by Lynn Kurland
A knock sounded on the door and she stiffened immediately. She looked around frantically for covering of some kind, then realized she was still wearing her gown from the day before. She dragged her hand self-consciously through her unruly curls, then approached the portal cautiously.
“Aye?” she ventured.
“Lady Gillian, ’tis Jason. My lord said you likely wouldn’t want to come downstairs, so I brought you something to eat. Will you have it?”
Gillian opened the door and admitted her husband’s squire, who set a wooden trencher laden with food on a table near the hearth. Jason looked her over carefully, then met her eyes.
“You are well?” he asked gravely.
She nodded, silent.
Jason hesitated, then shut his mouth and simply stood there, as silent as Gillian was. As time passed, Gillian began to grow anxious. She felt decidedly uncomfortable with the lad and could find no reason for it, save his own reticence.
“Jason, is there something amiss?” She paled as her thoughts continued down along that well-trod path. “Oh, merciful saints, have I angered him—”
“Nay,” Jason interrupted quickly. He held up his hand, as if to stop her from saying anything else. “By no means, my lady. He was mightily irritated this morn—”
She gasped.
“—at Sir Colin for his actions yestereve.”
“Oh,” she said, only slightly relieved. “You are certain?”
“Aye, lady.” He paused, then looked down at his feet. “But you, my lady. You are well?” He looked up at her from under his eyelashes. “Unhurt?”
“’Tis not me who was hurt,” she said quickly. “’Twas Christopher. His arm, you know.”
“His arm?”
“Aye,” she nodded, feeling another wave of gratitude wash over her; “He cut it, you see, to bleed on the sheets. I suppose it was done to spare me a trip to his tower chamber. I’m most grateful.”
“Tower chamber?”
Gillian looked at the lad and wondered if too many years at Blackmour had driven him slightly daft.
“Where he works his dark arts.”
Jason stared at her blankly.
“I’m fairly certain he isn’t a warlock, Jason, but even you will admit he does devilish deeds in that tower. I’ve seen his Hound from Hell. I’ve heard the ring of his sacrificial knife about its foul work. I’ve no idea what else he does up there, but I have the feeling it isn’t pleasant. I’m simply grateful he spared me yestereve.”
Jason was staring at her so intently that she began to feel as if she’d said a great deal more than she should have. Perhaps Christopher didn’t want anyone knowing of his kindness. Knowing his reputation, she had the feeling that might be the case.
“Jason,” she said quickly, “please don’t repeat anything I’ve said. I shouldn’t have said aught and I’m not sure why I did.” She paused, then tilted her head and looked at him thoughtfully. “It must be that I trust you. Aye, that’s it, then.”
She closed her mouth tight and simply smiled. She wouldn’t add any more burden to Jason’s keeping of her words.
He took her hand and bowed low over it.
“I am honored,” he said. He straightened, his face slightly red. “If I may serve you in any way, lady, all you must do is ask.”
“That is very kind of you, Jason. But I need nothing now.”
He bowed again, then left the chamber.
Gillian ate slowly, savoring what was surely the best meal she had eaten in all her score-and-one years. It was either that Christopher’s cook was far better than her father’s or that she had, for the first time ever, peace in which to enjoy her food.
It was a most delightful pleasure.
• • •
SHE SPENT THE AFTERNOON STUDYING THE THINGS IN Christopher’s chamber, hoping for a clue as to the character of the man she was now wed to. His things were generally very much like William’s, save his clothes were better cared for than William’s had been. Then again, perhaps it was that Christopher didn’t have her doing his mending. William had never complained about her lack of skill, though Gillian knew he likely should have.
There was a small trunk near the window that she couldn’t open. It was either full of implements of torture or merely personal things Christopher didn’t want his servants plundering. Gillian ran her fingers lightly over the lock. She had the feeling it would contain things from the continent, not thumbscrews. William had brought her back many gifts from the times he had gone tourneying with Christopher. Her father had destroyed those gifts one by one after William’s death.
Gillian rose quickly and walked away from the trunk. She would not let memories of her sire ruin her pleasure in the day. He couldn’t harm her again. Christopher had vowed to see her safe and she believed he would hold fast to his vow. He was a knight. That meant nothing to her sire, whose gold spurs had clicked against the stone floor as he’d paced before his selection of whips, but she was certain it meant much to Christopher.
There was nothing else that gave any clue to Christopher himself. There were no baubles lying about, but she could understand that. He wouldn’t have use for much clutter. The tapestries lining the walls were obviously there just to keep out the chill, for they were worn and faded, as if they were either old or had been chosen without care. She fingered one such tapestry and decided that something should surely be done about Christopher’s chamber. Though he might not be able to see it, she certainly could and she didn’t like seeing her lord in shabby surroundings. The rest of his hall was marvelously fine; his bedchamber should also be so.
Aye, and such deserving treatment would begin that night. Gillian walked to the door, the beginnings of an idea already forming.
She opened the door to find one of Christopher’s guardsmen leaning against the far wall of the passageway. He was so obviously watching her door that she couldn’t decide if she should be flattered Christopher was protecting her so well or nervous that he was guarding her so she didn’t escape.
