by Anita Mills
The stairs were steeper and darker than he remembered as he descended them. Closing his eyes tightly and reopening them in hopes of adjusting to the blackness, he edged off the last step. A sudden rustle of clothing alerted him, and he barely had time to raise his arm to shield himself from the blow. The dagger cut through the silk sleeve of his surcoat and glanced off his mail. He swung wildly with his free hand and caught the rough wool of a tunic. His sword arm came around and imprisoned his attacker, pinioning arms, and he knew he’d found Gilliane de Lacey. She struggled furiously, kicking and biting.
“God’s bones, but you are a fierce maid, Demoiselle,” he murmured softly in the darkness.
She went suddenly still, rigid in his arms, and then sagged against him, clutching his surcoat for support. “Art Rivaux?” she asked in the darkness.
“Aye.”
“Oh, sweet Mary,” she whispered, choking on tears. “I’d thought to die this day, my lord.” All of the horror of what she’d witnessed came home to her as his hands circled her, holding her in the roughness of his mail-clad arms. She leaned into him gratefully, choking and crying from the horror of what she’d seen and done. His height and his strength seemed to envelop her, providing far more comfort than words.
“There’s no time to weep,” he acknowledged grimly, setting her back from him. “Aye—already the hall’s timbers are burning, and ’twill not be long before the fire spreads to the kitchen roof.”
As if to bear testimony to his words, one of the cross rafters broke in the hall and sent part of the ceiling crashing down. Gilliane bit her lip hard for control and nodded.
“Aye.”
“Come on then.” He grasped her arm with his mailed glove and pushed her before him toward the dim light of the stairwell. At the foot of it he stopped and stepped in front of her. “I’d best go first, lest any of Brevise’s men yet live.”
The smoke on the stairs stung her eyes and choked her. Gasping for air, she stumbled behind him and nearly lost her balance. He half-turned and caught her elbow. “Would you that I carried you?”
“Nay, I am all right.” A paroxysm of coughing gave the lie to her words, and she had to clutch at his surcoat for support. Her throat burned and her lungs suffocated in the hot, pungent air.
It was stifling for him also. Bending low to catch what breath he could, he tried to fill his chest with it before pulling her into the kitchen. “Lie down and crawl,” he rasped. “There’s less smoke on the floor.” Dropping to the ground himself, he twisted his hand into the woolen tunic she wore and dragged her after him. She crouched on all fours, keeping her head down, and scrambled dog-fashion after him. Above them, sparks from the igniting roof fell like hot coals. Both of them were coughing and gasping when they crossed the threshold of the kitchen into the covered passageway between it and the hall. Ahead of them, one of the roof supports collapsed. Panicked, Gilliane clawed her way through the burning debris, nearly leaving her tunic behind. Thinking his lungs would burst, Richard heaved himself after her, clearing the doorway. Through the smoke and flames he thought her clothing was afire, and he lunged to cover her with his body, and both of them rolled into the courtyard.
Amid the cries of the wounded and dying and the frantic shouts of those who fought the fires, he stood shakily and gave her his hand. She grasped his fingers, stumbled, and pulled herself up. For a moment they stood coughing, surveying the death and destruction around them. Much of what could burn was already on fire, and the valiant efforts of Beaumaule’s inhabitants to control the spreading flames were useless. Gilliane’s whole body quivered as she again fought back tears. Turning away blindly, she nearly tripped over the Brevise man she’d killed earlier. She caught at a still-standing post and, overcome by the horror around her, leaned against it, her shoulders now racked with sobs.
“Sweet Jesu, b-but we are ac-accursed!” she burst out.
“Demoiselle—” Richard came up behind her and turned her around. “Aye, you can weep now,” he whispered huskily as his arms closed about her shaking body. They stood, knight and girl, locked in an embrace that gave comfort to each. She burrowed her head against his shoulder and clutched the embroidered silk of his surcoat in her fists, twisting and balling it in her hands, while his steel-plated gloves snagged in the rough wool of Erman’s tunic.
