by Anita Mills
“Nay, he shall not live,” she protested.
“That I will seek justice . . .”
“That he will not live,” Gilliane insisted, her voice low, her eyes on him rather than on the shadow of the Cross.
“That I will seek justice through his death,” he finished. Sheathing his sword, he returned his attention to her. “Art satisfied now, Demoiselle? Sweet Mary, but you are a bloodthirsty maid.”
Thinking he mocked her, she lifted her chin defiantly. “Nay, my lord. Naught but the spilling of William of Brevise’s lifeblood will ease the pain I feel.”
“So be it then.” Irrationally, he felt bound to her now, bound by an oath that gave them a common cause. He reached to grasp her elbow and turn her away from the horror of what Alwina did. “Come, there’s little time, Gilliane, and I’d have you pack whatever you can find to take.”
“Aye.” She sighed, exhaling heavily. “There is not much to take, is there? My family is gone, and my home is burnt.”
“You are mistress of Beaumaule.”
“Aye—mistress to naught but rubble.” The toe of her leather slipper drew a half-circle in the sooty dust that had descended like a blanket over the floor. “Nay, but there’s naught left here for me.”
“I will see it rebuilt, Gilliane—’twill rise again in stone,” he promised. “But for now, we must leave ere the sun reaches its height.” His hand still clasping her elbow, he guided her out. “Come.”
Simon of Woodstock paused from the grim task of raising the grisly pike above what was left of Beaumaule’s gate, and watched Rivaux lead Gilliane de Lacey from the chapel. For a moment his eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. Then he turned away to drive the supporting stake into the frozen earth with unwarranted viciousness.
10
Gilliane’s spirits ebbed further with each passing furlong as her horse plodded beside Rivaux’s. She had bidden all she knew farewell, and despite assurances that it was not so, she was certain she’d never see Beaumaule again. And even if she did, it would not be the same. Her brothers were all dead, her men either buried in a common grave or scattered to seek service elsewhere—even Simon of Woodstock was gone now, gone to Thomas Clifford’s keep. She was numb, unable to feel, unable to cry for her losses, and yet unable to turn her thoughts elsewhere.
“Demoiselle, if you tire, we will stop again.”
Rivaux’s voice was kind, intruding on her reverie almost apologetically, as though he knew her pain. She looked up and realized he’d been studying her with troubled eyes. But neither kindness nor rest could ease the terrible emptiness she felt.
“Nay, I am all right, my Lord. I’d not delay you further.”
There was nothing to say to her, nothing to do save wait for time to heal her heart and spirit, he realized, and yet he felt the need to try. As inured to death and battle as he was, he also could not forget the horror they’d left at Beaumaule. Aye, it had been a long time ere he slept at the monastery where they’d rested for the night, for every time he closed his eyes, he could see again Aubery de Lacey’s frail, charred body, could smell again the stench of the seared flesh. If there ever was an act that demanded vengeance, it was the burning of Beaumaule.
He sucked in his breath, thinking to cleanse his mind with the cold air, and smelled instead that last curling, spiraling smoke that had followed them more than an hour after they’d left the place. He glanced sideways at Gilliane de Lacey, wondering if she shared his thoughts. Where the hood of her woolen cloak fell back to reveal her face, he could see her stony profile, white and set, in contrast to the bright copper hair that brushed against her high cheekbone and fluttered in the chill breeze. And once again it came home to him that she was pretty in an unusual way—not breathtakingly beautiful like his mother and sisters—just pretty. If only she could recover . . .
Aye, that was the question, wasn’t it? There was a time yesterday when he’d feared for her mind, feared that the horror of what had passed had broken her will to survive. She’d ridden so silently, so stiffly, for hours on end, until at last she’d slumped forward in her saddle, and Everard had had to brace her quickly to break her fall. For once he’d not complained, calling out instead for aid, and they’d halted to lift her, senseless, to the ground. She could go no further, and they could not stay in the cold. And while they disputed among them whether she’d swooned from hunger or whether her mind had gone, the old woman had insisted that ’twas because her mistress had had no sleep. It had been the crimson mantle he wore—she’d stitched all night on it, old Alwina had said. Aye, ’twas what had saved those who survived—Gilliane had been the first to see Brevise’s approach.
