by Lynn Kurland
Christopher forced himself to eat, though he had no appetite. Aye, ’Twas the thought of marriage that soured him so on the idea of food. A pity just keeping Gillian at Blackmour wouldn’t be sufficient to keep her safe. Marriage it had to be.
Christopher put the trencher down on the floor and let the enormous black hound finish the meal. He couldn’t bear the smell.
Rising abruptly, he walked over to the alcove and threw open the shutters, letting the chill sea breeze wash over him. Saints, he didn’t want a wife! Gillian would expect civility, perhaps even kindness, and he had none of either to give. His heart was cut off from those foolish feelings just as surely as his keep was severed from the rest of England. He had no desire to change things.
Why should he? Life had dealt him the crudest of blows. How could anyone expect him to bestir himself to care for another soul? He had his hands full with Jason and the running of his household. He had no need of any more complications.
And if it weren’t for his damnable honor, he wouldn’t be contemplating the thought of facing a priest with a woman by his side for the second time in his miserable life.
He closed the shutters with a bang, then turned and strode across the chamber. He snatched up his sword and stalked out into the passageway, feeling the intense need to cut something to ribbons. Perhaps a few hours in the tower chamber would take his mind off what his vow would demand he do five days hence.
Honor.
What a perfect waste of a man’s energy.
four
GILLIAN SAT IN HER CHAMBER, CHILLED TO THE BONE. She had risen at dawn, dressed, then remained where she was. There was no sense in giving up the safety of a barred door, though the necessity of that was still in question. Lord Christopher had taken one look at her and fled back up the stairs, surely to retch over her ugliness in private. It was unlikely he would seek her out and she couldn’t have been happier about it. She hadn’t seen his horns the night before, but then again, she hadn’t had much of a look at him.
A soft knock sounded on the door and she jumped. She wiped her suddenly damp palms on her skirts and crossed to the door.
“Aye?” she asked hesitantly.
“Lady Gillian, ’tis Jason. I’ve come to fetch you down to break your fast.”
Gillian hesitated. What fate awaited her below? Would Lord Christopher be there? Would he beat her in front of the servants to show them her place from the start?
“My lady,” Jason said, “should you fear Sir Colin’s poor manners at the table, there is no need. He and my lord are shouting at each other in the lists and will likely remain there for the rest of the day. You may come eat in peace.”
Gillian opened the door slowly and looked out. Jason made her a low bow and smiled. Gillian returned his smile, albeit shakily. Jason of Artane seemed to be a sweet, gentle boy and she wondered what had possessed his father to send him to squire with a monster like Christopher of Blackmour.
“Come now, lady,” Jason said, offering his arm. “My lord gave me leave to eat with you and I never forgo the pleasure of serving a comely maid. Then, if it pleases you, I will show you about the castle.”
She nodded and took his proffered arm. If Jason noticed her hesitancy in doing so, he hid it well. He kept up a steady stream of chatter as he descended before her down to the great hall. Gillian paid little heed to Jason’s words; she was far too busy gaping at her surroundings. In her fear the day before, she hadn’t had the stomach to do more than stare at the floor and pray for deliverance. Now she wondered how she could possibly have been so distracted that she didn’t mark anything about her new home.
Blackmour’s great hall was the finest thing she had ever seen. It made her father’s small hall, with its fire in the midst of the floor and the thick smoke clogging the air, seem barbaric. Lord Christopher’s hall boasted four hearths set into the walls, with flues to carry the smoke outside. Gillian could actually look up and see the ceiling.
Not only was there a great lack of smoke inside, there was light from windows set up high in the walls. The weak spring sunlight filtered in and was absorbed by the fine tapestries lining the walls. It must have taken a score of seamstresses years to complete those hangings. Oh, how much she had missed in never having seen aught but her father’s house! Either all of England was much richer than her sire, or Christopher of Blackmour had more gold at his disposal than the king.
The meal was certainly the finest she had ever been served. There was white bread and tasty porridge in abundance, though she ate little of it. She had intended to use it to shore up her strength, but after the first time a knight had come bursting into the hall, she remembered again just what her situation was: She was a prisoner in the Bane of Blackmour’s keep. The saints only knew what torments he had planned for her. Terror lodged in her throat, making it impossible to swallow her meal.
Jason, though, seemed to have no fear of his surroundings, if the relish with which he attacked his food was any indication. Then again, a lad of some ten-and-six years likely never let anything get in the way of filling his belly.
She jumped when she found he was looking at her. His brow was furrowed.
“The fare doesn’t please you? Shall I call for something else?”
She shook her head quickly. “’Tis wondrous, truly.”
“Then why don’t you eat, my lady? You’re powerfully thin.”
“Gillian picked up a bit of bread and ate obediently. There was no sense in offending her future husband by having him learn she hadn’t partaken of his food. She wouldn’t give him reason to beat her—more reason than he would find on his own.
“Perhaps you would care for a bit of air?” Jason asked.
Leave the great hall? Venture out into the same place where Blackmour might be roaming? She felt her chest tighten and her breath begin to come in gasps.
“I couldn’t disturb His Lordship,” she managed.
