by Lynn Kurland
He’d kept his silent vigil well into the night. Somewhere around the second watch, he’d relented. Gillian hadn’t been awake as he slipped into bed next to her, so she hadn’t marked his frown. Even in sleep, she had turned to him and reached for him. He’d held her close and tried not to weep. Ah, all the things he longed to give her, but couldn’t!
He’d returned to the tower well before dawn, prepared to pass another day training. His peace had been interrupted suddenly by Jason’s bursting into the chamber, babbling something about Warewick and peasants and carts of armored men. Christopher had been certain the lad had taken a sharp blow to the head that had addled his wits. Now, he realized his squire had spoken naught but the truth. By sweet St. Michael’s throat, this was a disaster! If he survived, he would send a missive to Robin and curse him thoroughly for having left a day too early. Aid from Artane was something Christopher never took lightly.
Now what was he to do? Feign indifference and pray Warewick was too stupid to see it for the fear it was? What he wanted to be doing was drawing his blade and plunging it through Warewick’s chest. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see to do that. A pity. Gillian deserved to have her father repaid for his treatment of her.
“I don’t recall inviting you, Warewick,” Christopher said curtly, praying he was looking in the right direction.
The hiss of a blade coming from its sheath brought gasps of disapproval from Christopher’s household. He knew it was from his men and not Warewick’s because Colin had barked out a particularly hair-raising oath of displeasure.
“I’d suggest you leave,” Christopher said, keeping his voice even, “while you can still walk out of my gates.”
Warewick laughed and Christopher realized he had misjudged his father-in-law’s position. He turned toward Warewick’s voice immediately.
“Leave?” Warewick scoffed. “When I collect what is due me, what should have been mine. Aye, I’ll have it—”
“When I’m dead,” Colin boomed. “And I’ve no intentions of meeting my end so soon—”
“Nay,” Christopher said, putting out his hand sharply. “He’s mine.”
“Am I?” Warewick asked. “Then draw your blade, Blackmour, and let’s see if you fight as poorly as you eat. I remember you to be quite bumbling the last time we met. Perhaps your eyes were blurred from too much wine. Or the sight of your new lady’s ugliness. Or perhaps you can’t see me at all.”
“He’ll never need to see you,” Gillian shouted from a distance, “because I’ll send you straight to hell!”
“Gillian,” Christopher exclaimed, “by the saints—”
He heard the ring of metal against metal, then the sound of a resounding slap and Gillian’s cry of pain.
And then there was complete chaos. Christopher turned this way and that, trying to hear what was going on about him. Gillian made no more noise and that worried him more than anything. If aught had happened to her!
He heard men cry out as steel pierced flesh. He smelled blood. Then he felt the sting of a blade. It was instinctive to draw his own blade and swing. He felt it bite deep and prayed he hadn’t killed his wife by mistake. Warmth trickled over his fingers. Whether it was his blood or someone else’s he couldn’t tell. He was far too furious to care. By the saints, he was a useless piece of refuse!
“Back to back, my lord,” Jason panted, bumping up against him. “Kill whoever comes within reach!”
“Where is Gillian?”
“Captain Ranulf guards her. Warewick struck her, but she’ll recover, I’ll warrant.”
Christopher bellowed out his war cry, more out of frustration than warning.
He kept his back against Jason’s and swung his sword viciously in an arc before him. Either his foes found him poor sport or they thought better of stepping into the path of his blade, for none came against him. Christopher continued to swing, praying his own men were careful enough not to get themselves backed into his steel.
And then it was over. Christopher came to himself to find Jason telling him as much and asking him to cease swinging. Christopher dropped the point of his sword to the floor and gasped for breath.
“All dead but Warewick and three of his men,” Colin said. “Shall I finish them?” he asked, sounding positively delighted by the prospect.
“Nay,” Christopher growled, smarting from the rescue, “I will.”
“But, Chris—”
“I said I will!” Christopher snapped. “Where is the bloody whoreson?”
