by Anita Mills
And then she could smell the fetid, sickening breath of the man who crawled beneath the bed, yelling, “I have found the witch!”
She bit the dirty hand that groped for her, tasting the mingled filth and blood, and then there were others pulling at her, some at her feet and others at her hair. Tears of pain welled as she was dragged headfirst from the bed. She kicked loose and tried to roll to a crouch as she cleared the frame. Clawing at her attackers, she was kicked and pummeled and spat on.
“ ’Tis the devil that gives her strength!”
“Aye, ’tis the devil’s own hair she has!”
Someone held up the terrified cat that belonged to the merchant’s housekeeper, shoving it into her face. “Aye, ’tis her familiar!” The poor animal scratched and hissed until the one who had it flung it out the window. It apparently landed on its feet and ran for safety, for above the din Gilliane heard someone shout, “Aye, ’tis the devil, all right—the beast is unharmed from the fall!”
“I am but the demoiselle of Beaumaule!” she cried, trying to rise. “Have done, good people!”
She was kicked from behind and sprawled forward, doubling over to protect the babe within her as she fell. All around her, they were tearing open chests and cabinets, splintering them at the locks, and dragging forth Richard’s rich tunics and her clothes. Dirt-caked women held up samite gowns, crowing toothlessly over their finds.
“Burn her! Burn her! Burn Rivaux’s harlot!”
Bernard, who lay beaten and severely wounded, gasped out, “Nay, but you know not what you do. If you would think her a witch, have her tried.”
Gilliane grasped at the idea immediately. “If you burn me without trial, I am Norman—there’s not one of you who will live when all is done,” she promised, hoping against hope they’d listen.
“Nay—burn her!”
But there were those among them who were not now so sure—there were no wergilds, no fines if the victim were Norman, only a cruel death, and punishment was swift. Several backed away uncertainly. “Nay, you burn her then—I’d try her first,” one of them muttered, suddenly afraid.
“She is a witch!”
“Aye, but—”
“She kills your babes!”
“ ’Tis for the Church to decide,” the man who’d first found her maintained stubbornly now. “Aye, we’ll have her tried and then she will burn.”
But it was not over—she’d merely bought time. One of the stouter women, saying they’d take her to the priest, pulled her up by her hair and thrust her toward the stairs, flinging her down them as though she were but a sack of grain. She hit the wall and broke her fall. Those who crowded below caught her roughly and pushed her before them toward the shattered door.
Her dress caught on the broken hinge, tearing, and someone suddenly caught at her sleeve. “Nay, but let us see if she has the devil’s mark on her!” And then she was pulled about as her dress was ripped from her and the pieces trampled into the garbage and offal in the street. She struck out and clawed at them to no avail, and then stood before them naked and bleeding.
“I see naught,” one man dared to say.
“Fool! ’Tis the red hair!”
A contingent of riders came into the lane, and Gilliane wrenched away from those who held her to fling herself before them, knowing she had the better chance with any knight. The crowd parted, scrambling for safety at the onslaught of hooves, and Gilliane feared to be trampled. At the last moment she rolled clear, putting The riders between herself and those who attacked her.
“What goes here? Jesu—Gilly!”
Richard dropped his reins and dismounted, drawing his sword. “Nay, but block the alleys,” he ordered curtly. “I’d have none escape.”
Guy sat astride behind him and surveyed those who carried garments of samite and sendal in filthy hands. “Kill any who would flee!” he called out as his men moved to seal the narrow lane. “And go house to house and bring them out.”
Richard strode over to where Gilliane lay in a battered heap in the dirty street. Slowly, in full view of everyone, he handed his sword to Everard of Meulan and drew off his own red-and-black tunic. Kneeling beside her, he pulled her up to sit and slipped it over her head. His hand picked at her hair, removing the litter that clung to it, and then he brushed it back from her bruised face. His jaw worked with anger as he stared at the scratches and cuts that oozed with still-clotting blood.
Those who had been clamoring to kill her but moments before were strangely silent now, staring dumbly at the sight of the great lord, shirtless and on his knees in the mud and mire. And then, fearful that they would be punished for harming the girl he held, they turned almost in unison to one who was attempting to lose himself amongst them.
“ ’Twas he! He said she was a witch!”
“Fools!” he spat at them. “Hold your tongues—he cannot kill us all!”
“A witch,” Guy muttered contemptuously. “If any burns today, ’twill be those who have harmed her.”
“My milk dried,” a woman said sullenly, looking at the ground. “And Borton’s boy sickened and Elbert’s dog died. Aye, and all has happened since she came.”
“Jesu!” Everard’s face mirrored his disgust. “And how many dogs and babes have died ere she came? Nay, but there are those that die every day! And if your milk dried, old woman, mayhap ’twas because you’ve born too many babes!”
Richard rose, lifting Gilliane with him and pulling his tunic down to cover her nakedness. “ ’Tis a woman of Norman blood you have accused without cause.” ‘Turning to the housekeeper, who stood white-faced in the doorway of the ransacked house, he ordered curtly, “Take her inside—I’d not have her see what I would do.” Bending to Gilliane, he promised grimly, “They will pay for every hurt.”
