“You are a widow now,” Osbert murmured, grinning, “but not for long. Tomorrow you will be a new-wed wife again.”
The hand clamped across her mouth held her so hard that Gilliane was not only gagged but also incapable of moving. Still, Osbert must have seen her answer in her eyes. She had passed beyond fear. He could beat her to death, but he could never bring her to agree. It was borne in upon him that Gilliane preferred even the crippled idiot to himself. Because of her position and the way his man was holding her, Osbert could not strike her or kick her. He drew his knife, but even as he did, he remembered that her death would also kill his expectation of succeeding to Neville’s estates through marriage. Instead of bringing the blade down on her throat, he brought the hilt down on her head with all the force of his rage and his hate.
Of the next five days, Gilliane had no real memory. She had swum dizzily up toward consciousness a few times, but before she was actually able to move or speak, a bitter potion had been tipped down her throat by a hard-faced woman she did not recognize, and the world drifted away again. She had a dim awareness of being fed and once of being dressed and held upright, of her hand being taken, of something being thrust into it, her fingers held closed over that thing and moved, of her head being tipped up and down in a sign of affirmation, but all that was meaningless. There was also a recurrent nightmare of being mounted by a man and used cruelly. She had tried to fight off that nightmare, but her arms and legs would not move and her drugged tongue could not form anything but blurred, incoherent sounds.
When at last the world came into focus again, Gilliane found herself bound and gagged on her own bed, with Osbert looking down at her. Sense restored, her eyes widened and blazed with hate. Osbert laughed. “I have a few things to tell you, my beloved wife—for you are my wife. Here is our wedding contract.” He displayed a roll of parchment and flung it on the bed beside her, laughing again at the way her eyes followed it. “It is your copy. You may destroy it if you like—that will do you no good. I have a copy, too, and copies have been placed in safekeeping with the Bishop of London and in the church in the town. We were well and truly wed, and your mark, duly witnessed, has been placed on every copy. There are also unimpeachable witnesses to the fact that you were well bedded as well as wedded, so do not think you can free yourself by claiming that I have not done my marital duty.”
Tears of impotent rage filled Gilliane’s eyes and, for a few minutes, she struggled against the bonds that held her. Then, realizing she was merely giving Osbert pleasure, she swallowed the tears and lay still, schooling her face into a blank mask.
“I would suggest that you have that contract read to you before you destroy it. You will find that you love me so much you have been unusually generous. You have given over your property to my control during your life and, of course, made me your heir.”
That information did not affect Gilliane at all. She had never considered the property to be in her control, even when she had hoped to be able to yield it up to King John. In fact, she felt a little flicker of satisfaction. Osbert was stupid. Had he behaved properly toward Sir Richard and Neville’s other men, perhaps his plan would have succeeded. Instead, he had been fool enough to make those men hate him. Whether she lived or died, Gilliane knew that Osbert would get no good out of the Neville lands. Perhaps the satisfaction showed in her face, because Osbert laughed again.
“You think your Sir Richard will keep me from my own, but you are wrong. I will bring him to heel, to crawl and beg for my favor. Nor do not think to cry murder upon me and thus free yourself,” Osbert continued. “No person but you saw me or my men up here before the idiot fell from the window. I was found in my bed by the guard who came to report that Neville had been discovered dead in the courtyard. So far, all believe that he, of a sudden, went mad and decided to do away with himself. His crutch was by the window, and you nearby, with your head bruised, as if he had struck you with the crutch. If you hold your tongue, it will be assumed that you were trying to save him from himself. If you begin to cry aloud of murder…well, who could have thrust him from the window but you? There was no one here but you. He could have struck you while trying to defend himself.”
Gilliane continued to stare stonily into the distance, but her heartbeat quickened. Cry murder? One must be alive to cry murder. If Osbert was warning her against speaking out, then he did not plan her death—at least, not immediately. She did not permit her eyes to flicker toward him, she hardly dared blink lest she betray the sudden flare of hope that rose in her. If she could hold to life, then somehow, someday, she might find a way to revenge poor Gilbert and herself.
