by Lynn Kurland
The merrymaking began again, despite the conspicuous absence of Christopher’s guardsmen. Minstrels sang, pipers piped, food and wine continued to appear far into the evening. Gillian watched it all without seeing any of it.
Just as her husband did.
She clutched the arms of her chair, finding it to be the only thing stable in a world that had just become full of things she had never expected.
She had expected to have Christopher beat her. She had expected to have him ignore her. She had even expected to see horns pop out from atop his head and watch his eyes burn as red as Hellfire as he suggested a visit to his tower chamber.
But she hadn’t, not in the deepest recesses of her soul, expected him to not be able to see her.
Merciful saints above, her husband was blind.
six
CHRISTOPHER SUCKED ON THE WOUND HIS KNIFE HAD left in his finger. Normally such things never happened. Perhaps he could be forgiven for forgetting where he had laid his eating dagger, given the circumstances.
A heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder, almost pushing him out of his chair. A body sat down on his right, belching loudly.
“Bloody hell, Colin,” Christopher growled. “Leave me in peace.”
“Time for the beddin’,” Colin said. “Give me some aid, lads—”
At least Christopher’s sense of direction hadn’t been disturbed, for he managed to grab hold of Colin’s throat easily enough.
“Silence,” Christopher whispered sharply.
Colin gurgled his response, then knocked Christopher’s hand away, laughing.
“Saints, Chris, don’t seem so eager! Jason, go up and warm the blankets for your master’s delicate toes—”
“Enough of this,” Christopher hissed.
“And wine for the man. He’ll need a goodly amount to strengthen him for his labors—”
Christopher almost missed the sound, it was so soft. But his ears at least hadn’t failed him and he realized the muffled squeak of terror he had heard had come from his bride. And to be sure, he couldn’t blame her a bit for it. Well, the sooner he got her away from the drunken idiots about him, the less miserable she would be. He could give her that much.
“Enough,” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. He reached down for Gillian and managed to grasp some cloth-covered appendage. He pulled her to her feet and put her behind him. “There will be no standing up tonight, so—”
“We’ll see it done,” Colin said, “won’t we, lads?”
Christopher turned Gillian toward what he hoped were the stairs.
“If you’ve a grain of sense in your head, run!” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She was rigid with terror, but Christopher could do nothing for that. He gave her a push.
“Go, child, unless you’d have me do worse than bed you.”
Her sharp intake of breath was audible even over Colin’s drunken babbling. Christopher released her wrist and heard her light footsteps stumble away. He followed her immediately, drawing his sword. Gillian cried out softly and he heard what sounded distinctly like wife and chair crashing to the floor. He groped for her but found nothing until he heard her shriek. Her terror ate at him, but he could do nothing but use it to his advantage. He followed the harsh sound of her breathing until he’d caught her and pulled her up to her feet. He kept hold of her with one hand while he grasped his sword with the other.
Blind though he might have been, his sword was nonetheless brutally sharp and not even Colin was fool enough to step in the path of its arc. Christopher pushed Gillian up the steps as he backed up them himself, waving his sword meaningfully at his former brother-in-law and personal guardsmen.
Guardsmen he would, of course, have flogged at his first opportunity in repayment of their sport.
Once they reached the landing, Christopher swiftly dragged Gillian toward his chamber. She was silent, frighteningly so. He would have thought she had fainted if she hadn’t been moving with him.
Aye, that and her trembles. Christopher gritted his teeth at the remorse that washed over him, but he had no time to ease her fear. She would have to be terrified until he’d finished what he intended to do, which was provide his bloody mates proof that he’d bedded her well and truly.
He’d barely bolted the door before heavy fists began pounding and voices called encouragement.
“Silence!” Christopher bellowed.
Colin’s hearty laughter came through the door. “Best heed him, lads. Wouldn’t want to divert his attention to things of lesser importance.”