“I spoke of the battlements,” Jason said. “’Twill give you a commanding view of the surroundings. I daresay Sir Colin didn’t allow you much time to look about.”
Gillian felt some of her fear diminish. Perhaps she could manage the battlements. If Christopher and Colin were in the lists, she would be safe above.
She nodded and then allowed Jason to help her up from her chair.
“I always go up to the battlements when I’m allowed time for myself,” he said, as he walked before her up the steps.
“The view is so fine?”
Jason grinned. “Nay, I know that ’tis the one place I am safe from Sir Colin and his foul temper.”
“And why is that?”
“He is terrified of being much further off the ground than where being atop his steed places him.”
Gillian blinked, surprised. Then she smiled. The thought of the fierce and intimidating Colin of Berkhamshire being afraid of such modest heights was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. Why, even she had felt no fear when gazing down at the courtyard from her tower window at Warewick. Well, that was certainly something to remember the next time the man frowned at her to frighten her.
“I tease Sir Colin when I can,” Jason continued, “by inviting him to come up and scout with me, telling him that my lord finds it too menial a task for himself. ’Tis usually at that moment that something pressing requires his immediate attention. I try not to laugh, but I usually can’t help myself.” He grinned again. “If I’m quick enough, I can flee to the battlements and escape his wrath, though he usually lies in wait for me below. A lad can only haunt the walls for so long before hunger drives him to descend.”
Gillian froze in midstep. “He beats you then?”
“Of course not, my lady,” Jason said, a puzzled frown crossing his brow. “He wouldn’t dare. I belong to my lord Christopher and Sir Colin would surely answer to him if he took sport of me. That isn’t to say,” he added, with the twinkle back in his eye, “that he doesn’t propose a wrestle now and then. He does his bloody best to crush the life from
me, but I relish that challenge. There are few who face Colin of Berkhamshire and live to tell the tale.”
“And your lord?”
“Even fewer, my lady, even fewer. Know you nothing of him?”
“Just rumors,” Gillian said as she resumed the climb. “I know little of the world outside my home. This journey was the first I’d ever made out of the inner bailey.”
“I see. Then perhaps ’tis best that I leave you to form your own opinions. Here we are at the door. You aren’t afraid to go out, are you?”
She shook her head in answer.
“We’ll make the circle then,” Jason said, taking her arm and leading her over to one wall. “This wall faces west, over the baileys and inland.”
Gillian looked down over the courtyard and saw the chapel and other outbuildings housing the smiths and such. Outside the courtyard wall the bailey was full of merchants milling about, dogs barking, men cursing, horses stomping and pawing the earth. The sound of hammer against anvil rang out in the morning air, mingling with the other sounds of castle life. It was a bit like Warewick; only here it seemed wilder, more untamed. The peasants at her father’s hall lived in terror of attracting the lord’s gaze. These souls either didn’t care or were of much bolder stock, for they didn’t cower.
In the lists mailed knights jousted, men fought with swords; still others wrestled with their mates or trained their mounts. Gillian looked for Christopher but couldn’t mark him. From what Jason had said, she should have been able to hear him shouting at Colin from where she stood.
Jason took her hand and led her to the north wall.
“Scotland is to your left, though many leagues away. My home is also north, on the edge of the sea as is Blackmour, though Artane is not perched up on a bit of rock as we are now.”
“Do you miss your family?” she asked, looking into his pale gray eyes.
He smiled. “Aye, I do. But I see them now and then. My father comes two or three times a year to assure himself that I haven’t driven Lord Christopher daft. I am sent home each summer to present myself to my mother and prove that I am behaving as I should. But I return to Blackmour willingly. I am the youngest son and have no title, though my father has vowed to be most generous with his lands. In truth, I don’t know if I want them. My lord has need of me yet and he will see that I lack for nothing.” He smiled again and shrugged. “I am content.”
With a beast like Blackmour? Gillian couldn’t believe it. Perhaps the lad was more innocent than she thought.
“And now for the east. This is what I come to look at when I make the climb. You’ve never seen the sea truly, have you?”
She shook her head.
“Then close your eyes and let me lead you. Never fear, I am quite adept at this.”
Gillian clutched his arm and followed him, stealing looks down at her feet as they went. Her trust only went so far.
Jason stopped and placed her hands on the wall.
“Now look.”
She lifted her head and gasped in surprise, then backed away from the wall. Jason grabbed her arm and jerked her back from the edge of the parapet.
“Careful,” he exclaimed. “Hold onto the wall, my lady. My lord would have me flogged if aught happened to you.”
Gillian peeked over the wall and flinched as a wave crashed against the cliff below her. The sea surged and billowed, throwing itself against Blackmour’s foundations. The white spray erupted below her with a fierceness that frightened her. How puny and weak a mere mortal woman was when compared to the savage forces of nature. She clutched the cold stone wall in an effort to reassure herself that she wouldn’t tumble forward and become swept away by the violence of the waves.