Even when her sobs subsided, she was loath to raise her head. She could feel the cold, hard links of his mail through the stiff silk, and she could smell the oil and the boiled leather beneath, and they were oddly reassuring smells. It was not until she heard the crunch of heavy boots behind her that she reluctantly raised her eyes to his.
“You must think me a silly fool,” she managed tremulously as she attempted to wipe the sooty tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Nay.” His dark eyes warmed as they looked down on her, and one corner of his mouth twisted downward in a crooked smile. “Nay, I think you a warrior maiden.” Raising his mailed arm to show her the rent in the sleeve of his embroidered surcoat, he nodded. “Aye, two men you would have slain this day, Demoiselle.”
“Three.” She looked down at the dead horse and rider beside them, and then looked away. “God aid me, but I killed this one also.”
“My lord! Sweet Jesu, but I thought we were done!” Walter of Thibeaux loped toward them, his broken arm tied against his chest, his good arm still brandishing a sword.
Richard’s eyes misted over at the sight of the boy, and he released Gilliane to clasp the squire against his breast. “Aye, I promised your father you would come to no harm, Walter, but you are determined to prove me wrong.”
“My lord . . .” Everard hesitated to intrude on Richard, but there were things to be done. “The tower is all that stands, I fear. Would you that—”
“The tower! Oh, merciful Mary!” Gilliane gasped, remembering the velvet cloak she’d sewn. Without a word of explanation, she turned on her heel and ran for the stone tower.
“Demoiselle! Nay, but do not go unattended!” Swearing under his breath, Richard started after her, fearful that there might still be a Brevise man hiding there. “God’s blood, Demoiselle, wait!”
“My lord . . .” It was useless. Everard raised his hand to protest and let it fall in disgust. Turning back to a begrimed Simon of Woodstock, he exhaled and shook his head. “I’d suppose he means to take all of you with us now. Have you counted your wounded?”
“Aye—there are but four of us whole.”
“Jesu! And how many cannot sit a horse?”
“Six. I do not expect Hugo to live until ’tis noon, so I do not count him.”
“And the prisoners—are there any that can ride?”
“Nay—those that cannot are dead.”
“Well, I know not what Lord Richard would with them, but none can stay here.” Everard surveyed the smoldering ruin of what had been Beaumaule. “And you, sir—do you serve Rivaux now?”
“Nay. I am for Clifford’s keep—there’s room for a man to earn his bread there.”
There was an emptiness in Simon of Woodstock’s voice that drew the other man’s sympathy. “You have served this family many years, then?”
“Since the Demoiselle was a babe.”
“Oh—aye. ’Tis difficult to leave such service.”
Beaumaule’s captain turned and walked away. As Everard watched him, he kicked savagely at a charred log in his path. It was hard being a landless man in a world where land was everything. Sighing heavily, Everard looked toward the tower, a lonely sentinel over the blackened skeletons of Beaumaule’s buildings, and felt a sense of foreboding. War was simmering, waiting to break out in a peaceful land. ’Twas no time to become nursemaid to a homeless girl.
And in the tower, Gilliane de Lacey picked up the magnificent red velvet mantle where she’d dropped it. As she inspected it to see that it was still whole, Richard rounded the stairs after her, his sword drawn. She rubbed the soft fur against her cheek and then held it out to h
im.
“I … I have replaced that which I ruined for you, my lord. See—’tis vair and velvet, as was yours.” When he did not take it from her, her disappointment was evident. “You do not like it,” she whispered through the sudden constriction in her throat. “If ’tis unworthy—”
“Nay.”
He stood there watching her, an odd expression arrested on his face. Above the steel nasal, his dark eyes were sober.
“Take it, then!” she choked out. “ ’Tis the finest these hands could work!”
He stood his sword in the corner and pulled off his gloves with his teeth, discarding them at his feet, before lifting his hands to dislodge his helmet. Working it off, he let it fall to the floor beside him and pushed back both mail coif and leather cap. His hands stretched toward the cloak and then stopped.
“Nay, I’d have you lay it on me—mine hands are too bloodied to touch it.”
