A wave of bleakness swept over her, as endless as the dark gray seas that stretched beyond the shore. Her heart cried out, for each day was an eternity. November had drawn to a close, and she was still here…How long must she remain here? Forever, she feared. How was she to bear it? How?
Refuge. She reminded herself it was that which Brother Baldric had sought by bringing her here to the place where he had been born. He’d said that to continue to move about was to risk discovery. That they must hide here until the furor died down. Ah, but would there ever come a time when she felt safe again?
Nay, she thought with a sinking flutter of dread. Not as long as King John was alive. How could she feel safe when she felt like an outcast? Tainted.
This was not the life she’d dreamed of, not the life she had ever thought to find. Memories of the past rose up to mingle with a wistful yearning. Papa had always been one to keep his children close to him. Papa had chosen not to have Clifton foster with another family, but to begin his training at Westerbrook. The winter that her mother had died from a stomach ailment had been a difficult one for all of them. Gillian had been sixteen, and Clifton but ten.
Perhaps, after her mother’s death, Papa had wanted to keep his children close to him. Papa teased her occasionally that he must find a husband for her, but in truth there had been no haste. Gillian never doubted that someday she would marry, but she knew Papa would never foist a husband on her that she did not love, a husband who did not return her love in the very same measure.
Someday, she trusted, that man would come for her. A man she would love above all others…
Sometimes she dreamed of him, of a man strong and valiant, and ever so dashingly handsome! And oh, his kiss—that very first kiss! He’d steal her very breath and make her tingle to the tips of her toes, with arms both tender and strong, and warm, compelling lips. Her life would be one of laughter and love and joy. She would watch in wonder and contentment while her babes toddled about, for she had already decided there would be many. A girl she could rock and tell tales of days gone by. A boy as sturdy and handsome as his father, who would teach him of honor and truth.
But now a shadow had been cast over all her hopes and dreams. A shadow that might well last a lifetime.
But what was this? Pulling the soft wool coverlet more tightly about her shoulders, she scolded herself soundly. She was foolish to feel sorry for herself, for what of her brother Clifton? She was a woman full grown, she reminded herself. And for all that Clifton staunchly proclaimed that he was a man, he was but a boy of twelve.
Not until dawn’s pale light crept along the misty hills to the east was Gillian able to drift away in slumber.
Yet despite the wildness of the gale that night, when Gillian tugged open the door the next morning, sunlight poured down from the sky, as pure and golden as any she’d seen in the northern shires of Westerbrook. Such was the way of it here along the coast of Cornwall. No sweet, fragrant fields and rolling hillsides here, not like Westerbrook. Tall grasses fringed the stretch of beach beyond the cottage. To the north and west, white-gray cliffs towered over the tiny inlet. She stood for a moment, gazing out. In truth, Gillian could not deny there was a raw, stark beauty to this land…
Her throat closed painfully. She didn’t mind fending for herself. She wouldn’t have minded living in this tiny, derelict cottage at all, if not for the ever-present fear…and the storms.
Oh, it wasn’t for herself that she feared. She worried about Clifton, so young, deprived of his family. She worried about Brother Baldric, whose age made the journey here a difficult one, though he never complained.
He had come to Westerbrook as a young man; he’d once been a tenant on Westerbrook lands, even when her grandfather had been lord. But it was when her father, Ellis, was a youth that tragedy struck. Early one morn, Baldric’s cottage had caught fire after he’d left for the fields.
His wife and four children had perished.
In time, Baldric had decided to dedicate his life to the Church. Perhaps it was despair that had brought him to the Church, but it was surely faith that kept him there. Of that, Gillian had no doubt. Sometimes, though, she had wondered if it was the memory of his wife and children that had kept him from taking Holy Orders.
Aye, she’d known him since she was a child. There was not a time that she could not remember him.
But she missed Westerbrook, she thought yearningly. Most of all, she missed her father and Clifton.
Darkness bled through her. One she would never see again…as for the other, she could only pray the day would come soon.
It was then she spied the slight figure of a man coming toward her, weaving down the path. Scarcely taller than she, he was spare and thin, his pate shaved and exposed to the wind; the set of his shoulders between his robe was bony and frail. At times she marveled that he had been able to make the journey here to the place where he had been born—that he had revealed much of his character and determination.
“’Twas quite a storm we had last night.”
The breath she drew was faintly unsteady, but somehow she managed a faltering smile. “It was,” she agreed.
Brother Baldric peered at her. “I am sorry I did not come yesterday.”
Gillian gave an admonishing shake of her head. “You need not be sorry, Brother Baldric.” She couldn’t help but feel guilty. The walk from the sparsely populated village was a long one, yet Brother Baldric made it as often as he could. “Indeed, ’tis most kind of you to help with food and fuel. I know that it takes away from your work with Father Aidan.”
Father Aidan was nearly blind; since returning here, Brother Baldric had become Father Aidan’s eyes. They sometimes walked for days to minister to those in the area, for the villages were few and far between.
She smiled faintly. “I am in your debt, as you well know.”
