Spring's Fury

by Denise Domning

  "Might I have some of that as well?" Jocelyn asked, his tone almost shamed.

  "Jos," Gilliam cried in astonishment. "You are asking for food. I'm proud of you, my boy."

  "It’s not that I’m hungry, only that I am very cold and it looks warm," the boy said, crossing his arms before him, his jaw stiff.

  Nicola looked at him in surprise. Again, she saw in the lad her own reflection, stubbornly refusing change because others asked it of her. Jos wasn't going to admit he was done with his fasting and his ideas of life in the Church. More importantly, the tilt of his head and his outthrust jaw said he did not wish to be teased about this decision.

  Gilliam's mouth was already forming another comment, the lilt of his lips promising some barb. She lay her hand upon his and squeezed slightly. He shot her a startled glance, but managed to catch back whatever it was he meant to say.

  "Eat it just this once, then. On the morrow, if you are not so cold, there's no need to do so again. 'Wyna, bring Jos a trencher and serve him some pottage to warm his stomach."

  "Aye, my lady," the woman said.

  Jos shot his lady a grateful look, then set eagerly to eating the stew.

  "Well done," Gilliam breathed to her. "How did you know?"

  "Some folk do not tolerate your humor well," she retorted in a whisper. "We are both tired of being your pincushions."

  He only laughed and started on his own meal. Ashby's new lord took six boiled eggs, three small loaves of bread, and a quarter wheel of mild cheese. To wash it all down, he helped himself to a cup of sweetened barley water. He had begun again, with more eggs and bread, by the time Nicola had finished her own meal.

  The cook's woman was passing behind her with an empty pot. "I swear, my lady, 'tis as if he carries a great hollow space within him and cannot fill it."

  "That's God's own truth," Nicola said in English, then switched back to her native tongue. "Gilliam, I have decided the rest of us will starve this winter whilst we try to keep you fed."

  Gilliam only smiled. "Have more faith in yourself, my lady wife. So what will you do now that you have your feet under you once more?"

  Excitement made her smile, and she chewed on her thumbnail as she ordered her thoughts. More than any other time of the year, the harvest season showed the only difference between Nicola and the village women was the honorific "lady" placed before her name. Their chores were hers. Animals, culled from the herds and flocks to spare consumption of fodder over the winter months, would be slaughtered. The meat was salted, cured, or turned into sausages. Grapes would become wine, barley turned to ale, and apples to cider and vinegar, all in quantities enough to see Ashby's family of servants through the winter months.

  "I think I will start in one corner of the home farm, and look at every byre and barn as I make my way across it. When I know what we have, I will better know what we need. If I have a few extra minutes, I will visit the village." Aye, she'd see to Alice.

  "Come find me before you do," Gilliam said, brushing the crumbs from the table, collecting the bigger ones for Roia. "If I cannot come myself, I'll see to it you have an escort."

  "An escort?" she said with a disbelieving laugh. "To walk Ashby's lanes?" Then, it struck her. He meant to keep her under guard. "My lord, may I speak with you in private?" It was an icy request.

  "But, of course, my lady." There was a touch of confusion in his voice. "Where do you suggest?"

  "The far corner, there"—she pointed to the room's back wall—"will suffice."

  Nicola stalked into the dimness, her arms crossed before her. Gilliam followed more slowly.

  "After all that prattle over parlaying and agreement, you still betray me." She kept her voice low, not willing to give him the opportunity to say she'd broken their pact. "You intend to keep me as a prisoner in my own home." The pain was so deep, she turned her back to him to hide how he had hurt her.

  He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off. "Do not touch me." It was no more than a whisper.

  "If you do not wish me to touch you, turn around and face me."

  She drew a ragged breath and considered refusing, then decided it was pointless. When she turned, she glared up at him. He watched her, his eyes filled with disappointment. "Think, Nicola. Why can I not allow you to leave the manor walls without an escort?"

  "Because you believe I will try to run from Ashby," she snapped.

  "Run? Where?" He lay a gentle hand on her arm. She did not bother trying to dislodge it. "I can see how your love for this place consumes you. I think you would never leave again, if that choice were given to you. Try again. It wasn’t me who invited de Ocslade to take you."

