Spring's Fury

by Denise Domning

  "More's the pity," she snapped. "Oh, and by the by, while you continue to wear my pin, you seem to have forgotten to give me one. Or a knife with which to cut my meat." There was no longer any banter in her words.

  "God's truth, madam? Now, why ever would I have forgotten to give you these things?" he asked, his expression innocent and surprised. His fingers touched her pin on his mantle.

  Nicola narrowed her eyes at his possessive gesture. Another taunt on his part. "I am at a loss. Why?"

  His hand moved from the pin to his wounded shoulder as he grinned. "No doubt 'tis this ache of mine that has caused my absentmindedness."

  "I thought we agreed that the house would be peaceful. Do you not trust me?" It was a neutral question.

  He arched a brow. "I do, indeed. I trust you to be strong, capable, and deadly with even the smallest of blades in your hands. Give me time to know you better before I arm you again. It was only your need to argue with me over every word between us that I meant to curb last night. Now, do you need help down the stairs or can you manage them?" It was a swift and smooth change of subject.

  Nicola opened her mouth to argue, but he laid a finger against her lips. "Say no more."

  Her breath hissed from her, and she jerked her head away from his touch. So he believed he could keep her disarmed, did he? Fool. If God still smiled on her as He had last night, her weapons would yet be stored in her stillroom, hidden behind the equipment she used to create her herbal cures. Aye, between the dog and her husband, she would feel much safer with a dagger in her purse and a sword where she could reach it.

  "I can walk. Go you before me. This way, if I fall, I will knock you down as well," she retorted.

  "Just for you, my sweet," he replied with a laugh. "Shut the door and we'll be off."

  By the time she reached the base of the stairs, her feet were hurting. Gilliam offered his arm, but when she took it, Roia thrust herself between them. The dog need only a brief growl to make Nicola put a goodly space between herself and Gilliam.

  "Roia, cease." As with his other commands, Gilliam did not raise his voice to utter them. The massive beast hunched her shoulders in protest. "Here." He pointed to his other side. When Roia was in place, he again offered Nicola his arm.

  She accepted carefully. "Would she truly do me harm?"

  "Until she knows you better, I would not cross her were I you," he said with a laugh. "Take heart. Since she chooses to spend her time with me, there's not much chance I won't be present to stop her should she attack."

  "Thank you ever so kindly," she said with a wry glance at him. "Have you anything in those cellars?" she asked about the storage rooms that had once lain beneath the hall.

  "Aye, casks of tar, cart wheels, and the like," Gilliam replied. "Any supplies that are of no interest to rats."

  Nicola nodded. That was wise. She glanced at her pear and apple orchard, now plucked clean. "What was the yield on the orchard?"

  He shot her a sidelong look and shrugged. "I know not."

  As they passed the garden, which supplied her kitchen with peas, beans, onions, garlic, and both healing and cooking herbs, she asked, "Have the latrines been cleaned and the muck spread on the garden?"

  "I think so" came his reply. "I did notice they no longer smelled quite so strongly."

  Beehives, woven from willow withes and shaped like small mounds, stood between orchard and garden. The two ovens, shaped much the same as the beehives only far grander in size, were nearby. Village women gathered at the nearby bake house, seeing to their loaves.

  "Has the honey been harvested and the new hive fed? Was the chimney in the far oven repaired?"

  "Am I supposed to know this?” he asked, now sounding a little irritable.

  "Only if you like your cakes sweetened," she retorted. "Ach, it’s pointless asking you questions. I shall have to look into everything for myself."

  If there was no edge to her words, it was because her confidence was restored. So, her husband had no real interest in the day-to-day running of Ashby. Then Gilliam would be no different than her father. As long as he could hunt and hawk and was only asked to sit in judgment at the hall moot, Gilliam would leave her to run Ashby as she pleased. The very thought of telling him what he could and could not have from Ashby's treasury made her smile.

  They were crossing the wide expanse of the bailey, this area long since beaten into only hard earth. "So where have you put the temporary hall?"