Warewick’s laugh told the tale immediately.
“I knew it,” he exclaimed. “You blind fool! Ah, this is a tale worth telling—Gillian of Warewick’s fitting mate: a blind man! God, how perfect! If I’d known this would have been the result of that pitifully executed ambush, I would have counted it a success.”
Christopher froze. “What?”
“You’ll have the whole tale, will you?” Warewick taunted. “Where should I start? Perhaps we should pull up chairs and settle in. ’Tis a story long in the making. I wouldn’t want you to tire during the telling of it.”
“Speak, while you’re still able,” Christopher managed, reeling. An ambush?
He heard what could have been Warewick shifting positions and he raised his sword instinctively.
Warewick made a sound of annoyance. “Do you think I would slay you before you learn the truth? Put away your blade. I’ll not finish you so soon.”
Christopher put out a hand to stop Colin before he felt his brother-in-law move. Colin’s oath was particularly foul, but he kept his place. He was obviously none too pleased about it.
“Now,” Warewick said, “where shall I start? Shall I begin with the wealth I drained from your sire whenever I was able? I was certain a few more years of poor crops—aided to failure by my men—would have finished him.”
“But it didn’t,” Christopher pointed out, with a grim smile.
“Aye, you saw to that yourself, didn’t you, whelp? You and your glories on the continent.” Warewick spat. “I watched you come home with enough gold to purchase the king’s favor for a dozen keeps. It was then I realized how you had aided me. I would see you slain, then have Blackmour and your gold both.”
“Neither of which you have,” Christopher said pointedly.
“Yet,” Warewick said. “Yet. But I will. Now to the part I think you will find of the most interest. What shall I describe first? The night Magdalina of Berkhamshire first crawled into my bed, or the night we planned your murder?”
“You lie,” Christopher said flatly.
“Do I? I think you knew Lina better than that. I promised her Warewick and Blackmour both if she’d wed with you, something she truly found abhorrent. Of course the wench never had a head for strategy. You were to come to Braedhalle with just her. It would have been so much easier to finish you properly if you hadn’t brought so many men along to protect your wife.”
Christopher was too surprised to do aught but continue to listen.
“After she bungled the plan so thoroughly, I didn’t have much choice but to finish her. A pity. If you had died, as you were supposed to, I would have wed her and had Blackmour and Warewick joined sooner than now. Of course, I would have been lord of both. I will yet be lord, once you’re dead and I have Gillian home again. Who knows what sort of accident she’ll meet with on the stairs?”
Shock numbed Christopher completely and left him with naught but coldness inside. He was ruined because of Warewick’s greed. One man had taken away from him his sight, the one thing he wanted more than anything, simply because of his lust for gold.
“You bloody whoreson,” Christopher choked out.
“Indeed,” Warewick said cheerfully. “But a bloody rich one. Or I will be.”
Christopher wanted to sit down in the rushes and weep. He’d never suspected Magdalina to be that calculating. To learn she had ruined him in such a coldhearted fashion rocked him to the very core.
And then to learn Warewick had been behind it all
! Christopher tore through the memories he had of Gillian’s sire, through recollections of time spent with William at his home. Not once could he remember Warewick being aught but arrogant and blustering, his usual demeanor. But to realize Warewick had been planning his death for years!
“One last thing,” Warewick added. “Braedhalle is my poorest bit of soil, to be sure, but that wasn’t why I selected it as Gillian’s dowry. Perhaps you can think on it and divine the real reason.”
Gillian’s sob broke through the silence. “You bastard!” she cried.
“Silence,” Warewick bellowed, “lest you have your words back tenfold! I have a long memory. Now, Blackmour, tell me. Wasn’t it clever of me to give to you the very place where you’d lost what you hold most dear?”
Christopher couldn’t speak. His rage choked him and it was all he could do to breathe. Saints, he wanted nothing more than to kill Warewick with his bare hands!
