The world seemed to blacken. Bleakness seeped through her. Her dreams had once been fanciful and full of the exuberance of youth, full of eager energy for what the future might bring. But now such thoughts of the future wrought only heartache and fear. Brother Baldric insisted that she was strong, yet Gillian felt as if the pain of a thousand fetters weighted her down.
Never would she forget the last time she’d seen her father, that bleak September night that thunder raged and sheets of rain thrashed the walls of Westerbrook—the night he’d swept into her chamber in the dead of night.
Never would she forget his last words.
“I’ve failed you, daughter,” he had said with tears in his eyes. “I’ve failed you and Clifton. And I pray that you will forgive me, for I will never forgive myself for what I have done to you and your brother—for leaving you in such peril.”
Gillian had known immediately that something was horribly, horribly wrong.
“Papa,” she cried, “what is it?”
“The king visited William de Vries these last few days,” he said heavily.
“Yes, I’d heard.” William de Vries was a baron whose lands bordered Westerbrook’s to the east. His wife Isabella had been godmother to their eldest son.
“There was an attempt on King John’s life today in the forest,” he said.
As the words passed his lips, he did not look her in the eye. Gillian knew then…knew her father was the man responsible. A man of bluntness and bold action, Ellis of Westerbrook was ever a man to speak his mind—and he had been outspoken in his contempt of King John almost from the moment he came to power.
He had taken matters into his own hands.
A choking dread assailed her. “Papa,” she whispered in horror. “Papa, no! Oh, dear God, it was you, wasn’t it?”
Slowly he raised his head. There was a world of pain in his eyes, the eyes so like hers. “Aye, Gillian. It was I who loosed the arrow, but it missed its mark and struck the king’s guard instead. Ah, what a fool I have been! I know it now, now when it is too late. All I could think was how England would be the better if our people were rid of him, for it has been a time of seething emotions and great unrest in our land. So many of us have grown weary and outraged by his unceasing demands for taxes and the call to arms, that John might regain his lands across the Channel.”
His expression was tortured. “I was so angry when the Great Charter failed to rein in John’s power as king. I fear it will but make him stronger, all the more determined to oppress the people of England. There are rumors that he seeks mercenaries from across the Channel; that he has promised them the castles and lands that belong to us, the people of England, in return for the defeat of those who gathered against him at Running-Mead.”
He shook his head. “But once again, the barons can agree on nothing. I was convinced the easiest way would be to see John struck down now, and with the opportunity so close at hand…Ah, Gillian, I thought only of success, and never of failure. And in my zeal, I was reckless. You and Clifton are innocent, yet now I fear I have condemned you for the rest of your lives.”
Gillian listened numbly as he seized her hands.
“We are in danger, all of us. I know the king, and he will not rest until he finds those responsible. Indeed, ’tis my worst fear that John may vent his wrath upon you and Clifton as well, for he is a man of venom and spite. That is why we must flee, all of us, now while we cannot be seen.”
“Now?” Her gaze slid apprehensively toward the shutters. She had disliked storms since she was a child, but as if to underscore the question, a flash of blinding lightning ripped across the sky; the crash of thunder shook the very walls of her chamber.
“Yes, child. I fear it cannot be helped.” His hands tightened around hers. “But we cannot be together, Gillian, none of us. I have entrusted Clifton to the care of Alwin, for I know he will protect my son with his life. They have already departed.” Alwin was his chief retainer.
“Where have they gone?”
“’Tis better that you do not know. Brother Baldric awaits you in the stable,” he said gently. “Gather several warm gowns and your mantle. There is neither the time nor the room for more.”
Gillian was still reeling from all that had transpired. In the space of a moment, her life had changed forever, it seemed. “What about you, Papa?”
“Once you and Brother Baldric are on your way, I will make my own way.”
“Alone?”
“It is best that way.”
“Papa, no! Let me stay with you,” she begged. “Let me help you!”