  "Here," he said, pointing to the main barn. The long structure was made of wood with thatch for roofing and had bays at either end. The big door, which had once sported a lock to prevent thieves from taking the precious grains stored within it, now stood ajar.

  Nicola stared. Smoke curled up from one end of the building. "You cannot use this barn," she protested. "Where will I put our barley and wheat?"

  He shrugged. "You will have to use the other barns."

  "Nay, I must have this one." How could she prepare for winter if he crippled her by taking her main storeroom? Oh, Lord, but if this was evidence of what had happened in her absence, she could not imagine what other damage he'd done here.

  "Come now, you know this is the only place within the walls that's big enough to be used as a hall. I trust you to find room for all our supplies."

  "I do not know how I can," she said with a breath of scorn. "You should have raised a hall, instead of seeking to buy favors from the villagers by making them houses."

  "Ah, but look how I purchased myself a wife with that boon," he teased, leading her into Ashby's temporary hall.

  A fire burned brightly at one end, its light doing little to lift the dimness of the windowless enclosure. Smoke drifted and clung to the thatching, despite the hole above the hearthstone that was supposed to serve as an exit portal. Near the fire there were three tables, all made from lengths of wood atop braces with benches for seats. Two were set lengthwise away from the fire, the other crosswise just above the hearth where it most benefited from the fire's heat and light.

  Roia set her nose into the layer of rushes on the beaten earth floor, sniffing her way toward the nearest table. Two dairymaids sat there, chatting as they plucked stubble-fed geese for the morrow's meal. Nicola glanced at the other table. Thomas was there, watching her. She looked away; he was waiting for her, and she did not wish to speak with him.

  "Jos, where are you?" Gilliam's call rang in the exposed rafters above him. The boy appeared from the shadows at the room's far end. "Have you eaten?"

  The reluctant squire merely shrugged. "I am not hungry."

  Gilliam frowned. "How can you expect to do a day's work on an empty stomach? Take one of the loaves from our table and come with me."

  Shoulders slumped, the boy took a single roll from a basket at the end of the farthest table. As he made his loose-jointed way across the room, Gilliam murmured to her, "I think me he is accustomed to eating like a churchman, fasting morn and night, with but a moderate midday meal. His mother was preparing him for a religious life."

  "Who would allow a child to have such a diet?" Nicola asked. "Such a thing is not healthy for a growing boy."

  "Glad I am to hear you say so, when you seem to lack appetite, as well," he said with a tiny laugh. "His mama set some odd ideas in his head. It’s up to us to shake them out his ears."

  Nicola couldn't help but laugh. "Shake them out his ears?"

  He lifted a brow, his eyes gleaming. "Aye, if I must hold him by his heels to do so, I will."

  As Jocelyn joined them, Gilliam lay his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Come now, my lad. We have a goodly walk before us."

  "Do you hunt this day?" Nicola asked, her tone as friendly as could be.

  "Hunt? Nay, there'll not be much time for that this season. We have until the midday meal to walk the assart. After that, we'll be searching out the shepherd."

  Nicola stared at him in stark surprise. "For what purpose?"

  Gilliam grinned at her. "Why my lady wife, that shepherd has ideas on imp
roving the strength of our flock, and now's the time to do so. My eldest half-brother has kin in the wool trade who say the value of English wool grows by the day. Therefore, I think it in Ashby's best interest if I listen to our man. Come, Roia."

  The alaunt appeared from beneath one table and trotted toward them.

  "Aaiye!" Jocelyn screamed, stumbling back from his lord. His face went chalky with fear, his eyes full round. Interested in this newcomer who was as tall as she, Roia followed. "I hate dogs!"

  "A shame, since she seems to like you," Gilliam replied calmly. He caught the lad's scrawny shoulder to keep him from running. Jocelyn froze as the dog pressed her nose to his clothing, her narrow tail waving like a pennant in a lazy wind.

  Nicola fought her laugh. "Aye, Jocelyn, you must take heart. She's wagging her tail at you, when she only growls and snaps at me. Take pity on him, my lord. Your pet is an awesome creature."