He pulled the warm fur-lined garment closer and remembered the feel of her. They’d placed her before him, and he’d wrapped her in it, holding her whilst she slept. Sweet Jesu, but the maid had been tired—she’d not stirred even when carried to bed. He flexed his sore arm as best he could. It was stiff still, both from wielding his sword at Beaumaule and from holding her steady on his horse, so stiff in fact he’d forgone his mail this day in favor of his cuir bouilli. He turned to look again at her, wondering if she was worth the pain and effort he’d expended on her behalf. A lock of her red hair spread in the breeze, catching the sunlight like spun copper, and he knew somehow she would be.
“Sweet Mother of God! ’Twould seem we are awaited, my lord!” Everard pulled his reins so sharply that his horse reared.
Brought up sharply by the urgency in his captain’s voice, Richard jerked his head to stare where Everard pointed. A long, unsatisfactory string of oaths sprang to his lips as he cursed himself for a fool. He was caught in the open, unmailed and hampered by women and wounded, with nowhere to flee on the chalky ridges.
Gilliane’s heart tightened as she clutched at the pommel of her saddle and leaned forward to see where they looked. “Is it Brevise—do you think ’tis Brevise?” she asked fearfully, knowing they had not the means to fight.
“Nay.”
It was Richard who answered her. He stood in his saddle and tried to make out the colors on the pennon that flapped in the wind above an armed column. His eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he sat back. “ ’Tis Warenne—and he is Stephen’s man.”
“Then mayhap they do not wait for you at all,” she offered, relieved.
“They wait for me.” His voice grim, he considered whether he dared attack, leaving her, her women, and Beaumaule’s wounded behind. But he had not the time to armor himself—although the column was halted as the leaders conferred, they were still mounted.
“How do you know?”
He knew. He knew instinctively that the good Bishop of Winchester had alerted his enemies, and now they lay ready to take him. Why had he not considered that they’d not want him to warn Gloucester? He’d been so certain of his own power, a power secured by the old king’s grace and his father’s reputation, that he’d scarce given a thought to his vulnerability under a King Stephen.
“They do not want me to warn Gloucester,” he answered her finally, his mind racing through his choices even as he spoke.
“They have the greater number, my lord,” Everard muttered as he attempted to count the shining helmets in the valley below. “Would you that we turned back? I do not think we are seen yet.”
“To what? There’s not a keep within a night’s ride now that does not call Stephen liege lord,” Richard retorted, barely controlling his anger with himself. “Nay.”
“We cannot fight—there’s the maid, and the wounded from Beaumaule.”
Gilliane listened to the captain’s nearly dispassionate assessment of their chances. Without thinking, she blurted out, “But if they await Rivaux, if ’tis Rivaux they would stop, then let them pursue him back from whence we have come.”
“Jesu!” Everard’s expression became one of complete disgust. “And then they take him.”
“Nay.” Her melancholy forgotten in the face of a new threat, she leaned forward,
straining for a better look. The men below were still little more than shining specks in the morning sun. “Aye, they see us not.” She turned in her saddle to face Richard, reasoning, “And one helmeted man is much like another from the distance, is he not? Had it not been for the pennon, you’d not have identified Warenne, would you?” Seeing that he eyed her impatiently, she shook her head. “Nay, but were I a man, I’d fight as they have—I’d save myself by ruse.”
“The maid thinks herself a warrior,” Everard scoffed.
But Richard was considering, ready to listen to anything that might offer a better outcome. “Speak your ruse, Demoiselle—and quickly. Nay, I’d listen,” he silenced the incredulous captain.
His eyes narrowed intently beneath the shadow of his helmet, watching her and waiting. She drew her breath and nodded. “I’d flee, my lord, but I’d have this Warenne pursue another. If you but gave one of the men that which marks you, you could escape. In your helmet and cloak, he could be mistaken for you, and—”
“ ’Tis cowardice!” Everard fairly howled.
