by Lynn Kurland
“You’re teasing me cruelly.”
He rolled over onto his back, closed his eyes and began to snore.
“Christopher!”
“Sshh, I’m sleeping. Be bold, Lady Blackmour.”
“Christopher,” she groaned.
“I’m waiting,” he whispered.
“Are you teasing me?” she asked, suddenly finding the game painful.
He opened his eyes. “Nay, Gillian, I’m not teasing you.” And he wasn’t, if his tone and expression told anything. “But I’ll understand if you don’t wish to kiss me. In fact, I think I’ll just go to sleep before the thought of that wounds my pride much further.” He closed his eyes promptly.
Gillian looked down at him and weighed her alternatives. She could simply roll over and go to sleep. Or she could take Christopher at his word and kiss him. She knew he wasn’t one to speak rashly, and he didn’t seem to be teasing her at present.
She considered the matter until she felt the tension drain from him and his breathing become deep and regular. Once she was sure he was good and asleep, she carefully moved up a bit, then lowered her head and pressed her lips softly against his. She felt foolish doing it, but Christopher would never be the wiser.
She tried it again and tried to make her lips match his a bit better this time. There, that was a better effort. She kissed him a third time, feeling his lips press fully against hers. She lifted her head and smiled, pleased with her success.
“Again.”
She gasped and jumped, startled. Christopher’s arm was immediately around her waist, keeping her close.
“Where go you?” he asked.
“You are supposed to be asleep!”
“I am. I’m dreaming that my bold, saucy wife is kissing me. Now, come back,” he coaxed. “Just kiss me one more time, Gill, then I’ll let you go.”
“Why?” she asked, pained.
“Because I like it. Don’t you?”
She bowed her head. “Aye,” she said softly.
“Then kiss your demanding dragon one more time so he’ll have pleasant dreams.”
She bent her head and obliged him. He was perfectly still until she raised her head. Then he smiled.
“You’re very skilled.”
She felt herself begin to blush. “I am not.”
“Aye, you are. Perhaps you’ll care to practice on me a bit more tomorrow.”
Gillian allowed herself the luxury of believing he was only half-teasing. She turned on her side with her back to him and blew out her candle. She resettled her head on the pillow and smiled to herself.
“That depends,” she said airily.
“On what?”
“On whether or not you scratch my back again as well as you did tonight.”
Christopher gasped softly. “Why, you little mercenary! So now I must pay for my kisses by giving you pleasure?”
“It would seem so, my lord.”
He grunted as he rolled toward her and draped his arm over her waist. “And they call me the Scourge of England. I’ll be sure to warn the king next time we see him to keep his purse strings knotted well, lest you plunder the treasury.”
Gillian smiled at his teasing, feeling wonderfully cherished. She grew accustomed to the heavy weight of Christopher’s arm over her waist and the warmth of his chest against her back, burning her through her shift. It was the first night she had ever gone to sleep with his arm around her, and she found that she liked it very much indeed.
“Gill?”
“Aye,” she murmured.
“This curse of yours,” he said slowly. “When will it be finished?”
Gillian felt a rush of something go through her and she couldn’t decide it if were excitement or terror.
“Two days hence, perhaps,” she managed in a choked voice.
Christopher said nothing else, but felt for her hand and laced his fingers with hers. He must have felt her trembles, for he pulled her closer and whispered soothingly against her ear.
It seemed only moments later that his whispering became soft snoring. Gillian wished with all her might she could have rested so easily while contemplating the finishing of her courses. What was she to expect from her husband then? What would he expect of her? A pity a visit to Alice was forbidden her; at least Alice could have offered a bit of womanly counsel.
Gillian caught her breath as another idea came to her. Christopher shifted at her stiffening, grumbled under his breath, then drifted back off into sweet slumber. Gillian released her breath slowly, relief flooding through her. Aye, she had a place to go for aid, and go she would. First thing after daylight.