“Nay, Gillian.” He was adamant. “It must be like this. At least this way, if one of us is caught, the others will live.” He ran his fingers down her cheek. “Be wary, child. Put your faith in no one but Brother Baldric. If I am able, I will find you and Clifton.”
But that was not to be. It was not to be, for as he’d predicted, he’d been discovered and caught by the king’s men.
His life was forfeit.
At the remembrance, an odd prickle curled down her spine. Her father had not been alone in his endeavor to kill the king. He had shielded someone, but who…Who?
“The other assailant,” she said slowly. “Has the king discovered his identity yet?”
Baldric sighed. “It would seem not,” he said heavily, “and I do not know if that is a blessing or a curse. Your father gave his life to protect this other man. Was it worth it? May God forgive me, but there are times I wonder if Ellis did not give his life in vain.” He shook his head. “Before he died, the king’s guard swore that he saw two men when the attempt on the king’s life took place. Yet what if he was mistaken? What if there was only one man?”
“My father.” It was a quiet statement of fact, not a query.
Baldric winced. “Yes. What if the guard’s eyes deceived him?”
Quietly she said, “They did not.”
Brother Baldric peered at her oddly. “Why do you say that? How can you be certain?”
“The day before the attempt on the king’s life, I entered the counting room to speak with Papa. I thought he was alone, but there was someone with him, behind the curtain. I heard Papa speak of the king—and hunting.”
Fear leaped in Brother Baldric’s faded blue eyes. “Lady Gillian, never tell me you know the identity of the other assailant—that you’ve known all along!”
“Nay. I saw but the shadow of a man. Yet I had the feeling I did not know him.”
There was more, for in truth, something elusive nagged at her. More than once she’d experienced the unmistakable feeling there was something she should have remembered about that encounter, something vitally important. She struggled to remember, but alas, it would not come.
It seemed she was no better than the man inside the cottage.
“I was curious,” Gillian went on. “Not long after, I asked Papa who was there with him in the counting room. He was angry, Brother Baldric, and said that I was never to mention it to anyone.”
“Do not,” Baldric said in a strange tone. “Tell no one what you have just told me, Lady Gillian. Tell no one. Indeed, I pray you did not know him—I pray you do not remember—for it might place you in still more danger.”
Gillian looked at him sharply. Was it the gloom of twilight and the coming storm, or had his skin turned a rather ashen gray? She was still striving to decipher both his meaning and his countenance when all at once he bent low, seized by a dry, hacking cough.
Gillian grabbed his arm. “Brother Baldric,” she cried, “are you all right?”
It was some time before the paroxysm ceased and he raised himself upright, still more as he labored for breath and summoned the ability to speak.
“It has passed, child. Do not worry. Now, I must be on my way.”
“Not yet. Please, Brother Baldric, come inside,” she urged. “Wait until the storm passes before returning to the village.” As she spoke, Gillian scanned his features. The sudden pallor of his skin was not due to alarm
as she’d first thought, but to sickness.
“Nay. Father Aidan will be expecting me.”
“Brother Baldric, you’re ill!”
“I am not,” he denied. Gillian had twisted her fingers into the sleeves of his robe, but he held himself firm. He straightened his shoulders and seemed to stand a little taller, and in the movement Gillian glimpsed a stubbornness that revealed itself but rarely.
“’Tis a cough from a chill,” he dismissed. “Naught to worry about, child. The days I traveled with Father Aidan were long and wet. I am well,” he insisted. “Now go, Lady Gillian. Tend your patient. He is far nearer the grave than I.”
But Gillian was suddenly stricken. A rending ache pierced her heart. Perhaps it was childish, but it was as if the world that had been so safe and secure her entire life had vanished.
Indeed, it had.
Her father was forever lost to her. Perhaps Clifton as well. Brother Baldric was all that was familiar, all that was left of that world. She could not bear the thought of losing him, too!
But she sensed there would be no dissuading him. She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Look after yourself, Brother Baldric, else I will stand watch over you night and day and make certain that you do,” she warned with mock severity.
