Maiden Bride

by Deborah Simmons

  Some of what Nicholas felt must have shown on his face, for Piers stepped forward to grasp his arm. “What? What is it?” he demanded.

  For a long moment, Nicholas could not reply, as all his suspicions about Hawis Hexham had fallen into place. Why had the man waited so long without sending any word to his sister? Because he was not her brother. Undoubtedly he was the dark-haired man who had asked so diligently about Gillian, and the reason for his many questions was clear. He had needed every bit of information he could gather in order to act the part of her sibling. Still, there were things he had not discovered—her breathlessness, for instance.

  But why would someone pose as Gillian’s brother? The answer came, swift and painful: Hexham’s former demesne was rich enough to satisfy any knight, let alone an errant squire. And the only people who stood between him and the lands he lusted for were Nicholas… and Gillian.

  The wife he had sworn to protect was in more danger than Nicholas had ever imagined.

  Gillian urged her mount after Hawis’s, but the climb toward high ground was difficult. Nicholas would not approve, Gillian realized, and she felt a twinge of guilt. She had accepted Hawis’s invitation to ride in the hope of speaking to him privately at last—and making it clear that he must forget about their uncle’s property.

  Although her intentions were noble, Gillian sensed that Nicholas would not appreciate her efforts, which, unfortunately, had come to naught so far. Not only had she failed to broach the painful subject of their heritage to her brother, she had barely conversed with him at all. Despite the cold weather and the muddy and slippery ground, Hawis seemed determined to ride, rather than talk.

  “Hawis, slow down,” she called to him, but the wind that was picking up again must have swallowed her words, for he did not turn. How typical of a man to forge ahead on a single course without stopping to consider his actions—or those of anyone around him!

  Gillian glanced upward to get her bearings. Hawis was obviously making for the small gorge at the top of the hill. Apparently her brother wanted to get a good look at the rising river, but why he had dragged her along, she did not know.

  Gillian frowned at the thought, which rang, sadly, with truth. Even after weeks in his company, there was still much she did not know about her brother. And, try as she might to feel the appropriate familial attachment to him, she could not. Guilt nagged at her for her failing.

  She told herself that it was only natural that such sentiments be slow to develop, for she had only a vague memory of a curly-haired boy to put to the grown man who had returned to her a stranger. Still, Hawis deserved better. Kind and gentle and even-tempered, he seemed to possess all the fine traits that her husband lacked.

  Yet she loved Nicholas more. So very much more. Of course, what Gillian felt for her husband was different from that she would feel for a sibling, but she could not rid herself of the impression that for all his foul-tempered blustering, Nicholas was far more worth loving than the warm, friendly Hawis.

  Gillian shook her head at her own perversity. Perhaps her own character was flawed, but she preferred the company of her harsh husband. He might be moody and bullying and argumentative, but he would never bore her. Life flowed between them. Whether with anger or excitement or passion, they fired each other’s spirits with a constant give-andtake.

  Gillian was jarred from her thoughts by the struggle to reach the rise. Her saddle slipped, and she knew a moment’s worry that she might lose her seat. Digging her heels in, she sent her palfrey the last few feet to high ground, and breathed a sigh of relief. A glance behind her, down the muddy incline, showed her just how dangerous a fall would have been.

  She sucked in a strangled breath, regretting her unwise decision to come along. This was a hard ride, better suited to men and their destriers, and she had not only herself, but also the child, to think about.

  “Hawis,” she gasped.

  “Over here!” he yelled. He was looking out over the gorge, as she had suspected, but she had no desire to go near the edge, where the earth fell away to the rushing river below.

  She hesitated, then started in surprise as a horse and rider burst through the trees to the left and galloped up the hill at breakneck speed.

  It had to be Nicholas, Gillian thought grimly. A very angry, very jealous Nicholas, who no doubt thought she was conspiring with her brother to take over the world—or at least this small part of it. When he reached the top, he was forced to slow down, and he reined in the massive destrier not far from her, his glance darting around the clearing suspiciously.

