Spring's Fury

by Denise Domning

  Tilda shot her lady a brief, but glowing smile. The firelight gleamed against her flawless skin and traced beautiful shadows along the gentle planes of her face. "But what if I’m no different? Do you know that from time to time during my absence I convinced myself I would have done better if I’d married one of the lads here? Of course, each time the thought crossed my mind, I’d realize the impossibility of it."

  Nicola watched her a moment. "Why is it impossible? Are the lads here different from those in any other village?"

  Tilda laughed. "It’s not the lads, but the village. I quail at the thought of falling into the dreary routine of life at Ashby. Toil through spring and summer. Toil harder through autumn, then tighten your belt for winter's duration. When winter closes, the process starts again. It is not like a wrestling match or a dice game, where someone wins and others lose. Nay, this is but a trap that locks a body into never-ending drudgery."

  Where Tilda saw drudgery, Nicola saw the chores and duties that gave her life stability and purpose. Each year at Christmastide, she celebrated the triumph of life and health, of home and family. Last year's celebration had been better than any other, as she also celebrated the love she'd discovered in her husband. She glanced down at her hand and the golden ring it bore, then back to Tilda. "If you did not want to come home, why did you return?"

  "Unfortunately, when I left Ocslade, I could think of nowhere else to go." It was a wry comment. "Now that I am here, do you know what I see?" Tilda raised a hand to indicate Thomas’s home.

  "Nay, what?" Nicola peered into the dim room. It was not so different than the barn that she and Gilliam used as their hall, only smaller. There was the same layer of rushes covering on the floor, the same plastered and painted walls. Even the cauldrons over the hearth stones were similar.

  "Dirty straw, muddy floors, and poverty. Being leman to a lord has spoiled me. While at Ocslade I was never asked to lift a finger, save to please my keeper. Pleasing him seemed a small price to pay in order to live a good life."

  Tilda kicked at a chicken pecking near her foot, then glanced at Nicola. "I must think again over staying here. Papa's harsh words suggest he’d swiftly see me wed the meanest of all the lads."

  "Robert son of Robert," Nicola murmured.

  "You jest! Mad Muriel’s son?" It was a shocked cry. Tilda might have imagined it, but could never truly believe her father would do it.

  Nicola gave a helpless shrug. "That's what he said to me. He thinks Robert a good farmer, suitable to work your dowry fields. Thomas said none of the other lads here would have you. You hurt too many of them, Tilda."

  The commoner's beautiful face hardened into that of the stranger Nicola had discovered on the road leaving Graistan. "He lies. This is Papa's way of humiliating me just as your lord does you. If I wanted any one of those filthy, lice-infested boys, I could bring them crawling to me even over their mamas' objections. Ach, but why would I want them? This is a hard and dirty life, Colette, and I’ll not submit to it. Nor should you."

  Tilda’s final words struck at Nicola, driving like a dagger deep into her heart. Here it was. The invitation Gilliam believed Tilda had been sent to deliver. Nicola closed her eyes, not wanting to look upon what had become of the girl she loved.

  "What choice have I?" Nicola let her voice ooze hopelessness.

  Tilda’s stool creaked as she leaned close. "I say we run again as we have done before."

  Tilda would do again what she had in November; she would sell her friend to Hugh. What price had she wrung from the nobleman this time? More than anything, Nicola did not want to let this happen.

  "Do not be foolish, Tilda. If I run, my lord will only hunt me down. This doesn’t mean you must join me in my prison. Run now, Tilda. Live free for me." She willed Tilda to go this instant, before the girl uttered her words of betrayal.

  "That I will do, but I'll not leave you trapped here.” She paused. “You know, Hugh wants you still, Colette."

  Again, Gilliam was right. Nicola slowly opened her eyes. "Do you hate me so? Did you not say he meant to chain me like a dog?"

  Tilda gave a nonchalant shake of her head. "That was a lie, meant to drive you from him, Colette. I didn’t wish to share him with you. But, you are different now. Aye, if he sees the humble woman I see before me this moment, he'll be right pleased."