  "What? This wee beastie? She is but a lapdog. Roia, here." Gilliam pointed to his side, and the bitch immediately complied. He started out of the hall, the boy at one side, the dog at the other. "Steady yourself, Jos. She likes boys."

  "My name is Jocelyn, not Jos," the boy managed in a trembling voice, then they were gone.

  Nicola shook her head at their backs, and started toward the table where food awaited her. Each step was slow as she sought to keep her feet beneath her without pain. She was only a third of the way across the room before yesterday's ache was more than a memory.

  "Take my arm."

  Nicola glanced sharply at Thomas, who was suddenly at her side. "I can do this on my own. Besides, I am not speaking to you."

  "Take my arm, Colette," he repeated harshly.

  "I'll take no aid from the man who threatens to cut me from his life and the lives of those I love."

  "Fall, then." The stocky man drew back, hefty arms crossed over his burly chest and an angry glare in his deeply set eyes.

  Nicola tried another step, but it was pure agony. "Oh, give your arm," she snarled.

  Thomas led her to the table, then sat across from her. He squinted, forcing his weak eyes to focus on her. After a long moment, he reached out to finger a strand of her cropped hair. The leathery lines of his face drooped sadly. "Ah, Colette, how could you have done this to yourself?" he asked quietly. "Would that I could not guess."

  Nicola turned her head to the side, pretending to study the basket of fresh rolls and the two wheels of cheese that yet remained at the table's end. She took a small piece. "I did what I had to do to honor my father's memory," she replied stiffly. "You of all folk should understand why I refused to marry that man. Agnes died on his blade, just as Papa did."

  Thomas drew ragged brows down over eyes that glowed with sudden grief. "Aye, Lord Gilliam swung the blade that finished my wife, but I think me you have more guilt to bear in this. And do not lie to me by saying your stepmother was solely at fault. If you had truly wanted to honor your father, you would have opened that gate when Lord Gilliam came atapping. Lord John might yet live, our houses might not have burned, nor would your hall be missing, if you had surrendered."

  "Nay." Nicola bowed her head in pain, wishing she could run from the burden he would set on her.

  "Father Reynard said you also involved Lord Ocslade. Is this true?" His tone was stern.

  "I meant to shield you from Hugh—" she began, but he cut her off.

  "Colette, headstrong you always were, but you never before lacked sense. Prove to me you are not silly enough to do what I am thinking. What happens to you if you rid yourself of this new husband, my lady?' It was a father's chastisement. Silence grew between them as he waited for her to answer.

  "l become someone else's captive," she finally said. "Thomas, I know this. Ach, I knew it before I ran yesterday, but Ashby is mine by right of birth. It’s not fair that another can take it from me simply because I am female and he, male."

  Breath hissed from Thomas in angry surprise. "You little fool, you are still believing you can hold Ashby as your own! I told your father it was wrong to indulge you in this sort of thinking. That noble idiot was too amused by your mimicry of a soldier to see what harm he did you."

  Nicola's anger met and matched his. "What right do you have to speak to me of fathers and daughters when Tilda has become de Ocslade's leman?"

  The reeve's shaggy head snapped back as if she'd struck him. Deep lines of pain set in his face, then disappeared beneath an uncaring expression. "I'll take no blame for that little whore. For every attempt I made to correct her sinfulness, there you were telling her I had no right to control her. Finally, she came to believe herself free of any responsibility."

  "I did not tell her to be a whore," Nicola protested, truly stung.

  Thomas dragged his fingers through his wild hair then held up his hand in a gesture of peace. "My pardon, I should not have said that. It’s just that you and Tilda together are like sparks flying into dry tinder. Colette, I came not to scold, but to plead. You have already cost us too much, and I fear your intentions. Do you understand that without a husband, you make of Ashby and its folk naught but a tasty bit of flesh to be consumed by any man's son who passes our way?"

  She began to protest that she could protect them as well as any man, only to catch back her words. That was but a child's dream, and she had already hurt enough folk by pursuing it. "Aye, I do."