She snuggled back into her husband’s arms and let his warmth soothe her into a peaceful rest.
twenty
COLIN OF BERKHAMSHIRE WASN’T AN UNTRUSTING MAN. Indeed, if he were forced to admit the truth of it, he was fair and just to a fault, always giving those he felt compelled to interrogate the largest portion of patience and long-suffering he possessed—and indeed he possessed those attributes in abundance. But when it came to practitioners of the shadier arts, surely he could be permitted a small modicum of distrust.
He’d been leaning against the wall, enjoying a brief moment of repose in the early morning sunshine, when he’d noticed a slight figure slip furtively out of the great hall. He’d known instantly who it was, and it had taken no great powers of perception to divine where she intended to go. She had that look about her. It had aroused his suspicions immediately.
And so he now found himself following after her down what seemed to be an unnaturally well-trod path through the lesser frequented part of the village. So, others had been seeking out herbs of various sorts. He stroked his face thoughtfully. Perhaps the herbs Gillian had shared with him had wrought a good work on his own features. To be sure, he’d caught more than one wench staring at him with renewed interest of late.
But the saints only knew what sort of concoction these women would press upon Gillian this time. No matter the success he might have found himself; Gillian was another matter entirely. Christopher would be beside himself with grief if aught happened to his wife.
Colin lengthened his already long stride, sending peasants and animals alike scurrying for cover. A few more paces and he was directly behind his lord’s lady wife.
“Lady Gillian?”
She jumped half a foot, then whirled around to face him. She clutched at her throat with her hand and made strangled sounds. Her face was quite red and Colin felt a thrill of fear race through him.
“Are you ill?” he demanded. He grasped her by the shoulders and began to shake her. “Have you already swallowed their foul brew? By the saints, I’ll have them strung up by their waited noses!”
“S-stop,” Gillian said, her teeth clacking together. “I’ve d-drunk n-nothing!”
Colin frowned down at her. She was still very red in the face, but indeed she appeared to be breathing as she should, which surely showed she hadn’t been poisoned yet. Perhaps he had been mistaken and she was merely out for a bit of air. He was galled to admit it, but with Gillian of Blackmour, one just never knew.
He paused. Even if she had left the keep with a more innocent purpose, she had surely taken a wrong turn. There was no sense in allowing her to travel further on the ill-advised pathway she currently trod, for no matter where she thought she was going, he knew where it led. Colin folded his arms over his chest and assumed his most intimidating pose.
“I believe you are lost,” he announced. He inclined his head back toward the keep. “The bailey is that way.”
Gillian made a small motion with her hand, as if he had been a pesky fly she was seeking to shoo away.
Colin lifted one eyebrow. “How was that, lady?”
“Go,” she whispered, shooing him again. “Colin, please. I’ve things to attend to here.”
“What could you possibly want with them this time?” he demanded. “Surely that last bundle of herbs served you—”
“Sshh!” Gillian
whispered frantically, casting a wary glance about her. “We mustn’t let on to their secret.”
“Why not? It isn’t as if anyone truly believes . . . ah . . .”
His speaking came to an abrupt halt at the look on Gillian’s face.
Gillian looked away. “I believe,” she said, very softly.
“Er . . . um . . .” he stammered, scrambling for his footing. By the saints, who would have thought Christopher’s marriage would have wreaked such havoc on his own sorry life? Here he was on the verge of confessing a belief in sorceresses merely to avoid bruising this child’s feelings. Indeed, he was going soft! “Ah . . .” he said, then cleared his throat, “er . . . well, then, so do I, lady.”
“Do you really?” Gillian asked, looking back at him suddenly.
Colin took a deep breath. No sense in wounding the girl further.
“Aye,” he said reluctantly. “I certainly can’t deny that those herbs served you quite well.” That was true, at least. “Indeed, Christopher can hardly speak of anything but you and he continually praises your courage and beauty.”
She caught her breath. “Truly?”
“Aye,” Colin said darkly. “He’s completely ruined for decent labor of late.”
“I can hardly believe he speaks of me,” she whispered.