  It was with a mummer’s practiced expression of excitement that filled Tilda’s face. “But Colette, here is your answer!” she cried. “With your husband finished, you can become your old self once more. Aye, and after Hugh has made you a widow, you can turn on him and finish him. To all the world you've done no more than avenge your dead husband. Then, you will hold Ashby as your own, just as you've always dreamed."

  Nicola swallowed the contents of her stomach. It had risen to her throat at the idea of Gilliam cold and still in his grave. She fought to keep her voice even. "Tilda, I thought you loved Hugh. How can you speak of his death?"

  The smaller girl waved away her words, but she couldn’t hide the hurt that flickered in her eyes. "Hugh's done with me, so why should I care what happens to him?” Then, she rested her hand against Nicola's cheek. "Now, tell me if you wish me to arrange a meeting between you and Hugh."

  "Aye, I think you must do. Set it for five days hence, for on that day does my lord depart Ashby on some private business." It took great effort to force the words from her tongue.

  "Hah, but watch me tweak my father as well," Tilda said with a scornful laugh. "I’ll let Mad Muriel's son earn himself a few coins carrying that message for me in lieu of the wife Papa would give him. Does your lord let you tend to the village ills as you were wont to do?" At Nicola's nod, she continued, "Good, when I have the response, I will fall ill and Papa will send for you."

  Nicola stood with a start, unable to bear this another moment for fear she’d sob. "I can stay no longer,” Nicola said. "I must escape." Another truth, although surely not the truth that Tilda would read in her words.

  "Take yourself to your hall before someone notices you are missing,? replied the commoner. “Let thoughts of freedom be your soul's ease for these next days. I love you, Colette,” she finished, grabbing the taller girl's hand.

  Tears filled Nicola's eyes. "And I, you, Tilda."

  God help her, but it was still true. With that, she raced from Thomas's house to her own hall, seeking Gilliam, knowing he would let her spill her grief on his shoulder.

  * * *

  Although it was the depths of night, Gilliam was only dozing. He came instantly alert at the sound of footsteps on the stair and turned onto his side. The bedcurtains were open, pushed to the side, and the glow of the night candle was the room's only illumination.

  The door opened to admit a cold breath of air, thick with the perfume of apple and pear trees in bloom. The candle's flame flickered wildly, setting jagged shadows to battling against the stone walls. His wife slipped inside, heralded by a shaft of silver moonlight. She closed the door, the atmosphere calming. The candle's flame sputtered in relief as it returned to its quiet consumption of wick.

  He watched as Nicola stripped off her belt, then discarded her loose gowns. Now that he understood her better, he conceded to her need for those shapeless things. Nicola had no tolerance for any sort of bindings, even a gown's lacing. That she chose to tie herself so closely to him still astonished him. Not that he minded. A wife who cleaved only to him and vowed to love him until her life's end was satisfying beyond any dream. This she had freely offered him; he had never asked it of her. He smiled. Such was Nicola's nature, the less he asked of her, the more she gave.

  With her chemise removed, her pale skin gleamed like ivory in the candle's yellow glow. That gentle light lay taunting shadows along the feminine rise of her breasts. Deep within him, the part of him that never ceased to lust after her responded to the sight. He raised himself onto his forearm to better appreciate his wife's willowy form.

  She stooped and caressed Roia. He heard the dull thud of his pet's tail
against wooden floor then the big dog groaned at having her ears rubbed. A month ago Roia had again begun to seek her rest in their bedchamber. Gilliam couldn't decide if it was because Jos had adopted the pups, or that Roia had tired of being the plaything for so many youthful creatures.

  When Nicola rose again she did not come to join him in the bed. Instead, she turned to stare into the candle's flame. The meager light was enough to reveal the pain etched on her features. At least this time what hurt her had not driven her into that blankness.

  "Is all well with Alexander?" He kept his voice quiet.

  She started in surprise, turning swiftly to face him. Her pretty eyes were dark and filled with whatever it was that ached in her. "Aye, his head is pieced together, and he's bruised from head to toe. I stayed for a time to watch over him. The first hours are the worst in his sort of injury." She managed a tiny smile. "Once he's healed, I think his mother will beat him black and blue all over again for succumbing to the dares of others and trying to fetch himself a hawk's egg."

