Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  Nicola coughed. It wasn't loneliness he wanted to ease. Nay, not at all.

  From the lane behind them came the echoes of French words.

  "My lord, I cannot thank you enough. As you well know, my sworn duty is to see that commerce is not halted. Aye, the town could ill afford that."

  Nicola glanced up, gasped, then caught Alan's steed by the bridle to draw it closer and bury her head against its neck.

  Gilliam groaned to himself as he strode toward the gate, Jocelyn following at his heels. The headman of the town council trotted heavily alongside them. On an average day the man's voice grated on his nerves. Today, the Courvesier's prattling was too much to endure.

  "While we merchants want you to know we understand what you've lost is equally as precious, I think both our needs can be served without harm to either. Aye, if the gatekeeper interviews each person who leaves, your quarry cannot slip through undiscovered."

  "Enough said," Gilliam snapped, "you asked, I agreed.”

  "Aye, aye, so you did.” The man fell suddenly silent as Gilliam speared him with his gaze. They crossed the small apron of cobbles to the portal.

  "Alfred," Gilliam said to the soldier standing beside the gatekeeper, "be my translator. Tell him he may open one door. He must ask of those he does not know who they are and where they go. All carts and wagons must be thoroughly searched. If he doubts any answer, he should call for me. I will be atop the gate tower watching all who leave. After you've told him this, go and tell our searchers to bring their reports here to the gate."

  "Aye, my lord," the man said, and began to speak to the gatekeeper in his native tongue.

  Gilliam turned toward one of the towers, then stopped as he saw the armed man across the yard. Although there was no comparison between the armor and horse Gilliam owned and that of this poor soul's, he saw in this mercenary a reflection of what could have been for himself. Without Rannulf's generosity, Gilliam would also be doomed to drift from great house to great house, looking for work.

  "Jocelyn, this way," Gilliam said quietly to the lad. With the boy at his heels, Gilliam crossed to the hapless knight, drawn to him by the potential of a shared fate. Standing at the knight's side was a petite woman. She was pretty in the way of an overblown rose, still beautiful, but doomed to fade. The girl boldly eyed him, her gaze filled with the same calculation a whore used while gauging the highest possible payment she could wring from a man. So, the knight pandered his woman to make an extra coin or two. Most likely a necessity in this case.

  "Come offering to hire, have you?" Gilliam asked the tattered warrior over the creak of the gate door moving.

  "Aye my lord, but the house is closed," the man replied. His atrocious French made Gilliam take a second look. So, this was not a nobleman's extra son, but a common soldier seeking to raise himself into a higher position. That the man owned a horse spoke well of him. Keeping even the meanest steed was an expensive proposition.

  "Aye, it is, and so it will remain until February. Our sheriff presently visits here. He has been looking for men."

  "My thanks for the suggestion, but I promised to return to my last position if I had no luck at Graistan." The man bowed briefly, neither fawning nor arrogant, then offered a smile. "By your leave, we'll be departing, my lord."

  Gilliam glanced over his shoulder at the gate. The courtyard was already empty. Those who waited to exit were all townsmen, well known to the gatekeeper. Meaning to bid the man a good journey, Gilliam looked back at him and caught sight of the boy behind the horse.

  His estimation of the soldier rose yet again. All appearances aside, this must be quite a man if he was rich enough to support a woman, horse, and a lad to act as servant. Although quite tall, the boy seemed a meek one, with a hunchback and hanging head, but his clothing reflected well upon his master. Gilliam stared a moment at the boy's gown. It was a faded green, the sort of color a garment took after it had been worn until truly comfortable. It reminded him of a tunic he'd once owned; he'd been sorry to outgrow that one.

  "Good journey," Gilliam offered with a nod. "Come, Jocelyn." He set his hand on his squire's scrawny shoulder and started toward the gatehouse tower. The boy preceded him up the spiraling stairs. Gilliam rubbed the soreness from his shoulder as he climbed. Blood had clotted in his shirt, and the linen clung uncomfortably to his skin.