The beginnings of joy in her face caught him full in the chest. He blinked rapidly. Damned dusty pathways. A man never had to clear his eyes thusly on a sturdy cobblestone road.
“Believe it freely,” he said gruffly. “I daresay those herbs have indeed aided you as you intended. Now, surely you need nothing more here, so let us return to the keep forthwith, lady.”
She shook her head.
Colin shook his head also, unable to believe she wasn’t snapping to do his bidding. Perhaps too many courage herbs in a woman wasn’t a good thing.
“Let us return,” he repeated. “Now.”
“I’ve other business with them,” she said, her face flushing again.
“What else could you desire herbs for?” Colin asked. “Wasn’t the first batch sufficient?”
“I’m not here for herbs. I’m here for advice.”
He frowned. “Advice on what?”
She ducked her head and muttered something under her breath.
“What?” he demanded. “What advice could you possibly need to seek here?”
She squirmed mightily and looked anywhere but at him.
“By the saints, my lady, speak!”
“Womanly matters,” she blurted out suddenly. Then she clamped her lips shut and blushed furiously.
“Womanly—” Colin closed his mouth with a snap.
He found he couldn’t say anything else. Who knew what womanly matters truly entailed? All he knew was that he wanted to know no more of them than he did at present.
He spluttered gruffly a time or two to cover up his discomfort, then gestured abruptly toward Gillian’s goal.
“Go,” he said, gesturing again. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
The color drained from her face. “You’ll not listen, will you?”
Colin choked. “By the saints, of course not!”
She looked as relieved as he felt. Without another word, she spun on her heel and fled the last little distance to the hut. Colin followed more slowly. He watched a small, white-haired woman open the door, watched the woman’s face light up when she saw Gillian, then continued to watch as the woman drew Gillian inside. The door closed softly.
Colin gave the hut an unsympathetic frown. The saints only knew what sorts of things Gillian might learn from a gaggle of witches. Surely nothing that would serve her. Well, there seemed to be only one alternative. He would have to put his own soul at risk and have a small listen. At least then he would know what foolishness to purge from her mind.
With grim determination, he took up a post outside the hut door. As inconspicuously as possible, he put his head close to the thatched wall. There was giggling aplenty, peppered with a frequent “Lucifer’s toes, Magda, stir the bloody brew!” Colin frowned at that. He’d be wise to investigate thoroughly anything Gillian intended to take home with her.
He paused and gave that more thought. Perhaps Gillian would have a few more beauty herbs he could sample.
And so he would, he decided, at his earliest opportunity. No sense in Gillian putting her life in danger while he was about to save her from herself.
Time passed.
He could make out almost nothing of what was said. Indeed, the low murmur of voices was almost soothing enough to lull him into an uneasy rest, even standing as he was against the wall. He might have actually slept, had he not been so startled by the occasional witchly epitaph being flung about inside.
This was indeed a high price to pay for first taste of Gillian’s findings.
Without warning, the door opened and Gillian appeared outside. Colin looked her over carefully, but could see no damage wrought. Her hands, however, were disturbingly empty.
“No herbs?” he asked.
Gillian was very red in the face and seemed incapable of speech. Colin turned a fierce frown on the open doorway, only to find himself confronting three white-haired, sweet-faced women of rather advanced age.
“Colin of Berkhamshire,” one of the women said, the one who had welcomed Gillian initially. She smiled at him in a most maternal manner.
“You know, Berengaria,” Gillian said, “he had a few of my beauty herbs.”
Colin threw her a warning glance. As if he wanted these witches to know what he’d been about!
“I think they worked well enough on him,” Gillian added.
“Then perhaps he’d care for something else tasty to drink!” a spoon-bearing sorceress said, pushing her flyaway hair out of her eyes with a plump hand. She waved her instrument of witchery at him. “I’ll prepare something right away.”
Colin would have backed away but the third old woman grasped him about the wrist with a grip that rivaled steel for strength.
“Best bring him inside,” she said with a grumble. “’Twill require something of mine for a marked improvement. Magda, move away from my pots! Lucifer’s knees, ’tis a wonder I manage to concoct anything at all with you puttering about!”
