by Lynn Kurland
“Oh, Christopher,” Gillian said, with a laugh. “You are the most impossible man.”
“I’m a bloody poor host and I couldn’t care less.”
“I think you’re a wonderful host,” she said, leaning down to kiss him softly. “You’ve made them feel most welcome.”
“Then I’ve obviously been remiss,” he grumbled. “The lads at least should have felt some urge to head home by now.”
Gillian laughed. “Oh, Christopher, how I do love you. How did I pass the whole of my life without your grumbles?”
“You were likely quite bored,” he stated. “What I wonder is how you survived without my kisses. Indeed, I daresay you have suffered overmuch from the lack of them as of late. Come you here and make up for it.”
Gillian couldn’t stop her smile. Flattery from those Artane lads had given her a fleeting pleasure, to be sure, for it was indeed a novel thing to have handsome lords singing praises to her beauty. But how could that flattery possibly compare to Christopher’s grumbling? Or his demands for her attentions? Or his scowls when he felt as if he hadn’t seen her as much as he would have liked to during any given day? Aye, this was a love to be treasured.
Gillian smiled down at him. “Will you have kisses first, or should I tell you of the day, my lord?”
He pulled her head down and kissed her soundly. “A little of both, I think.”
“And where shall I begin?”
“You shall begin by telling me first how weary I look and how you’re certain a nap would be just the thing for me.”
“I daresay you don’t look overly weary as of yet.”
“Then talk me to death,” he commanded. “I’m sure I’ll be quite tired by the time you finish.”
Gillian smiled as she traced his lips with her finger. “Do you really wish me to?”
He smiled suddenly, a rueful smile that charmed her. “Perhaps my nap will wait for a few moments. Tell me of the day, my love,” he said, reaching up to touch her hair. “And then tell me what you’re wearing, and how your hair looks in the sunlight. Then tell me what blooms in my garden. Tell me of it all, Gillian. I hunger for nothing so much as the sound of your voice and the touch of your hand.”
The earnestness in his voice made her want to weep. She leaned over and kissed him until she felt the tears recede from her eyes.
Then she did just as he asked.
twenty-eight
ROBIN OF ARTANE WALKED DOWN THE PASSAGEWAY, HIS curiosity getting the better of him. He’d seen the light flickering in the tower chamber and had heard the tales of Blackmour weaving his dark arts there. Robin had always dismissed the rumors as sheer foolishness, but he wasn’t above a bit of snooping to see just what mischief young Christopher was combining at night.
Robin froze when his foot touched the bottom step. The growl that greeted his ears wasn’t a welcoming one. Robin remained still as the black shape loped down the steps, then let out his breath slowly when the wolf sniffed his hand. Robin carefully scratched the beast behind the ears.
“Good boy. You protect your master well. Go see to your mistress now. I’ll watch over Christopher.” He pointed back down the passageway. “Go to Gillian.”
The wolf whined and bumped Robin’s hand. Robin sighed and relented.
“Very well, then. Come along. And let us see what your master does to ruin his sleep.”
Robin climbed the stairs silently and paused at the threshold of the tower chamber. The door was ajar. Robin pushed it gently open and slipped inside the chamber.
Christopher was training. Robin leaned back against the wall and watched his former squire work. He smiled sadly. Ah, Christopher had been without peer. There had been times that, had Robin been entirely truthful with himself, he would have had to admit that he’d met his match in the young lord of Blackmour. That was no small admission.
Even now, Christopher had lost very little of his skill. His balance was less than perfect, but his art was still there. Robin couldn’t begin to count the nights he had gone out to the lists with a torch and dragged Christopher inside, trying to impress upon the lad that training into the middle of the night wouldn’t serve him. Christopher, in that sober, serious way he’d had, had pointed out to Robin that he’d been famous for the same thing in his youth. Robin smiled at the memory. Aye, he’d loved Christopher like a son, gladly taking him from a father who couldn’t manage the responsibility of himself, much less a son who deserved careful and thoughtful training in both swordplay and governing a stronghold the size of Blackmour. Robin had taken on both tasks willingly, teaching Christopher all he could about living through wars and peacetime alike. Christopher had never had to hear anything twice. Once heard, the instruction had stayed with him always.