  The tower opened up onto a narrow stone pathway atop the wall. A damp cold wind moaned around him, crying a warning of winter's coming as it stung his face and tousled his hair. Jocelyn crouched down beneath one of the defensive upthrusts of stone that capped the wall like giant teeth, and caught his cloak tightly around him. Gilliam came to lean against another.

  Spreading out below him was the peaceful pattern of civilization his brother's sword protected. The fields now alternated between the golden stubble of grain and the darker hue of plowed earth. Vineyards and orchards were nothing but horny branches, the occasional withered fruit gleaming jewel-bright against the dark wood.

  Gilliam let his gaze wander along the road that snaked away from the walls, over a small hill, then into Rannulf's forest lands. Those few folks unlucky enough to have to travel on this day were moving briskly to keep warm.

  "My lord?"

  He glanced down at the lad. Once again, the boy sat with a most unchildlike stillness. "Aye, Jocelyn?"

  "Why do you want me?" The bitter question made the boy's face twist into an expression of scornful curiosity and something more.

  It was that unknown factor that made Gilliam check a glib answer about doing Geoff's bidding for one more oblique and gentle. "As a knight, it's my duty to train the sons of my fellow noblemen to become knights as well."

  "I am but your duty?" Jocelyn stared sourly away from him along the wall walk.

  "That is not precisely what I said, but even if I had, duty is no horrible thing. Without duty as part of our lives how would we know what was expected of us?" Gilliam squatted down beside the boy. This conversation suddenly held great import for himself and the lad. "It is an honor to be asked to care for another man's son. When you are knighted, it will be my success as well as yours."

  "You will have no success with me, my lord. I cannot be a knight. Lord Coudray would not heed either me or my lady mother, even when she prostrated herself before him, pleading for my very life." The child lifted his gaze to stare with a martyr's eyes toward the sky. "I am too frail for this life. Becoming your squire will kill me."

  "You have no doubt of this?" Gilliam asked quietly, his tone reflecting neither his surprise nor his amusement at the boy's assertion.

  "Aye. I will soon fall ill and death will take me. You will see." It was almost a threat.

  "You do not look as if you ail, save that you are too thin. There's color in your face."

  "It’s but windburn on my face," Jocelyn claimed in all seriousness. "See, look here." He stretched out his arm and shoved up his tunic sleeve to display its bony length. "There is naught to me but pale skin and bone."

  Gilliam shook his head. "I see an arm like any other. You do not convince me."

  "Are you blind?" Jocelyn retorted in outrage.

  "Jocelyn!" Gilliam's bellow shook the walls around him as he leapt to his feet and glared down at the boy. "Has someone forgotten to teach you manners? If you dare to address me so rudely once again, you'll not only hear my wrath, you'll feel it as well."

  Jocelyn's eyes were great round circles in his chalky face. His lower lip trembled. "My mother would not like it if you beat me," he warned in a reedy whisper.

  "Fie on you for standing behind your mother's skirts," Gilliam chided, his voice as hard as his sword. He was impressed that the boy had not dissolved to tears. "If you choose to misbehave, be man enough to take the punishment for your actions. What sort of knight hides behind a woman? A coward, that's what."

  For all his fear, the boy was not yet beaten. "I was not fated to become a knight. I was meant for the Church," he protested quietly. "It’s not fair that you force
this upon me."

  In Gilliam grew the certainty that behind the odd outward demeanor there lurked a normal lad. It was greatly reassuring; his chore would be to peel back the layers and reveal the child hiding beneath behaviors others had given him.

  "You’re right," Gilliam conceded, "it’s not fair that your father and brother have died. That is a terrible thing. Nonetheless, you are now Freyne's heir and must become both knight and lord. Take heart, lad, you do not go alone into this future. It’s my job to help you become the man you must be."

  Jocelyn blinked away his tears; the sullenness in his face dimmed a little. "My pardon for my rudeness, Lord Ashby. I hope you find your wife." It was a quiet, but gracious concession.

  "Why, thank you, Jos, but we must find her together," Gilliam said, very pleased by what they had accomplished in so short a time. He again turned his attention back to the road.

  The soldier and his little party were halfway between wall and forest now. Apparently, the gatekeeper had been satisfied with all their answers. The man yet led his horse, choosing to walk alongside his woman. Even from here Gilliam knew they smiled to each other as they chatted.