  Gilliam laughed quietly. "Jos took his punishment like the man he will someday be. If all is good with Alexander, why are you so sad?"

  She turned her back to him and bowed her head. "The reply came. 'Tis set as we planned, for the morrow at midday."

  "Ah," he said softly, more in his own understanding than to acknowledge her words. It was not only worry over whether his meeting with de Ocslade would come to violence; it was that the reeve's daughter had betrayed her for a second time.

  Gilliam watched her for a moment. If it were possible, he'd have gone to Thomas's daughter and begged the girl to leave before she did this treacherous deed. Nicola's heart, so huge as to accommodate Ashby and every soul within it, was breaking because one of her own would hurt her.

  He eased from the bed, the ropes beneath the mattress squealing in protest as he moved. When he put his arms around her, her back to his chest, she molded herself to him, but she leaned her head against his shoulder, looking away from him. This left the slender line of her neck vulnerable to his mouth, and he did not resist his need to touch her. When he pressed his lips against her throat, she raised a hand to reach behind her and rest her fingers at his nape. As always, her touch set his skin to tingling.

  He kissed her throat then breathed against her cheek, "Will you tell me the details?"

  "Love me first," she whispered. "I need to feel you alive and whole in my arms before I say what I must."

  The need to fill her body with his eclipsed all else. If she needed him to stave off her pain, he needed her desire for him to take as a promise against the morrow's outcome. The twining of their bodies would carry them past de Ocslade's threat and into the future he had planned.

  She turned in his arms, keeping her fingers at his nape. As always, this caress of hers set his whole body to quivering with hunger. Until Nicola, he had never realized a simple touch could bring him to his knees. It was wondrous, the sensation devouring him and, dear God, there was such pleasure in being consumed.

  My lord, what if you do more than spy Lord Ocslade? What if he sees you and you battle? Lady Nicola says he has the larger force. You need me to ride with you, my lord." Jos's plea came with all the force of one whose heart was breaking.

  "My need is the greater one," Nicola said to the boy. "You must stay to guard me." She tried to lay her hand on his shoulder, but in his hurt, he jerked away from her.

  "My lady, tell him there'll be no one there to see to his back without me." His words were earnest and pained.

  Nicola only shook her head. "He has made his decision, and I cannot change him."

  The sun was just rising. Gilliam and his twenty men left at this early hour not only on the pretense of doing business away from Ashby, but to gain themselves time to find the right concealment around the meeting place in the north woods.

  Ashby's lord turned to his squire. "My lad, until you have mastered the sword the way you have that bow of yours, you cannot stand beside me. An archer has his purpose, but it takes him too long to reload, making him vulnerable to a swordsman. I have no wish to part company with you yet. Accept my decision with grace, for I am entrusting to you my lady's protection. This is a heavy responsibility, for her life is mine."

  Gilliam finished belting his sword and scabbard over his surcoat, then tucked his gloves into his belt. As always he left his mail hood dangling down his back. Nicola drank in his image as if doing so for the last time, the wide sweep of brow, perfect line of his nose and wondrous shape of his mouth.

  This was womanish thinking. Gilliam was no child, but a man of great power and ability. She ought to know, having been his sparring partner for the past months. Besides, there was no reason for this day to come to battle,

  If only she could go armed into the glade, then she could be the one to see to his back. Instead, her role in the ruse trapped her into her everyday wear, with only a knife strapped to her calf for protection. How it would gall her to stand helplessly aside, should the day result in violence.

  "I am watching you, my heart, and I think you are as bad as Jos." Gilliam reached out to draw her near to him.

  "It’s this love of mine," she retorted, leaning up against him. His steel-coated arm around her back bit through the layers of her gowns to skin, but no amount of pain could have caused her to move away from him. "It makes me feel soft and worried. Of course, you know how much I really hate this?"

  "Aye, that I do," he said with a smile, then touched his mouth to hers.