  Nicola gasped, then chided herself for her own stupidity. Hugh's greed for Ashby was what had drawn her to him in the first place. Then, she shook away her worry. "Nay, what hope has Hugh now? To all the world we are well and truly wed."

  Gilliam drew his fine brows down in a touch of impatience, crossing his arms over his chest. "He cares naught for our vows, only that we have no heir—" He fell silent so quickly, his final word was nearly lost. Suddenly, his face lightened.

  "I am understanding these thieves far better now. Here is how our neighbor intends to allay winter's boredom: he works to render you a young widow. Now, would I not be a fool to offer him the opportunity to steal you from me? If he took you, he would need only hold you close, certain I would come to fetch you back. Two birds, one stone."

  "What have I done?" Nicola cried. Vicious and capable, Hugh would surely try to fetch what she had offered him; she knew him well enough to be certain of that. Her blind determination to hold Ashby as her own had opened the gate and let the wolf into the fold. By spurring Hugh's greed, she would be the cause of her home's hurt, once more.

  "Do not mourn for me yet, wife," Gilliam chided with a laugh. "I have no intention of dying. I only seek to keep the damage you have done to a minimum."

  "I have been such a fool," she muttered angrily to herself. So deep was her chagrin, she forgot he yet listened.

  "Aye, but you are my fool, and I'll be damned before I let anyone take you from me." His laughter cut through her like a whip's slash.

  "Stop laughing at me," she snarled, grabbing the front of his hauberk and giving it a yank. "Is it not enough that I hate myself for my shortsighted stupidity? Must you make it worse?'

  She turned, meaning to flee both him and his horrible humor, but her intentions were more agile than her feet could follow. Her soft shoes slid on the rushes, and she stumbled. If he had not grabbed her, she would have fallen on her face.

  Gilliam easily lifted her back onto her feet and brought her into his embrace, all before she'd caught her breath. She stiffened, trying to push away from him, but, as before, her attempt was useless. Once again, her head was forced into the curve of his throat.

  "Hey now, I was not laughing at you." His voice was low and soothing "'Twas never my intent."

  "Leave go," she groaned, trying to lever herself out of his grasp. "Leave me go. I cannot bear the way you maul me any time you wish." It was not Gilliam who angered her, it was herself. She was sick to death of this blind stubbornness of hers.

  When Gilliam still did not free her, she relaxed against him in defeat and lay her head on his shoulder. "Please," she breathed, "please release me. I have just seen with crystal clarity what I have done, and I like it not at all. If I cannot find me something to occupy my hands just now, I fear I will sob until my eyes can no longer see. I promise, I will come find you before I leave the walls."

  "You are too hard on yourself," he said softly, and brushed his lips across the top of her brow, then released her. Nicola hurried as fast as she dared out of the hall.

  By day's end, Nicola had made herself too tired to worry over anything. As with the last nights, this one found her sewing. She dropped her square of linen in her lap and leaned back, stretching and rubbing at her stiff neck muscles.

  There had been no chance to leave the walls this day, so the questi
on of her needing an escort to the village was moot. The dairy had been in desperate need of cleaning, and her hives were indeed overflowing. These two chores had taken her past the midday meal, after which she'd walked the farm.

  It wasn't that Thomas truly meant to cheat the manor, it was just that little game of memory commoners everywhere played against their noble masters. Because Ashby's new lord lacked an in-depth knowledge of the boon work owed to the manor, minor chores had been ignored. Harvesting the grapes growing along the far wall was but one example. Just a few clusters had survived the onslaught of the birds and rot. This meant that she and Gilliam would be drinking ale with their servants all winter. Only her kitchen garden seemed to have fared well. Mayhap, this was because the cook depended on it to keep Gilliam fed. The ground had, indeed, been enriched and worked into a healthy softness. Come St. Edmund's Day, she'd be planting their beans and garlic.

  Other things exclusively hers to do, had gone wanting. Her store of herbs had not been replenished. With autumn almost gone, there'd be no chance to replace those that grew only in lea or woodland until summer next. What little she had left in the stillroom were nigh on too old to be of use.