“Is it bravery or vanity that makes men fight when they are outnumbered?” she countered. “Mother Mary, but I do not understand the lot of you! My brother rode to his death rather than run, and he—” she caught herself and appealed instead to Richard of Rivaux. “If you fight, my lord, what happens to us?” With a sweep of her hand she indicated Alwina and the wounded who rode at the back of the column.
“You will be captured.”
“Aye, and Brevise is Stephen’s man also—think you he will not seek me? Nay, but if we run and are caught, ’tis the same, but at least—”
“Aye,” he cut in curtly. Turning to Everard, he murmured, “They do not intend to harm me—they’d not risk my father’s certain wrath, I think. At worst, they will but seek ransom from him, and I will see that ’tis paid. What say you—would you be taken for me?”
“What of the others? You cannot take them also, else Warenne will suspect,” Everard pointed out.
“I’d have you tell him that I will ransom them also.” His dark eyes searched his captain’s face. “But if you do not wish to do this—”
“Nay.” A wry smile twisted Everard of Meulan’s face as he shook his head. “You are unmailed, my lord, and the leather will not take many blows. Besides, Warenne’s keep is warm, I’ll warrant.”
“They move,” Gilliane noted with alarm. “Sweet Mary, but you have not long to decide!”
“What say you—would you go willingly in my place?” Richard asked again, his gaze still on the older man.
“Aye.”
“So be it then,” Rivaux murmured with a sigh, reaching for his heavy helmet. “We are not of a size, but if you sit tall and ride my horse, mayhap they will not know of the deception until ’tis too late.” Reluctantly he dismounted and waited for the other man to swing down also. Unclasping the red velvet mantle at his shoulder, he lifted it off. The boy Garth hurried to take it, while Everard handed over his own plain woolen one.
“I shall be considerably warmer than you, my lord,” the captain murmured, settling into the fur-lined cloak. “Aye, ’tis overlong, but that cannot be seen when I am in the saddle.” He stepped into the stirrup and eased his mail-encased body onto Richard’s favorite horse. “Gently, you black beast, gently,” he soothed the animal as it stepped sideways. “I think he knows I am not up to your weight, my lord. Who goes with you?”
“Can we not take Alwina at least?” Gilliane asked hopefully.
“Nay. Were it not for his arm, I’d take Walter.” He looked down his line, considering. “We dare not draw attention if we are to succeed. You, fellow,” he addressed the boy Garth suddenly, “would you ride with me?”
“Aye.”
Richard pulled the stiff woolen cloak closer and swung into his captain’s saddle, nodding. “Then I take the demoiselle and the boy. Everard, once you are taken, we shall strive for the nearest port where Gloucester has ships. Tell Warenne to send to Celesin with his demands for your ransom.”
The captain nodded grimly now and jammed Richard’s helmet on his head. It was too loose for battle, but he meant to surrender anyway. Kneeing the black horse, he saluted his lord and urged the big animal forward.
“Wait.” Gilliane hesitated, aware that they’d done this for her, and then blurted out, “The mantle—have a care for the mantle, good sir. And … and I wish you Godspeed—all of you.”
Everard of Meulan nodded and raised a gloved hand to signal the column to fall in behind him. The boy Garth edged his horse closer to Richard and waited. As the men of Rivaux and Beaumaule slowly descended, their wounded behind them, into the valley, Gilliane and Richard and the boy watched. From the distance, they could see Warenne’s mounted troop draw nearer. Their leader, mayhap Rainald de Warenne himself, rode forward to greet Everard, who remained helmeted. After the exchange of some words, Richard’s captain drew his sword and proffered it in surrender.
It was then that Richard truly cursed. Gilliane’s eyes widened nearly as much at the vehemence in his voice as at the blasphemy. “Holy Jesu, but what ails you?” she had to know.
Richard’s fingers closed over the hilt of his own sword, grasping it in his palm. “If you’d pray, pray that we can outride them, Demoiselle,” he muttered, kicking his horse and cutting wide of the halted column. She and the boy had to spur after him.
“Wait. I don’t understand—”
“The sword. I forgot the sword—he will know ’tis not mine he takes!” he all but shouted at her. “Come on!”