“Debt?” Brother Baldric scoffed. “My first duty is to God. My second to your father, and he entrusted me with your safety, child. Speak no more of debt.” He frowned suddenly. “You look fatigued, Lady Gillian. Are you ill?”
“Nay. ’Tis just that I did not sleep well.”
“The storm?” he guessed.
“Aye.”
“And other things as well, I vow.”
“That, too,” she admitted. “I worry about Clifton. He is so young. And he’s been deprived of his family—”
“I understand your concern, but it was for your own good that your father sent the two of you away.”
Her eyes shadowed, Gillian regarded the dark-robed man who had brought her here. “I know. But it pains me to think of Clifton alone.”
“Not alone,” he reminded her. “He is with Alwin, your father’s chief retainer, and we both know that Alwin will protect Clifton with his life.”
Though Gillian knew Brother Baldric meant only to comfort, there was no such comfort to be found for the endless, dragging heaviness within her…for what if it should come to that? What would happen to Clifton then?
Her eyes darkened. “If only we could have remained together!”
“It could not be. Your father was convinced his children stood a far better chance apart than together—and he was right, methinks. He dared not take the chance that King John would find you—you or Clifton.” Brother Baldric did not speak aloud what they both knew. At least this way, if one were caught, the other might live.
“I should have stayed with him. I should have stayed with Papa!”
“He would not have allowed it.”
He was right. Her father could be so stubborn. Yet still the memory speared her heart, her very soul. From the moment she’d seen her father so many weeks ago, she had prayed for the best…all the while fearing the worst.
Alas, it had come to pass.
Events of the outside world were slow to reach this remote corner of the land, but earlier in the month Baldric had come with news. There was discontent among the barons; that they had ever come together at Running-Mead seemed a miracle.
> But there was more…it was with obvious reluctance that he’d delivered the heartrending news that her father had been caught…and was now dead.
Gillian could not help it. A hot ache filled her throat. She choked back a sob.
“Painful though it is—small comfort that it is—try to remember, it was God’s will.”
“God’s will that my father take his own life? God’s will that he was buried in unconsecrated ground?” Her tone laid bare the bitterness etched deep in her breast.
“I can see why your faith would be tested. But I pray, do not do this, Lady Gillian.”
“My father did not take his life because he was weak—because he was afraid. He took it rather than give up another to the king’s wrath. Nay, he was not weak—it is I!”
“Nay, child, nay! I am proud of you, for not many could live as you do—here, alone with only an old man for companionship. You are strong, Lady Gillian. Strong enough to face the future.”
Alone? That single word unspoken seemed to hover between them. For alas, she did not feel strong. Though she was a woman full grown, she felt weak as a mewling child. This austere existence was a far different life than she had lived at Westerbrook…. Fleetingly she wondered how King Henry’s wife Eleanor had lived in exile for sixteen long years. Yet it was not what Brother Baldric thought. Nay, in truth it was not the loneliness that Gillian minded…but the storms.
“I leave with Father Aidan to accompany him to the east, Lady Gillian. But before I leave, walk with me a while. It will do you good.”
Brother Baldric was right. She must not give in to despair. Nor would she cause him worry—indeed, it almost seemed as if the myriad lines in his forehead were etched even deeper as he gazed at her imploringly. In truth, she decided, surely she fretted enough for both of them.
“Ah, Brother Baldric. What would I do without you to guide me?” She reached out and gave his thin shoulders a quick, fond hug. He was a humble man; he’d grown to manhood poor and remained poor by choice.
Together they set out on the trail that cut along the edge of the beach. As they walked, she glanced over at him. “Is there news of the kingdom?”
Brother Baldric sighed. “All is unchanged, I fear. The barons rumble, yet King John remains unchallenged.”
The soft line of Gillian’s lips tightened. She was convinced there was naught but vile blackness in the king’s soul—naught but darkness in the heart of John of England…or John Softsword as he was referred to in snide snickers by some of his subjects.
“John is a fiend.” Her tears vanished and her eyes flashed as she voiced her opinion of the king aloud. “He promised his mother Eleanor when he captured Arthur of Brittany that no harm would befall the prince. No doubt he thought he was so clever, for he showed those who had been captured with Arthur no violence. Yet they were given no food, and what is that if not cruelty? Arthur was never seen again once he was imprisoned in Rouen. How can there be any doubt that he was killed and his body thrown into the Seine? How can the people not know that John is a monster? He is a dangerous man. Ah, that we, his loyal subjects, should be subject to his whimsy. He cares not about his people—the people of England,” she went on fervently, “but only of his own greed!”
“That is something the world may never know, Lady Gillian, and you must guard your tongue—even here, for it is said there are spies everywhere.”
“How such a man commands loyalty, I know not.”
“I fear gold can make many a man beholden to the sway of the king’s wishes. And no doubt there are other ways as well.”
’Twas the hand of fear that Baldric referred to—they both knew it. “And no doubt King John has employed such ways,” said Gillian, “and of a certainty will yet again!”