  Gillian glanced at him dubiously, but he did not look particularly enraged. His face was bone white, and his eyes were dark against the colorless skin. Was he ill, or was this a new facet of his ever-changing temperament?

  “Gillian, come to me,” he said.

  The vehemence in his tone surprised her. Was there more involved here than her simple ride with Hawis? Weary as she was of Nicholas’s petty jealousies, her first inclination was to refuse, but the starkness of his features made her pause. If she had not known better, she would have thought fear drove him. Yet Nicholas was afraid of nothing.

  “Gillian, over here!” Hawis called.

  “Stay away from him, Gillian,” Nicholas said. “Come to me. Now.”

  Bewildered, Gillian glanced back at Hawis. He was closer to her and, ignoring Nicholas’s insult, as usual, he urged his mount forward. Gillian looked from one man to the other, from her brother’s friendly countenance to her husband’s forbidding one, and she realized that if she would trust one of them, it must be Nicholas.

  The discovery made her blink, for though long had she loved him, never would she have thought to put her blind faith in her husband. Yet she knew that what flowed between them was stronger, more powerful, than anger and revenge, and she turned her palfrey toward him.

  A noise made her start, and she looked up to see Hawis spurring his horse forward, frightening her little mount into sidestepping. Gillian tried to regain control, only to feel her saddle slip again. She gasped for breath, and might have fallen, but for Nicholas, who somehow reached her side in an instant and lifted her into his strong arms.

  Cradled on his lap, Gillian watched as his great destrier swept from the fray, just as Hawis’s big horse nearly ran down her poor little palfrey. It struggled valiantly for footing on the slippery ground, and Gillian released a long, ragged sigh, thankful that she had not been seated on the saddle that now hung crookedly from its back.

  The incident had transpired so swiftly that Gillian was unsure what had precipitated it. Had Hawis’s horse been spooked? The slippery ground was enough to make any beast skittish, but what would send it straight toward hers? She knew it was no unruly stallion, but an even-tempered gelding.

  Slowly Gillian became aware of the tension emanating from her husband. He held her crushed against his chest, one arm wound around her so tightly that she could not move, and she could feel the thundering of his heart. He remained silent, however, his gaze firmly fixed upon Hawis as he maneuvered them a good distance away. When he did speak, his tone sent a chill down Gillian’s back.

  “Did you think to improve your chances for Hexham’s lands by getting rid of Gillian and the child she carries?” he asked in a deceptively smooth voice.

  Gillian gasped, stunned by his words, but Hawis only smiled.

  “Obviously, your arrival scared my mount. You cannot charge that huge destrier into a clearing and expect the other horses not to react.”

  Gillian felt an icy cold descend upon her that was not due to the weather. Why did Hawis not ask her pardon or express his concern?

  “That does not explain her saddle, does it?” Nicholas asked. He was as still as stone now, and just as unyielding. “Did you cut the cinch, or just loosen it? Was she to fall into the gorge, Or were you going to push her?”

  Gillian felt the air leave her lungs in a rush, but she refused to succumb to the horror that threatened to assail her. She breathed in a
nd out, slowly, for her baby’s sake, as well as her own. Only when she had regained control of herself could she look at her brother. He seemed as relaxed as ever. Did nothing affect him? Why was he not screaming his denial?

  “I do not know what you mean,” he said, a smile playing about his lips. Did he think this all a jest?

  “Did you really believe I would let her death go unavenged?”

  “You are imagining things,” Hawis said.

  “Nay. You are the one imagining things, if you thought to kill my wife and child and take my lands. The game is done, Swithun, for I know who you are.”

  For the first time, Gillian saw a brief flicker of reaction in Hawis’s dark eyes, but he spoke evenly. “You can prove nothing.”

  “I have a man at Belvry who knows you, who can vouch that you are no brother to my wife, but a cowardly squire, turned off for poor service to his master. Or did you murder him, as you tried to Gillian?”