The man made her a low bow, though, and his expression was kind enough.
“My lady?”
“I need a thing or two,” she began, chewing her lip and sizing the man up. He looked too skilled to be fetching her things, but she wasn’t about to venture out and fetch them for herself.
“Name them, my lady.”
If he was going to offer, she wouldn’t refuse him.
“I need a small tapestry, no bigger than the width of your outstretched arms, a bottle of Lord Blackmour’s finest claret and perhaps some sweet-smelling flowers. Are there any in bloom yet?”
“Flowers?” the man echoed.
“None to be had, I see,” she said, with a sigh. “Very well, then, the other items, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” She looked up at the tall knight. “Would it be too much trouble, Sir . . .”
“Robert, my lady. I’ll fetch them posthaste.”
“Thank you, Sir Robert. You’re very kind.”
The man nodded quickly, then turned and fled for the stairs. Gillian suffered a moment of panic when she wondered if he rushed off to tell Christopher that his wife was making free with his goods.
She shoved away her worry before it became full-blown terror. The man had asked what he could fetch for her, hadn’t he? If he hadn’t meant it, he shouldn’t have said it.
Gillian wandered about Christopher’s chamber as she waited. To her surprise, she felt almost at peace, if such a thing were possible. Perhaps it had been passing the day in her husband’s chamber to calm her so. After all, he was only a man, as William had been. Her brother had a healthy temper, but he’d never turned it on her. Christopher might act the same way, if she didn’t provoke him.
• • •
TWO HOURS LATER, SHE KNELT ON THE TAPESTRY SHE had thrown before the fire and surveyed her handiwork.
The fire burned cheerily, as well it should have for all the trouble it had given her starting it. Christopher’s furniture was heavy, but she’
d managed to move it back away from the hearth. The tapestry was an old one, yet it looked well wrought when viewed from the light of the fire. A goblet of wine sat on the stone of the hearth, waiting to be mulled once Christopher had arrived.
All in all, it was a very clever arrangement and Gillian congratulated herself on having thought it up. Now, all she had to do was remove herself to the alcove and stay out of sight while Christopher enjoyed his comforts after a long day training and doing his lordly duty.
The door opened and she hastily jumped to her feet, then backed up when she saw it was her husband. She escaped to the alcove, then watched hopefully as he strode into the chamber.
And then she realized the enormity of her mistake.
Christopher tripped over the stool, then bellowed out his surprise only a moment before he fell and smacked his head loudly on the corner of his chair. Gillian took a step forward, then froze as Christopher lifted his head and looked straight at her, the blood dripping down his forehead into his eye. The absolute fury on his face told of his rage more eloquently than any words ever could have.
She didn’t have to be told to flee. She ran for the door, skidded around it and fled down the passageway to the bedchamber she’d slept in for almost a se’nnight. A heavy tread followed her, a tread she was positive belonged to her husband.
She gained her chamber, then slammed the door and slid the bolt home the moment before the wood shook from a single, powerful blow.
“Open the door.”
The words were spoken with complete calmness and serenity, which terrified her all the more. How many times had her father seemed calm when he beguiled her into opening her door to him, then proceeded to beat her until she couldn’t breathe?
“Gillian,” the deep voice came again, even more calmly, “open the door, girl.”
Gillian fled across the chamber to her trunk. Her hands shook so badly, she could hardly get the lid open. It fell down upon her fingers twice, adding to her pain and frustration. She pulled out her sword with a cry of relief.
Christopher knocked.
Gillian began to weep with fear. He would do more than beat her; he would kill her. She had no doubts of it. She had seen it in his expression when he’d lifted his head. Aye, he would repay her for her stupidity and that repayment would be death. Hadn’t he killed his first wife, then buried her unshriven? Gillian no longer completely believed he had horns, but she could well imagine him burying his bride in secret, denying her the benefits of a last priestly administration, all because of his fury over something she had done. She had no doubts he would do the same to her.
She dragged her sleeve across her furiously tearing eyes and struggled to gain control of herself. She drew her sword and held it up, putting it between her and the door.
“Gillian, I want you to come over and open the door.”
“Never!” she croaked, shaking so badly she could barely hold her blade.
The wood quivered from the force of Christopher’s slap, yet when he spoke again, his tone was no less pleasant than before.
“Now, Gillian, we must talk and I’ll not do it through this door. Don’t make me break it down.”
“I’m n-not coming out,” she said, gaining some courage from the feel of cold steel in her hands. “And you’ll not be coming in. I have a sword, you know.”
“Damn you, woman, I’ll not be disobeyed!”
“I know how to use this!” she shouted back, then bit her lip. As if shouting at him would actually make things better.
“Break it down,” Christopher growled to someone outside the door.
“But, my lord—” a man protested.
“Break it down!” Christopher thundered. “And the next one who makes my head pain me any further will have a hundred lashes by my hand. Now, break down the bloody door!”
The wood quivered once, twice, three times, then the bolt gave, the wood of the frame splintered and the door swung open and slammed back against the wall. Christopher stepped into the chamber, his face red from both anger and his blood.