As if to give credence to his words, she could see several men detach themselves from Warenne’s column and ride toward them. “We are seen!” she called out to Rivaux.
“Aye, but we are unmailed and lighter!”
She did not have to be urged twice. She dug her heels into the flank of her horse and gave it its head. It stretched its neck into the wind and pounded the hard, frozen earth in pursuit of Richard of Rivaux. Garth kicked and shouted at his own beast until it too ran as though hell pursued them.
“Archers!” he cried out in dismay. “Lady, there are archers!”
Two bowmen, their aim hampered by the movement of their own horses, tried to draw within range. An arrow fell, its flight spent, in front of her, and she spurred her lady’s horse even more furiously. But they had little interest in her. Richard, whose stronger mount easily outdistanced all of them, turned back at Garth’s frantic shout, slowing to reach for Gilliane’s reins. At that moment, the bowman who had been shooting at the boy loosed an arrow that caught Richard in the shoulder with a whooshing thud. He swayed slightly from the sudden impact as the metal tip cut through the boiled leather, pinning his cloak to the cuir bouilli. Gilliane, without thinking, leaned to grasp both sets of reins from his hand. As a red stain spread, seeping through the mantle, Warenne’s archer reined in in horror, and Gilliane took the lead, drawing the big bay beside her.
“I thought you said they would not harm you!” she shouted at him.
“Nay—’twas not I he attempted.” Richard of Rivaux leaned forward in his saddle, braced against the pain. “Nay, do not stop,” he gasped through clenched teeth.
Whether it was because they thought him done or because they were afraid of the consequences of shooting Guy of Rivaux’s heir, the riders drew off. Gilliane, leaving nothing to chance, knotted his reins around her wrist and kicked her mount harder. The bigger horse jarred the earth beside her, and the man held on to the pommel of his saddle. His face was contorted, his skin pale beneath his black hair, but somehow he managed to keep his seat.
She did not look back until they’d crossed the breadth of the valley and climbed the next hill. Then, when she perceived they were no longer pursued, she reined in shakily. Garth dismounted and walked to stand beneath her.
“God’s bones, Demoiselle, but ’twas a ride!” he breathed.
“Aye.”
It was more of a groan than an acknowledgmen
t, but admiration mingled with pain in Rivaux’s dark eyes as he looked at her. Gilliane cast a furtive look behind them, and then slid out of her saddle. Her legs felt strangely weak and her heart beat apprehensively as she stared upward to where the arrow shaft pinned the cloak to his shoulder. A sudden wave of nausea engulfed her, forcing her to swallow hard or disgrace herself. “Sweet Mary,” she breathed, closing her eyes against the sight of it.
“Nay, I am all right. I . . .”
When she managed to look up again, he weaved before her, giving lie to his words, and she feared he would fall. “Do you think you are able to dismount, my lord?” she asked anxiously.
“Aye.” He leaned precariously over her, swaying in his saddle, and then murmured thickly, “Nay.”
“Garth, can you take him down?” she asked, knowing in her heart that he could not.
The boy eyed him doubtfully and shook his head. “Nay, but he is fourteen stone clothed at the least. If he fell on the arrow—”
“Aye.”
“I’d ride—whilst I can.” Richard spoke through clenched teeth. His gloved hands held tightly to his pommel for balance as he tried to fight the burning pain in his shoulder. “If I am taken down, I’d not be . . . able to remount,” he gasped.
“And if you fall—”
“Tie me on.” He closed his eyes, and she feared he would swoon. With an involuntary “Sweet Mary,” she lunged to catch him, but he rallied and held on. “Tie me on,” he repeated. “ ’Tis not far to the sea.”
“I can smell the water now, my lady,” Garth said hopefully.
Gilliane sniffed deeply and smelled nothing, but she was loath to dispute it. If Rivaux could but hang on until they reached a port, she could get aid for him. “All right, but there’s naught for rope—I’d try to hold you.”
“Nay, I am too heavy.” He groped at the arrow shaft, and then shook his head. His hand fell away, his glove covered with his own blood. “Break it off,” he ordered Garth.