“Oh, I can bend over a bit, or…”
“Or walk upon your knees, perhaps?” Sir Robert asked tartly. “Assuredly, no one would notice that!”
Adam laughed, even while he frowned with irritation. He was considerably bigger than the usual run of well-fed noblemen; he was gigantic compared to the usual serf who, aside from the castle servants, suffered constant low-grade malnutrition and occasional semi-starvation, which stunted the growth. The plan they had devised was to creep down to Saer’s camp under cover of darkness dressed as servants, and try to fire the ladders at dawn in this guise. Meanwhile, another attack from the keep would divert Saer’s men and, they hoped, permit the arsonists to escape. Adam had to admit that he would be more a danger than a help to his men if one of Saer’s party noticed him—and he was hard to overlook. At last he conceded that Sir Robert must go, merely warning his castellan to keep his mouth shut because he did not speak English and his unaccented French would betray him as surely as Adam’s size would identify him.
Just before sunrise, Adam ordered the gates opened and led the castle garrison and his own men down on the camp with the greatest amount of noise and confusion he could manage. Under the circumstances, it was no surprise to anyone that the attack was expected. Adam and his men were met with a fury bred of frustration tinged with fear, and were thrown back toward the keep. Had Saer been less angry, perhaps he would have wondered why his enemies were so much less hardy in this attack than in the previous ones. However, an automatic mechanism that equated besieged with losses and weakness combined with his rage and his desire and blinded him to this new trap.
A chance view of his own camp marked by eddies of smoke and flame where neither smoke nor flame should be dispelled the illusion. The revelation of the trick did not alter Saer’s intention, as Adam had hoped. He did not rush back to his camp to put out the fires. He was old in war and knew he still had the advantage of numbers and situation. If his force could maintain close contact with Adam’s party, either they could defeat them on the field or follow them into the keep when the gates were opened, which was a far easier method of taking the place than going over the walls. The fact that Adam and his men began to fight with more efficiency and ferocity at the same time was more of an encouragement. Saer read desperation into that fact.
Adam was not unaware of the danger. If they should be beaten back under the walls of Telsey, his men would sustain greater losses than he had planned. As he roared encouragement to his followers, he wondered where Sir William from Devil’s Dyke and Sir Hugh from Trueleigh were. His instructions had been clear, and wind and weather had been consistent and favorable. Of course, there was always the possibility that another of Louis’s men had attacked Trueleigh or Devil’s Dyke at the same time de Cercy had attacked Telsey. If so, this was a concerted attempt to root out any opposition to Louis in the south of England—and it might well succeed.
In the end, Adam’s worst fears were dispelled. Horns called from the walls of the keep and Adam drew back from the fighting to look toward Saer’s camp and the sea. The camp was full of men, and the servants were fleeing it. In a few minutes, the men were through the camp and pounding up the slope toward the fighting. Aware of the cessation of Adam’s voice encouraging his men, Saer thrust away his opponent and also drew back to look around hopefully. Perhaps his infuriating adversary had been killed or wounded. Instead, he saw the young giant staring out over the battle.
Saer did not need to turn and look. He knew that Adam had redeemed his promise; his men had come to his support in two days, as he had said. Saer even knew how he had been fooled again. The men had come by sea rather than across the land where his patrols had watched for them. They had landed farther down the coast and had ridden up through territory Saer thought he had secured to attack from behind. Raging but impotent, Saer bellowed for retreat, spurring his horse frantically northeast into the narrowing area between Adam’s troops and the oncoming group led by Adam’s vassals.
Chapter Two
For four months Gilliane nearly approached happiness. Saer’s wife and daughters now simply ignored her. Saer had said she was to be treated with consideration, and even when he was hundreds of miles away Saer was obeyed by his deeply subjugated womenfolk. Gilliane did not actually pray for Saer’s and Osbert’s death, but only because she was aware that evil prayers often rebounded. Nonetheless, she could not rid her heart and mind of the hope that they would both die, and the hope fed and grew on the fact that no word came from England.