He gave a rusty chuckle. “I do believe that you would.” His smile faded. “I will bring clothing the next time I come.” His gaze flitted briefly from the cottage, then back to her.
“Remember, Lady Gillian, do not trust lightly.”
His meaning was not lost on her. Gillian stood motionless, watching as he weaved toward the tall grasses that led to the path.
Papa had urged much the same thing. Be wary, he had said.
An eerie foreboding washed over her. Gareth’s image floated into her mind, dark hair, green gaze of piercing intensity. What part, if any, would he play in her life? she wondered. Would the future bring the return of his past? His future, she acknowledged suddenly, was no less uncertain than hers.
Neither of them had any choice. She could only wait, wait for whatever fate would befall her…
And Gareth as well.
5
“HE DOESN’T BELIEVE ME. NOR DOES HE LIKE ME,” Gareth stated flatly.
Gillian had done little more than cross the threshold of the cottage when she was hailed by Gareth’s statement; it was readily apparent he spoke of Brother Baldric. She pushed the door shut, then turned to face him.
Gareth had pushed himself up to rest against the pillow. No semblance of a smile softened the grim line of his lips.
She considered his statement, a trifle unsure how to respond. “There are reasons for that,” she said finally.
“And what might those reasons be?”
Ah, but she should have known he would persist. “I’ve known him since I was a child. He served my family long before I was born. He’s been protective of me since my father’s death—”
“And your husband’s, no doubt.” He made the interruption pointedly, and with decided coolness.
Gillian was uncomfortable. “Yes,” she lied.
The corners of Gareth’s mouth turned down. “He has no reason to distrust me.”
“He is wary of you because you are a stranger.”
“Isn’t it the duty of a priest to—”
“He is not a priest. He is a lay brother in the service of the Lord. After the death of his wife and four children many years ago, he decided to dedicate his life to God.”
“My point exactly. That he has never taken holy orders is irrelevant. He wears the trappings of a man of God, so is it not his duty to impart charity toward others? You claim otherwise, but I failed to see little hint of a forgiving, benevolent nature.”
Gillian could summon no argument, save one. “There is much discontent in the country at present,” she murmured.
His expression was a clear indication he was clearly unsatisfied with her explanation. Brother Baldric had urged caution; frantically she wondered how much she dare divulge.
“There are some who are not favorably disposed toward King John,” she stated carefully, “some who fear John has spies afoot in every corner of the kingdom. The people of England have grown weary of the demand for taxes. Many believe King John wishes only to fatten his war chest, that he cares little about England and only wishes to retake the possessions he lost in Normandy.”
“A time when loyalties sway like the wind. A time when it’s every man for himself.”
His perception was only too astute. Gillian nodded.
“My father used to say that even before the interdict, it was as if all of England lay hidden beneath a bleak cloud.”
“And so King John is heartily disliked.”
Despised, more like, she nearly blurted. She stole a glance at Gareth, only to discover that his features were almost guarded. Brother Baldric’s warning clanged through her once more. Do not trust lightly. She hesitated, all at once afraid to say yea, afraid to say nay.
He indicated the stool beside the bed. “Sit,” he said. “Tell me of the interdict.”
There was a rustle of movement as Gillian obliged. “I was too young to remember, but there was much discord between the Vatican and King John when the archbishop of Canterbury died.”
Gareth held up a hand. “The archbishop of Canterbury,” he repeated. “It was Hubert Walter, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Pope Innocent refused to confirm the selection of the monks, Reginald, and also cast aside John’s choice, the bishop of Norwich. The pope’s choice was Stephen Langton. John swore he would never allow Langton to step foot on English soil. When John refused to give in, the pope placed England under interdict…”
“…and so the church doors were locked and sealed,” he finished grimly. “The bells did not toll. Altars were covered and sacred relics stowed away. But John at last swore allegiance to Rome and Stephen Langton was declared archbishop.”
