"What she says could be true, but after five months of dealing with this lord, I think it unlikely." William Smith, Ashby's blacksmith closed his hefty arms over his chest. "What says our reeve to this?"
Thomas threw back his shaggy head. "I will say nothing. You all know the noblewoman is closely bound to my family. My opinions will remain my own."
There was a subtle easing in Nicola's heart. If he would not support her, neither would he participate in her downfall.
"My lady, there are worse husbands to have than this one." This was a woman’s voice, lowered with a sultry pitch. "A great hulking man like him will keep you warm these long winter nights."
The folk erupted in laughter.
"He's a right good swimmer, too, my lady." The child's piping voice was filled with the confidence that this was the ultimate criterion in husbands.
"Enough of this foolishness!" Ralph by Wood shouted, his gravelly voice echoing off the church walls. As holder of the greatest portion of land in the village, his opinion carried a weight equal to his acreage. The crowd fell silent as Nicola caught her breath, awaiting his words.
" 'Tis cold out here, and there's threshing to be done come dawn's light. It was her that closed the draw-bridge upon Lord Gilliam when he came calling, seeking to free his brother. Thus, she bears the blame for our past trouble. This lord is a better one than her sire, that much is certain. I say we ignore her cries of forced marriage to protect our homes and farms."
Nicola swayed as her heart fell into pieces onto the ground. They would not support her because they blamed her for Ashby's fall. It was more than she could bear.
Gilliam caught Nicola closer to him as she moaned softly and faltered. He signaled to Walter. "What did that man say?"
"My lord, Ralph by Wood asks the villagers to ignore your lady's protests of forced marriage and see the two of you joined. The rest are following where he leads."
Gilliam's eyes closed in a brief prayer of thanks. Here was the test of what he had labored so to build. The same folk who had petitioned for their lady's return had ignored her pleas in his favor. This boded well for his plans for Ashby's future.
At his side, his bride found her feet and her tongue once more. It was odd to hear her voice curl around the peasants’ guttural language. He had no need of a translator to tell him she begged her folk not to give her to him. The priest shook his head and stepped forward.
Once again, Gilliam breathed deeply in relief. Ashby would be his. And, so would she.
By God, his wanting for her had become like a fire in his belly. Their short ride together this day had nigh on killed him. Her clothing had gapped as she leaned against him. Every glance downward had revealed the sweet curve of her breast. Between the motion of the horse, her body caught tightly to his, and the bare stretch of her neck just begging to be kissed, he'd been drunk with longing by the ride's end.
But she wanted him not at all. He shook his head in pained amusement. Was it because she hated him so that his desire to have her grew by leaps and bounds? There was perverse logic in that thought.
The priest turned to him. "My lord, the villagers have all agreed that their lady is suffering from a temporary madness, which causes her to refuse you. In her unbalanced state no heed can be given to her cries of forced marriage. The folk hope you will yet agree to wed her despite her mental deficiencies."
Gilliam glanced down at the woman beside him. Where Geoff's wife had truly suffered madness, Nicola had no insanity in her. All that plagued her was a desire to be something other than what was expected of her. "I will have her to wife."
"Nay." Her complaint was but a quiet breath.
He reached for the tall girl's other arm, turning her so they stood face-to-face. When she looked up at him, he saw how deeply the villagers' decision had cut. She was clearly stunned. Her eyes, brown for the moment, were filled with unshed tears. The firelight sparked, jewel bright, on this sheen of moisture as her mouth softened and trembled.
Gilliam's breath caught. Mary, but she was lovely when she was not angry. He longed to run his fingers along the velvet curve of her cheek and the long, slender line of her throat. Aye, and then he'd touch his lips to hers once more and feel her melt against him. Only to have her wipe his kiss off her mouth. After this defeat, surely no caress would be strong enough to destroy her hate.
Standing behind them, Father Reynard cleared his throat. "My lord, I am no great churchman. I can give you no pretty speech, only the vows."
He glanced at the priest. "That's all that matters, is it not?"