Christopher dragged Gillian to the bed. Actually, Gillian dragged rather easily, for she was stiff as a post. He left her shuddering next to the bed while he felt for the blankets and quilts and flung them back. Gillian’s breath caught in her throat, but Christopher paid her no heed.
He jerked his knife free from his belt and Gillian cried out.
“Good,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Scream again.”
“My lord, please,” she whispered.
“Scream, damn you!”
Not waiting for her to obey him, he dragged his blade across his arm with a quick, violent motion.
Gillian shrieked so loud he flinched. He wiped his arm across the sheets, praying it would look convincing enough.
“Scream again,” he said, yanking the sheet off the feather tic.
Unfortunately, his bride made no more noise. Christopher managed to find her without groping overmuch, and his fingers told him what his eyes never could. She was trembling from head to toe. More shrieks would have been convincing to the louts beyond the door, but Christopher knew Gillian wasn’t capable of them. And he wasn’t capable of forcing them from her. He was already sick from the terror he’d heard in her voice.
He resheathed his knife in his belt and jerked the sheets from the bed. He strode over to the door, unbolted it and shoved the sheets out into the passageway.
“Proof,” he said coldly. “Now, leave me in peace.”
“Saints above, Chris,” Colin said, his voice unusually hushed, “you didn’t have to hurt the girl.”
Christopher slammed the door and shoved the bolt home with a vicious oath. It wasn’t enough that he was wedded again against his will. It wasn’t enough that he felt unwelcome pity for a woman he fully intended to ignore long into his old age. And it wasn’t enough that he had cut himself too bloody deep on the arm and it stung like a dozen belts across his back. Now he had to listen to Colin accuse him of cruelty and feel the guilt of it, even though he hadn’t touched a hair on Gillian’s head!
He cursed again as he walked to his hearth and started a small fire. Midway through the task, he decided instead on a large fire. He could hear Gillian’s teeth chattering from where he knelt.
“Don’t just stand there gawking, girl,” he said curtly. “Either come warm yourself, or get into bed.”
There was no sound of movement, but the chattering of teeth ceased abruptly. The child was likely now too fearful to even shiver.
“I won’t touch you, if that’s what you’re fretting over,” he added. “Neither of us has the stomach for the deed, I’ll warrant.”
There was still no movement. Christopher conceded the battle. She could stand there all bloody night for all he cared. All he wanted to do was become warm, then to go to sleep—hopefully to wake and find the entire day had been naught but a foul dream. Merciful saints above, this had been a mistake!
It served him right for having given into his foolish feelings of responsibility. He could have just as easily ignored William’s missive. In time the guilt would have faded and he would have been at peace. He also surely wouldn’t be suffering from a slash across his forearm that smarted far worse than his pride. He ripped off his sleeve and held one end of it between his teeth as he tried to wrap the rest of it around the wound.
Cold fingers on his wrist made him yelp in surprise. There was a squeak and a sudden crash, as if a stool had been tipped over.
�
�Saints, girl, you startled me,” he exclaimed.
Wood scraped against wood as the stool was carefully righted. Then he heard the faint rustle of skirts.
“I c-could bind that,” she offered. Her voice was so soft, he had to strain to hear her words.
Christopher contemplated his choices. The offer was made kindly enough, but he wanted none of her kindness.
On the other hand, he couldn’t see his arm to bind it very well, and he didn’t have two free hands at his disposal to do the task properly. There was no weakness in allowing Gillian to do the deed for him.
He thrust out his arm and held out the tom sleeve.
“Be quick about it.”
He gritted his teeth as her chilled fingers skimmed hesitantly over the flesh near the cut. She was freezing and she was likely terrified. A wave of pity threatened to engulf him, but he pushed it back ruthlessly. Aye, he needed none of that to cloud his judgement. He had wed her because she was William’s sister. He had made it seem that he had bedded her for not only his peace, but hers too. But to feel aught for her?
Not if it was the last thing he ever did.
“My l-lord?”