And slowly, in spite of her unease, she fell under the sea’s spell. The ebb and return of the waves was hypnotic, teasing her into a strange, fragile sense of peace. At that moment she knew, beyond all reason, that her entire life had been naught but waiting for this, for the sea and for this place, this gloomy keep perched atop its steep cliff, pounded by the elements until it was weathered and beaten. Blackmour took that pounding and survived it. Gillian doubted that anything could ever tear down the keep beneath her. And in that strength was power. She felt it as surely as if it reached up through the rocks and grasped her in its embrace. Aye, nothing would ever shatter this keep. If anything, a man would break himself against it in the attempt.
And now this bleak, weathered place was to be her home for the rest of her life. She tightened her grip on the stone wall. The fierce beauty of the sea below her was almost enough to convince her to stay. To be allowed to look on that sight each day would be a great pleasure and she had had so few pleasures in her life. Perhaps the sea would be recompense for being wed to Christopher of Blackmour.
Devil’s spawn.
Fear slithered down her spine. How could the sea possibly soothe her if it were viewed from Blackmour’s tower chamber, the hellish place where he worked his dark arts? Would she see the waves one last time before he raised his knife and—
“South is next,” Jason said softly, interrupting her thoughts. “The view is less fine, just the sea and a bit of land. I prefer the ruggedness of the north myself so I don’t often look south.”
Gillian took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart.
“London is south,” she said, looking at Jason. “Isn’t it?”
“Aye, London is south.”
Gillian nodded, swallowing with difficulty. At least she knew in which direction she should flee.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” she managed. “Would you take me back now?”
“Wouldn’t you care to see the rest of the keep?” Jason asked.
She shook her head, praying she could keep her tremors at bay until she was safely locked behind her chamber door. There was no sense in letting Blackmour hear how terrified she was. It would only give him pleasure.
“As you wish, then, my lady,” Jason said, with a bow.
He led her back to her chamber, built up the blaze in her hearth and left only after she assured him she truly wished to rest after her journey. Once she had bolted the door, she changed her clothes and dug in her trunk for her sword. Practicing her skills against imaginary opponents was a twofold blessing. It would take her mind off her fear and also sap her strength enough that she would sleep soundly. She knew she would be wise to sleep while she had the chance. It would be only during the dead of night that she would be able to escape Blackmour and she wanted no weariness to hinder her when the opportunity to flee arose.
The feel of cold steel in her hand caught and held her attention. She sized up her unseen opponent and began to work, watching for the inevitable false move that would give his weakness away.
• • •
GILLIAN TURNED OVER ONTO HER SIDE, SEEKING A comfortable position. After a few moments, she gave up and rose from the bed, shivering. She looked in trunks, under the bed, behind tapestries. Fruitless. What fool had decided that leaving her without a chamber pot would be fine sport? She drew her cloak around her and contemplated the heavy wooden door. It was either leave her chamber and seek out a garderobe or remain bolted inside and suffer.
Another cramp in her belly told her that suffering wasn’t an alternative. She took her courage in hand and unbolted her door as softly as she could, which was very softly indeed. The door made no sound as she opened it and slipped out into the passageway.
Finding a garderobe at her father’s house had never been difficult. Even if she hadn’t known where they were, she could have found them by following her nose. Her father never emptied the cesspit unless it was nigh to backing back up the shaft and spilling out into his passageways.
Blackmour was, as in all other things, completely different from her home. Gillian walked until she was weak, seeking nothing but relief. It was only by sheer luck that she opened a door and saw the moonlight coming in the window slit.
She saw to her needs, then stepped out into the passageway. She’d become so turn
ed about that she had to stop and give serious thought as to where she had come from. She looked to her left, then looked to her right.
That was when she saw the shadows dancing along the wall.
It was as if her eyes were possessed by a contrary spirit. The very saints in heaven knew she didn’t want to look up, but she was powerless to stop herself. There, to her right, was a stairwell. There was obviously someone in the chamber at the top, for the light was coming from above.
But it was a tower chamber.
Christopher of Blackmour’s tower chamber.
She wanted to flee back to her chamber, but her feet seemed to have something else in mind. Before she could stop them, they were carrying her toward the steps. Then she found herself climbing those steep steps. Her breath came in harsh gasps, her body trembled. She had no desire to see what the tower contained, no matter what her feet seemed to think about the matter. She already knew what awaited her above. It was Lord Christopher, practicing his dark arts.
She clapped her hand over her mouth as she climbed up to the landing. The tower door was ajar. Faint light spilled out, sending shadows flickering along the stone.
Her heart beat in her throat. She trembled at the sound of heavy breathing and grunting coming from within the chamber. She could have sworn she heard the ring of steel. Merciful saints above, was he hacking a sacrifice to bits, preparing to drink its blood?
A movement startled her and she froze as the biggest, blackest dog she had ever seen raised itself up and looked her square in the eye. Nay, it wasn’t a dog, it was a wolf. His eyes gleamed in the faint light, his bared teeth flashed white. Gillian was too terrified to scream. Lord Christopher’s familiar, his devilish protector was before her, ready to rip out her throat!
The wolf moved closer but Gillian didn’t dare move back. She closed her eyes and prayed that death would come quickly and painlessly. She felt a cold nose against her palm and sucked in her breath so hard that she almost choked. The Hound from Hell snuffled her hand, likely trying to decide if biting her there first would be worth his time.