear the crown,” he gibed scornfully. “And I’d sooner beat you!” He half-turned to look down at her, his contempt evident on his face as his eyes traveled from her cropped hair to where the woolen cloth pulled tight over her breasts. “Though you’d be comely enough if you were cleaned,” he decided as his eyes raked her in the faint light.

  “Beast!”

  “Beast?” His black eyebrow rose, disappearing behind his helmet. “ ’Tis you who have the fangs!”

  “If you think to lay your great bloody hands on me, I’ll—”
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  Shaking her until her neck nearly snapped, Richard tightened his jaw in an effort to control his already short temper. “I’ve borne enough of this!” he snarled. “If you would not tempt me to violence, you’ll hold your tongue, girl! ’Tis not I who have burnt and bitten you.” With that, he wrenched her in front of him and gave her a push up the steps.

  “What do you think to do with me?” she choked out, still fearing the worst.

  Ignoring the question, he kept a tight grip on her elbow, steering her ahead of him. She tried to look back up at him as they emerged again into the kitchen, but all she could see was his mailed arm where the soiled cloak fell away. When he relaxed his fingers slightly, she twisted to turn around. She lifted her eyes slowly, noting his red-and-black embroidered surcoat, the heavy gold clasp at his shoulder, and the polished nasal of his helm that extended over his nose, dividing his face into two equal parts above a firm, clean-shaven chin and a well-formed mouth. The fleeting thought that she might be in the hands of Brevise himself crossed her mind. The dark eyes that met hers were distinctly unfriendly.

  “I claim protection of Beaumaule’s liege—I claim protection of the Earl of Gloucester,” she managed finally through suddenly parched lips. “Nay, you would not dare harm me.”

  “Think you Gloucester would have a care for one wench?” he taunted back. “You overvalue yourself then, for the earl attends more important matters now.” Gripping her elbow again, he pushed her past the staring kitchen servants. “And I’d have justice ere I think on you.”

  He walked quickly, still forcing her ahead of him as they traversed the length of Beaumaule’s deserted hall. And each time she attempted to stop or pull away, he wrenched her shoulder painfully and gave her a shove that threatened to send her sprawling. Knowing herself in the hands of an angered enemy, she bit her lip to stifle the cry of pain. If the fellow thought to see her cower before him, he was doomed to disappointment. Nay, but she’d not give him that satisfaction at least—he might take de Lacey land, but he’d not destroy her pride.

  A strong gust of icy wind swirled about them as he thrust her through the door and into the courtyard. Abruptly he released her, flinging her to the ground in front of him. She grasped at a horse rail for support and pulled herself up. “I will tend to you later,” he promised grimly.

  The harshness in his voice foretold a fate that sent another shiver down her spine. Nay, but she’d not die tamely, ravished by this giant of a man. She scrambled after him, catching him by the arm, and as he spun around, she raked his face with her fingernails, clawing at him, kicking at him with her soft leather shoes. It was like attacking a tree. He brought up his elbow to shield his face, and caught her hair with his free hand, pulling her head back with such force that she thought he’d snapped her neck. His eyes glittered darkly as he forced her to look at him. “ ’Tis enough of this, I said.” Slowly, deliberately, he raised his open palm and brought it across her face with such force that she fell in a heap at his feet.

  Tears of pain and anger welled in her eyes, but she would not let him know how badly he’d hurt her. She stared mutely at the man who towered over her, his hand still raised as though to strike. For a long moment their eyes met, and then he dropped his hand.

  “I am unused to the attacks of scullery wenches,” he muttered. He reached to touch the exposed portion of his cheek and then held out his fingers to look at them. “Twice this day you have drawn my blood, girl—God’s bones, but you would tempt me to violence.”

  “You will kill me anyway,” she answered evenly. “And I’d not die tamely.”

  His gaze dropped lower to where her breasts still heaved from exertion, and a slight smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Nay—’twould be a waste to kill you.” He watched her blanch and nodded. “Aye—to the victor comes everything, does it not?”

  “I’d kill you first.”

  “My lord, there’s naught but these and some wounded. And, by the looks of it, Walter’s arm is broken from his fall.” Everard strode toward them, his face stiff and ruddy from the cold. “Jesu, but what happened to you?” he asked, stopping short at the sight of Richard’s soiled cloak and his bleeding face.

  Gesturing at the rising Gilliane with his thumb, Richard muttered succinctly, “I found a she-wolf in there.”

