Tilda blinked, arms outstretched as she evened the string in its eyelets. "Let me straighten your collar, Lady Ashby." She stood on tiptoe to do so, leaning close to whisper, "You are mad. Those women have hair on their chin and grown heirs."
Nicola clenched her fists, not wanting to hear that her plot was flawed; she already knew that. "Little maid," she said aloud, "do you know my tale? Although I tell Lord Rannulf I am betrothed to Hugh de Ocslade, my warden would force me to wed his brother, Gilliam FitzHenry. It matters naught to him that this is the man who murdered my father. Tell me, am I the only one who sees no justice in this?"
"Lady Ashby," one of the guards called, "say no more or I shall remove the maid."
"Consider me muzzled," Nicola said, shooting the man a hard look.
Tilda smoothed the gowns over Nicola's slender waist and hips. "There, that is much better. Now you sit and eat, while I comb your hair."
She handed the tall girl her tray, and Nicola settled onto the stool facing the wall opposite the door. Tilda stood behind her, her back to the guards. "Why, Lady Ashby, you have no eating knife."
When Nicola looked up, there was no surprise in her friend's face. "Aye, my warden keeps me disarmed, not even allowing me something as puny as a table knife." She tilted her head to one side, her fingers caressing the pin that held her mantle in place.
This piece was the only thing of her father's that she knew to survive her home's destruction. Its garnet-studded head was as thick as two fingers, and it fit into her palm like a dagger's hilt. The narrow tongue that kept the pin fastened in her mantle's shoulder was longer than her hand, and sharpened to a fine point. She was hardly disarmed. "I manage well enough without one."
"I can see that you do," Tilda said, slowly drawing her comb through Nicola's hair. With her second stroke, she leaned forward and whispered, "I have your pack."
Her words brought Nicola around so suddenly, the petite commoner took a startled step back. The guards leapt toward them, hands on hilts. Nicola glanced at them and clapped a hand to her head.
"Have a care," she chided in her most arrogant tone. "How much will my bridegroom like me if I am bald?"
The men relaxed and stepped back into the doorway.
"My pardon, Lady Ashby," Tilda said with a gay laugh, "but you have difficult hair."
Nicola could not restrain her smile. Now that was an understatement. Although she valued the stuff as her most feminine feature, it had a life of its own. Like her, it hated to be bound even in something as sensible as a plait.
Tilda once again placed her body between Nicola and the guards. "I have a new life outside of Ashby," she whispered. "Join me in it."
Nicola drew a quick breath of surprise and looked up at Tilda in consternation. But Ashby was their home. There was nothing for her to read in Tilda’s face; all her questions would have to wait until she was free, and free she would be once she had her pack. Pilfered last July from Graistan's overloaded coffers, it included everything she needed to transform herself. Once she had her new identity, she could even run anywhere without attracting the slightest attention. If de Ocslade would not come to her, then she would go to him.
Tilda stood back to admire the far more sober tresses. A guard called to her, "You are finished now. Go."
"At your command," the commoner replied in English as Nicola came to her feet, then continued in French to the noblewoman. "My lady, I have always enjoyed weddings. Are you not marrying this day at Terce? Might I come to witness?"
As she spoke Tilda smiled, the lilt of her mouth saying she could not wait to taste danger's spice, then angled her head to one side, displaying her even features to their best advantage. This was a blatant taunt. The exchange of marriage vows was always a public event, held where any and all could witness. Tilda meant her words to stick in the guards' minds, stinging them after the fact for not recognizing what went forward beneath their noses.
"Of course you may attend," Nicola replied, "but the abbot has delayed the ceremony until midday. It will please me to look for you in the crowd, for yours is a friendly face and I am among enemies here."
"I will be there." Still smiling, Tilda walked out the door. The men stepped swiftly from the room and shut the door quietly behind them.
Nicola crossed the room to the door, where she stared at the latch. Pride demanded she try. The latch would not lift; it was locked.
Elbows braced on his knees, Gilliam FitzHenry sat on a bench before the farthest of the twin hearths in Graistan's empty hall. He stared into the flames leaping on the raised stone platform. Firelight gleamed off the fine golden embroidery trimming the sleeves of his best blue gown. It also marked the damage done by yesterday's wrestle with the vixen.