The doorway opened up to receive him like the gates of Hell. Colin looked frantically about for Gillian, but all he saw was the flash of her cloak as she disappeared up the way. No help from that quarter.
“Come along now,” the grumbly one said. “No need to dig in your heels, lad. Beauty doesn’t come without work.” She cast him a jaundiced glance. “I believe you’ll require a large pinch of thumb-bone.”
“The saints preserve me!” Colin blurted out.
“Nemain, don’t frighten the lad,” the first witch said. She removed Colin’s wrist from Nemain’s clutches. “I’m Berengaria, my lord. Won’t you come inside? I’ll brew you a fine pot of soothing tea.”
“Tea,” Colin repeated doubtfully. Well, tea didn’t sound quite so nefarious.
“Perhaps with a few of my special herbs,” Berengaria said, tugging him gently toward the hut.
Colin considered. ’Twas obvious Gillian hadn’t come away with any. And he surely wasn’t a man to overlook the possibility of success when he saw it.
“A small cup,” he stated. “Liberally sprinkled.”
“And you can have a taste of my special potion while you’re waiting,” the pudgy one said, almost leveling him with her spoon.
Colin rose from his recently assumed crouch, then paused on the threshold.
“Lucifer’s knees, where is that bloody thumb-bone!” greeted his ears.
Colin took a deep breath, cast one last prayer heavenward, and entered the hut.
The door shut firmly behind him.
• • •
GILLIAN WALKED BACK TO THE KEEP, BEWILDERED AND rather stunned. And she knew well enough where the latter feeling came from. Christopher spoke of her beauty and courage to others.
It was almost more th
an she could take in.
She likely would have had more success in doing so if she hadn’t been so bemused by what she’d just learned in Berengaria’s hut. She wasn’t sure if she’d been comforted or led astray. Berengaria knew much of the birthing of babies but had been unwilling to divulge much of how they were conceived. Magda had been no help. The old woman, bless her pudgy self, had done nothing but giggle continually. Nemain, whom Gillian wasn’t quite sure of still, had sat in the corner, aloof. Likely she had the most knowledge, for she alluded to many diverse experiences while in search of her potion makings. But she would divulge nothing, only nod in a very knowing manner.
Berengaria told her that a child was conceived when both parties generally wore very little clothing (and this was received by a long bout of gasping from Magda), and it was a fairly tolerable act. Gillian suspected there was kissing involved, and of course a good deal of moaning, but Berengaria hadn’t said as much. Nemain had pursed her lips several times—that had been as good a confirmation as any.
In the end, Gillian had been admonished to be bold and trust in her newfound courage and beauty. Berengaria had told her to make her wishes known and Christopher would see to the rest. Magda’s swoon and Nemain’s knowing nod had convinced Gillian further of the truth of that.
So she would. A final packet of herbs were hidden in her cloak to aid her in shoring up her courage. Perhaps in a day or two, she would inform Christopher that she was ready to consummate their marriage.
And pray that he didn’t either faint or flee the other way.
Nay, he wouldn’t. She put her shoulders back and marched through the inner bailey. Hadn’t Colin said that Christopher talked of her often? When he was with her, he surely seemed fond of her. Hadn’t he demanded that she kiss him the night before?
Aye, that was reason enough to be a bit more bold. She would acquire a bit more courage; then she would see the deed accomplished.
twenty-one
CHRISTOPHER SHRUGGED HIS SHOULDERS uncomfortably, eager to have his mail off for the day. It had been a rather successful day as days went of late. He’d jousted for the first time in a fortnight and not been unseated once. Of course, had anyone but his own guardsmen been there, they would have thought it odd indeed the way Jason and Colin yelled at him as he rode, but they were in truth calling out to him agreed-upon signals to alert him to his opponents’ intentions. There were times it didn’t work at all and Christopher ended up on his back time and time again. Today had been a success. He’d earned no bruises and was feeling rather smug.