"Just so." With a nod, the churchman began, simply ignoring the question of willingness. "I have heard the recitation of their heritages, and know there is no obstacle to their joining. So, too, have I heard the contract for their union. Lord Gilliam's dower is suitable, it being the village of Eilington. Their banns have been read. Your vow, my lord?"
Gilliam's hands tightened over hers, and Nicola turned her head to the side, refusing to look upon him as he spoke. "I, Gilliam FitzHenry, holder of Eilington, take thee, Nicola, heiress of Ashby, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us depart. To thee do I plight my troth.
The priest turned on Nicola. "My lady?"
She yet stared into the flames. "I will say no vows. To do so would dishonor my father." Her words would have been hard and cold, save that they were interrupted by a soft sob.
Reynard looked out at the villagers. "This madness of hers has rendered our lady mute. Who will speak for her?"
"I will," Thomas the reeve replied.
"Nay," Nicola cried out as if mortally wounded. "Not you, Thomas."
"Let me speak for her." A woman, great with child, waddled from the crowd, her hair a bright coppery red. "I know the nobleman's language well enough."
"Alice!"
Before Gilliam realized her intent, Nicola wrenched her hands from his grasp to throw her arms around the woman. As he grasped her by the back of her hauberk, the tall girl stepped away from the villager to run her hands in a knowing way over the woman's huge belly. Alice only smiled serenely, content to let her lady do so. Nicola began to speak again in English, her tone low and urgent.
"Lady Nicola, the decision had been made. You will do your duty by us," the reeve said in French. Gilliam thought he sounded very much like Rannulf when his brother had made a decision and would tolerate no more argument. "If you cannot, the folk will no longer welcome you in their homes. I will say so as well."
Nicola stared at the burly man, her eyes wide in panic at this threat. Gilliam shook his head in disbelief, What was this hold the commoners had on her? She acted as though she'd rather die than be disowned by them.
Reynard held up his hand. "We have all seen her designate Alice as the one to speak for her." He turned to the fecund woman. "Alice, if you wish to speak, do so. We would all be abed once more."
Again, Gilliam turned the tall girl toward him "I would hear your voice saying these words," he told her, catching her hands in his. Like the rest of her, her fingers were long and slender, and cold as ice. He folded his hands around hers. She only shook her head and looked away again.
"I, Nicola, Lady Ashby, do take thee, Lord Gilliam FitzHenry now of Ashby, to my wedded husband," Alice's voice rang out as clear as a bell, her words lilting with her accent. "To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us depart, if it be ordained, and to thee do I plight my troth."
Reynard nodded once in satisfaction. "Have you a ring, my lord?"
"I do," Gilliam replied, releasing one of Nicola's hands to open the purse at his belt. He offered the priest the golden band, its surface etched with a geometric design. Reynard blessed it, then returned the band to him.
Nicola's hand had disappeared behind her back. "I will not take it," she warned him.
"Do not make me do this," G
illiam said quietly. "I have no wish to hurt you."
"Do as you must," she said in an equally low voice. "I cannot take your ring."
He caught her arm and wrenched it out from behind her, knowing how he must be hurting her. When he glanced at her, her eyes were squeezed shut in the effort it took to resist him. Her hand now lay in his, but her fingers were tightly fisted to prevent him from placing the ring on her fingers as the rite required. He pried open her hand. As quickly as possible, he touched the golden circle atop each of her fingers, then settled it on the one that led to her heart. "With this ring I thee wed, and with my body I thee honor."
"Nay!" She flung away the ring and lurched free of him. Gilliam leapt after her. His hands caught her around the waist, but her vest was smooth and she slithered from his grasp. Limping heavily, she dodged the priest and tried to enter the crowd.
They offered her no escape. Instead, they raised their voices, chiding and shouting, as they encircled her. The few women in their ranks separated from husbands and brothers to gather around her. Nicola frantically shook her head at whatever it was they said. Gilliam stood tense and alert, waiting for her to shove through them and make her escape. To his astonishment, the village matrons led the now-unprotesting girl toward Ashby's gates.