  Hawis licked his lips, but held his ground. “He must be mistaken,” he said, his mouth curving into a smirk. And, as Gillian watched in stunned silence, he stripped off his gauntlet and tossed it on the ground in front of Nicholas’s great destrier.

  “You insult me, Nicholas. I deny your words, and what’s more, I challenge you to the Hexham lands, mine by right of inheritance.”

  Gillian gasped in horror, her eyes fixed upon the fallen glove, for even she, sheltered as she had been, knew the meaning of such a challenge. Trial by combat, it was called, and it was fought to the death.

  Pulling her fur-lined cloak around her, Gillian turned toward the doors that led from the great hall outside, though Edith would have held her back.

  “But, my lady, you cannot mean to go!” the servant protested, yet again.

  Gillian silenced the older woman’s protests with a single look, and Edith fell back, muttering something about the lady being as stubborn as the lord. It gave Gillian her first, and no doubt last, smile of this day, for before the morning was through, someone dear to her would be dead.

  It was not what she would have, and the walls had rung with shouts as she and Nicholas had argued over the challenge. He had listed all the evidence against Hawis, and she had been forced to accept what her heart had suspected all along: The man who claimed to be her brother was not. It had hurt, and to hear of his crimes against her had been even more painful, but she would not have him cut down by her husband.

  Nor would she have Nicholas hurt.

  That admission had pulled her husband up short for a while, but he was still adamant. Honor demanded that he go forward with the duel, he insisted, although Gillian cared nothing for such knightly rituals. If truth be told, she could hardly believe that this barbaric contest was legal. If Hawis was an impostor, then trial by battle was an easy way for him to gain a vast estate by murdering the owner.

  And that was what tormented Gillian. Although Nicholas scorned any suggestion that he would be defeated, she could not help but worry. What if he was not invincible? She knew him to be a skilled warrior, strong and clever and quick, but what if something went awry? The thought of anything happening to him made her gasp for breath, for she could not imagine a life without the harsh man she had grown to love. And what of the baby she carried? Would it ever know its father?

  Only her own fierce pride had kept Gillian from begging him not to go through with it, and though she tried mightily, she could not sway him. Nicholas had stormed off, and she had succumbed to the drowsiness that plagued her. When she had awakened this morning, he was already gone, depriving her of any final protests. Or parting words.

  Gillian let out a ragged sigh at the memory and forced herself to step outside. Despite Edith’s dire warnings, she had no intention of cringing in her room while her husband and the man purporting to be her brother fought to the death. Motioning for the old servant to attend her, she walked out into the bailey.

  Although it had rained no more, the sky was dull and overcast and the wind cool, promising a cloudburst or perhaps snow later. The weather did not appear to be keeping anyone from the event, however, for the procession grew as they neared the field where the battle was to be held. Gillian might have accused them all of a ghoulish curiosity, but for the serious expressions worn by most. These were Nicholas’s people, and though they had been slow to take him to their hearts, they were fiercely loyal.

  From the whispered comments she overheard, Gillian could tell that few shared her concerns about the contest. Not only was Nicholas a skilled and seasoned warrior, but it was well-known that God aided the combatant with the just cause. That alone should have been enough to ease her fears, but Gillian knew that God did not always behave as man might expect or want, and none knew his ways clearly.

  And so she doubted and was afraid. Still, she held her head up high as she made her way to her seat upon one of the benches that had been placed near the battle area. She knew that she must act the part of the lady of Belvry, even though she wanted to wail and sob and beat her breast in terror.

  A hush fell over the crowd as Piers took his place as judge, though the position was strictly titular. The fight that ensued would be the real judge, and death the final decision. Gillian watched as Piers received the gloves of both men. Then Nicholas took a position to the north, Hawis to the south, and the two faced each other. Although both were large men, they looked small and vulnerable without their war-horses and armor. This was no joust, but a duel, and each held a single baton as his only weapon.