  Head down, the tall lad held himself apart from them, his gait stilted, as if his feet hurt. With so impoverished a master, it was more than possible he’d outgrown his shoes and there wasn't coin enough to replace them.

  Gilliam stared idly at them until they entered the forest. Only after they'd disappeared behind the screen of barren trees did jealousy rise in him. That simple soldier had what he could never own: a woman who cared for him. He shoved that impossible wish back within him, where it belonged.

  "Who are you watching?"

  Gilliam turned in surprise to find Rannulf standing behind him, now dressed in his mail and surcoat with spurs and sword buckled on. His musing had been so deep that he hadn't heard his brother climb the stairs.

  "A mercenary and his woman," he replied to the man who was in truth more father than brother to him. "Jocelyn, greet my brother, Lord Graistan. He was too angry to meet you earlier. Lord Graistan, this is my new squire, Jocelyn, heir to Freyne."

  To Gilliam's astonishment, Jocelyn thrust out his hand and met Rannulf's gaze. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my Lord Graistan," he said politely.

  "And I yours, son," Rannulf replied, gifting the lad with a smile. "As part of my brother's family, you become part of mine. Well come. Now, I must borrow your lord for a moment." With a nod of his head, Rannulf released Jos's hand to walk a short distance along the wall top. Gilliam followed. "So, Gilliam, are you still set on keeping that ruined manor and a wife who wishes you dead?"

  "Rannulf, I have had enough of this discussion. My heart is set on Ashby for mine own reasons. You cannot dissuade me."

  "I relent then. But know I cannot bear you torturing yourself over the past." Rannulf lay a hand upon his shoulder and smiled, gray eyes clear of the bitterness that had haunted their relationship until only recently. "So, have you found yourself a wife, yet?'

  "Nay." Gilliam allowed himself a wry smile. "However, you may thank me for my good works. I've found you two thieves and one poor serf escaping his rural master. As this gate is the only one open and no tall women have exited I can only conclude that she must yet be within these walls."

  "My lord?" Walter's head appeared above the stairwell.

  Both noblemen turned. Gilliam called, "What have you found?"

  "This." He stepped out onto the tower roof, Nicola's gowns fluttering like pennants in his hand. Great gouts of filth marred them, leaving them utterly ruined. "And this," he opened his other hand and a long, dark coil of hair streamed out from his fingers.

  Gilliam drew a sharp breath, then whirled to look past the road to the dense forest beyond it. The boy who was his bride was no longer within sight. He turned to Rannulf, unsure whether he should scream in rage or jump for joy. He had found and lost her in the same instant. "Damn her, but she's wearing my tunic," he shouted.

  "What?" Rannulf cried. "She didn't! Not even that vixen could be so brash." His face twisted at the repulsive thought of a girl dressed as a man. "You wish to wed this—creature?"

  "No matter how she dresses, she is still Lady Ashby, and Ashby will be mine. Damn, but she walked out right beneath my nose, with me staring at her because her garment reminded me of one I'd had at fifteen." He grabbed his brother by the arms. "Because it is the same tunic.

  "Jos, come with me," Gilliam called as he raced down the stairs, Rannulf and Walter on his heels. He stopped in the courtyard.

  "Gatekeeper, open your gates, our bird has flown," he shouted, then waved to a man to translate for him. "Walter, gather our men and have the horses saddled. Jos and I will be ready to ride as soon as we are free of our finery."

  "You will want your armor," Walter began, but Gilliam stopped him with a brusque shake of his head.

  "Nay, there's not time for me to arm. Have one of the men pack my mail for me. Bring also whatever decent clothing the lady has left behind in her cell. I suspect she'll have a need for them when I find her."

  "Why not let me send a man to fetch her back for you." Rannulf's tone was somewhere between a suggestion and a command.

  "Nay." Gilliam gave a brief and scornful laugh. "Go, Walter," he said, signaling his man away before explaining to his brother. "Rannulf, I have had enough of your life with its politics and churchmen who reach beyond themselves. Let me collect my wife and be on my journey home. When we arrive at Ashby, the priest can wed us, doing the job just as securely as any other churchman."