" 'Tis done!" Father Reynard shouted for all to hear. "I say this marriage is complete. We have all witnessed this." He turned to his new lord. "The women go to prepare her for the bedding. We should be after them, my lord. I would like to be back at my own rest."
The bedding. Gilliam again lifted his gaze to Nicola, watching until her tall, slim form disappeared into the darkness. Consummation of this marriage was the final link in his hold over Ashby, but she wanted him not at all. Rape was not how any marriage should begin.
Trapped in a sudden and bitter disappointment, Gilliam looked down on the priest and hid his emotions behind a smile. "My thanks, Father Reynard. To all of you as well," he called to the villagers. "Go, now, and find your peace. The priest and those women will witness our bedding. Know that I am grateful to all of you for sharing with me this most memorable joining."
When his words were translated for the benefit of those who did not speak his tongue, there was a rumble of laughter. As they departed for their own beds, they sent him calls of congratulations and hopes for fertility.
Gilliam turned to Walter. "Find that ring," he said in a tired voice. "lt was my mother's and precious to me. When you have it, hurry all the servants back within the walls and close the gates. Although I think it improbable, it’s not impossible that de Ocslade may arrive this night searching for me and my wife."
With that, Gilliam and Father Reynard started toward the manor's gate. Where the river fronted his property at the east and north, here his defense was a water-filled ditch whose embankment was studded with sharpened stakes. They followed the moat along the recently restored south wall to the arched opening. At this late hour the gates were usually closed, the drawbridge nestled tightly between its two small towers. Just now, the long tongue of wood spanned the ditch, and Ashby's gates were thrown wide with two men alert within the opening.
The narrow bridge rattled on its supporting chains as he and the priest crossed into the manor's home farm. As they passed, the guards stood aside and offered their congratulations. Gilliam managed nod in acceptance, then strode swiftly into the bailey with Reynard tapping along beside him.
Unlike Graistan, which held little land within its walls, the wide expanse here supplied his table with honey, fowl, fruits, and vegetables. Even the fish he ate on holy days came from the mill pond. They crossed over the well-worn path that led to the two tall mills used by his villagers to grind their corn.
His villagers. Gilliam stopped suddenly. Pride of ownership rushed through him. For the first time in his life, he was well and truly home. This did much to ease his hurt over a sour wedding.
"My lord?" the priest asked at this unexpected pause.
"Give me a moment, Father," he said as a clutch of serving folk walked past, calling their good wishes. They moved off toward what had once been the manor's main barn. Gilliam glanced at the long narrow building, his hall for the winter's duration.
While this barn was a big enough structure to house and table all those to whom he owed food and shelter, it had but wooden walls and the same thatch roofing his peasants used. There was only beaten earth for a floor. For a man raised within the security of stone walls thicker than he was tall, it seemed both indefensible and uncivilized.
Gilliam looked to Ashby's keep tower. Designed to serve only as a last, desperate refuge during war, the square stone building was tiny and could never be used as a residence. Ashby's hall had once clung to its side, but when the flames of the siege had died away, all that remained was the tower and a gaping stone cellar. It was a testament to the fragility of building with wood.
Aye, he'd set his heart upon a hall of stone. Come spring, new walls would rise, incorporating the tower into a far stronger residence. In anticipation of that day, Gilliam had claimed the keep's upper room, turning the chamber that had once imprisoned Rannulf into his own private refuge. It was in that room Nicola awaited him.
He turned away from the keep and walked toward his makeshift hall. "Come Father, I'd have a bite to eat and take a moment to wash before I rejoin my bride. Perhaps I can offer you a cup of something?'
He was stalling, and he knew it. Somehow, he would find the strength to do what he knew he must.
* * *
"Uncle, I think we are too late."