“Aye,” he said, gruffly.
“Perhaps you should have stitches—”
“Just bind it!” he commanded sharply. “And if you cannot do it without babbling, leave it be. I’ve endured worse and survived.”
The silence in the chamber was broken only by the crackle of twigs snapping and popping in the hearth. Gillian’s movements were so slow and timid; not even the cloth made a noise as she pulled it together gently.
“Harder than that, girl.”
“But, it will pain you—”
“By St. George’s bones, child! ’Tis a paltry cut, not a life-threatening wound! Pull it taut, for pity’s sake.”
Either she was powerfully weak, or she feared to hurt him. As he suspected it was the latter, he bit off a curse and fumbled for one end of the wrapping.
“Hold, lady, while I pull.”
He jerked the dressing tight about his arm and held it thus as she knotted the ends together. Then he sat back with a sigh and waited for her to get up and leave.
She didn’t move.
“Well?” he demanded. “Are you going to sit there all night? Be off with you!”
She moved, but it seemed to be only a shifting of positions. Christopher suppressed the urge to toss her bodily from him. The very last thing he wanted, far and beyond all the other things he didn’t want from her, was to sit and make idle conversation. Already he knew too much about her. Any more and he would surely regret it.
“Why?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Why did you? Cut yourself,” she added slowly.
“So they’d leave us be, of course.”
She was silent for some time, but he had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going to be let off so lightly. Now would come questions about why he hadn’t bedded her in truth and what he intended to make of their marriage, farce though it was. What was he to tell her? That he had wed her only because of his vow to William? That he couldn’t bear the thought of speaking to her, much less allowing himself to touch her? That even the thought of allowing her into the crudely fashioned defense he’d built around himself terrified him worse than any battle ever had? Nay, he could say none of those things. She would have to think of him what she would. He wouldn’t explain himself.
“My lord?”
“Eh?” he asked, wondering if he’d missed something.
“I asked why, my lord. If you please,” she added timidly.
“Why I cut myself?” he repeated. “I already told you why.”
“Oh.”
There was a very long pause.
“Then, you had to cut yourself,” she said, sounding exceedingly puzzled, “so they would leave us alone?” “Aye,” he said, exasperated. “So they would think I’d bedded you.”
“Ah, I see.”
The saints be praised for that. Now if she could just see her way clear to go to bed and leave him with his own thoughts . . .
“But you didn’t bed me. Did you?”
The throbbing in his arm intensified in direct proportion to the throbbing that had begun behind his eyes.
“Gillian.”
“My lord?”
“Pour me wine.”
Only moments later, a cold cup was pressed into his hand.
“Gillian.”
“My lord?”
“Go get into bed.”
She gasped. “But—”
“Alone,” he exclaimed. “Go get into bed alone and leave me be! Saints, child, you’re worse than Jason with your questions and foolishness. Now, obey me, while my humor is still tolerably fine. I guarantee you it won’t last much longer.”
She obeyed him without hesitation, if her abrupt flight to the bed told the tale true. Christopher stretched out before his hearth and willed away the pounding in his head. If the girl couldn’t tell whether or not he’d bedded her, she was far more innocent than she should have been, and far too innocent for him to face that night.
The pain in his head had finally subsided to a dull, irritating ache when his blissful silence was broken.
“My lord?”
He grunted in response, the only noise he could bear to make.
“You . . . you’ll not g-go . . . ” She cleared her throat a time or two. “. . . tower chamber?”
“What?” he barked. “Speak up, girl.”
“Your tower chamber,” she blurted out. “You’re not going there tonight?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he groaned as he rolled toward the fire, pulling a fur up over his shoulder for warmth. “Go to sleep, Gillian. I beg you.”
He heard her settle back into bed, then listened to the ropes creak as she shifted. Finally, all movement stopped. Christopher relaxed, waiting for sleep to claim him.
“Thank you, my lord.”