  Nicola once again picked up the linen square, drawing needle through cloth in another stitch. If she could finish the edge, she'd have a head cloth for the morrow.

  Gilliam came to stand behind her and rested his hand on her shoulder. She lifted her hand, meaning to push away his fingers, but his thumb began to move on her nape, seeking to ease the tension in her muscles there. Nicola gave a soft murmur of reluctant acceptance as his caress eased the terrible stiffness caused by her hard work.

  "How goes it?" he asked.

  "I am almost done." She bent her head farther forward so he could continue to massage her neck. It felt wondrous. When he finally drew his hand away, she leaned back against him, her head resting on his belly so she could look up at him.

  If his lips didn't smile at her, his eyes did. "Jos fell asleep helping me eat my meat pies." This was Gilliam's sixth and final meal of the day. "It’s time we were abed."

  "Not yet," she protected quietly. "I'll not go bare-headed another day, and have the village women point and laugh at me." Every married woman in the world covered her hair; whether Nicola's marriage was valid or not, she had no desire to be a laughingstock.

  "A shame," he said softly, touching a curl. The feeling of his fingers sliding through her hair sent a chill down her spine. "Your hair is beautiful."

  She was too tired to wonder why he would think that the mop atop her head was anything but a disgrace. He seemed to take her lack of response as an invitation to continue toying with her hair, for he combed his fingers through it. The tenderness of the caress caused an instant and uncomfortable pressure beneath her heart. Nicola caught his wrist.

  "No more," she said quietly. "You are right. It’s time for bed."

  As she stood Roia came from beneath the table to join them. Nicola found their lamp, then covered the hall fire and took up the bucket of clean water. Gilliam lifted his sleeping squire in his arms. She matched him stride for stride as they crossed the bailey for the keep tower.

  In their chamber Gilliam laid Jos on his pallet, leaving Nicola to cover the boy. Roia waited patiently, then took up what was now her spot next to Jos. Nicola dared to lay a soft touch on the dog’s shoulder. Roia squinted at her and moved her tail, just once. From deep in his sleep Jos edged closer to the alaunt, throwing his arm around her.

  "Did I not tell you he decided he liked dogs," Gilliam said with a laugh as he stripped off his shirt and tunic.

  "So you did," Nicola replied, coming to kneel before him to loosen the cross garters holding his boots and chausses to his lower legs. When she was done, she stood back, waiting for him to free himself from the garments so she could hang them and put the boots beside the door. "This squire of yours is a strange one."

  "He grows better by the day," Gilliam said, sliding beneath the bedclothes. "Are you still planning to slaughter the pigs on the morrow?'

  "Aye, first thing. Why?" She hurriedly stripped off her gowns and hung them atop Gilliam's clothing, then leapt into the bed. Even before she'd pulled the blankets to her chin, she was shivering.

  "Save a bladder for him, will you?"

  "What a good idea," she said, yanking the bed curtains shut. An inflated pig's bladder was every boy's necessity, especially during this season. "He'll like that." She rolled onto her side and was asleep in moments.

  She was late for the next day's midday meal because it had taken her longer than she'd thought to craft her gift for Jocelyn. By the time she entered the hall, Gilliam and the boy were nearly finished with their meal. Fish stew today, this being a fast day.

  "I was wasting away to a mere shadow of myself," Gilliam called to her as she and 'Wyna entered. "My pardon, but we started without you." He served himself another portion of the stew.

  "How can I complain over you when I am the one who's late?' Nicola stopped in the doorway to stomp the mud from her shoes and loosen the knot at the mantle's shoulder. Roia appeared suddenly, sitting alert in the open area before Ashby's lady, great jaws agape and tongue lolling.

  "Hold this 'Wyna," Nicola said softly, handing the inflated bladder to the woman as she took her mantle by the corners. Today's rain was a far gentler sort than yesterday's, but she had been outside much longer. She snapped the mantle in the air, over and over, until it was free of the clinging droplets, and Roia was panting against her efforts to catch them.