In September, Gilliane’s peace and hope were destroyed in a single blow. Osbert returned to the keep. Saer was not only in the best of health, Osbert reported, but he had increased the family’s fortunes tenfold, at least, and looked to increase them even further.
“If we succeed,” Osbert said, sneering slightly at his brother, “you may have these lands and good riddance to them.”
The young Saer laughed. “I do not need quittance from you, whom I can crush with my fingernail like a louse. I will have them, will you nill you. But tell me, if all goes so well with you, what brings you home?” His eyes grew even harder. “I will entrust neither men nor money to you, whether or not you say you have my father’s order for it.”
“Do I look to you as if I need men or money?” Osbert snickered.
A considering expression came into the older brother’s eyes. It was true that Osbert had come with ten well-armed, hard-faced mercenaries—in addition to the two devils who were his own servants—and that his armor and clothing were richer and more elegant by far than what he had worn when he left. Young Saer guessed that the feathers were borrowed—actually they were young Neville’s, but he was in no condition ever to wear them again—but, all in all, he was not displeased. He was less greedy than his father, and his primary interest was in the lands he now held. If old Saer was winning a rich estate in England, he might well stay there. That would suit his eldest son excellently. Thus, instead of depressing his younger brother’s pretensions, which he could have done with a single snarl of ill-temper, young Saer ignored Osbert’s provocative remark.
“Very well, then, why have you come?” he repeated mildly.
“For Gilliane.”
Young Saer cocked his head and a cynical smile twisted his lips. “You are welcome to her for all I care. God knows, she is eighteen years old and should have been married three years ago at least, but you will not marry her in this keep nor within—”
“I will not marry her at all,” Osbert interrupted, but his eyes slid slyly away from his brother. “Here is my father’s order, closed with his seal,” Osbert added hastily before young Saer could protest. “Let someone run for the priest to read it to you.”
While they waited, the young Saer examined the roll of parchment with great care. The contents did nothing to clarify the situation for him. As Osbert said, the letter merely ordered young Saer to give Gilliane to Osbert, who would bring her to England. No reason was given, and, although he wondered mildly what maggot had entered his father’s brain, he did not care much.
When Gilliane was told, she was stunned. She asked no questions because she knew it would be useless to do so. Marie de Cercy, the bearer of the news, was never given more than a bare order to do this or that. Trembling between hope and fear, Gilliane packed what was hers in a traveling basket and laid out her riding dress. Perhaps young Saer would tell her where she was going and for what purpose when she came down for dinner.
There was, of course, no need for him to tell Gilliane anything. When she saw Osbert, her lovely brunette skin—rosy golden in winter, and nut-brown when touched by the summer sun—went ashen yellow. Even her lips paled, and her huge deep-brown eyes seemed to glaze. No one addressed a word to her, which was just as well because she would not have been capable of understanding. Habit carried her to her usual seat at the end of the bench, and she managed to sink into it before her knees gave way. After that, she stared at the table. She did not reach for food, and no one served her or u
rged her to eat. Hard usage had not bred sympathy among the de Cercys.
By the time dinner ended, Gilliane had recovered sufficiently from shock to feel afraid. Strangely, this time the fear did not hurt; it did not make her heart pound or squeeze her throat and chest. Actually, it would have been closer to the truth, Gilliane thought, to say that she knew she was afraid rather than that she felt fear. She felt nothing. She felt as if she were dead already, beyond pain. Into the emptiness of feeling, hate flooded. In her extremity, the memories of her father came clear and strong, and another idea, one that had not previously occurred to her, took hold. If her father had died, then he was on the side that had lost the war; therefore, his daughter had been given as ward to one of his enemies, perhaps even to the man who had killed him.