  Piers signaled for the battle to begin, and Gillian felt her breath quicken. Despite her best intentions, her thoughts swiftly disintegrated into a jumble of prayers and pleas and her heart became an unruly thing that beat far too wildly within her chest. If Gillian had ever been uncertain, she knew the truth now full well. She loved the hard man who had come to the convent to claim her, and she would have him grow old with her, forever at her side, bullying and blustering and meeting her passion with his own.

  It began. Nicholas thrust. Hawis parried. And Gillian felt the telltale hitching of her breath. She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on taking in air, but her efforts were too fast, too shallow. Dear God, but she could not succumb to her fear! Not here. Not now. Not when Nicholas was in danger.

  Gillian clung to her last thought, and with a strength she had not thought to possess, she blew out a ragged sigh and opened her eyes. She had to breathe, not just for herself, but for her baby. And for Nicholas.

  He staggered under a heavy blow, and though Gillian flinched, she did not gasp. She felt someone’s fingers close over her own, and looked down in surprise to see that Edith was holding her hand. Gillian squeezed the older woman’s in reassurance, knowing that she, too, was anxious. And she breathed. Slowly. And, curiously, with each breath came new power, until she could face the grim battle without blinking.

  Hawis, who had gained some ground with fancy maneuvering, was neither as big nor as strong as Nicholas. Nor did he have the endurance of such a seasoned knight. Gillian had seen her husband work with his men for hours, but she saw no such stamina in Hawis, who had spent his time at Belvry in idleness, for the most part.

  It soon became apparent that Hawis was rapidly tiring, but, as usual, he showed no dismay. Although a solid blow from Nicholas cracked his own weapon in two, Hawis fought on, swinging one end wildly, for the rules of combat were clear. The fight would continue, if only with fists and feet and teeth.

  Nicholas struck, but despite his weariness, Hawis moved quickly, avoiding the blow and dancing around his opponent. In the blink of an eye, he sent the cudgel crashing down on Nicholas’s head. Nicholas swayed and fell to his knees as a murmur of protest rose from the crowd.

  Gleefully circling for the kill, Hawis lifted his broken weapon high, the jagged end traveling downward in a deadly arc, straight for Nicholas’s face. Gillian’s fist tightened so tightly around Edith’s hand that the old woman squeaked in protest, and it was as if time stopped, as everyone leaned forward to watch what might be th
e final feat of the battle.

  Then, suddenly, Nicholas lifted his arms, his own baton receiving the blow and breaking before he was up and throwing himself against Hawis, who lost his weapon in the fall. The two rolled around on the ground, fists flying, and again Nicholas proved himself to be the better man, despite the blood that trickled from the wound on his head.

  Still, Hawis did not seem frightened, not even when Nicholas knocked him to the ground, hands closed around his neck. For a moment, Gillian wondered if the man was mad, or uncommonly brave, but the reason for his confidence became obvious when his fingers inched toward the top of his boot. Abruptly, silver flashed, and, as if the forbidden weapon gave him renewed energy, Hawis struck, throwing Nicholas off and leaping on him with a vengeance. Nicholas fell onto his back, one arm up to catch the hand that gripped the knife poised at his throat.

  The audience gasped, collectively, whether in horror at this breach of the rules or in fear for Nicholas, Gillian never knew. Another flash of silver caught her eye, and she watched it fly through the air from where Piers had risen to his feet to Hawis’s back, embedding itself neatly between his shoulder blades. He fell, releasing his grip on Nicholas, and the crowd roared its approval.

  Gillian remained where she was, unable to move, as Piers strode forward. He pronounced Hawis dead and Nicholas the victor, and Gillian felt the world swim before her eyes. She struggled to stand, with Edith’s help, and then, as if the life that had been suspended rushed through her again, she found herself running across the chill grass toward her husband.

  Chapter Twenty

  Nicholas wiped the sweat from his eyes and stared at the large hand that was extended to him. He wanted to wave away Piers’s misguided assistance, for he would rise by himself, with dignity. And yet he could not. He was shaken and unsure his legs could support him, even though he had walked away from worse skirmishes. Indeed, he had come closer to death many times.