by Lynn Kurland
Christopher of Blackmour surely possessed none of those qualities.
As if to confirm that, he thrust out his hand, half a foot in front of her.
“You’re late, wench.”
She would have turned and fled if Jason hadn’t had the flat of his hand in her back. She had no choice but to remain where she was. She put her hand in the Scourge of England’s massive paw and prayed he wouldn’t break her fingers.
Her father stepped up on her other side and she cringed.
“Don’t stand so close to her, Warewick,” her future husband growled, not sparing her father a glance. Gillian jumped when Christopher put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.
She looked up at him, but his eyes were focused on the priest. She dropped her gaze and tried to accustom herself to the feel of Blackmour’s heavy arm draped around her in a semblance of protectiveness. Then she almost laughed. As if such a thing would ever happen again! Nay, he would wed her and be done with her, or, worse yet, drag her up to his tower chamber and sacrifice her to his master.
Before she could even decide if she had enough courage to blurt out that she wanted to seek asylum with the king rather than wed with the Devil’s spawn, the priest was asking for a recounting of her dowry.
She listened to her father name her portion and forced her shoulders to remain back, not slump as they so desperately wanted to do. Naught but Braedhalle, her father’s poorest bit of land, and a paltry sum in knight’s fees. He would have been kinder not to dower her at all.
Then Colin began a listing of what Blackmour would bring to the marriage and Gillian knew the full meaning of shame. His holdings were nothing short of princely! ’Twas no wonder his hall was so fine. Gillian felt her knees give way in humiliation. Her betrothed’s arm immediately tightened around her shoulders.
“Steady,” he whispered under his breath, his voice a rough sound against her ear.
She jerked herself upright and struggled to ignore the smug look on her father’s face and the overwhelming fear she felt at being so close to Christopher and knowing what he was capable of.
The contract was laid on a flat stand before them and a clerk proffered a quill. Jason took it before she could reach for it.
“Allow me,” he said, making her a small bow. He put the quill in her hand and gestured toward the document. “You see the place for your signature, my lady, at the bottom on the left, not far from the edge of the parchment.” His voice was soft, so soft she barely heard it. “You’ll have to sign without any flourishes, I fear. There isn’t much room for it.”
Gillian looked at him, wondering if the chill had suddenly seeped into his brain. “I can see that perfectly well, thank you.”
Jason only gave her a grave smile. “Of course, my lady. I was only trying to be of service.”
Gillian signed her name, then looked down at it in surprise. She had just put herself into the Dragon’s talons, without hesitation, without pause. Merciful saints above, she was almost his!
Unless he chose not to sign the agreement.
She watched Jason dip the quill into the pot of ink and put it into Christopher’s hand, in much the same way he had done with her.
“There isn’t much space for you either, my lord,” Jason murmured, “as you can well see. Go carefully.”
Christopher didn’t hesitate. Gillian watched with a sinking feeling in her belly as Christopher felt for the edges of the parchment, then settled the quill over it.
Over the last few words of the document, rather. She looked up at him quickly. Couldn’t he see he was about to sign his name where it couldn’t be read?
“My lord, surely not,” Jason whispered quickly. “Do you intend to blot out some of your holdings? A bit lower, perhaps.”
Christopher’s expression couldn’t have been any more strained as he signed his name with careful strokes. Perhaps he couldn’t read or write. Aye, that would be likely enough. The man was a warrior, and few warriors could even sign their own names. But he could certainly see what he was doing and he was coming perilously close to traveling completely off the parchment. She opened her mouth to warn him, but before she could say aught, the quill was back in Jason’s possession and Christopher’s heavy hands were on her shoulders, turning her toward him.
She stared up into his eyes in terror, expecting him to use her as roughly as she’d seen her father’s knights do to the kitchen maids.
Instead, he gently eased a ring onto her finger, then kissed her very quickly and very chastely on the forehead.
It was over. Colin slung his arm around Christopher’s shoulders and led him off to the chapel. Gillian followed with Jason, dazed. She was so surprised at Christopher’s lack of brutality, she could do no more than sit where Jason placed her, next to her husband on a long bench at the front of the chapel.
Mass was long, far longer than she had ever remembered it being. Perhaps it seemed long because everything was so different. A signature on a scrap of parchment, a chaste kiss from the Scourge of England and suddenly her life was completely and irrevocably changed. The heavy gold band on her finger felt more like a manacle, shackling her to the huge man who sat next to her, squirming.
She stole a glance at him. He was shifting uncomfortably, much like a lad being forced to attend Mass when he would have rather been out stirring up mischief. No doubt Christopher was being needled by remembrances of all the poor souls he’d sacrificed over the years. Gillian couldn’t help but take a tiny bit of pleasure in his discomfort. After all, he did surely merit it.
They were called forward to take communion and she rose. She was very surprised when Christopher rose right along with her. Didn’t he realize he would damn his soul with his unworthiness? Perhaps his soul was already so black he no longer cared.
He took her hand without hesitation and started toward the front of the chapel, completely ignoring the woman kneeling directly before him.
“My lord,” she whispered urgently, “you will step on her if you do not attend better.”