The sword suddenly became too heavy. Gillian struggled manfully to keep the steel pointed at the man who would now take her life but found her strength deserting her. The blade clattered against the hard wood under her feet and she sank to her knees with a sob of pure despair. She folded her hands over her neck and cried out over and over again in terror. Never in her life had she felt such uncontrollable fear, not even with her father. At least she’d tasted the fullness of his wrath. Christopher’s likely would go on endlessly.
She screamed as hands grasped her arms and hauled her to her feet.
“Gillian,” Christopher shouted, “cease! I’m not going to touch you! By the bloody saints, I vow it!”
Empty words, as she well knew. She wanted to stop weeping, for she knew it would only anger him the more, but she was powerless to cease.
The next thing she knew, she no longer had her body under her control. It was only when she felt the softness of a bed beneath her that she knew Christopher had picked her up.
“Sheath her sword, Jason, and bring it to me,” Christopher commanded.
Gillian went rigid with terror. Was he going to beat her with that first?
The hilt was held above her and Christopher fumbled for first her right, then her left hand and wrapped them about the haft.
“Your blade, lady,” he said, his voice still tight with anger. “Don’t ever, ever bolt a door against me again. I’ve no way of impressing upon you how much that displeases me short of beating you, which I will not do, or shouting at you until your ears ring, which I’ve no stomach for either. So, let this be the warning. I’ll not have such patience in the future.”
He straightened and walked to the battered door, then turned and came back. He glared down at her.
“And do not ever move anything in my chamber. If I want my furnishings moved, I will move them myself. They please my eye the way they are. Understood?”
“Aye,” she croaked.
Christopher straightened and turned. “Come, Jason. You’ll return my chamber to rights.”
“But the Lady Gillian—”
“Now!” Christopher bellowed. “I have no qualms about beating you, insolent pup. Make haste, boy, before my hand moves any closer to my belt.”
The pair of them then quit the chamber. Gillian turned her face to her pillow and let it muffle her great, wrenching sobs of terror. They lasted so long and were so violent that she finally had to seek the chamber pot.
Retching only made her weep the more. She remained on the floor where she was, pressing her flushed skin against the chill of the hard wood.
Oh, but Blackmour was worse than Warewick. She’d had hope that morning, hope that at last she had finally found a safe haven. She had fully intended never to attract Christopher’s notice, for then he would never be irritated by her or her actions. What a fool she had been to remain!
But what to do now? At least Christopher hadn’t struck her. He might have terrified her with his calmness, but at least he hadn’t followed through with his belt this time.
This time. She had no way of telling what he would do the next time. She was certain, though, that it would be much worse than anything her father could do. Christopher was bigger and younger, and likely that much stronger.
Perhaps taking the chance of meeting her father in some unfamiliar shire was a safer choice than remaining where she was.
Tomorrow she would go, after she had rested and shored up her strength. She would elude Christopher’s notice for the whole of the day, then flee just before the drawbridge went up for the night. She would have to remember to ask Jason in which direction south lay before she left, on the off chance the eve was too cloudy for stars.
That was a detail she was certain she would need in her travels.
eight
CHRISTOPHER RAN HIS FINGERS LIGHTLY OVER THE SPLINTERED wood of Gillian’s door. It would have to be repaired, but he couldn’t think about that yet.
His head pained him too much for thought, and the pain only grew worse with each passing hour.
He had no idea what time it was, but Jason had fallen asleep hours ago and even Gillian had ceased to sob. He couldn’t help hearing her in the next chamber, damn her to hell. It would have been wiser to lock her in his tower where she could have wept in peace, and left him in peace.
Never in his life had he heard such terror in a body’s voice. Not even in battle had he heard men scream as she had when he’d entered the chamber. Merciful saints above, he didn’t want to know the details of her life at Warewick.
He leaned his head against the rough doorframe and sighed deeply. Jason had spared him no details while putting the chamber to rights. He’d heard all about the tapestry put there for his pleasure, the cup of wine ready for mulling, the pillow plumped and placed close to the fire for his comfort. How would he have known that on his own? It wasn’t as if he’d been able to see it. He’d almost bloody killed himself falling over that stool!
He’d been angry at the bump on his head, and furious over the disruption, but in truth, he knew it was more stung pride than anything. It was hard enough to choke back his fear and walk forward confidently when he was certain there wasn’t anything in his way. Surprises did not sit well with him.
How could Gillian have known though? She thought he could see. That in itself eased his embarrassment quite a bit. At least he had succeeded in keeping his flaw from her. She would likely credit his anger to his enviable reputation for violence. In time, she would learn that he would never truly raise a hand against her, but she would have to learn that on her own. He could afford to spend no time trying to convince her.
Which made him wonder why in Hell’s name he was standing at her doorway, straining to hear even the sound of her breathing. He eased into the chamber and padded slowly to the bed. He reached down carefully and patted the quilts, wanting to make sure she was covered. All those tears had likely soaked her gown and she would catch her death if she weren’t covered well.