His voice sounded oddly strained, but the red-and-black streaks where blood and soot had mingled on his palms were evident. She wiped her own soiled hands on her clothing before lifting the precious velvet and moved behind him to settle it over his broad mail-clad shoulders, letting it fall to his ankles. Moving to the front, she pulled it close over his battle-stained surcoat and stepped back, suddenly shy.
“ ’Twill need a clasp,” she offered lamely, waiting for his reaction to its warmth and beauty.
He glanced down, taking in the rich, lush crimson velvet and then noting the neatly patterned vair trim. She must surely have beggared herself for it. “Why did you do this?” he demanded harshly. “You’ve enough need—you’ve naught yourself.”
Her face fell. “ ’Twas a matter of my honor, my lord. I am sorry it displeases you,” she answered simply.
“It pleases me well, Demoiselle.” He sighed, and his voice softened. “You mistake my words, Gilliane—’tis you who should have the fine things.” His bloodied hands sought hers, clasping them strongly. “Nay, ’tis strange for me to find a woman who thinks of honor as a man does. Most would take what I offer rather than give. You behold a wealthy man, Demoiselle.”
“ ’Tis of no matter, my lord—I did but replace what I destroyed.” She dropped her gaze to study the woven reed mat at her feet, unwilling now to meet the warmth in his eyes. And then she remembered the sword belt, which lay folded on a bench behind them, and pulled away from him. “When I did not think to find the cloth, I made this instead.” Quickly bending to pick it up, she held it out also. “I used the hair for luck, but I cannot say it worked.”
“Nay.” He reached to lift her chin with his knuckle and stared into the deep blue eyes. “If it brought no ’twas because I did not wear it. I would that I had some gift for you in return.”
The sudden warmth in his voice was matched by the lightening of the flecks in his otherwise dark eyes. To hide the flood of emotion that threatened her composure, she pulled away, turning her head, that he could not see. “ ’Tis as Joseph’s coat, my lord—made from bits of colored silk.”
“ ’Tis beautiful, Gilliane.” He reached to take it from her hand and held it to the light. “I cannot say I have ever had another like it.”
Uncertain whether he mocked her with his words, she dared to look at him, and again what she saw in his eyes disconcerted her. “Truly? You will wear it?”
“Aye.” To show her, he shrugged out of the velvet mantle and laid it gingerly across the bench. Then he drew the belt around his waist, holding it above his own stamped leather sword belt. His pleasure in the gift evident in his smile, he nodded. “ ’Twill fit as soon as I get a buckle.”
“One would think you like it best.”
“ ’Tis the first I have had made of your hair—I can see the copper of it. Aye, I think ‘tis the finest sword belt I have ever had.”
A tremor passed through her as she realized he was looking at her rather than the gift, and his mood had shifted suddenly. She swallowed at what she saw in his eyes, and when he took a step toward her, she forced herself to back away.
“Art afraid of me, Gilliane?” he asked softly.
Sweet Mary, but there’d been none to look at her like that before, and for that brief moment she’d felt both a sense of power and a sense of fear at the same time. She could not play his game—she dared not. But his eyes were warm, the gold flecks lightening the brown, and they never left her face as he stepped still closer.
She passed the tip of her tongue over strangely parched lips, almost unable to speak for the nearness of him. “Nay, ’tis not that I am afraid . . .” She moved back again, and he followed. “ ’Tis what you . . . ’tis how you . . .” She almost stumbled, realizing now that her back was but a handsbreadth from the wall. “Sweet Mary,” she breathed, “but—”
“Gilliane.”
His hands came up to clasp her shoulders, making further retreat impossible, and he held her still. As she looked up into those gold flecks, her heart pounded, thudding almost painfully against her ribs. She sucked in her breath and held it, not daring to breathe, both afraid he meant to kiss her and afraid he would not. His head bent closer until she could feel his breath against her skin, and a shiver of excitement coursed down her spine. And then, just as she closed her eyes, his head snapped back at the sound of running footsteps on the stairs.