Gilliane drew herself up and passed them proudly, daring to look in the faces of those who’d beaten and spat at her. And each turned away, not wanting to meet her eyes. At the front of the house they parted silently to let her by.
“ ’Twas him—’twas Thorwald!”
The crowd that so lately had been a mob thrust forward a lean weasel-faced man, who shrank back against them. Richard picked up his sword and drew closer, his dark eyes hard. Lifting the point to rest at the bulge of the man’s Adam’s apple, he demanded silkily, “I’d know whom to blame, Thorwald—aye, else you’d die alone, you’d tell.”
The man squirmed as the point pricked the skin of his neck. “I thought she was a witch,” he managed to say, drawing his tongue over thin dry lips. “And she was naught but a whore, anyway.” He let out a cry of fear as the blade dug in suddenly, and he fell at Richard’s booted feet.
“Revive him.”
Guy watched silently as Everard used his helmet to scoop up some of the foul water from the gutter and flung it over the unconscious man. Richard leaned to place Hellbringer’s tip against Thorwald’s breastbone as he awakened. “Who?” he repeated awfully.
“Nay,” the man gasped.
“Speak now or die unshriven.” For emphasis, he leaned on the hilt, pressing downward.
“Brevise—’twas my lord of Brevise.” The man’s eyes widened in terror as Richard did not lift his blade.
“Get him a priest that he may confess.”
A murmur of apprehension spread through the crowd as everyone realized what he meant to do. There was no question of mercy—they’d taken a Norman girl of gentle birth and dragged her, bloodied and beaten, into the street. And now he would show them no more kindness than they would have shown her. They milled uneasily, wondering how many of them were to share Thorwald’s fate.
Inside the house, the woman washed Gilliane’s cuts and would have salved them, but was stopped. “Nay, but I’d have a bath first. Sweet Mary, but I thought to be killed,” Gilliane whispered, still shaking from the horror of being nearly torn limb from limb by the mob. And then she heard the collective gasp from outside and knew that Richard had exacted a measure of
vengeance for what had happened to her.
“Is she all right?” the strong, masculine voice asked.
She looked up to where Guy of Rivaux stood above her, and tried to nod despite the ache in her head where she’d been kicked. “Aye, I will mend.” Her lips were stiff and her face sore, but she managed to inquire, “And Earl Roger?”
“He is dead.”
“I am sorry for it, my lord.”
“Nay, child, but he died as he lived, giving peace to those he left.” He leaned to examine a cut on her forehead, murmuring, “We should not have left you here.”
“I had not the right to go.”
The woman tending her withdrew to see to the drawing of a bath, and they were alone. Guy moved away, pacing as though he would speak, and then he cleared his throat. “Why have you not spoken to Richard of the child?” Her heart seemed to stop at the question, and she sat very still, not answering, until he came back to her. “Gilliane, I have watched Catherine carry six of my babes, five to fruition, and I know.”
“Aye.” She sighed heavily and looked away.
“Do you mean to tell him?”
“Nay.” It was scarce a whisper. “Nay, I’d not tear at him further for what he must do, and I do not think he would let me go if he knew.”
“Gilliane—”
“He’d keep me and her both, my lord, and neither she nor I could bear it. ’Tis different for a man—he can lie with more than one woman to ease his body and yet think himself true. But we cannot share him—the pain would be too great.”
“He has no wish to wed her.”
“He cannot in honor refuse—and even if he could, Holy Church would not consider him free to wed me.”
“Come to Rivaux, then, child. Cat and I would stand for you and the babe.”
“And bear his bastard there? Nay, but I cannot— he’d know of it, and there would be that tie between us still.”
“There is little else,” he reminded her gently. “And bastardy is no bar to love for me—I’d welcome the babe and see it safe.”
“I mean to go to the Priory of St. Agnes near Beaumaule, to the nuns there.”
“Jesu! ’Tis no place for a babe, Gilliane.” His heart went out to her for the sacrifice she would make, and he added in a gentler tone, “I’d tell him, were I you.”
“Nay. ’Tis better to be a bastard in a nunnery than to be one in a household where there are legitimate sons, I think.”
“Then come to Rivaux.”
Tears scalded her eyes and threatened her composure, but she bit her lip until she could control the overwhelming gratitude she felt for this man who did not condemn her for what she had done. “If ever the need arises, I will remember what you have offered me, my lord.”
He clasped her shoulder as one would a man’s and then drew away. “Art a daughter to give a man pride.”
“You will not tell him?” she asked anxiously.
“Nay, not if you do not will it.”
Richard walked in, wiping Hellbringer’s blade on a corner of his undertunic, and his anger at her injuries flared anew. “The one who first accused you is dead, Gilly. Aye, and others also. Jesu, but they cannot wait to accuse each other for what was done!” His eyes met Guy’s, and there was no mercy in them. “Do you come with me to seek Brevise?” he asked grimly.
“Aye, but I’ll warrant he has already fled. A man who attacks by deceit does not wait to be caught.”
“I will follow him to Brevise itself then.”
“Nay.” It was Gilliane who spoke. “Richard, if he is not in London, he will not have gone there. Sweet Mary, but I’d not have you leave me this night.”