In the instant, Gilliane became convinced that Saer had killed her father. In fact, he had not. Gilliane’s father had not been on the side that had lost the war. He had answered the summons of his overlord, the Comte de la Marche, had died in battle, and the comte had fulfilled his obligations to his liegeman by confirming the estates to Gilliane and placing her where he thought she would be safe and best serve his purposes. The question of whether Gilliane would be happy never entered the comte’s mind; it was totally irrelevant. Now, however, the unhappiness nurtured by years of abuse gave birth to a monstrous notion.
To kill oneself was the ultimate sin because it was a sin that could not be confessed, expiated, and absolved. To kill Osbert, however, could not be so dreadful a sin. Men killed each other constantly in war—killed women and children, too—and confessed, did penance, and were absolved. If Osbert attacked her, was she not in the same situation as any other person who must defend herself?
Like a sleepwalker, Gilliane rose from the table when the others did and retreated to the women’s quarters. By the time the other ladies of the keep came up, she was abed already, seemingly asleep, on the straw-stuffed pallet near the door where she had slept since she was considered old enough to govern the maids and prevent them from sneaking out to lovers in the night. Later that night, however, it was Gilliane who crept out the door and down the stairs and picked her way across the small bailey to the shed where the captain of the night guard lounged away the dull hours. The man was surprised, but he did not protest against her request nor voice his opinion that what she asked for would be of little help to her. He liked Gilliane. If a long knife would give her comfort—for whatever purpose—she should have it.
Thus, Gilliane returned to her bed concealing a real killing knife and its well-greased sheath under her skirt. This was no eating toy with a four-inch blade and a jeweled hilt that interfered with the grip. What Gilliane carried was an eight-inch poniard, its thin, wicked blade honed to razor sharpness on both edges, its hilt wound with leather that had been shrunk firmly to the metal haft, smoothed and shaped to fit the hand. Such a knife, had she the courage to use it, could slide so smoothly between the ribs of a man while he slept that he would be dead before he woke.
Whatever the guardsman thought, Gilliane did not believe she would lack the courage to use her weapon. That she would certainly be caught, might be tried and executed for murder, did not trouble her at all. Death would be more of a release than a punishment to her, and likely would bring her additional pleasure from knowing that Saer would be deprived of her property.
In the event, neither guardsman nor Gilliane was proved right. Circumstances prevented a trial of Gilliane’s strength of purpose. Osbert made no attempt upon her at all. He did not drag her before a priest bribed to ignore her protests and marry her; he did not attempt to use her without even making her his wife. He assaulted her only with words, sneering at her while he spoke of the “great honor” that was to be done her. But in among the sly hints and nasty innuendos, Osbert let slip the fact that he was taking her to England.
Underneath the fear a small, new seed of hope began to put out roots. England was where King John ruled. Gilliane’s father had been King John’s liegeman. Perhaps somehow she could escape from Osbert and Saer and throw herself upon the king’s mercy. It was not a bright hope. Gilliane knew she had little to offer. Her lands were in France and King John had no way of profiting from them, but perhaps… Between the comfort she gained from the long knife strapped to her thigh under her dress and the little seed of hope, Gilliane found the journey almost pleasant.
They rode long and hard. For the first few days, Gilliane was nearly fainting with exhaustion when she was lifted from her saddle each evening. Naturally enough, she did not complain nor did she ever ask to stop and rest. The mercenaries, unaware of her background and not perceptive enough to recognize the sneering insults that lurked behind Osbert’s talk of the good fortune that awaited her, were impressed by the lady’s stamina. Then, as the days passed and Gilliane grew hardened, the men began to like her even better. First, they recognized her strong distaste for Osbert, and they were at one with her on that. Second, they discovered that she liked them.
No one misunderstood that liking on either side. Gilliane was a “lady”, not meant for their kind, but she understood and respected what they did in their sphere of life. Often, when Osbert rode off with his two chosen companions, Pierre and Jean, to see if he could catch a serf girl to rape, Gilliane would talk with the other men. It began out of a desire to know something about England—and she learned a surprising amount about the political situation—but she also learned about the men and they learned to respect her.