Brother Baldric glanced at her sharply. “I pray you, Lady Gillian, let us speak no more—”
Gillian heard no more, for just then a fierce wind ripped away his voice and stole it aloft; snatching at the voluminous folds of her mantle, the gust sent her hair rippling behind her like a streaming pennon, even as it pushed her back a step. The fingers of one hand clutched at the fastenings of her mantle to keep it from being torn from her shoulders. It was plain, of woven wool, as was her gown; there had been little time to gather her belongings that night at Westerbrook, and Papa had directed that she take warm clothing. With her other hand, she tugged a sable skein of hair from across her eyes and fought to regain her balance and her breath.
Still gasping at the icy sting of the wind, she felt Brother Baldric stop short as well. But it was not the wind that brought his step to a halt, and a stricken cry of horror to her own lips…
The storm had left its legacy.
They had just rounded the massive boulder that guarded the cove. Splinters of wood littered the beach beyond. Here and there, ragged swatches of sail clung to the rocks, fluttering in the breeze.
And the bodies of several men.
“Last night’s gale,” Brother Baldric’s tone echoed her own shock. “It must have carried the ship too close to shore.”
Before she knew it she was standing beside first one body, then another and another.
Shocked, she stared down into faces robbed of the vigor of life, white and pallid and bloated, their lifeless eyes turned to the sunbleached sky. Her stomach churned, as surely as the waves had churned throughout the gale. It was only too easy to envision the helpless frailty of their ship against the momentous forces of the sea—perched dizzily atop the crest of a wave, hurtling through the air, battered against the rocks that rose like jagged teeth just off the headland. Any craft, no matter how sturdily built, would have been as fragile as dried tinder.
“Do you know them, Brother Baldric?”
Baldric shook his head. “Nay. They are not from this area, I’m certain of it.”
Refuge. The word played anew through Gillian’s mind. Was it refuge these men sought as they sailed around the point? Yet there was no refuge for these men. Or perchance their families even now were patiently awaiting their return…
But they knew not that they were dead. Gillian felt sick at heart, sick to the very depths of her soul.
Something of her feelings must have been displayed. Brother Baldric shook his head.
“My lady,” he said gently. “Do not look like that. You must remember, it is—”
“I know. God’s will.”
“Aye,” he said heavily.
“Forgive me, Brother Baldric, but I cannot help but wonder at God’s ways.” She could almost hear the vengeful pounding of the waves surging against the rocks. A guilt like no other shot through her. She had cowered in her bed, fearing for her safety, while these men had perished so very near! Had they been alive, any of them, as the perilous waves carried them to this place upon the sand? Ah, but they were so very close…
If only she could have warned them of the danger of the rocks! If only she could have saved them. But alas, if they had been alive, the wind had masked their cries. And so, she hadn’t heard them. Could she have saved them, if she had?
Her gaze rested upon the last man. Unlike the others, his eyes were closed. Heedless of the wet sand that soaked her mantle and gown, she slipped to her knees. Reaching out, she brushed the gritty sand from one lean cheek. The grayish pallor of death was upon his skin, yet it struck her that he was not so cold as she’d thought he would be. Was it merely the warmth of her own hand? Or but a wish so fervent it might have been true?
“A pity all of them died,” Baldric lamented sadly. “I shall see to it that they are buried in the churchyard.”
Gillian heard, but only distantly. Her attention was captured solely by the man next to whom she knelt.
Nay, she thought vaguely. It could not be. Shock stole her breath, the very beat of her heart. She could have sworn there was the veriest movement beneath her fingertips. But she did not snatch her hand back as every instinct compelled that she do.
“This man is not dead,” she said faintly. “He is alive…Brother Ba
ldric, he is alive!”
2
BROTHER BALDRIC STOOD NUMBLY. HIS FINGERS KNOTTED on the ties of his rough gray robe. “That cannot be. Lady Gillian, you have only to look at him to see he is beyond salvation.”
“Do not say that!” Gillian’s tone was fiercely adamant.
As if he heard, the man turned his head ever so slightly. A low moan emitted from lips that were dry and cracked, the sound long and raspy and filled with torment.
Brother Baldric still had yet to move.
“Brother Baldric, you must help me! Is there someone from the village who can help us move him to the cottage?”
“Aye,” he said shakily. “The miller’s sons Edgar and Hugh. They are strong lads, as strong as any in the village.”
“Then fetch them, Brother Baldric, and hurry!”
Baldric did not move. A shiver played over him. This man lay helpless in the sand—unable to move, unable to speak—and Baldric could not take his eyes from him…
“Brother Baldric!”
The urgency of her tone must have finally gotten through to him. With a nod he set off toward the village as quickly as his legs would carry him.
By the time he returned with Edgar and his brother, Gillian was nearly as pale as the man at her knees. Her tone low, she directed that the pair take him to her cottage. Within minutes, the man was lying on her straw pallet in the corner.
In troubled silence she and Baldric watched as Edgar and the other youth deposited the man on the bed. Baldric nodded his thanks before they departed. And when Gillian nearly scurried forward, he laid a restraining hand on her arm.
“My lady, wait.”
There was something in his tone that made her regard sharpen. “What is it?”
He nodded toward the man lying prone. “My lady, I must remind you…we know not who this man is. This may not be wise.”
Samantha James Page 2