Hugh de Ocslade shot William an impatient look, before returning his gaze to the brightly lit church. His younger nephew ever found it necessary to speak the obvious. Hugh, William, and fifteen of their men had drawn their horses to a halt atop the southernmost field in Ashby's farmland. At their backs was a meadow and the welcome concealment of thick woodland just beyond the lea. His other nephew, Osbert, had remained at the crossroads to serve as a decoy while Hugh returned to Ocslade. Hugh had been pleasantly surprised to discover Graistan's arrogant brother had not been so easily led. This surprising show of intelligence added spice to the challenge of removing the big man from that stupid bitch's bed. He gave thanks to God that he had nephews to marry her. Who in their right would want her?
"Aye William, but only barely so." Hugh watched the bonfires being doused. "Would that Watt hadn't lamed his horse."
His nephew snickered. "It isn’t an error he'll repeat twice." Watt's mistake had cost his life.
"There is never an excuse for failure, lad," Hugh agreed, "and dead men rarely fail me. Well now, poor Osbert will be sorely disappointed to learn he no longer has a bride. Do you think he'd care to have a widow in her stead?" The corner of Hugh's mouth curved into a sardonic smile.
"What will you do?"
"I think me we shall give the man a day or two to enjoy his bride, then thieves will infest Ashby's woods. They are much the same as those who stole Lady Ashby from my whore, only a more vicious sort and very careful to leave no trace of who they are. That lordling will have his hands full trying to locate these imaginary thieves, while he protects his new lands."
His nephew's brow creased as he puzzled over this. "I cannot see how this will turn a bride into a widow."
Hugh shook his head in dismay at his kin's slow wits. "If I saw nothing else this day, I saw the pride and arrogance in Ashby's new lord. He thinks himself right powerful and capable, does he not? Otherwise, why the claims of royal acknowledgment for deeds done in the Holy Lands? When the harassment starts, I think he'll come racing to my gate, saying it’s me, not thieves, doing the damage. His insult will cause me to wage war on him. When he dies in combat, there's not a man who can blame me for it."
"Aye, but killing him will hardly make Lord Graistan want to give Osbert Ashby," the young knight said.
Hugh laughed. " 'Twas Graistan, himself, who offered me the heiress by his words. He's right, with a babe in her arms no one will quibble over who her husb
and is. Come, time to be home before a warm fire." He turned his mount and started through the meadow.
"Uncle, your whore's all beaten. Might I have her tonight?"
"Nay, not yet. If her face heals just as it once was, I'll keep her for a while longer. She does such marvelous tricks if you dangle coins before her, especially if she thinks she's stealing them from you."
Nicola's heated refusal clouded the air before her. With no hearth or a brazier to warm the confines, it was nigh on as cold in here as it was outside.
The village women stood in a circle before her, some holding tallow lamps. The gentle light revealed a fine bed, four posts jutting almost to the wooden ceiling above her. Except for that huge piece of furniture, the room held only a tall night candle and a stool. The light also showed her the pale color of the door's new wood and the floor beneath their feet, the previous, age-darkened wood having been consumed in the fire.
"You had better do as duty requires you." That was Emotte, Ralph by Wood's wife. Sour-tempered and heavy, the woman had no patience. "Dressing like a man does not make you one. You'll bear your husband's weight just as we all must."
"Oh hush, Emotte. Can you not see the poor girl is afeared?" said coppery-haired Margery, Alice's compassionate sister.
"I am not afraid," Nicola insisted. "Why can you not understand this? That man owns everything I once called mine; I will not give him my body."
"Bah! You all hear her. She's not afeared, she's a stubborn, spoiled bitch and has always been. You stay here and coddle her, then. Make way," Emotte snapped at those crowded behind her, "I am going home to bed."
"Come now, my lady, let us remove these things you wear," Athelina, the village ale taster said. A lifetime spent selling ale had taught her to keep a low and soothing voice, what with her long custom of easing tempers made sore by too much drink. "You must be ready when your husband comes."
"It’s obscene, what you did to your hair," chittered Anne, the tolltaker's wife, as she took Emotte's place as critic.
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