  "Silly beast," she told the big dog, tying her mantle back around her shoulders. The alaunt widened her grin as if to agree. Retrieving the bladder from 'Wyna, Nicola hid it behind her back and started through the big room toward the back table.

  Thomas sat as he always did, at the head of the right table, placed above the soldiers that guarded Ashby's walls. Instead of acknowledging him as she used to do, guilt kept Nicola's gaze fixed ahead of her. Did Thomas also believe Hugh was behind the murder? If so, she was certain the reeve would never forgive her, not after what her earlier meddling had cost him. She moved around the table and took the bench next to Gilliam's, it having become her accustomed seat.

  "Does the reeve's presence bother you? I can tell him to eat with us no longer," her husband offered in a whisper.

  Nicola shot him a startled look. "Nay, you cannot," she said sharply. "Tradition says Ashby's reeve takes his morning and midday meal at your expense. You cannot bar him from our hall."

  To escape this conversation she turned to face the boy across the table from her. "Jocelyn, I have something for you." She produced the inflated pig's bladder and rattled it for the lad, to show it contained beans.

  "What is it?" he asked, staring at the toy, but not taking it from her. Nicola looked at him in surprise and set the ball in the middle of the table.

  "Jos, 'tis a bladder for tossing or kicking," Gilliam said, sounding shocked. "Now boy, do not tell me you've never before had a ball. Why, it’s required of every lad to play with one of these during autumn."

  Jocelyn looked up at his lord with an adult expression of disdain. "The tossing and kicking of balls is for commoners. My lady mother does not approve of such things."

  Nicola laughed as Gilliam rocked back on his bench. He was truly mortified by Jos's claim.

  "Then call me common," he cried. "What sort of mother keeps her son from the joys of boyhood?"

  "I find my joy in the quill and scroll, my lord," the boy replied.

  "You scribe and read?" Nicola asked in surprise. Outside of churchmen, the only folk whom she knew could read and write were Lord Rannulf and his wife. Everyone else, at least in her corner of the world, left that chore to hired clerks or monks.

  "Aye. It’s all I am fit for." What should have been a self-deprecating comment was uttered with great pride.

  "Not true," Gilliam retorted swiftly. "Here"—he took the bladder from the tabletop and bounced it in his hand—"take it."

  "What's th
e use?" Jocelyn asked with a deep sigh. "I cannot throw it, and I cannot catch."

  Nicola eyed him in skepticism. "You just said you'd never been allowed to have one. How do you know you cannot throw or catch?"

  "I know," the boy replied with absolute certainty. He mournfully lifted another spoonful of stew off his bread trencher and into his mouth. "What other boys can do, I cannot."

  Nicola eyed him skeptically, wondering which he enjoyed more, his helplessness or having piqued his noble master.

  "Try it," Gilliam said, his voice empty of any emotion. "Come, lad, hold up your hand."

  "I cannot do it," Jocelyn insisted with a sad shake of his head.

  "Hold up your hand," his lord said again. His voice was quiet.

  Nicola looked at her husband in surprise. Gilliam was angry. He had not drawn down his brows, nor was there any black look in his eyes, only a humorless tone of voice.

  "Jocelyn, you should try," she said softly, then wondered why she bothered to intervene.

  "I mean no disrespect, my lady, but I do not want the thing." Again, Nicola saw herself reflected in his manner. He was just as determined not to do this as she had been determined not to marry Gilliam.

  The bladder bounced off the top of the boy's head, then rebounded toward Nicola. As Jocelyn blinked in surprise, she grabbed the ball out of the air. Gilliam said nothing, only made a motion with his fingers indicating she should return it to him When she, did, the ball again flew across the table and struck Jocelyn atop his head. Gilliam snatched it back,

  "What are you doing," Jocelyn asked in irritation, only then remembering to add, "my lord."

  "Hold up your hands, boy" Gilliam said, calmly and quietly.

  Jocelyn eyed his lord, his jaw firmed in refusal. The ball rattled as it struck his head, and then struck him again. Jos made a small sound of anger, the growl of a just-weaned pup. When Gilliam tossed it at his head yet one more time, he snatched it out of the air with no difficulty.