He froze and remained motionless, but his jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth. Ah, so he was suffering pangs of guilt. Gillian looked up at him and, to her surprise, felt her terror recede at the small stirring of pity inside her. How could Christopher admit to his folk what he truly was by refusing the priest’s ministrations? His soul was damned, but that was no reason to upset his household. Devil though he might have been, he at least had that much care for his people.
The ones he wasn’t leading up to his tower chamber, that is.
Gillian tugged the slightest bit on his hand, urging him to the left. He obeyed instantly, probing the floor in front of him gingerly with his foot, like a blind man in a strange place. He knelt down with her before the priest and she could have sworn she heard him sigh lightly in relief.
Relief over what, she couldn’t tell. Didn’t the thought of even receiving the holy communion trouble his black soul? Or was he completely past feeling?
He accepted the priest’s ministrations just as she did, without a hint of reticence. Gillian found herself past being surprised at his actions. Demon spawn were obviously much more complex beings than she had originally thought.
She made to rise, but he kept her kneeling with him with gentle pressure on her hand.
“I would pray yet a while,” he said tightly.
Pray? She sank back down next to him, her hand still captured in his. By the saints, the man was a confusing tangle of contradictions. Surely he couldn’t mean to truly pray, yet he knelt with his eyes closed and a very earnest look on his brutally handsome face. Either he prayed in truth, or he was a very convincing liar.
But what need had he to lie? Colin certainly hadn’t remained at the front of the chapel for more time than necessary. Her father hadn’t even come forward. Yet Christopher gave every indication of a man who was begging his Lord for some great boon.
He had even ceased to squirm, which she didn’t know how to take at all. The mos
t surprising thing, though, was that his hand around hers was warm. It wasn’t the hand of a warlock.
Wizards and warlocks being cold-handed, of course.
At that realization, other troubling thoughts came to her. William had loved Christopher well. They had squired together, then spent a number of years on the continent, tourneying together. She even remembered when Christopher had come home with William several years ago. Though she had been terrified of the large, silent knight, William had shown no fear. Surely William would have known if something were amiss. Her brother was no fool.
A terrible suspicion began to bloom in her mind. Had she been the fool?
The longer she knelt in the chapel, the more she began to suspect that was the case. Had she ever known a serving wench to tell the truth? Nay, she had not. And where had she heard all the tales she knew about Christopher of Blackmour?
From the kitchen wenches.
It was true that her new husband was a most imposing man, but did that make him a devil in the flesh? Colin of Berkhamshire had a most ferocious reputation, but hadn’t she found him to have rather a soft underbelly? Even dragons were rumored to have chinks in their scaly armor. Perhaps Christopher was tenderhearted and only frowned to hide that.
Christopher pulling her to her feet alerted her to the finish of Mass. She looked up at her husband and stiffened at the sight of his face. Nay, tenderhearted wasn’t a possibility with a frown like that. It was entirely possible that Christopher of Blackmour was a mere man and not a demon, but he was anything but gentle and kind. His expression was thunderous. She shrank back in fear, bumping into Jason.
Fortunately her husband seemed to have forgotten her. He was staring out over the chapel, no doubt looking at her sire who had started complaining already about the chill and the lack of creature comforts. Gillian winced at the volume of her father’s charges.
Jason pushed her up to Christopher’s side. “The feast is prepared, my lord, and none too soon. Lady Gillian looks nigh onto fainting from hunger, don’t you think?” Christopher agreed readily with his squire. Gillian knew she looked nothing of the kind, but didn’t argue. The less notice she garnered, the safer she would be.
“My lord,” Jason said, propelling Gillian forward with a hand under her elbow, “I daresay the last of these benches needs to be repaired. See you how badly ’tis worn? Aye, and the doors need to be cleaned. You can see the filth from five paces, can you not?”
Gillian was sure Christopher could, and she wanted desperately to tell Jason to be silent. Pointing out to the Dragon of Blackmour that his chapel was a sty was certainly not the way to endear oneself to him.
“And these steps,” Jason continued, heedless of his precarious situation. “Aye, the priest needs to better watch over his lads. The chapel could be much cleaner, even here outside. Here, let me kick this straw out of your way. I’ll have it seen to immediately. At least the courtyard is smooth, is it not? Lady Gillian, the path from the chapel to the hall used to be quite treacherous. I have a fine scar on my arm from where I tripped in this precise place, only a few paces from safety in the great hall. You, there, move out of our way. Why do these peasants insist on sitting upon the steps here? There are only four steps up to the hall, surely they could choose a more likely place to rest.” Gillian could see perfectly well what was before her without Jason’s constant description of it. If he were seeking to put her at ease, he was failing miserably. She was certain it was doing nothing but angering her new lord.
Despite her attempts at warning the boy with her eyes alone, he kept up a steady stream of drivel right until the moment she was seated next to Christopher on the dais and the food began to come from the kitchen.
Supper was a long, unpleasant affair. Her father downed wine as if he were dying of thirst. His temper didn’t improve because of it.