A pity Christopher hadn’t been willing to be cautious where Magdalina had been concerned. Robin had no use for anyone from Berkhamshire, save Colin, and had pleaded with Christopher to drag the betrothal out. And then he’d seen how blinded with love Christopher had seemed, how often he had laughed, how happy he had appeared. Robin had kept his mouth shut and wished the lad all the happiness possible.
He had never believed the tale that Christopher’s wounding had been an accident. It reeked of something foul. It had happened on one of Warewick’s holdings, which was even more disturbing. Now Warewick had a tie to Blackmour. Robin couldn’t bring himself to believe Gillian would have any notion of it. Saints above, how she loved Christopher!
But the entire affair had to be more than it seemed. A pity no one would ever likely know the truth. Magdalina could have been behind it, but there was no way of telling now. Christopher had his share of enemies, but Robin could think of none with the spine to come against him, especially when Blackmour’s strongest ally was Artane. There wasn’t anything Robin wouldn’t have done for the child who had fostered at his home for so many years and the rest of England knew it.
He looked up when he saw Christopher stop parrying. Christopher dragged his sweaty arm across his equally sweaty forehead, then turned and looked straight at Robin. Robin blinked in surprise.
“Can you see me?”
“Of course not,” Christopher grumbled. “But you have this bloody annoying habit of muttering under your breath when you think too hard. I vow I could hardly work for the distraction. My lord,” he added.
Robin smiled to himself as he crossed the room and sat down in the alcove. “Forgive me. Continue with your play. I had merely come to see what devilish deeds my former squire combined in his tower room. The isle is aflame with speculation.”
“And I suppose you heard these rumors from my wife,” Christopher said dryly. “I vow she looked for horns for the first fortnight of our marriage.”
“She’s a beautiful girl, Christopher. You chose well.”
Christopher sighed and came to sit down on the bench across from him. “I had no choice in the matter.”
“You could have turned your back on her.”
“I made a promise to William.”
“It was a promise well kept.”
Christopher fingered the hilt of his sword, his head bowed. Then he lifted his head slightly. “Is she fair to look upon? Not that it matters to me, of course.”
Robin smiled. At the moment, Christopher seemed that same shy lad who had first gaped at a girl when he was ten. Ah, what a memory.
“She’s enchanting,” Robin said, smiling. “She’s comely, but not so beautiful that the queen’s ladies will poison her when you take her to court. Her gentleness of spirit shines in her eyes and that is a beauty that will not dim.”
Christopher nodded, then leaned his head back against the wall. “Aye, she’s a treasure. I couldn’t be more pleased with her. What I am not pleased with, however, is those lads of yours slobbering over her.” He frowned deeply. “That Kendrick is a womanizer of the first water—”
Robin laughed. “Harmless flirting, lad. You know Kendrick wouldn’t dare the like.”
“I know several other lords who would
say he would.”
Robin shook his head, amused. He hadn’t expected jealousy from Christopher. The lad was truly in love.
“I’m in earnest, my lord,” Christopher growled.
“I know,” Robin said, suppressing his grin. “I daresay your frowns have told quite a bit of the tale, but if you like I’ll warn him off further.”
“You do that,” Christopher said curtly.
Robin gave in and laughed. “Ah, Chris, it does my heart good to see you so besotted.” He paused, then threw caution aside. “Bring her to Artane,” he urged. “Anne wishes to meet her. And it will be good for Gillian. She needs the company of other women from time to time. Not that Colin isn’t womanly enough,” Robin added with a chuckle.
Christopher’s smile was strained. “Colin will have to suffice her.”
