She carried Rannulf’s child.
There could be no other explanation for her symptoms. The unremitting nausea, her exhaustion—and her flux had not come since before she and Rannulf had made love.
Add to that the fact that somehow she simply knew.... A child, a tangible symbol of their love. How would Rannulf react to the news? Would he be pleased? Feel trapped? Her longing for Rannulf return became nigh an obsession.
Rannulf had been gone for nearly a month. Gillian rose with the sun, dressed and descended the stairs to the hall, her heart heavy, her stomach churning.
Nicholas, seated at the table to break his fast, watched her slow progress across the hall. Once she stepped up onto the dais, he stood and pulled out the bench for her, then pushed a loaf of bread and a cup of watered wine her way. He remained silent until she’d broken off a chunk of bread and washed it down with a sip of wine. “I hope he returns soon,” he said quietly. He slid along the bench to take her hand, giving it a squeeze. “You won’t want to wait too long before you wed.”
A glimpse of the concern in his eyes sent the tears she’d held in check since Rannulf left streaming down her cheeks. He slipped his arms about her and simply held her while she sobbed against his shoulder.
Finally, her tears spent, she raised her head. He released her at once, but took hold of her hand again. “You know, I gather?”
He gave a humorless laugh. “’Twould be difficult to miss the signs.” He tugged her veil into place. “I was right in my suspicions about you two, wasn’t I?”
“Aye.” Heat flooded her face, but she held his gaze. At least she saw no condemnation in his eyes, only concern.
And questions she shouldn’t put off answering any longer.
“You knew him before—quite well, I’d venture. And he’d been here before,” he added, statements of fact, not questions.
“Yes, years ago, before his father died. Everyone believed we would marry.” She picked up her cup and sipped at the wine, hoping to settle her stomach. “How did you know?”
“I might have acted like an arrogant fool—likely I still do—but I hope I can see what’s before my eyes once I think to look. And ’twas clear to me from the start that there was something between the two of you.”
She placed her hand on her flat stomach. “And now there will be something more between us,” she said softly.
“FitzClifford will do as he ought, I’m certain.” His expression solemn, he added, “If he cannot, I would be pleased to give you my name, my—”
“Nay, Nicholas, you need not do anything rash—or permanent.” He’d surprised her, but she knew he didn’t want her for his wife. “’Tis good of you to offer, but it’s not necessary.” Indeed, she prayed it wouldn’t be. “Rannulf will be back soon.”
Though he tried to hide his relief, she could see it reflected in his eyes. “If they don’t return in the next few days, I’ll send a party of men to follow their route to Gwal Draig, find out why they’ve been delayed.”
“Thank you, milord,” she murmured. -
He stood and climbed over the bench. “Sir Henry was supposed to meet me here. I’d best go discover what’s keeping him.” He made a brief, polite bow and left the hall, calling for Richard as he went
Gillian turned her attention back to the dry bread that was all she could stomach and tried not to dwell on what Nicholas had said—and what he had not. Did he believe Rannulf would return, or did he think something had happened to Will and Rannulf?
Something terrible.
A woman’s scream echoed through the hall. Heart pounding, Gillian tripped over the bench, then stumbled to her feet and looked around to see what was wrong. A maidservant ran toward her from the corridor behind the dais, her gown torn, her face pale as milk. “Welshmen!” she screamed as she dashed into the center of the room. “Run, milady!”
Rannulf rode toward I’Eau Clair at the head of a sizable troop. Ian had been generous in lending them the men they needed; however, because of Llywelyn’s prior claim on his resources, it had taken several weeks to bring together an adequate force.
The wait had seemed interminable, although he’d had time aplenty to think—about his past, his family and the life he hoped to have with Gillian.
He’d also taken advantage of Ian’s counsel. The talks he had with Gillian’s cousin helped him see his life clearly for the first time in many years.
’Twas time to move forward, to stop permitting the past to taint his future. He could not change what he’d done, but he could learn from it, become a better man.
Otherwise, his father had won yet again—from the grave. Wouldn’t the cruel old bastard have enjoyed that!
Rannulf refused to let him win this battle.
He’d continue to try to mend the breach with Connor and pry his mother from the convent. ’Twas possible he’d saved their lives by his actions. That must mean something.
Bertram FitzClifford was dead. They need hide from him no longer.
He felt free—free to come to Gillian unhindered, to cease spying for Pembroke. Had he paid his debt for killing his father? He didn’t know. But wouldn’t the best way to redeem himself be to be a better man, a better father and husband than his father had been?
He touched the embroidered ribbon tied around his upper arm. He hoped when Gillian saw that he wore her gift, her favor, that she’d understand all he meant by doing so. She’d given herself to him, had given him so many gifts... Would she accept the gift of himself?
He thought of the bundle Gillian had given him before he left I’Eau Clair, the memory bringing a smile to his lips yet again. Will had looked askance at the apple wrapped in a piece of silk, but Rannulf merely smiled and tucked it away in the pouch on his belt.
Later, alone in his chamber in Ian’s manor, he’d savored the apple, and the heated memories of Gillian it brought to mind.
Rapid hoofbeats on the road ahead jolted him back to the present.
