‘Well done,’ he whispered in her ear as he pulled her against him. ‘Well done.’
Had he doubted her? Had he planned this to justify his actions in attacking Thaxted? Did he really believe that she could have given herself with such abandon through the night and then walked away from him in the light of the morn? Gillian sensed so much more beneath and behind what she could observe and hear. Something much bigger than her own aims was at stake.
Gillian felt that something deep within her trusted her husband and she accepted the certainty that she was safer with him than at the questionable or non-existent mercies of her brother. But were his words truly showing his approval of her declaration?
Oremund lost control then and everyone there saw the man she usually dealt with—dangerous, poisonous, selfish and attacking. Luckily, men with very big swords stood between them this time.
‘You traitorous, lying bitch!’ he screamed, his face contorted with rage. He took two steps towards her, but a wall of armoured warriors formed, keeping him at bay. ‘You will pay for this betrayal.’
She knew she’d backed away and pressed herself more firmly against Lord Brice. For the first time, she’d felt safe in the face of her brother’s rage. More importantly, she knew this was not the end for his habit was to strike out verbally first and then use other methods to apply punishment for perceived slights or offences. When it was clear he would not get closer to her, he strode to his horse, mounted it and rode off towards the keep.
This was not the end of it.
Gillian turned to warn Brice. He had no true idea of how dangerous Oremund could be when enraged like this. He released her as she moved and she found him looking pleased beneath his helm. And as she looked from one to another of his men, she found the same expression on all of them!
‘This is not over, my lord!’ she exclaimed in a voice kept low so that only he heard her. ‘He will not give up Thaxted without a fight. It was only a—’
‘A ploy, lady. Aye, I never expected him to walk away,’ Lord Brice replied. ‘Ernaut, take Lady Gillian back to Father Henry and stay there,’ he ordered as he mounted his own horse.
‘My lord,’ both she and Ernaut spoke at the same time.
But Brice was already thinking about the coming battle and had given them an order that he expected them to obey without question or hesitation. Just as the men behind her began to move into their position, she realised that she could stop the battle now. Or at the least, she could reduce the number of dead at the outcome. Gillian ran over to him and reached out to touch his leg, to gain his attention.
‘My lord,’ she called out over the growing noise of men preparing to fight. ‘My lord, I must speak with you.’
He frowned at her and motioned with a nod of his head for her to move off. She did not, for she knew if she told him about the passage under the keep, he could enter it and take the stronghold. When he realised that she would not move away, he leaned over towards her.
‘There is another way—’
The bolt hit her before she could finish and the force of its impact in her shoulder drove her to the ground. Searing, tearing pain coursed through her and her head began to swirl. Her stomach gripped and rolled within her as the pain reached a level she’d never endured.
Chaos ruled the day then and she could only hear the shouting get louder and louder and she fell further and further from it all. Everything around her blended together—the light of the sun, the wind that moved through the trees, Brice ordering them to set the arrows aflame and burn the keep to the ground.
Oh, dear God, no! She must stop him. Gillian watched as he approached, fierce and angry, calling out orders with each step until she was too dizzy to focus her eyes on him. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing and began to carry her away from the confusion.
‘My lord,’ she said, weakening with every breath she took.
‘Hush now, Gillian,’ he whispered against her forehead. ‘Father Henry will see you to rights.’
‘Brice! Stop!’
He paused then and her vision began to blur. Blood now soaked her clothing and she could not feel her arm. Gillian tried to squint to see his face, but she could not.
‘Brice, I can show you a way in. There is no need to burn it down,’ she begged. ‘I pray thee, please, my lord. There are innocents in there who will perish with the rest.’
Though he did not say it, she continued on, forcing out the words as the darkness called to her. ‘Forty paces from the north wall…a stand of trees… At the bottom of the middle one…’ she shook her head to clear it, but wisps of fog surrounded her ‘…when you climb through, you will be at the back of the smith’s cottage.’
Gillian reached for him then, but could not feel him. ‘Promise me you will let them live.’
She never heard his answer, but the shout that he made echoed in her head and she felt it as she fell against his chest. Then, the day faded to black and it was over.
Chapter Ten
Brice felt her faint and in a way it was better than having her awake. The arrow had pierced her high in the shoulder area, probably more flesh wound than real damage, and simply confirmed to him what a miserable cur her brother was.
Shooting his own sister in the back!
Oremund had sunk to a deeper low than any man he’d known—first abusing Gillian and then punishing her for her resistance. It was obvious to him that Oremund could have and would have killed her long ago unless she held some value to him. Oh, the sentiment of close relatives meant nothing to him, but the monetary or power kind did, otherwise the bastard daughter would have followed her mother and father in death, with little notice or fanfare to mark it. That meant Gillian had something that Oremund wanted. Something she’d escaped from Thaxted with. And since she had brought next to nothing with her but the clothes on her back, it must be some information she held.