“You know Anne won’t grieve her,” Robin said, trying a different tack. “Neither will the children. I don’t know the extent of what she suffered at Warewick’s hands, but if it was anything like William—”
“It isn’t that.”
Christopher rose abruptly and walked to the middle of the floor. He took up a fighting stance, then lunged, thrusting viciously. He would have skewered five men with that strike. Robin dragged a hand through his hair and rose. He came up behind Christopher and put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
“Christopher . . .”
He lowered his sword and turned around. “I appreciate the invitation, but I must respectfully decline.”
Robin suppressed a sigh. Ah, such pride! He sighed again, then stepped back a pace.
“Then indulge me. I’ve lacked sorely for swordsmen of your mettle. Not even my brothers have your skill.”
Christopher blinked. “You jest.”
“Nay, I do not. They are all bumbling pages and give me no sport at all.”
“Not that,” Christopher said impatiently. “I cannot parry with you!”
Robin looked down at the wicked edge of Christopher’s sword and realized the possibilities of injury. “We’ll use blunted training swords, then. I’ll go fetch a pair.”
“Nay!”
“Then I’ll fetch wooden swords—”
“Nay!” Christopher’s exclamation was full of anguish. “Damn you, Robin, I cannot!”
“But of course you can,” Robin said, surprised at the outburst. “Saints, think on how well you joust! We’ll work out a like system for swordplay.” He nodded to himself. “Aye, I’ll send the lads home and stay on for an extra pair of fortnights. Then when you come to Artane—”
“Damn you, cease!” Christopher thundered. He cast aside his sword and grasped the front of Robin’s tunic in two clenched fists. His breaths were harsh in the stillness of the chamber. “I cannot parry with you,” he ground out. “I cannot see you to fight!”
“We’ll hone new skills—”
“Stop!” Christopher cried out, as if he’d been struck. “Merciful saints above, Robin, don’t you think I wish I could? Don’t you think I come up here each night and train, wishing I could actually see something besides blackness? Don’t you think I weep tears of rage and frustration, knowing what I was, yet faced with what I’ve become?”
Tears streamed down from his sightless eyes. Robin’s heart wrenched inside him at the sight.
“Don’t you think I want to come to Artane?” Christopher asked hoarsely. “I lie awake at nights dreaming of my days there. I imagine how it would be to take Gillian there, to show her the places I roamed as a youth, to present her to the man I loved more than I ever loved my own sire.
“Don’t you think I want to see you, Robin? To be the man you made me into and see in your eyes that you are pleased with me? Doesn’t it occur to you that I would wish to look at the Lady Anne and remember how I loved her sweetly in my youth and prayed for a gentle woman just like her to love me?”
A sob escaped him. “Don’t you think I wish to look on my lady? Can you not imagine how badly I want to watch her birth my children, then look down at the babes and see myself in their features? Don’t you think every day of my life is torture, knowing the things I want and knowing they’re forever out of my reach?”
Robin felt his own tears slide down his cheeks and he did nothing to check them.
“Ah, Chris,” he whispered roughly, reaching out to draw the sobbing younger man into his arms.
“Nay,” Christopher said, pushing him away. “Leave me. For pity’s sake, Robin, if you have any mercy, just leave me be!”
“I would do aught to ease—”
“There’s nothing you can do! Just go.” Christopher turned his back. “Please.”
The last was nothing more than a whisper. Robin wanted to stay, but he knew Christopher wouldn’t appreciate it. Though he believed that Christopher possessed a great deal more than just his pride, it was obvious the lad didn’t believe it himself.
So Robin left.
He walked down the stairs and down the passageway. He almost stumbled into Gillian before he realized what he was doing. He caught her by the arms and steadied her.
“Forgive me, lady,” he said. “I didn’t see you.”
“Christopher?”
“In his tower chamber. As is his wont, I gather.”
She smiled gravely. “Practicing his dark arts, no doubt.”
Robin couldn’t return her smile, even though he appreciated her wry sense of humor.