Anger was hardly the sign of a happy bridegroom. Nor was so hurried an affair the mark of a love match. That thought made the corners of his mouth lift slightly. No one doubted that this would be a marriage made in hell, but fate and pride left him no other choice.
His thoughts returned to his bride's claim of betrothal. An obvious lie. Now, why did she do so when all she could win was a delay? Gilliam blinked. Of course. She sought an opportunity for escape.
His worry eased. This he could prevent. Aye, no complaint or threat could stop him from becoming Lord Ashby in name as well as deed. At long last he would gain the one thing a youngest son never dared dream to have: a home of his own.
A winner's howl of success rose from the depths of the hall behind Gilliam's back, echoing into the high roof. The few men he'd brought from Ashby had joined Graistan's off-duty garrison at the other hearth in a friendly game of dice. Winter had always been Graistan's period of rest, a time when the family dwelt elsewhere thus diminishing the demands on what was in store at the keep's cellars and kitchen. When the wedding was done, these soldiers would be the keep's only occupants.
"Lord Gilliam, Lord Geoffrey comes." The porter's call came from the door at the room's opposite end, floating over the shouts of the losers on the last roll.
"Better late than never, my mother's oldest son," Gilliam muttered to himself.
Where Rannulf occupied a father's place in Gilliam's life, and Temric that of a disapproving uncle, Geoff was a friend, and the sibling least likely to treat him as a child. Burying his discontent beneath the expression of the carefree youth that always seemed expected of him, Gilliam came to his feet.
Geoffrey, Lord Coudray, strode past the tall screens guarding the hall from the door's draft. Although he was fully armed in a chain mail tunic over leggings of the same metal mesh, he had removed his helmet and shucked his metal hood and cap before entering the room. Fisted in one of his bare hands was the cloak of a small and bony lad.
Travel in November's blustery weather had burned the boy's pale skin raw and streaked his cheeks with dirt. Knotted spikes of fine brown hair thrust up over his generous forehead to stand above his hood, snarled into place by the wind. What with the child's wide-set brown eyes, the whole came together to give him a mummer's astonished look.
"Geoff, I am here," Gilliam called out, the power of his deep voice nigh on lifting the painted linen panels that covered the stone walls. "Is this a wedding gift you bring me?"
"Nay, the bed is my gift, my mother's youngest son. Taking on a squire is work, and I'll not have you complaining that I make a gift of work," Geoff retorted. His easy stride made the boy trot as they crossed the expanse of rush-covered floor.
"Ah, but the bed's too short," Gilliam teased.
"It wouldn't be if you'd stopped growing before you were too tall for it." Geoff shot back.
Gilliam laughed, truly pleased to have his brother here. "Come close, let me have a look at this squire of mine."
Geoff came to a stop in front of his younger brother and thrust the boy out before him. Gilliam made a pretense of eying the lad. It wasn’t the boy he wanted to study. Although he and Geoff were different in height and build, they were startlingly alike in appearance, or had been until little less than a year ago. They shared t
heir golden hair color and shape of face, even the same inability to grow a proper beard. All that made them different was Geoff’s missing eye and the scars that crossed his face, gifts from Geoff's wife, now blessedly deceased. The scars had healed flat, and a patch covered his ruined eye.
Geoff didn’t miss the attention. "They mend well enough," he said softly as he recognized Gilliam's interest, the pain in his voice not physical. His remaining eye, a slightly darker blue than Gilliam's own pale eye color, grew darker still.
Gilliam instantly shifted subjects. "So, will you stay for the wedding?"
"What?" Geoff asked in confusion. "Here I was coming with apologies on my lips for being late, thinking the deed was done yesterday. Did I get the day wrong?"
"There were complications." Gilliam managed to swallow his anger behind a wry grin. "My beloved claims to be betrothed to Ashby's neighbor."
"That is not possible," Geoff instantly protested.
Gilliam gave a lift of his brows. "Ah, but the new abbot seeks ways to break free of Rannulf's influence, and my bride gave him just the tool he wanted. This Abbot Simon insisted on sending to Ocslade, demanding the man's appearance so he might decide whose claim is valid."