  His caress was slow and gentle, with none of his usual passion. She let her lips cling to his for a long while, then stepped back to raise a hand to his face. Her fingers traced the line of his brow, the strong thrust of his cheekbone, then the clean-shaven sweep of his jaw. He caught her hand, his thumb moving against the ring she wore.

  "You are a pretty creature," she said. "I think I will take you home and keep you as my pet. Now, go, before this leave-taking turns me into naught but a weak-kneed woman. Have a care, big man. Hugh will never forgive you if you saddle him with me for as long as he lives, however many moments that is."

  He grinned. "I would never do that to another man."

  To the tune of Jos's single sob of frustration, Gilliam walked to the hall door.

  She and Jos stood where they were, both of them staring out the open door. The sun lifted above the horizon and rosy light filled the portal. A moment later, Ashby's lord and all his men save Walter, who watched the gate, thundered from the bailey.

  When their hoofbeats were but an echo, Jos turned on her, a frantic look in his eyes. "He has left me behind."

  "Aye, me as well," Nicola said. "Why, without me at his back he might well fall."

  "You mock me," the boy said with the trace of a frown.

  "Nay, not at all," she replied with a quiet laugh. "It’s silly, but it’s how I feel."

  "I, as well." He kicked at the rushes beneath his feet. "I hate feeling helpless."

  Once again, Jos reflected Nicola back to herself. "Oh boy, we are two of a kind, you and I. Since we cannot have what we want, let us retreat to the fire so we can sulk and fume together."

  * * *

  The hour before midday found Nicola pacing restlessly in the empty hall with the kennets baying and chasing her flying skirts. She stopped in the doorway. Jos stood nearby, blade in hand, practicing his stances just outside the hall.

  Nicola glanced upward in frustration, seeking the time of day from a too-slow sun. The bright orb was hidden beneath a huge white cloud chased on a chill wind. A great herd of others were sailing across the sky. She closed her eyes and leaned in the doorway.

  The sounds of Ashby gathered around her. The swish of Jos's sword cleaving empty air, bees buzzing in the orchard, small birds trilling in the woodland. Millstones ground, one against the other, and the river splashed and laughed. She swore she heard the grass growing at her feet.

  How could the day drag so?

  "Colette!" Tilda's frantic call came from the ga
te. Nicola leapt outside the hall to look.

  Dressed in her fine gown, her cloak over her shoulders, Tilda fought to escape Walter's hold. "Nay, you will not stop me," she screamed, landing kicks and blows against the poor man. "Colette! Come to me, Colette!"

  Nicola panicked; Tilda was too early. Beside her, Jos sheathed his sword. "Let her enter, Walter," she shouted.

  Once freed, Tilda flew to her, her hair torn from its plait, her gown mussed. Tears stained her face. "My father," she breathed hysterically as she caught and tugged on her lady's hands. "Colette, come now. You must come save Papa."

  Nicola stared at her. Gone was any sign of the sensual woman; in her place was a child torn to bits in worry for her sire. Where Nicola's heart wished to run, her mind warned her to be wary and seek everywhere for a trap. "What has happened to Thomas?"

  "Her father seemed fine enough this morn when he came to break his fast, my lady." Jos's quiet comment was also cautious.

  Tilda spoke over the boy's French words. "Oh Colette, I thought myself so cunning and now Hugh has Papa. If you don't come right this moment to the south meadow, Papa'll be dead for sure. Oh dear God, why did I do this thing?" Her face crumpling into self-loathing, Tilda fell sobbing against Nicola.

  "I think you'd better tell me what is what, Tilda." The quiet firmness in Nicola's voice made her words a command. "I'll not set foot from this place until I know what you've done."

  Tilda's head flew back, her face ragged. "I sought to use you against Hugh, the way he used me against you. It was wrong, I know, but I wanted vengeance on him Colette. When he wanted me no more, he gave me to his nephew; I loved him, and he gave me away as if I were no more to him than a shirt." Astonishment filled Tilda’s voice, as if she still could not believe such a thing might have happened to her.

  "Just how was I supposed to help you gain your vengeance?" It was a cold question.