  He reached out to take her had. "Colette, hurt us no more. Agnes thought of you as if you were her own blood—make Aggie proud of what she taught you to be, heal us. Let Lord Gilliam become Ashby's lord as he should be. If you cannot accept him, tolerate him for our sake."

  "You would have me give him free rein here?" she said in sudden outrage. "What does this man know of Ashby? Nay, I will not stand aside and let him run my home into the ground the way de Ocslade has done to his own properties. If that rich man's son had any understanding of what it means to be Ashby's lord, he'd have raised a hail instead of building new cottages."

  Thomas's grin was sudden and startlingly similar to Tilda's pretty smile. "Oh, understanding he has plenty. That man has himself a head full of plans. Colette, your sire was willing to let the years plod by, each one the same as the last because that was the way it had always been. Lord Gilliam has his eye on the future and needs our cooperation to achieve this design of his. Giving us homes was a means to an end for him. That, and I think he regretted being so hasty in setting the village afire. It was also his attempt at atonement."

  " 'Struth?" she asked in surprise, having only thought Gilliam meant to steal her villagers from her.

  The reeve made a sound that mingled amusement and scorn. "Do you think your sire would ever have bestirred himself to clear us an assart with his own ax, then give us the wood so we could build homes?"

  That made Nicola smile. "Thomas, you know well enough that my father would never have cleared an assart because you'd expect him to do it for you the next time you wanted a field. I think you have taken grave advantage of this poor newcomer and his lack of knowledge of our traditions. I am onto this game of yours, forever trying to cheat the manor of the fees and boons owed to it by the village. Be warned, I am home, never to leave again. You'll have no more chances to pull the hood over that poor man's eyes."

  Thomas laughed, his normal deep rumble of pleasure. "Lass, I like this game of ours. I think I will teach it to Young Thom in preparation for next year."

  "What happens then?"she asked.

  "It’s these aching hips of mine. I'm thinking by next year I'll be a cripple and naught but a burden to my family. The choice for reeve will be my boy and Ralph by Wood. With Ralph such an ox's ass, Young Thom is sure to be elected. Now, break your fast. I've better things to do than sit and jaw with you." He left the table, his rolling gait evidence of his coming handicap.

  Nicola stared after him, gnawing on the roll's hard crust. She knew better than to take all Thomas had said at face value. It was his duty to protect the villagers' interests, even if they conflicted with what
was Ashby's good.

  So her husband had a head full of plans, did he? Gilliam's comments on the wool market leapt to her mind. Ashby's folk had always been farmers first, their sheep raised more for their milk and meat than for their wool. Nicola paused. The western edge of Ashby's lands was a wide expanse of grassland, suitable for sheep. Why had she not thought of this before now?

  She made a soft sound of disgust at herself. It wasn’t just her father that had let the years plod by unchanged, it was her as well. It had never occurred to her to do anything differently.

  Irritation rose, stirred up by force of habit. Was she to just step aside and give Gilliam control of Ashby? Never! This was her home, not his.

  The petulance in her thought brought her up short. Whose good was at stake here, hers or Ashby's? Even to her own ears, it sounded more like she did not wish to share what she named hers, no matter the cost. Nicola did not like the way that thought fit, nay, not at all.

  By day's end, Nicola knew two things: she would not regain her ability to work until her feet healed and her still room was empty of weapons. Since there was naught she could do about the weapons, she stretched her feet a little closer to the hearth stone, hoping the heat would speed healing. Not being able to walk was worse than being a prisoner. Here she was trapped in her hall, when all her home waited for her inspection.

  Night had seeped beneath the hall door and through the smoke hole to enfold the big room in a quiet dimness, the loudest sound now the fire's crackling hiss. Through the dancing flames, Ashby's servants and soldiers were but gentle mounds, draped in blankets as they found their ease on their pallets.

  Trapped by her feet, Nicola had turned to sewing to pass the time. She jabbed her needle into the side seam of what would soon be her undergown. In the basket by her feet lay the pieces that would become the overgown. Both were cut from the sturdy brown fabric meant for soldiers' tunics. They would hardly be fashionable, but they would suit her needs. All she lacked now was a proper piece of linen from which to make a wimple.