What Gilliane did not ask and the mercenaries did not mention, because, naturally, no one had told them, was Saer’s purpose in bringing her to England. That knowledge came to her on the seventeenth of September, the day of her arrival, when Osbert thrust her into Saer’s presence.
“By God,” the old man chortled, although there was a vicious undertone to his laughter, “the Lord of Tarring cannot complain about the woman we have chosen for him. I had quite forgotten how beautiful you are, Gilliane.” Then he looked sharply at his son. “You have done her no hurt, have you? If she is not a maid…”
“It is no doing of mine,” Osbert quavered, shrinking aside. “You can ask the men, I never touched her—not even to lift her to the saddle or take her down. I never came near her.”
Saer stared contemptuously at his weak reed of a son and snorted his disgust. Nonetheless, weak reeds have their value. It would have been impossible for him to use the device he had planned with a strong-willed son. He looked back at Gilliane and his eyes narrowed.
“You have been brought here to be bride to the lord of these estates,” he snarled. “It is useless for you to protest—your overlord is many miles and a sea away, in France. He will not come to England to listen to your plea.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gilliane whispered, thinking of the knife that now seemed almost a part of her.
“I’m glad you are so reasonable,” Saer remarked, but he did not sound glad. He sounded as if he were sorry she had not protested so that he could beat her into submission. Saer had not been in a happy mood since he had escaped between the pincers Adam had devised to crush him. Then his rage eased and he grinned wolfishly. “You will not find your husband completely to your taste, perhaps, as he is a little deranged in mind and damaged in body, but he will do you no harm and is, I know, capable of his marital duties.”
Gilliane was silent. There could be no answer to a statement like that and Saer obviously did not expect one, but he smiled at the expression on her face.
“Because of your husband’s condition,” he went on briskly, grinning sadistically, “his loving wife will rule his lands. However, at present there is war in England between Prince Louis and King John. Since no woman is fit to rule in time of war, I will rule for you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Gilliane repeated in a stronger voice.
The seed of hope that traveling to England had planted in her put out more roots. If there was war, Saer might have to leave the castle. Perhaps, just perhaps, Gilliane thought, she would
have something to offer King John. Perhaps she could get a message to him and somehow, some way, yield the castle to him—that is, if she survived the handling of the monster to whom Saer planned to mate her.
“Come,” Saer said, “I will introduce you to your betrothed.”
Gilliane wavered on her feet, but Saer grasped her firmly by the arm and dragged her across the hall, thrusting her through an antechamber to face a closed door of which the upper half had been cut away and replaced by bars. As their shadows blocked the light, a snuffling whimper came from the inner room. Saer pushed Gilliane forward so that her body was against the bars. She stiffened with terror, expecting the hands of a madman to tear at her, but nothing happened, and, as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom of the wall chamber, she saw what was left of Gilbert de Neville of Tarring. Gilliane’s heart contracted and she hid her face in her hands.
Misunderstanding the gesture, which was bred of pity rather than revulsion or fear, Saer laughed. “I imagine you cannot wait for the happy moment when you can be joined to such a husband. Well, well, no delay is intended. The summons to Neville’s vassals and castellans and the invitations to the neighboring lords are all ready. They can go out tomorrow. On the tenth of October, your joy will be complete.”
He paused, waiting for Gilliane to plead with him to spare her such a fate, but she was silent, leaning against the door, her face still hidden. He swung her around and slapped her brutally, forehand and backhand.
“Do not think you will defy me at the last minute,” he snarled.
“No,” Gilliane murmured, her eyes stubbornly on the floor. “I will do as you bid me, my lord.”
It was fortunate that Saer was not a perceptive man or he would have heard a decided note of satisfaction in Gilliane’s dulcet murmur. Once she had swallowed her pity for the poor, cowering, whimpering creature that had once been a man, she realized that there was a possible path to freedom. Certainly her way would not be impeded by the poor thing in the cell. Perhaps she could even do something for him. Sooner or later, Saer would leave, even if only for a few days. Then…
Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four) Page 3