Christopher was silent and mannerless. He came close to knocking over his goblet half a dozen times. Jason rescued it the first time, then Gillian took over the task. Christopher knocked meat off the board, fingered the length of a loaf of bread before breaking off a piece, then dipped his hand in a cup of sauce before he realized what he was doing. The more clumsy he became, the more angry he became, which made him just that much more bumbling.
Gillian felt her patience begin to thin. The longer she sat next to her husband, the more she was sure the rumors about him couldn’t possibly be true. Even the Devil couldn’t have spawned something this inept.
At least Jason had stopped hovering. He had been sent to the kitchens on some errand and Gillian was left to see to her husband. He seemed not to notice her at all, which couldn’t have pleased her more. The last thing she wanted was for him to remember she was there, for the saints only knew what he would decide to do with her now that she was his.
One of her father’s men came to stand before the high table. Christopher didn’t bother to acknowledge him either. The man remained silent, waiting. Moments continued to pass and still Christopher made no sign of even having seen the man standing before him.
“My lord, surely you should speak to him,” Gillian whispered.
“Who?”
“My father’s man who stands before you.”
Had Christopher stiffened any more, he would have been less likely to bend than a sword.
“What is it, man?” Christopher demanded.
“My lord Warewick has complaints about the fare, Your Lordship, and I was sent to—”
“If he doesn’t care for the meal, let him seek a place at someone else’s table.”
“And his bedchamber—”
“Let him bed down in the stables!” Christopher shouted, rising. He slapped his hands on the table and glared at her father’s man. “Nay, he’s likely to make off with my horseflesh. Let him sleep outside the walls. Indeed, take yourself and your men and begone!”
Gillian gaped up at her husband in shock. How brave he was to insult her father so thoroughly! Perhaps he had no idea what Warewick was capable of.
Her eyes fell to his shoulders, to the muscular arms his clothing didn’t manage to hide. Then again, perhaps Christopher was aware of her father’s prowess in battle and he just didn’t find it intimidating. She looked at his face again. Nay, he wouldn’t find Warewick intimidating, because he was so much so himself. Indeed, should it come to blows, she had the feeling her father wouldn’t come out the victor.
“I’ll not be insulted this way,” Christopher bellowed. “Warewick!”
Gillian looked at her father, who had left his place further down the table and come to stand next to his man. Christopher continued to bellow for her father, as if he couldn’t see who was standing right in front of him.
“Too much wine,” Warewick slurred, “has clouded your vision, Blackmour.”
Christopher started, as if he had just realized his father-in-law was before him. “Out of my hall,” he snarled.
Warewick shook his head drunkenly. “I’ll take the wench with me.”
“When I’m dead,” Christopher said, his voice cold. Gillian found herself snagged by Christopher’s heavy hand and pulled up behind him.
She was shocked enough at making contact with his broad back to not protest his action. He held her pinned there, his long fingers a vise around her wrist.
Somehow, though, the sensation was not unpleasant. He certainly smelled better than Colin. His fingers curled around her wrist were tight, but not painful. His muscles were rigid with anger, but his words certainly indicated that his anger was directed at her sire, not at her.
And, best of all, his back made a handy shield between her and her father. She found she could tuck herself completely behind him, likely without even a hint of her gown showing. She pressed her forehead timidly against his back and closed her eyes, pretending that not a soul could see her to harm her.
“Begone,” Christopher warned, his deep voice rumbling in his chest, “while my temper is still cool.”
“You’re drunk,” Bernard snarled. “Too d
runk to see aught but the bottom of your cup. Beware, Blackmour. That kind of blindness will be your undoing.”
The hall erupted into a small war. Gillian felt Christopher shift, heard the hiss of his sword as it came from the scabbard, felt his hand tighten around her wrist. But she didn’t move. She clutched the back of his tunic and kept her eyes closed.
The battle was, mercifully, very short-lived. Only a handful of moments had passed before her father and his escort were aided in finding the gates. Once the hall door was closed, Jason put his hand on Christopher’s shoulder.
“The hall is cleared, my lord,” Jason said softly, so softly Gillian almost missed his words, and she was standing close enough to feel his breath on her hair.
Christopher didn’t relax as he guided Gillian toward her chair. He was looking at it, but obviously too angry to see it for he almost sent her sprawling to the floor with his gentle push. Only Jason’s quick hands saved her from a tumble. Christopher groped for his own chair and lowered himself into it carefully, feeling for the arms as if he weren’t sure where they were.
Gillian sat back and watched her husband. He fumbled for a piece of bread, tipped over a goblet of wine and poked himself sharply on the tip of the knife he’d left lying on the table, all as if he couldn’t see what he were doing. She looked quickly at his face and noted that his eyes were not following the motion of his hands. She began to wonder if he truly were drunk.
Except she knew he hadn’t touched his wine.
She froze. Christopher was merely clumsy, wasn’t he?
“My lord, Warewick’s men are through the gates,” Jason said quietly.
“Are there any left in the hall?”
“Nay, my lord.”
“How long had he been standing there while I bellowed for him, lad?”
“Long enough, my lord.”
Christopher cursed fluently, but softly.
Gillian met Jason’s eyes and felt herself blanch. Jason only smiled grimly, then clapped his hand on his lord’s shoulder before he turned and walked away.