His brother's single-faceted gaze sparked with sudden amusement. "Rannulf must be nigh on mad with rage. I warned him he expected too much of the abbey, and that the monks resented him for it."
"Aye, he's there right now, using all his diplomacy and tact to ease the situation. He'll manage, he always does," Gilliam said with an unconcerned shrug. "Now, why not introduce me to this squire of mine. A boy is far better than a bed." Knowing how intimidating his great height could be, Gilliam sat on the bench, then winked at the boy. The lad only turned his face to the side.
"Jocelyn," Geoffrey said mildly, "come put out your hand and greet my brother, the new Lord Ashby. Lord Ashby, this is Jocelyn, heir to the manor at Freyne, wishing to be fostered in your home."
Bottom lip trembling, Jocelyn reluctantly thrust out his hand, his eyes now focused on the floor. "Well met, my lord. 'Tis kind of you to offer me hearth and home," he mumbled. It was obvious that he'd been coached to make the statement; there was no gratitude in his voice.
Gilliam curled his large hand around the boy's thin fingers and found no strength in the child's grip. "Well met it is. It’s an honor to have you join my family." When he released the boy's hand, he pointed to the far table where an array of cold dishes had been laid for the morning meal. The simplicity reflected the fact that there was only one harried cook in the kitchen. "Take yourself to yon table and find a bite to eat. It will be a long day of waiting for you, for we'll not be leaving for Ashby until the morrow's morn."
Where the boy Gilliam had been would have raced eagerly toward the prospect of any meal, this one dragged his feet as if going to his execution. He watched Jocelyn as he made his limp-kneed way around the table, then turned on the bench to look up at his brother.
"Geoff, when you asked me to take him as my squire, I admit I thought you addlepated," he said softly to be certain the child did not overhear. "While I had no doubt I could teach him a warrior's skills, my house is only half rebuilt, and I, not yet married. Now I understand. How old is he, ten? Eleven? He cannot even close his hand around mine to greet me. If he were sent to a house with other boys, they would eat him alive, no?"
Geoff sank to sit beside him and stretched his legs out before him. "It’s worse than that. He's nigh on thirteen. He should already be riding at quintains and have his first set of armor. His parents interpreted his small size to mean he could have no life but the Church."
"What has size to do with power?"
"Is that my giant of a brother I hear speaking those words?" Geoff asked with a breath of amusement.
"Size and strength help," Gilliam admitted with a smile, "but it’s the mingling of skill, stamina, and numbers that carry the day. Nor is holiness any impediment. There are more than a few churchmen who can swing a right powerful morning star, Hugh of Durham being a case in point." It had been the holy Bishop of Durham's siege at Tickhill that helped end John Lackland's recent insurrection against his brother and monarch, Richard, called the Lionheart.
Geoff only shook his head and stared into the fire. "Nay, Jocelyn's dam meant for him to be a scholar. In her effort to keep her son from a life she sees as violent, she's turned him into a milksop, afraid of any physical activity. Is it not just like fate to remove both his father and elder brother and make him Freyne's heir? Now neither his dam nor he has any choice in the matter. Knight he will be, and after that, Freyne's lord." He turned his head to offer his brother a small smile, aimed at life's ironies.
Gilliam looked beyond Geoff to the boy. Jocelyn sat with an adult's stillness at the table, his arms crossed tightly before him as if to keep the world at bay. "What's his temper like?”
"He is a dour child, joyless and play-less. When I urge him to make an effort, he cries and says he cannot because he is too weak and small. It’s but an echo of his mother's excuses for him. Gilliam, if anyone can teach him to find what is fun in this life he must live, you can."
"Is that a compliment or a chide?" Gilliam replied, his laugh meant to hide his hurt over this seeming jibe.
"Now, Gilliam," Geoff said, a spark of laughter in his eye, "I wouldn't have entrusted him to you if I didn't think you man enough to be his foster-father. Your nature is just that, your nature. I for one am glad of it. Besides, given a choice between you or me making him into a knight, I'd rather it be you." He smiled. "His mother grows hysterical when it comes to Jocelyn, destroying every bit of good I achieve with him. Jesu, Gilliam, her tears could fill my moat. I only hope I survive her presence until her babe is born. Dear God, I never expected to play nursemaid to a pregnant widow, but such is my duty." This was a disgusted aside.