Will, who’d gone ahead to scout the area, sped toward him, his mount lathered. Rannulf halted the troop and waited for Will to reach him.
“There’s a large force massed along the trail to I’Eau Clair, right before the village,” he said with a gasp, bringing his horse to a skidding halt. Surprisingly, he grinned. “They bear your banner, milord.”
Praise God! With his men from FitzClifford added to those he’d brought from Gwal Draig, he defied any enemy to elude them.
Smiling himself, he saluted Will as he passed him. “Follow me,”. he shouted. His heart light, he nudged March to a trot and led the way toward the village.
’Twas an impressive force Connor had sent him, Rannulf thought with pride. His men called out greetings and friendly taunts in equal measure as he rode through them to reach the brawny knight mounted at their head. The man had his back to them as he sat atop a mighty stallion, facing the village.
Whom had his brother sent to lead them?
The man swung about in the saddle when he reached him. Rannulf nearly reeled with shock.
’Twas Connor.
He could not mistake his twin’s face—the same as his own, save for the long, narrow scar stretched from his left cheekbone to his jaw.
But he’d never seen his brother like this!
The quiet scholar, pale-skinned and slight of build, was gone. Connor sat at his ease in the saddle, strong and tanned, his well-worn armor glinting dully in the sun. Rannulf waited to see how his brother would greet him—if he would greet him. When last they’d met, they’d cursed each other, for their sins, and decided to have no further contact with each other.
’Twas a vow Rannulf had found difficult to keep, but he’d caused his brother enough pain.
“Rannulf.” Connor nodded, his dark eyes expressionless, his voice cool.
He’d forgotten Connor’s skill at masking his emotions. “’Tis good to see you,” he said. Wary, but willing to make the first move, Rannulf offered his hand, reached across the space between them—no longer th
an a yard, though it seemed a league wide until Connor took his hand in a brief, hard grip.
“I’ve brought the help you asked for.” Connor waved a hand to indicate the twenty or so men ranged behind him. “Your man suggested we wait here for you.”
Rannulf glanced past Connor. Sunlight glinted on armor and a battle cry sounded from the wooded hill on the far side of the village. He reached for his sword. “Behind you,” he said urgently, and Connor drew his own weapon. “To arms!” Rannulf shouted. “Come on—follow me!”
Mayhem ensued for but a moment, horses milling about until their riders took them in hand and headed through the narrow streets toward the raiders.
Heartbeat pounding, Gillian steadied herself. “Go!” she cried unnecessarily as the people in the hall headed for the door, knocking over benches and tables in their wake. Over the sounds of chaos came the heavy thud of booted feet from behind her.
Behind her, where the only entrance she knew of was the hidden passageway.
She grabbed up her skirts and raced toward the outside door halfway down the hall, the overturned furniture slowing her pace. A sheathed sword lay abandoned on the floor; pausing to tuck her hem into her belt, she snatched up the weapon and drew the blade free as she moved.
“Come on!” A stream of men, armed and armorclad, streamed into the hall.
A jolt of fear spurred her to greater speed. She jerked open the door as her pursuers clambered over the jumbled furnishings, then slammed it shut behind her.
Damnation! There was no way to bar it from the outside.
One hand pressed to the rough stone wall for balance, sword held in the other, she hurned down the steep stairs. “Nicholas! Sir Henry!” she screamed as she frantically scanned the bailey for them. “There are soldiers in the hall!”
She spied Nicholas near the barracks entrance in the lower level of the keep, directing their men as they poured out into the maze of people, animals and overturned carts already choking the bailey. The gate stood wide and more villagers streamed in, adding to the confusion.
Were the attackers both inside and out?
Just as she reached the bottom of the stairs the door above her opened and the invaders poured onto the landing. The roar of their battle cries sent the masses milling about her into a greater panic.
’Twas nigh impossible to make any headway, but she pushed through the mob, trying to reach Nicholas. He didn’t know about the passageway, and likely had no idea how the invaders had gotten in. They needed to send men to close off that entrance at once.
The thunder of hooves on the drawbridge drowned out everything else. Time seemed to pause in that moment, the sights and sounds surrounding her frozen and still. Standing on tiptoe, she looked toward the gate and saw Rannulf riding at the head of a mounted troop of men, then lost sight of him as the crowd shifted about her.
The Virgin be praised, he was alive!
As she wound her way through the press of bodies, she caught glimpses of him. He dismounted, sword drawn, then turned to scan the crowd.
Even as she watched him, she saw more of the armed men force their way across the bailey, heading for Rannulf, Nicholas and their men.
The fighters met in the middle of the chaos, sending the noncombatants into a screaming, terrified frenzy.
She’d never get through here like this. Shouting, brandishing about her with the flat of the sword, she began to creep ahead.
A path opened up near her. Sword held at the ready, she hastened forward. “Rannulf!” she screamed as, blade flashing, he spun to face an attacker.
Hard hands grabbed her from behind, tore the sword from her grasp and tossed it aside and dragged her backward toward the keep. To her horror she saw a man wielding a cudgel race up to Rannulf from behind and club him in the head. “No!” she cried when he dropped from her sight. Frantic, she clawed at the mail-clad arms wrapped about her middle, but she could not loosen their hold. When she dug in her heels, her captor lifted her off her feet and slung her over his shoulder, laughing as she continued to struggle.