“And do not think that my father will school me for this,” Osbert snarled, having again perceived something in Gilliane’s expression despite her struggle to hide what she felt. “My father is dead at the hands of the monster who defeated him at Telsey cliff. The men say he is eight feet tall and cleaves a full-armed man in half as easily as one would slice a cheese. He gives no quarter. Every man except those who fled incontinent was slain.”
There was such pleasure in Osbert’s voice that Gilliane could not prevent herself from stealing a glance at him. She was not surprised at Osbert’s pleasure in his father’s death, but she was amazed at the relish with which he was describing Saer’s slayer. She would have thought Osbert would be terrified because such a man as he described would very likely pursue his advantage and attack Saer’s holdings after he had killed the master.
Catching her eye before she could withdraw her glance, Osbert nodded, grinning maliciously. “Oh, you hope the monster will not stop at my father but will rid you of me also—I know that. However, I am too clever to try to stem the tide. I am taking the proof that these lands are mine to Prince Louis. He will doubtless crush this Lemagne, who brays aloud like an ass that he is King Henry’s man. Meanwhile, my dear wife will hold the keep for me.”
Unable to command herself, Gilliane began to shake her head. Osbert nodded at her again, his eyes gleaming with malice.
“Oh, yes, you will hold it—or try to. I told you Lemagne will give no quarter. If you yield, he will kill you. Once you are dead, he can rule here—or he will think he can, so you will have to die. However, if you do not yield, you will have a chance to live. Tarring castle is strong. It will withstand a heavy assault with little defense. The men-at-arms will fight because they have heard what Lemagne is from those few who escaped him. You only need hold out for a few weeks. By then, I will return. Louis will relieve the siege, and you and I, my love, will live happily ever after.”
Perhaps if he had not said that, Gilliane would have considered trying to save her own life. However, Osbert’s words made clear to her that either she would die anyway, as soon as he returned with Prince Louis, or, worse yet, she would live as Osbert’s wife. In the past, when he had been proposed as her husband, Gilliane had occasionally thought lovingly of death. Now, when all hope was gone because he had made her his wife, she certainly would not shrink from the thought of dying. It would be far better to die than to be Osbert’s wife, and if her death came at Lemagne’s hands, she would, when she had expiated her sins, come to joy and peace everlasting in God’s presence.
For some time the night candle had been growing paler and paler as dawn lit the sky. Osbert glanced at the window and Gilliane became aware that the room was much brighter. Fearing that Osbert would see her determination in them, Gilliane closed her eyes. Almost at once, a huge pain burst in her head and total blackness engulfed her again. The first sensation Gilliane was aware of after that was a renewal of the pain in her head, although it was more a dull ache than an explosion of agony. Then she heard a woman sobbing. At first she wondered whether the sobs could be her own. There had been many times when her own sobbing had wakened her from her dreams. But it was soon clear the sobbing came from someone else. Waveringly, Gilliane lifted a hand to her aching head.
It was that gesture that recalled Osbert’s presence and what he had said because her hands we
re now free. Painfully, Gilliane opened her eyes and looked at the sobbing woman. It was not the stranger who had forced the evil-tasting potion down her throat but her own maid, Catrin. Gilliane looked cautiously around the room as far as she could without moving her head. It was morning now, she realized, and Catrin was the only person she could see. Ignoring the pain, Gilliane raised her head to see more fully. She was alone, except for the maid. Osbert was gone. Before she could feel relief, Gilliane remembered everything he had said.
“Are our enemies upon us already?” Gilliane asked Catrin.
The woman’s breath caught and she lifted her head from her hands to stare at her mistress. “Lady?” she breathed. “Lady? Are you better?”
“My head hurts,” Gilliane sighed. Then she asked, “What do you mean, better? Have I been ill?”
“Very ill. From when the late lord went mad and struck you and…and…” Her voice faltered as Gilliane’s eyes widened, and she began to cry again.