He held her closer and walked quickly through the lines to the camp where word of her injury had already spread. Two of the men who saw to injuries directed him to a cot where he laid her on her side so she did not rest on that shoulder. Father Henry ran over to them and knelt at her side.
‘How did this happen?’ he asked.
‘’Twas always his plan, I think. To intimidate her. To punish her.’ He’d felt the scars on the backs of her legs and on her hips and buttocks when they’d made love. Brice knew that scars like that came from frequent beatings. Dear God in heaven! What had she endured under Oremund’s control? No wonder she tried to escape every time she could.
Once Gillian was being attended, Brice returned to the front of his forces. She had offered him a way in that would enable him to spare the keep and most of those inside. Though he cared not if Oremund lived or died, the others living there would eventually be the ones to tend his lands. Alive was much better than dead or maimed.
His men were not happy when he revealed the change in plans. Once the excitement of the approaching battle began to rouse a man’s blood, it was difficult to simply walk away. He could feel it stirring in his own veins, but he suspected that part of what he felt was rage over Gillian’s injury. He should never have allowed her that close to Oremund. He should have ignored all the bluster and kept to his own plan and she would never have been there to be shot. His failure could have cost her life, and it might yet, if infection set in or if it did not heal well.
Lucais and Ansel argued against his new plan, but he watched as Stephen and Richier, experienced warriors both, considered it and nodded. They all offered to be part of the small group sent through the tunnel or passage into the keep. They left to make their preparations and he made arrangements for the diversion to occur to draw attention to the front wall and away from the opening.
Brice decided that letting some time pass before the attack was a good strategy—his men knew the plan, but those inside most likely expected an immediate attack in retribution. It was possible that Gillian’s plea had saved the lives of many in the keep and in his own lines
, for running into a battle fuelled by anger was dangerous. War was something best met head on with cold resolve and cool-headed focus.
And they did so, later that day, with a focused efficiency learned from fighting together many times in many places against various enemies. He’d trained and fought with the men he’d selected as his commanders in Brittany, in Normandy and now in England, and would trust them with his life.
The only thing Brice lamented was the lack of his two closest friends at his back. The last missive from Giles, written in his own hand at that, promised his presence as soon as Lady Fayth gave birth. The news of Soren was promising and distressing at once—he continued to recover from his injuries received at Hastings, but was a changed man from the one they knew. The ‘beautiful bastard’, the name by which he was called and known because of his looks, a name and appearance that gave him entry into the beds of many desirable women, was gone. The grievous wounds of battle had taken their toll on his appearance and his soul, it would seem.
Brice’s men performed as he expected—with thoroughness, efficiency and success, for within two hours the keep was his. The only disappointment was that Oremund and his crony Raedan escaped, hacking their way through a thin spot in his line. They made a run for the forest that they knew better than him and Brice knew this was not their last stand. Overwhelmed by the strength in his numbers and by the desertion of their lord, Thaxted’s men-at-arms surrendered.
By nightfall, the keep had been cleared of bodies and thoroughly searched from top floor to donjon below. Anything of value was secured and all stores would be counted so that Brice could know what he had and what he needed to begin rebuilding Thaxted. The injured were seen to and the dead were blessed and buried. Once the necessary things were done and guards set in a perimeter along the roads leading to and from Thaxted, he allowed himself to think about Gillian.
Reports about her condition had been brought to him throughout the day, so he knew that the arrow had been removed, that she’d lost a considerable amount of blood and that she remained unconscious. And she’d been moved to his tent for privacy and was under the care of one of the camp women. He’d carefully listened and then put the information aside while he concentrated on the battle.
Now, though, he went to find her, and if she could be moved, to take her into the keep where she could be comfortable and cared for. Her room had been prepared, straightened from disarray caused by a search and with a fire laid to warm her.
Ernaut stood at the entrance to the tent, greeting him with his lip curled slightly in a mutinous expression. The boy was not happy about being relegated to the back when the fighting had ensued. His displeasure was something Brice understood, for his squire believed himself ready for battle and wanted the opportunity to achieve the status of manhood that fighting would give him.
‘The lady?’ he asked as he approached.
‘Still asleep, my lord,’ Ernaut replied, reaching to lift the flap of the tent.
Brice stepped closer and lowered his voice. ‘I would ask that you remain my lady’s guard, Ernaut. As you can see, not even her family can be trusted. But I know that you can.’ The boy’s face beamed with pride then, the recent displeasure replaced now. ‘I know you will not fail her.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ he agreed, standing a little straighter and taller than a moment before.
Brice ducked inside and found Gillian on his pallet, covered by blankets. The woman who’d been caring for her stood and nodded to him.
‘She sleeps?’ he asked, kneeling to have a closer look.
‘Aye, my lord. She has not wakened since she was…’
He leaned over and smoothed the hair from her face, noticing how pale she was. Easing the blankets down, he saw that her gown had been cut away and her shoulder covered in a thick layer of bandages. Blood stained them red, a sign her bleeding had not been completely stanched.