He stopped her as she moved past him with a soft goodnight. “Gillian, if I could presume . . .”
“Aye?”
“Leave him be. For the moment.”
She went still. “My lord?”
“I spoke to him of coming to Artane.”
Gillian winced. “And I take it that grieved him?”
He nodded, though that was likely unnecessary. He was certain Gillian could read the entire tale in his expression.
“’Tis his damnable pride,” Robin said, with a sigh.
“I fear, my lord,” she said, “that there are times he doubts his own worth.”
“Fate has not been kind, my lady.”
“Hasn’t it?” she mused. “In his mind, nay, it has not. But in truth, I cannot grieve overmuch for his loss of sight.”
Robin gasped. “You jest.”
She shook her head. “He never would have wed me else. ’Tis most selfish, I know, but I love him desperately. He never would have wed one as ugly as I.”
Robin smiled, pained. “You both undervalue yourselves, Gillian, for you are a comely maid and Christopher is no less a man for being blind. Perhaps in time, you will both learn to see yourselves as you truly are.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Robin took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “I’ve no doubt he will come to you soon enough and he will be prickly. Have a care with his tender heart, won’t you?”
She nodded solemnly. “I will.”
Gillian looked up at him as they stopped before her bedchamber door. Then she leaned up and kissed his cheek softly.
“Thank you for loving him, my lord. He values that greatly, though he may not show it overmuch.” She smiled gravely. “I’ve learned that about you men. Scaly for the most part, but possessing very soft underbellies. My fierce husband is scalier than most, but I prefer him that way.”
With that, she slipped inside the chamber and closed the door. Robin stared at the wood for a moment or two, trying to digest the whole of the evening. Then the tension eased out of him and he had the feeling Gillian would be able to handle whatever sort of fit Christopher decided to throw. After all, Blackmour’s temper was legendary.
And Robin sincerely hoped Christopher didn’t ruin everything by letting it get the best of him.
twenty-nine
GILLIAN STOOD ON THE FRONT STEPS OF THE HALL AND watched as Robin and his sons made ready to depart. Christopher’s mood was foul. Gillian watched her husband stand near her with his arms folded over his chest. His very expression was enough to discourage any and a
ll attempts at conversation. Gillian suspected she knew the reason why he had no desire for speech. Even though Robin had remained silent about Artane since the night he had spoken to her, the invitation still seemed to hang between him and Christopher like heavy smoke.
“What, no smile from my lady for me to carry away on my journey?”
Gillian looked into Kendrick’s dusty green eyes and grimaced.
“I’ve seen better, but that will do for now,” he said. He took her hand and bent over it. He looked up from under his eyebrows and winked. “I’d kiss it, but I like my head atop my neck and your lord is in no mood to be trifled with, I fear.”
“Leave off, dolt,” Phillip said, pushing Kendrick aside. He took Gillian’s hand, swept her a gallant bow and kissed her very carefully and chastely on the fingers. “It has been a great pleasure, lady. Give me leave to bring my bride here, won’t you? I’d have her see your fine example of gentility.”
“And cleanliness,” Kendrick added, with a grin. “But I daresay you’ll have to give that wench of yours a bath before you dare bring her here—”
Gillian’s view of the ensuing fight was blocked by Robin’s large frame as he drew her gently into his arms and gave her a fatherly hug.
“You take good care of my boy,” he said quietly. “And bring him to Artane as soon as you can manage it.”
Gillian nodded, finding it difficult all of a sudden to speak past the lump in her throat.
“I’ll do my best, my lord,” she whispered.
Robin smiled down at her, then released her and turned to embrace Christopher. Gillian watched her husband’s stern visage and knew that he was steeling himself against any more of Robin’s invitations. Robin was obviously too wise to say more than he would see Christopher again soon, leaving Christopher to take it however he would.
Gillian stood on the steps until the portcullis had come down behind Robin and his sons, then turned to look at her husband. She laid her hand on his arm.