“Hush, Catrin,” Gilliane whispered. “I was not ill. I was drugged. Where is that woman who was ‘caring’ for me?”
“Dead. Lord Osbert grew angry with her yesterday and cried out that she had not kept her promise to make you well, that you were worse, and he signaled his man who, of a sudden, drew his sword and struck her down.”
Gilliane shuddered. What Catrin said confirmed that Osbert had let her live only to hold the keep. In the same way he had destroyed the tool he had used to force Gilliane into marriage, he would destroy Gilliane herself when she had served her purpose. Osbert had implied that Louis would support him whether or not Tarring held out. Gilliane was not certain whether that was true, but she knew that any force trapped between a hostile castle and a hostile army would have far less chance than a force that held Tarring keep. Lemagne might indeed be a monster, another Osbert with Saer’s strength and courage, but he had done nothing to her. Whatever could be done to make Osbert’s life harder and increase his danger, Gilliane would do.
“Osbert’s men,” Gilliane asked, “where are they?”
“Gone with him and also about thirty of the men-at-arms.”
“Who remains with us?”
“The wounded from Lord Saer’s force and those who would not go with Lord Osbert.”
“You mean he gave the men a choice and some would not go?” Gilliane asked in surprise.
The maid shrugged, cast a glance at her mistress, and then said, “Cuthbert said he would rather take his chance with Lemagne than be in Lord Osbert’s service. He said also it was a shame that any man would leave so gentle a lady in her sickness and that while he could he would defend you.”
Tears rose to Gilliane’s eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She could not simply order the men to open to their enemies and perhaps be slaughtered like sheep. She must try to do something to save them. She was, however, still too sick and dizzy to think of anything practical. Perhaps if she washed and ate, she would feel better. With Catrin’s help, this was accomplished, but Gilliane found herself so exhausted that she staggered back to bed and slept away the rest of the day. She woke to eat again, only to be so overwhelmed by panic and grief that she sent her women away for fear of infecting them with her hysteria and despair. She wept and prayed and then, again exhausted, slept.
The next morning when Gilliane woke, she was calm. She had finally found resignation. She rose and dressed and came down to break her fast in the great hall. The joy with which she was received almost broke her serenity. Life could be a sweet thing, indeed, if Osbert did not exist. Having eaten, she sent a manservant to summon Cuthbert, and she discussed with him the various choices open to them if they should be attacked by Adam Lemagne. The master-at-arms was not much help. He assured Gilliane that the men would stand by her and defend her as best they could, but he admitted that he was not fit to order the defense of a castle. He could not judge from where an attack would come, or whether it was better to ride out and assault the besiegers or wait behind the walls. Also, they were somewhat thin of men. The best he could say was that he thought they could hold out for several weeks if the army that came against them was not very large. If Lord Osbert returned with help soon, they might be safe.
Gilliane caught and held the mercenary’s eyes. “I will tell you plain,” she said, “that I would rather—far rather—this keep fall into Lemagne’s hands than that it be given back to that…” She stopped herself. What Osbert had said about her accusing him of murder was true. It was safer not to plant the thought of murder in anyone’s mind. She could not say that, but she could and would make her hatred plain. “He married me by force, for I was never willing. He was cruel to poor Gilbert. No matter what befalls me, if I can prevent it, Osbert will not have the use of me nor the profit of Gilbert’s lands.”
Cuthbert nodded. If any expression showed on his face, it was a flicker of relief. “We will as gladly defend you against him as against Lemagne, but without help, we cannot hold the keep forever.”
“Not forever, not even for long,” Gilliane said. “It is my thought that, however fierce Lemagne is, he would rather take Tarring at little cost than shed much blood over it. If they come, I will try to make terms with him for you and the other men to go in peace with your arms.”
“And you, my lady?”
“He can do me no harm,” Gilliane said quietly.