‘Can she be moved yet?’ he asked. He had little experience in dealing with the injured. He handled the small ones himself when he suffered them in battle, but this was more serious…and she was a woman, not a hardened warrior. ‘The winds carry the smell of storms and I would have her more secure within the keep.’
The woman nodded at him. ‘As long as the move is smooth, it should not worsen the bleeding. And, as you say, my lord, the storms threaten.’ She moved over to Gillian’s side. ‘Let me prepare her to be moved.’
Brice stood back and allowed the woman more room. He called to Ernaut and ordered his own belongings be gathered and moved to the keep now, too. Once the lady’s clothing was back in place, the bandages secured and her cloak wrapped tightly about her to keep her from moving, he knelt at her side opposite the injury and slipped his arms beneath her. Lifting her from the pallet and into his arms, Brice waited for the woman to adjust the cloak and then carried Gillian from the tent.
‘Your name, mistress?’ he asked the woman who’d tended Gillian.
‘I am called Leoma, my lord.’ She walked at his side through the crowded camp.
‘And your man?’ All women here either had a husband or sought one.
‘My husband is Danyel,’ she replied.
A good man—Brice had known him in Brittany. He’d served under the same commander as Brice himself had and then he’d offered his services to Giles. And Giles had allowed him to serve Brice now.
‘Will you come and serve my lady in the keep? She will need help as she recovers.’
‘Aye, my lord.’
Brice did not speak again until he entered Gillian’s chambers and placed her on the bed there. ‘I will see that Danyel knows you are here. Stay with her until I return.’
If he did not consider his actions at that moment, or even later, it was because he was certain he had the correct amount of concern about the woman who was his wife now—no more, no less. He would see to her comfort and her care as was his responsibility. Brice had heard several stories about the lady and imagined what she would be like during his travels here. Nothing had prepared him for the woman herself.
He’d interpreted her running away from Thaxted and her brother as wilful disobedience when that was not the issue. He’d thought her to be an empty-headed, flighty girl who acted impulsively, but he was learning that her actions were usually thought-out and well considered. And worst, he had thought that she felt no responsibility to her people, when she argued for them even when her own life was in danger and under attack.
So, after he returned to the chamber and allowed Leoma to go to her husband, Brice did nothing but think. So many connections as yet unseen. So many dangers to hold at bay. Still so many enemies to battle. Even when his body hungered for sleep, his head was filled with more and more questions. But every question came back to the woman lying unconscious in the bed.
And, when fever struck in the middle of the night, Brice prayed that he would have a chance to know her better, never realising that he worried over her more than he thought he should.
Gillian fought to keep from screaming.
Her brother liked nothing more than to know his punishments hurt and made her afraid, so she’d learned early in his abuse to persevere silently or it brought on more or worse. Now, her jaws ached from clenching them tightly, to keep the sounds of her anguish inside.
Had he lit her aflame? Her skin burned and heat poured through her. She wanted to ask for water, something to soothe the dryness and flame, but did not dare. Any weakness shown was one used against her later. When the fires grew hotter still, she knew she moaned. Resist as she might, the pain was stronger than her control.
Gillian tried to force her eyes to open, so she could see what punishment he inflicted, but she could not. Then she felt a cooling cloth against her face. And again, it stroked along her cheeks and down on to her neck and the fire receded. Soft whispers joined the coolness and Gillian thought she might survive after all.
Then, as quickly as it came, the soothing ended and the punishment returned anew. At some point, the pain overwhelmed her
and she cried out, unable to stop it.
She was so tired of the fear. So tired of the pain and torment. So tired of…everything.
Gillian gave up the struggle and let herself sink away.
The next time she came to awareness, she could hear someone moving about in the darkness near her. The fire was gone, but the pain still pierced her. Now, though, it seemed centred on her left shoulder and arm. Even without the torment of the heat, Gillian could not move—it was as though all of her strength had seeped away, leaving her as helpless as a newborn.
She opened her eyes, finally, and looked around. She lay in her own bed in her own chamber at Thaxted! Had she dreamt the torment and the trials of the last days? Had some illness tricked her mind into believing she’d escaped and been found by the Norman lord she was promised to in marriage? Gillian tried to lift her head, but could not.
‘Are you awake now, lady?’
Gillian recognised that deep voice. When he stepped closer, she could see a very different Brice from the others she’d witnessed since meeting him. This one wore a ragged beard, had dark circles under his eyes and looked as though he had not slept in days. She tried to answer, but the words stuck in her dry throat and made her cough.
‘Here, now,’ he whispered as he slid his hand beneath her head and lifted it higher, ‘have a sip of this before you try to speak.’
This was watered ale, which tasted wonderful and felt even better on her parched throat. She swallowed several times and would have drunk more, but he took the cup away from her mouth and she had not the strength to follow it.
‘Easy…easy.’ His voice held a hint of amusement along with the appealing accent she was coming to enjoy. ‘There will be more if you keep this down.’
‘What happened? How did I come to be in my own bed?’ Gillian glanced around again to make certain she was not in the throes of a dream. ‘My brother?’
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