Which, of course, he couldn’t. There he stood, encircled about by his men and a handful of enemies alike and he was powerless. It had been drilled into him from his earliest years: your duty is to protect others. At Artane, he had honed that skill into something akin to artistry. Now, he stood helpless, unable even to tell if the blood covering him was his or someone else’s. Before him stood a man responsible for his own grief and years of grief suffered by William and Gillian alike.
And he was unable to do a damned thing to him.
“Come, Gillian,” Warewick commanded. “Come home and let me reward you for how poorly your husband has treated me over the past few months.”
Gillian caught her breath.
Christopher felt anger surge through him. That was the last thing he would let happen! He would die protecting her if he had to.
He raised his blade.
“You may have ruined my sight,” he said, “but you’ll not ruin anything else that’s mine.”
“And how will you keep me from it, blind man? By fighting me?”
“He won’t have to,” Colin growled. “It’ll be my pleasure to do it in his stead.”
“Nay,” Christopher said, “I’ll do it myself. Come at me, Warewick, if you’ve the spine for it.”
Christopher prodded the air with his sword, but touched nothing.
“On your left!” Colin exclaimed.
Christopher whirled to his left and lashed out. The meeting of blade against blade sent tremors through him. But the tremors were pleasant ones.
“Perhaps it won’t be as easy as you think,” Christopher said curtly. “Care for another go, Warewick?”
“From below,” Colin said suddenly. “Saints, Chris, watch out—”
Christopher felt the blade bite deep into his thigh. He gritted his teeth and swung, but he made contact with nothing. Colin called out directions, but Christopher was hard pressed to make sense of them. Warewick’s few men had begun to shout and Christopher could barely hear Colin over the din.
Christopher lunged suddenly, praying he would survive it. He felt his sword meet bone and halt. Warewick swore viciously. Christopher pulled back, prepared to deliver more such blows.
But that was when the battle became something he couldn’t fight himself. Gillian’s sire only taunted him, nicking him time and time again.
And then the unthinkable happened.
His sword went flying.
Christopher stood there, empty-handed, and thought he would be ill. By the saints, how would he ever—
“Stay,” Warewick bellowed. “Berkhamshire, put away your blade.”
Colin put his hand on Christopher’s shoulder.
“Chris, let me,” Colin begged.
Christopher heard the ring of metal against the stone of the floor. It was followed by a lighter sound, as if a small blade had been cast aside also.
“I am unarmed,” Warewick said placidly. “Let us see what you can do with merely your fists, boy.”
Christopher felt some of his pride come back to him. Perhaps now this would be on more equal terms. At least he would be able to keep Warewick close. Hadn’t he wrestled with Jason and Colin often enough—and bested both of them?
He felt his head snap back before he realized he’d been hit. Before he could regain his balance, another fist plowed into his belly, doubling him over. Hardly had he straightened before another blow caught him full in the face.
Warewick was a large man. He shouldn’t have been so agile.
But he was.
Christopher struck out, but his fists met nothing. He moved forward and extended his hands.
Nothing.
And then Warewick began to laugh.
It was the laughter that undid Christopher. Never before had he lost control of himself in battle, even when he’d been young and green. But he lost control now. He came at the sound of the laughter and swung wildly.
The blood thundered in his ears. The confusion in the hall only added to his dizziness and unease. Christopher lost his sense of direction, lost the sound of Colin’s voice, and lost his reason.
Another blow caught him and sent him reeling. He stumbled backward and lost his balance. Colin caught him, then shoved him back to his feet.
“Enough of this,” Colin pleaded.
Christopher jerked away from his brother-in-law and dragged his hand across his mouth.
“I haven’t finished with him,” he said. “Come at me, Warewick, if you’ve—”
He didn’t feel the impact of Warewick’s fist. All he felt was the floor as it came up to meet first his back, then the back of his head. The pain was blinding.
“Enough!” Colin thundered.