It was true, as far as she was concerned. She could only die, and that would be a happy release from a life that seemed only to heap horror upon horror. Cuthbert misunderstood his lady’s despairing calm. He assumed she would be safe because she was the holder of the land and worth a high ransom. They discussed the way the terms should be made to reduce the chance of treachery and then the master-at-arms took his leave with a light heart. He had, with great misgivings, chosen to obey his conscience, and now it seemed he would save his life as well as his honor, and make a profit, too. Freed from his contract to Saer, he and the other men could take service with a new master, who would pay them again.
The next morning Gilliane was wakened to hear that the keep was encircled. This, then, was the end. She rose and dressed and even ate without haste. She felt no fear; in truth, she felt nothing at all. When a man came to tell her that a herald from the besieging force was at the walls, she rose readily and followed him to the tower. There she listened to the message she had expected to hear. The keep must be yielded; Lord Gilbert de Neville must be given over into the besiegers’ hands.
“Tell him,” Gilliane said to Cuthbert, “that Lord Gilbert is dead and that Lady Gilliane, Lord Gilbert’s wife and heir, now holds the keep.”
This message was shouted down. The herald sat for a few minutes, as if puzzled for a reply, and then, without answering, set spurs to his horse and rode hastily back to the camp from which he had come. From the wall, Gilliane saw three men converge upon him. Even at that distance, it was plain that two of the men were very large. The third, who limped, was slighter. After some talk, three horses were brought and the three men came themselves to stare up at the tower in which Gilliane stood.
It had not taken Adam, Ian, and Geoffrey long to decide that it would be as unsafe to leave a woman to be captured and used by one of Louis’s men as the helpless idiot they thought they had come to take in charge. Also, there were women and women. It was a suspicious thing that Neville should have died so conveniently and so soon after Saer. Whether Neville’s widow was helpless and innocent, or guilty of his murder and in need of punishment, Tarring must be taken. Now, however, they were slightly at a loss. None of them really felt comfortable threatening a woman.
“Tell your lady,” Adam shouted, having been chosen as spokesman because his voice would carry best, “that for her own safety and protection she must yield to us. If there is someone in the keep who knows the ways of war, let him look out upon our numbers and our machines of war and he will see that we must conquer. We do not come for looting nor for revenge, but to ensure the future safety of our own lands by making these clean of our enemies. Th
us, we cannot be bribed with tribute. The keep must be yielded.”
The deep bellow, softened by distance, made Gilliane’s breath catch. What had she done, she wondered, to be accursed of God? Why was the last sweet thing in her whole life, her memory of her father’s voice, to be taken from her? Why should the man who would kill her speak to her in her father’s voice? She could not see well through the narrow, arrow-slit windows of the tower, so she went out the door and onto the wall, Cuthbert following anxiously. From between the crenellations, Gilliane looked down. Because of the distance and the nosepiece of the helmet, she could not make out the face of the man who spoke, only that he was clean-shaven and very large.
“I am no enemy to any man,” she called down. “If you leave me in peace, I will not trouble you.”
The words were meaningless. Gilliane knew words would never change these men’s minds. She spoke because the urge to hear that voice again was irresistible. Adam’s head tilted back and he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the brightness of the morning sky. He could see little beyond the soft rose color and the flutter of a woman’s garments. “Lady Gilliane?” he asked.
“It is I. You come and say ‘Yield.’ Why should I? If we must die, then we will die defending ourselves. You offer me nothing that could make me wish to make your conquest easier.”
“If you yield, no man will die,” Adam answered promptly, “and you will be treated with honor, as befits your station.”
“Those are easy words to say,” Gilliane responded bitterly, “and promises made of air are cheap to give. I—”
“Not to me!” Adam bellowed indignantly. “I do not promise what I cannot perform.”
Gilliane saw the other big man hastily put a hand on the speaker’s arm, and the smaller man said something eagerly, his voice too soft for Gilliane to hear. Her heart sank into deadness again. They were planning some trickery. She must take care that they agreed to and did exactly what Cuthbert had outlined. She watched the men talk for a few moments more and then saw the speaker shrug and fling back his head.
Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four) Page 9