“Squirm and yell all you want,” he said in Welsh, his hand on her back pressing her so tightly to his shoulder that he squeezed the air from her lungs. “Won’t make a whit o’ difference. You’re coming with me.”
Gillian gasped as he carried her up the stairs, each jolting step threatening to force her stomach into complete rebellion. She tried to grab at him, but his mail hauberk proved too hard and slick to catch hold of. She could scarcely breathe, but she tried to call out, to draw attention to herself.
In the melee surrounding them, however, no one would hear her meager cries.
The only thought in her mind was to free herself and go to Rannulf, but no matter how she fought, she could not so much as slow the man who bore her across the hall and toward the passageway.
He couldn’t carry her as he’d been doing, so he swung her around and set her on her feet, binding her hands close together in front of her with a length of stout rope. “Master told us you weren’t to be harmed,” he said, unbuckling her belt and slipping her sheathed eating knife from it. “But I can’t have you trying to get away, either.”
“Don’t you know who I am?” Her voice shook from fear and anger. Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “I am lady of this keep. I’ll reward you well if you let me go.”
“‘Course I know who you are—I wouldn’t be haulin’ you out o’ here elsewise,” he muttered. “But I got my orders, milady. You’re comin’ with me.” He nudged her down the ladder into the passage, caught her by the end of the rope where it trailed between her hands, and towed her after him down the dim, narrow corridor, a stream of men following hard on their heels.
She couldn’t see any way out of this coil. Fear threatened to overcome her, but she beat it back, willed herself to an outward calm. Inside, however, she quivered with terror. The image of Rannulf, falling beneath a crushing blow, replayed itself in her mind. That vision, coupled with concern for her people, left her little energy to fear for herself.
Besides, if they wanted to take her hostage, they clearly didn’t intend to harm her—not yet, at least.
It seemed that Nicholas was right after all. Taking her captive was the reason for the raids.
But who was behind it all?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Once her eyes had adjusted to the bright sunlight after she emerged from the cave, Gillian stared at her cousin, who stood, outfitted and armed for war, at the head of the path. Unlike his men, he looked clean, unsullied by the filth of battle. “Steffan, you always were a cowardly bastard,” she muttered.
A scowl marring the handsome lines of his face, he shook his head. “Is that any way for a lady to speak?” He motioned her captor away and reached for her leash himself, his mouth quirked into a mocking smile. “I expected better of you. I’ll forgive you this time, for I’m sure you’ve had a difficult morning.”
How she’d love to slap that taunting expression from his face!
But since she could not, she’d have to be satisfied with meeting his covetous gaze with her own stubborn hatred.
“My lady, I trust your mood will improve soon,” he said, his tone a warning. “Come, we cannot tarry here.” He tugged her at a headlong pace down the rocky hillside toward the horses tethered by the pool, frowning when she stumbled. He pulled her onto her feet and into motion again. “Don’t worry—I’ll return you to your home soon, I promise you. I hadn’t planned on FitzClifford and Talbot amassing so large a force, or on them arriving this soon. Otherwise I’m sure you and I would already be happily settled within, without all this bother your Norman captors have caused me.”
She’d have liked to throttle him, simply to stop his chatter. She went cold inside when his words sank into her fear-dulled brain and she realized how much he knew about their business. How did he know?
Who was the spy?
Steffan stopped near his showy stallion, stepping out of the way when another man came forward and hefted he
r into the saddle of a horse beside her cousin’s. “I cannot risk overburdening my mount,” he told her. “Though it means I will have to wait before I’m able to enjoy your company more... intimately.”
She would gladly wait forever before that day arrived, though she doubted she’d have that choice. Her flesh crawled from the mere thought, however. Squirming, she tried to untwist her skirts and settle them to cover her legs, a difficult task since her hands remained bound tightly. When she’d done what she could and looked up, Steffan sat atop his mount, struggling to bring the restive animal under control.
The line of men streaming down the hillside came to an end, the last man hauling along a woman in his wake. “Marged, are you unharmed?” Gillian asked when they stopped at the foot of the hill and she recognized the woman.
Why had they brought her from the keep, and no one else?
“Help me, milady!” the maid pleaded, her eyes full of terror. And betrayal?
“Kill her,” Steffan ordered before putting spurs to his mount and riding into the forest.
“No!” Gillian tried to guide her horse with her knees and her weight to reach the maid before they could carry out Steffan’s command, but all she managed was to send the animal edging sideways. The man behind Marged slashed his knife across her throat before she’d a chance to struggle, then left her crumpled on the grass, her body spattered with her own blood.
The sight proved too much for Gillian’s already-churning stomach. She turned away, leaned over the side of the horse and vomited.
Head hanging, she closed her eyes and tried, unsuccessfully, to will away the sick feeling.
“You through?” a man asked.
Still bent over, she opened her eyes, turned her head and saw him standing beside her mount. “I don’t know,” she whispered, not daring to risk sitting up straight quite yet.
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