  "What makes you think she'll wed you at Ashby when she refused you here?" Rannulf raised a brow in question.

  "The villagers accept me as their lord. I think that even if I had to bind and gag her, nodding her head at all the right places, they would aid me in seeking to make me their legal master. If they will not, I will keep her as you suggested, until she bears my child." Gilliam shrugged, but there was nothing comfortable about what he proposed. Forcing himself upon her would hardly win from Lady Ashby the cooperation he so desired.

  "Now, if you are still offering favors, you could send a man to your foresters. Have him tell the woodland folk to mark the passage of a party of three: a woman, one tall boy in faded green, and a man dressed in cuirboilli, leading a poor steed. They should not stop them, else she might be driven to run. At the party's present pace, it’ll be an hour or more before they reach our borders and meet up with de Ocslade."

  "Easily done."

  As Rannulf spoke to his man, Gilliam stared out through the open gate, wondering if he should kill or thank the soldier who led Nicola from the walls. Whether an accomplice or an innocent, if not for that man Gilliam would never have noticed the 'boy' or the tunic. He smiled suddenly, impressed by the sheer audacity of Lady Ashby's attempt. No other woman would have had the daring to try it.

  "Is that all you need, boy?" Rannulf asked him.

  Still grinning, Gilliam patted his elder and shorter brother on the cheek. "My thanks, old man. It is. Go home to your mild sweet wife, Rannulf, and leave me to mine. I can see I have a far way to go if I'm ever to win from her what I need."

  His brother mounted and reined in his big horse as it danced beneath him, anxious to be away. "By the bye, I have six marks that say she'll do worse than a pinprick in her first week."

  "What! You bet against me?! I have twelve that say you’re wrong," Gilliam retorted with a laugh.

  "Done," his brother called back as he set spurs to his steed and galloped out the gate.

  "Will she really kill you, my lord?" Jos's question had more of awe than fear in it.

  "I hope not," Gilliam replied, still smiling "Come, we must change into our riding attire. In less than an hour's time, I will have me a bride, and we'll be bound for home."

  Nicola's neck ached from keeping her head bowed and her feet were fair torn to bits by her shoes. Blisters were already forming on her heels and toes. The right boot had a tiny tag of leather along its upper t
hat gouged deeper into her flesh with every step. She glanced up the road. Pain made her slow. Alan and Tilda were now far ahead of her, Tilda perched happily atop the nag.

  Jealous hurt seethed in her stomach. After four months of separation from anyone the slightest bit friendly toward her, Nicola desperately needed Tilda's company. Trapped within her was a whole river of thoughts and images, all of which clamored for spilling, but only to someone who understood her.

  So, too, did Nicola need to hear her friend's tale. She longed to know what it was that brought on Tilda's brief sadness. Instead, Nicola's every attempt at communication had been rebuffed. From the moment they had left the gate, Tilda had kept her attention focused on Alan, as if she truly desired the soldier.

  Nicola glowered impatiently at her friend's back as the couple rounded a bend in the road. Although the trees were barren, they grew so densely that the twosome completely disappeared from her view. She released a huff of bitter anger. Friends shouldn't let a man come between them.

  As Nicola neared the curve she caught the echo of thundering hooves. A frantic leap sent her sliding across the muddy road and into a thicket. Thorny branches offered little in the way of a shield, but she crouched, rabbit-still, behind the brambles and prayed to remain unnoticed.

  Lord Graistan and a few men galloped past, looking neither to the left nor right. A moment later and nothing remained of them save the deep tracks of horseshoes in the muck. Nicola came to her feet and grinned. If they were not scouring the roadside for some sign of her, they must yet believe she was within the town walls.

  All thought of Tilda's foolish game with Alan was forgotten in the face of this triumph. Nicola hobbled back onto the roadbed, where she turned an exhilarated pirouette. At long last John of Ashby's daughter was free!

  The need to share her victory with someone was so strong Nicola forgot her aching feet. She forced herself into a trot, her hood flying off her head as she ran. By the time she rounded the bend, she was panting in pain.