  “Were there any others—or is this the only comely one? God’s blood, but she does not look big enough to warm both our bones,” Everard decided regretfully, peering more closely at the sullen girl. “Any more men inside?”

  “Nay—naught but scullery, and few enough of them.”

  Everard’s gaze reluctantly returned to his lord. “By the looks of the place, de Lacey does not prosper.”

  “ ’Tis not so! If my brother had little, ’twas because my father left him little! My brother—” Gilliane started forward, bristling at the knight’s tone.

  “Hold your tongue. Jesu, but was there never woman born who did not speak too much?” Richard snapped at her. “I said I’d tend to you later.”

  Aware now of the interested looks cast her way by the mailed men who gathered before their leader, Gilliane bit back a sharp retort and hugged her arms to her, both to draw warmth in the icy rain and to cover herself. It was not unknown for castle wenches to be passed around amongst the victors when a place fell. Her own eyes searched the glistening yard for Simon of Woodstock, even as she knew in her heart that he could not aid her now. She shivered from both fear and cold.

  The man she judged to be Brevise’s captain jerked his head toward where the Beaumaule men had been herded. “What would you we did with them, my lord? That one is Woodstock—he says he is seneschal here.”

  “Nay, but you cannot—” Gilliane gasped, suddenly fearful for the men who’d defended Beaumaule.

  “Silence!” Richard commanded without looking at her. “Nay, but afore God, I’d punish them all.”

  “Nay, but you—”

  “God’s bones!” Richard roared at her again. “Do I have to beat silence into you? Everard, if you cannot find de Lacey, bring me the captain—his head can hang over this cursed gate first if I like not his answers.”

  “My lord, de Lacey—” Everard began.

  “Nay!” Gilliane cried out again.

  Ignoring her, two men in red cloaks thrust Simon of Woodstock forward. Gilliane could see they’d bared his head, and for the first time in her memory she saw fear in his eyes. The lord who’d brought her out stepped forward to demand of him, “Who gave the order to fire on us—whose was this treachery?”

  Simon’s eyes dropped, but he did not hesitate to answer. “ ’Twas I, my lord—as captain of Beaumaule, I gave the order.”

  “Simon!” Gilliane screeched.

  “Then you hang.”

  The pronouncement was swift and succinct. Gilliane gaped first at one man and then the other as it sank in what Brevise’s men meant to do to her captain. Stunned, she watched Woodstock exhale sharply.

  “Nay! Nay! I’ll not let you do it! Simon, tell him the fault was mine! Tell him!” She grasped the mailed arm of her captor, pulling it to draw his attention back to her. “You cannot! Nay, you must not—if any bears hanging here, ’tis I!” Panic choked her as she sought the means to stop him. “I … I gave the order to trick you, my lord!”

  “Lady—nay!” Simon protested.

  Swallowing hard under the tall lord’s incredulous stare, Gilliane raised her eyes to his. “You killed my brother, Lord William,” she managed, despite the awful sickness in her stomach. “I did but seek revenge for your treachery.”

  “Lady, ’tis not—nay, he is not Brevise,” Simon sought again to explain, and then realized that she was not attending him.

  But Richard’s eyes were intent on the girl before him. “You mistake me—I am not William.”

  “Then you do his bidding,” she spat back, unable to hide her hatred further. “You were well-served for the murder of my brother—our mistake was that we did
not kill you!”

  “ ’Tis Rivaux,” Simon interrupted again, this time more forcefully. “ ’Twas a mistake we made.”

  “Rivaux?” For a moment Gilliane could not assimilate the full import of her captain’s words, and then as she realized the enormity of their error, the color drained from her face. “This is Rivaux? Nay, it cannot be. Rivaux is older than—” She stopped, compelled by the sober expression in Woodstock’s eyes. “Holy Mary . . . oh, Jesu!” The words formed slowly, silently, escaping involuntarily. She turned, her own eyes widening in horror as she stared into the dark, unfathomable depths of her captor’s. And then she did the only thing that came to mind—she sank to her knees before him and bowed her head. “Had I know ’twas Rivaux who came, my lord, I would have prepared more suitable welcome,” she whispered. “I pray you forgive us for our folly.”

  Richard stood over her, for once at a loss himself. His fury faded, cooled by the icy wind, as he stared down on the cropped red hair that bent to touch the sleet-covered ground. Clearly a mistake of some sort had been made, a mistake that had nearly cost him a boy he’d valued highly, but he could scarce execute a mere girl for it. The awful thought that she was a gentlewoman crossed his mind, shaming him.