In an instant he was there, leaning over her, brushing at the tangles in her hair with his bloodied hand. “Aye, if I find him not this day, I will return that you are not alone. And I leave full half my escort here, though I think there will be few foolish enough to accuse you again.”
She reached up to hold his hand against her face, turning into it to press her lips into his palm. And she felt the fingers of his other hand tighten in her hair. Tears of impending loss brimmed in her blue eyes, brightening them, and he mistook the reason.
“Nay, I have not forgotten the oath I swore on Holy Rood, Gilly. If not this day, I will kill him yet.”
“Aye.”
The house was still after they left, the only sound being the hammering of those who would repair the door, as the servants and men moved about without speaking, each one of them lost in his own grim thoughts. There was not a man among them who had not asked to join in the search for Brevise.
Gilliane’s body was bathed, her hair washed with care, and each and every cut was salved. The housekeeper hovered over her, afraid that Richard of Rivaux would ask how it was that she had not defended his leman. It was not until she drew the soft woolen undershift over the girl that she dared to ask, “You will not tell him that I fled when the door broke?”
“Nay, you would have been a fool to stay,” Gilliane answered wearily.
“Demoiselle?”
“She is unwell!” the woman rounded on the servant who would interrupt them.
“The boy Garth—”
“Garth is here? Nay, but I would see him, then.”
Still sniffing her disapproval, the housekeeper withdrew, admonishing the boy to speak his message quickly, that his mistress might rest. Travel-stained and weary, Garth looked around him in disbelief.
“God’s blood, but what happened, Demoiselle?”
“ ’Tis too painful to tell. But I’d know—did you find him?”
“Aye.” He came forward and would have dropped on bended knee, but she shook her head. “I found him at Clifford’s keep, and waited until your message was read to him by Lady Clifford’s chaplain— three times he had it read, Demoiselle, whilst I waited.”
“And his answer?”
“ ‘Aye—tell the Lady Gilliane I will await her as she asks on St. John’s Day,’ he said to me.”
25
“He escaped.”
He came through the repaired doorway and threw his helmet to the floor in disgust. His black hair glistened with sweat and his face was marked with the imprint of his nasal on his cheeks. The dark eyes that met hers glittered with the impotent fury he felt, and then softened.
“I am sorry, Gilly. I wanted to kill him for you.”
“Aye, but you cannot be faulted for his fleeing,” she consoled him, rising from her bench to take his heavy gloves. “Sit you down, that I may divest you.”
“Nay—Walter can do that. ’Tis enough that you tend yourself.” He touched a bruise that darkened her jawline, tracing it tenderly. “Does it pain you overmuch?”
“Not when I consider that God in His mercy let me live.” Somehow, she managed to smile despite the soreness. “But you must be tired unto death, Richard, for I am told you did not leave Harlowe until yesterday.”
“ ’Tis but a bath and food I need.”
“Then let me tend you.”
His eyebrow lifted, but his faint smile betrayed his pleasure at the offer. He nodded and followed her into the small chamber they shared. She moved slowly, her body obviously hurting, and yet even as bruised and swollen as she was, there was an indefinable something about her that drew him to her. Nay, there were comelier girls to be had, but he’d not have them.
She divested him of his bloodied surcoat and his mail, reminding him of that first meeting at Beaumaule when he’d found her touch so pleasing. And, as if she shared his thoughts, she ran her fingers through the thickness of his hair, combing it, scratching his weary head, soothing it. He leaned back, overcome with the intimacy of her touch, of the feel of his head leaning back against her breasts. He’d wanted her from the beginning, but the intense love he felt for her was more than the mere slaking of desire. Any castle whore could do that for him. Nay, what he had of Gilliane de Lacey could not be gotten anywhere else.
“Art sil
ent,” she chided, rubbing his head with increased vigor. And then, bending over him, she sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “Jesu, Richard, but I have seen wet hunting dogs that smelled better.”
“I’d see you put on a helmet and ride many leagues under a hot sun,” he retorted, grinning. “Aye, we’d not smell your rosewater then.” He reached upward, clasping her arms and pulling her forward over him. “But ’tis not my hair I’d have you kiss,” he murmured, leaning back to look at her.
“Without a bath, there’s naught of you I would kiss anyway.”
“Gilly?”
“What?”
“How long has it been—how long since you knew you loved me?”
“I thought ’twas when we were at Rivaux, but I think now perhaps I was mistaken. Nay, but ’twas when I saw you among the smoke and flames at Beaumaule.”
“Only then?” he teased.
“Well …” She appeared to consider the matter and then nodded. “Aye. Before that, I merely thought you rich and handsome.”
“And you do not regret what is between us?” His expression, which had been light, sobered, and the eyes that looked up into hers were intent. “I’d know, Gilly.”
“I regret none of it,” she answered solemnly. “May God forgive me, but I regret none of it.”
“Nor do I.”
Unable to bear the emotions that warred within her as she became acutely aware of his touch, his voice, his very presence, she forced herself to loosen his hands and back away. “If we speak much more of this, you’ll not get your bath, my lord—and you cannot say ’tis not needed.”