He didn’t answer, though he could have. He didn’t want her gratitude. He didn’t want her in his bed. He didn’t even want her in his house, but there was no helping that. He had given his word she would come to no harm. His word was one of the few things remaining him.
But allowing her to stay didn’t mean anything else would change. He would put her back in her own chamber come morning. Bedding terrified virgins was not something he enjoyed. Perhaps in a year or two he would give it some thought, for he would need an heir eventually. But he wouldn’t think of it now. It was all he could do to keep himself from splintering into scores of pieces from his grief. Perhaps in another year or two his sight would return and he could think on other things. Now, he could do no more than survive each day as it came, thinking of no one but himself.
Thank you, my lord.
Her words rang in his mind. He smiled without humor. Aye, he’d certainly freed her from hell, hadn’t he? He had rescued her from one loveless prison only to bring her straight to another.
He was such a fine example of knightly virtues.
seven
GILLIAN WOKE WITH A START, HER HEART POUNDING. She remained perfectly still, praying she hadn’t already moved and alerted her husband to her awakened state.
There was, however, no sound of soft snoring within the chamber. She opened one eye a slit and found that the bedcurtains were open and the sun was struggling to slip through the few cracks in the shutters. She lifted her head up slowly, peeking over the top of the blanket.
The bedchamber was empty. Gillian sat up, hugging the blankets to her chest, and sighed in relief. She was safe.
For the moment, at least.
She tensed instinctively at the thought, then forced herself to relax. Christopher hadn’t harmed her. Indeed, he had been as good as his word as far as the bed was concerned for he hadn’t come to it. She would certainly be the one to know since she hadn’t slept a wink during the whole of the night.
And he hadn’t carried her off to his tower chamber to offer her up as a sacrifice.
She was most grateful for that. She hoped he’d heard her say as much the night before.
Why he had cut his arm, though, was still a mystery to her—as much a mystery as why he’d thrown out bloodied sheets to Colin and his mates. Had they expected him to carve her up in some variety of ritual? Kind of him, to use his own arm instead of hers.
She leaned back against the headboard and stared out over Christopher’s chamber, letting her questions and speculations settle about her like so much dust. Christopher had obviously been in no mood to give her any answers the night before, not that she would have demanded them from him. A timid robin did not stand forth and demand answers from the dragon looming over her. Gillian knew her place well enough and had no intention of stepping out of it. The moment she did, Christopher would notice her and then she would surely run afoul of his ire.
So, what to do? She fingered the rich quilt that covered her and gave thought to her choices.
She could flee. That would have certainly been her choice the morn before. Now, though, escape wasn’t quite as appealing. Beyond Blackmour’s thick walls lay London, true enough, but her father was also lurking about the countryside somewhere, likely abusing his peasants to appease his anger over Blackmour’s treatment of him. Gillian had no desire to be in the same shire with her father.
She could stay, but remain out of sight. She turned that alternative over in her mind and found it rather to her liking. Surely she could snatch a few hot meals now and then and find a safe place to sleep. Jason seemed to be fond of her, at least enough so that he might help her escape Christopher’s notice.
She sat up with a start. As if she would actually have to hide from her husband. The shocking truth she had learned the night before came back to her with just as much force as it had the first time. Christopher was blind. Even if by some terrible misfortune she did attract his attention, she could escape him. At the very least he wouldn’t be able to see her to hit her. Closing her eyes, she sent a prayer of thanks flying heavenward. His blindness was a blessing indeed, one she would be ever grateful for.
She left the bed with a smile, feeling for the first time in years a bit of hope for her future. Perhaps Christopher might even begin to look on her as a younger sister of sorts and treat her as William had. Of course, he would never be as kind as William had been, but she could accustom herself to that. Perhaps in time Christopher would even forget thoughts of taking her to his tower chamber. Though she felt quite sure he wasn’t a warlock, she wasn’t at all sure that what he did at night was anything she wanted any part of.