“Yes,” Gillian affirmed. “It would seem you know far better than I the consequences of the interdict.”
A lengthy silence prevailed. Gareth’s gaze had shifted. He stared across the room into the deepening shadows. His profile was broodingly somber.
“How can this be?” he said after a moment. “How is it possible I know these things, yet my own past eludes me? Whether I come from the north, or the south, or London—” He broke off. His features seemed to freeze. “I’ve been to London,” he said suddenly. “I’ve been there—and I disliked it heartily. The houses were crammed together, almost one upon another. The streets were dirty and smelled of the filthiest stable.” His jaw clenched. “Christ, no wonder Brother Baldric doubts my every word!”
She could hear the frustration in his tone; at the same time, he sounded so tortured, so tormented, that Gillian’s heart went out to him.
“It weighs heavily on you, doesn’t it—not being able to remember.”
“Sometimes it is all I can think of. My mind is never at rest. I try so hard my head aches. I dislike feeling so helpless. I feel…” He made an impatient gesture. “Oh, but I know not how to explain. As if someone holds a sword at my throat and I am incapable of defending myself.” He glanced the length of his body. His mouth twisted in bitter self-derision. “Look at me! Were someone to roust this cottage, it would be you defending me!”
Gillian smiled faintly. Ah, but it was just like a man to liken any hint of weakness to battle. Was it so terrible to be beholden to a woman? Still, she could understand his feeling of vulnerability. She’d sensed his restlessness, his impatience with his malaise.
Her smile wilted. “’Tis your wish to remember,” she said quietly. “Yet sometimes I think it is better not to remember.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell me you were a widow?”
His directness startled her. Her gaze sped back to his, only to discover his scrutiny was as probing as his query. But before she could answer, he posed another.
“What was his name?”
“His name?” she echoed.
<
br /> His gaze remained steady on her face. “Yes. His name.”
Real panic raced through her, for Gillian was woefully unprepared to supply a ready response. She should have been, she realized—ah, why had Brother Baldric felt the need to perpetuate such falsehood?
“I…Osgood.” God help her, it was the only name she could think of!
“How long has it been since he died?”
“Half a year,” she said quickly…too quickly? She held her breath, for he appeared unwilling to abandon the subject.
“Is it true you still grieve?”
Gillian’s mind sped straight to her father. Sudden tears blurred her vision. Her soul bled dark with the stain of her loss. She could not speak for the sudden ache that scalded her throat.
“I see,” Gareth said softly. “So much that it is not your head that aches, but your heart.”
She looked away, her tone very low. “Is that not the way of grief?”
“I suppose it is.” It was odd, what her observation evoked. All at once a strange feeling washed over him. In some pocket of awareness deep inside, he was certain that he, too, had once harbored a grief that rivaled hers. But unlike Gillian’s, the pain did not come, for the feeling was as fleeting as his memories.
Outside there was a distant rumble of thunder, signaling the approach of the storm. Gillian shivered. The storm was drawing close.
Gareth frowned. “You’re chilled.” He glanced outside, where the veil of night was already drawn over the earth. He held up a corner of the fur coverlet. “Come to bed where it’s warm.”
It should have been an innocuous enough request, considering they’d spent nearly every hour together the past week, both day and night. Yet all at once Gillian’s heart was knocking wildly. She was starkly conscious of the fact that he was a man, and she was a woman…and they were alone. Alone. And she knew what men and women did, alone in the dark, alone in the night.
So did he. Though he’d displayed no such inclination—at least toward her—of that Gillian had no doubt. She suddenly admitted what she had been unwilling to admit until now—that Gareth was unquestionably the most strikingly handsome man she’d ever laid eyes upon. Black hair spilled jauntily over his forehead. His jaw was square and hard, his nose narrow and aquiline, his brows as dark as his hair and arched over thick-lashed eyes of green. Oh, aye, handsome he was…not just in face, but in form as well…
Samantha James Page 6