“Demoiselle!” One of her men rounded the last step, breathless, and held on to rough stones for balance. “There is ill news.…”
They’d found Aubery de Lacey’s body in the ruins of the stable. At first Gilliane refused to accept that it was he, but a search of the chapel and the surrounding burned-out buildings failed to yield the boy. And Simon of Woodstock identified Geoffrey’s seal ring, which had been given Aubery on his brother’s death, beneath the charred body.
In the yard the survivors worked with scarves tied over their faces to combat the stench of burned flesh as they attempted to sort their fallen comrades. And peasants, who had fled at Brevise’s approach, returned to struggle with the frozen earth, digging with picks to make a common grave for all the dead save Aubery de Lacey, who was to be hastily wrapped and set beneath Beaumaule’s chapel floor.
It was Richard who had pulled the grieving girl from her brother’s body, enfolding her in his own cloak. She was strangely silent and rigid, unable to weep now, as she stood like stone beside him. And for a time he feared her mind had broken from this final horror. When she finally did speak, she turned to stare at those who worked to bury the bodies.
“I would that they be left out for carrion.” She spoke tonelessly.
There was no doubt as to whom she meant, but he shook his head. “Nay, but ’twould ruin the water to let them rot. ’Tis enough that they die unshriven.”
“And who gave Aubery his final blessing? Who commended his soul to God?” Her voice rose suddenly, almost hysterically now. “Nay, but—”
“ ’Twas done, Demoiselle—I spoke the words myself.”
“And Brevise?”
“Brevise escaped.”
“Aye, Brevise always escapes, does he not?” she cried out bitterly. “Who’s to punish him? How is it that he lives and my brothers die?”
“I will.”
“My lord . . .” Everard interrupted them reluctantly, his own heart heavy over the loss of the boy. “My lord, Sir Simon identifies Brevise’s captain, who yet lives. What would you we did with him? Would you ransom him?”
Richard looked down to where Gilliane stared at the open burial pit. “Nay—dispatch him. And post his head above the gate on a pike.” Behind him, he could hear the man cry out, but his jaw hardened. “Aye—I’d have William of Brevise know he has gained me for enemy this day.”
Gilliane shook loose from him and shrugged out of his mantle, handing it to him. Clasping her arms across her chest, she walked to the chapel, which had survived somehow. Its small windows were cracked and shattered from the heat of the fires that had burned around it, and the cold sunlight streamed down to the rec
tangular stones that covered the floor before the altar. Already, two men labored to pry up a couple of them while another waited with a shovel to dig beneath. And on a makeshift table of boards between trestles, Alwina sewed Aubery in his shroud. The old woman’s shoulders shook and her fingers trembled, but she stitched as carefully as if it had been his Christmas robe. Richard watched helplessly as Gilliane stared down into the unrecognizable charred flesh. And then she covered her face and stumbled away.
He caught her, shaking her to force her to cry, but she remained dry-eyed. Finally, overcome himself by the bleak anger in her eyes, he attempted to cradle her against him. “Demoiselle . . . Gilliane . . .” he murmured soothingly, feeling in her rigid body an anguish more intense than if she’d torn her clothes and wailed outright.
She stood unyielding within his arms for a moment, and then pushed him away. Raising her set white face, she met his eyes. “I’d see him dead, my lord—I’d do anything to see Brevise dead. If I were a man, I’d hunt him down, dog that he is, and I’d face him this day.”
“Nay—I will see him punished.”
“I’d see his soul burn in hell,” she whispered with suppressed violence. “I’d not see him fined for this.”
“He’ll die,” Richard promised grimly.
“Will you swear it? Will you swear it to me now?” There was an urgency in her voice, and her hands clasped his mail-clad arms tightly as she looked up at him. “Will you?”
“I swear it.”
“On the Holy Rood?”
He disengaged her hands and drew his sword. Holding it so the tang and quillon of the hilt made a cross before him, he held it to the light. It cast the image of the Holy Rood in shadow over the smooth-hewn flagstones of the floor. His face grave, he intoned clearly, “I swear before God and Saint Agnes that William of Brevise shall not go unpunished.”