Gilliam managed a chagrined look. "My pardon, brother. I happily accept this responsibility. It’s only that I sometimes think none of my brothers remember I am a man full-grown."
Geoff laughed. "Now who is misjudging others? Did you not prove yourself last June when you took down Ashby's walls in only one day to free Rannulf? If ever we questioned, we do so no longer." He paused a moment, then shot his brother a sidelong look. Gilliam tensed at what lay in his gaze. Geoff was going to speak of the past.
"Which brings me to a question that's been plaguing me. Why have you hurried this wedding of yours?"
Gilliam sagged in relief. It wasn't the question he expected. "In short, I need Ashby's lady and what she knows. Where Rannulf sees only a virago, her folk tell another tale of her. Their lady is loyal and true, using her healing arts to care for them and their families. Those who serve the manor say that without her household skills, we'll all starve this winter."
"So, they have convinced you she will be a caring wife?" Geoff's brows lifted as he awaited his answer.
"They have convinced me she is a right fine lady, who holds her folks' concerns first in her heart." It was a hedge. He accepted his wife would never love him, but he craved her cooperation like a drowning man craved air. There had to be a way to make her see beyond their past to Ashby's future.
"Rannulf says she threatens you with murder. This is not a woman likely to add your care to her heart's work. Why her, Gilliam?" Geoff asked softly. "Rannulf offered you another suitable property where there was no heiress to marry."
"I did not find the place to my liking," Gilliam retorted, his jaw stiff.
Geoff turned his gaze to the fire. "I see the word 'penance' written all over this wedding." It was a gentle sneer.
Gilliam tried to send his brother a quelling look, but Geoff stared at his boots as if they were fascinating. "Do you not wish to disarm and prepare for the ceremony?" he asked stiffly. "Rannulf should be here shortly, and it will be time to fetch my bride."
"Nay," his brother said quietly, "I think I would rather know why you tie yourself to a woman who wishes you dead, when you could have property without marriage."
&nbs
p; "I want Ashby." Gilliam scowled at the flames. "These past five months have turned the place into my heart and home, making its folk mine own. I am loath to begin the process anew at some other manor. As for the woman," he managed a mirthless laugh, "you know I have a way with dangerous creatures."
"Aye, with admirable success," Geoff said, his voice still gentle and his attention yet focused at his feet, "but this is a woman, not one of your pets. I find myself thinking of Isotte and your son."
Gilliam's stomach clenched at the mention of Rannulf's second wife and the child Gilliam had set in her. He, of all men on earth, did not deserve a loving wife. "So among the three of you, you were the one elected to speak to me," he snapped. "Well, I will not discuss it, not even with you."
"If Rannulf has released the past, why do you yet cling to it?"
Gilliam turned his head away from his brother, so Geoff could not see his face. "Jesus God, what I did stained my soul forever," he hissed. "I do not cling to it, it clings to me like the stench of offal. Leave it be."
"I cannot. I must know why you keep punishing yourself when all is forgiven." His brother kept his voice calm, refusing to react to Gilliam's anger.
"Forgiven by Rannulf, mayhap, but I hurt more than him." Suddenly, rage and festering pain drove his carefully buried words from him. "Tell me, Geoff, how I can forgive myself for committing adultery and incest with my brother's wife? Murder, as well, for the child I made in her killed her. Brother, my sins pile one atop the other.
"Even Ashby's destruction lies upon my doorstep. If not for my youthful sin with Isotte, her sister could never have worked her evil on John of Ashby. If it was my misdeed that caused Ashby's destruction, should it not be me who restores the place? I accept the heiress's hate as my rightful penance." His voice faded to a whisper as his stomach turned. He bowed his head and fought the sickness. "Jesu, I've said too much."
"I never thought you capable of such pain," his brother murmured after a long moment of silence. "Vow to me, Gilliam. Say you'll not make my mistake. Do not place so high a value on your pride that you forget to see the sort of woman you acquire."
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