Christopher shook his head, trying to clear it. But he couldn’t. His body burned from cuts of the sword and the remains of blows. He sat up with an effort, then felt Colin’s hands under his arms. He didn’t curse Colin for aiding him back to his feet. To be sure, he couldn’t have gotten there on his own.
“Go, Warewick,” he rasped, leaning on his Colin. “You’ll live to see another dawn.”
“Because you cannot kill me? How kind!”
“Does the reason matter? Go before Colin is unable to restrain himself further and finishes you himself.”
“Pitiful whelp,” Warewick spat. “You’re not even man enough to protect that bitch I sired.”
“Let me take him,” Colin begged. “Christopher—”
Christopher shook his head. “If I cannot do the deed, it will not be done. See him and his men out the gates, but leave him alive.”
“Your generosity moves me to tears. You’ll leave me alive to finish you another day—”
Christopher found himself suddenly standing on his own. Then he heard the distinct sound of fist meeting flesh. Warewick’s chatter ceased abruptly.
“I may not be allowed to kill him, but I don’t have to listen to him,” Colin growled. “Come, lads. Let us heave this refuse over the wall before his stench makes us swoon.”
Christopher felt shame flood through him. Saints above, he couldn’t even defend himself!
And to think Gillian had witnessed it all.
“My lord?”
Christopher stumbled back from her. His wife was the last person he wanted to have see him in this state. She’d already seen too much as it was.
“Christopher, let me see to you—”
He shook his head sharply. “Nay,” he said. “Where are the stairs?”
“But—”
“The stairs!” he shouted.
He felt her hand on his arm and she turned him gently. When she stopped, he jerked his arm away and limped toward the stairwell.
“Christopher, please—”
Christopher ignored her. He’d been humiliated by her sire, unable to protect her himself, unable to do aught but stand there and be beaten almost senseless. Warewick was right, he wasn’t worthy of her.
Hadn’t Lina said the same thing about him? You’re not man enough to do aught but sit on the front steps in rags and beg for what you need. I’ll have a man who’s
whole, or none at all. At least Lina had gotten what she deserved.
But Gillian deserved better. She deserved a man who could keep her sire from her, protect her with not only his name but his arm. She deserved better than he could give her.
He walked alone to his tower chamber, shut the door behind him and sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall. The battle fever was leaving him, allowing him to feel his wounds in full measure. Not even that pain could equal the agony in his soul.
He had failed her.
He had only one choice, a choice he should have been courageous enough to make when he’d first begun to love her.
He’d send her away to someone who was whole.
thirty-one
GILLIAN STOOD IN THE GREAT HALL, UNABLE TO MOVE. She cradled her right arm against her chest. It was numb from the shoulder down. She hadn’t counted on the strength of her father’s arm. It had taken only one clashing of swords with him to send pain shooting up through her limb. Her sword had dropped from her lifeless fingers.
Her face, however, was not numb. Her cheek ached from where her sire had struck her. That wasn’t the only thing that pained her. Her pride stung mightily, for she realized how unprepared she had been to meet her father and best him.
If only the agony stopped there.
She looked at the stairs her husband had just climbed. Christopher certainly wanted no further part of her. Saints above, it wasn’t enough that her father had stolen Christopher’s sight three years before. Now, because of her, a new humiliation had been added—being thrashed like a lad before most of his household.
Gillian picked up her sword and turned toward the hearth, as if not looking at the hall with its layer of blood and bodies would ease her discomfort. She had brought Christopher nothing but pain and ruin. Would to God that her father had finished her long ago!
A movement caught her eye. She looked to her left to see Jason going up the stairs to the upper floor. Against her will, and her better judgment, her feet turned in that direction and carried her with them up the stairs after her husband’s squire. She knew Christopher would want nothing to do with her, but mayhap she could take one more look at him, fill her eyes with the sight of the man she loved more than life itself. And then she would do what she knew she had to.