“And do not think that becoming a great lady means that you may also become idle,” Saer snapped, breaking into her thoughts. “I will expect you to see that all is made ready to receive the wedding guests.”
Gilliane raised astonished eyes to Saer’s face, scarcely believing her ears. “You mean you wish me to order the servants and see to the supplies?” she asked in a trembling voice.
If he would allow her to ride out, she could escape. Gilliane scarcely blinked at the slap Saer dealt her as he told her he would expect her to run Tarring as his wife ran his keep. Escape. Escape. She clung to the word until Saer released her to go up to the women’s quarters. There she faced about twenty maids, all of whom were completely demoralized by fear and lack of discipline. That Saer and Osbert had made free with them was apparent from what they said, but Gilliane could offer them no hope of protection. All she could do was steady them by setting them to familiar tasks. She did not worry that Saer or Osbert would interfere with her handling of the maids. From what she had seen in Saer’s keep, she knew that neither he nor his sons gave favorable treatment to the women they used.
It was not until that afternoon when Gilliane went down to see what was being readied for the next day’s dinner, that she realized she could not escape quite so soon. Until she was wife to the poor idiot in the castle, she would have nothing to offer anyone to induce him to protect her. Strangely, she did not feel crushed by this realization. She liked Tarring. It was much larger than Saer’s keep in France and it was much easier to stay out of his way. She felt a sense of satisfaction in what she had accomplished among the maids, and even more satisfaction in knowing that there was no other woman about to give them contradictory instructions.
At first things continued to go well, but within the week, Saer had news that threw him into a thundering rage and caused Osbert to pale with fear. King John was not beaten, as all had assumed. He had relieved the siege at Windsor and was on the march toward Lincoln. Louis’s contemptuous attitude toward the rebel barons had bred sufficient dissatisfaction among them that a few had gone back to their old allegiance and others had simply withdrawn their support from Louis. This cast a new light on the subject of Gilliane’s wedding. First, there was no need to propitiate the English contingent of Louis’s supporters; they could be little more discontent than they already were, and Louis did not seem to care. Second, it was more important to get Gilliane wedded and bedded than to enlist the support of Louis’s French adherents by making them witnesses to the legality of the marriage. In all likelihood, the French knights would be too busy to come to Saer’s aid if his possession of Gilbert de Neville’s property was contested by war. On the other hand, the sanction of the Church was well worth obtaining. Saer told Osbert to close and guard the keep and rode out to make arrangements to get Gilliane well married before his position was endangered.
Four days later Gilliane was summoned from the women’s quarters. She came braced for trouble because she was never summoned except to be punished for something, but she stopped dead in her tracks, gasping with shock, when she saw the assembly in the hall. There were two priests and, from the elegance of their garments, they were prelates of some weight. Beyond them were three men Gilliane had never seen before.
They were not so richly dressed as the priests, but they were clearly not servants or men-at-arms. But what caught and held Gilliane’s attention was Gilbert, held upright by Osbert and a sixth man whom Gilliane did not know.
“Ah, here is the bride!” Saer exclaimed. Before Gilliane could utter a sound, he had come forward and gripped her brutally by the arm. “You are to be married today. Now,” he growled in her ear. “Answer as you should, or you will scream and pray for death for long and long before that peace is granted you.”
Gilliane nodded dumbly, but it was not pain or fear that locked her tongue. Hate and rage were what brought tears to her eyes. Again Saer had cheated her and shamed her. It was not the marriage she resented. She had set her mind to that already. Distasteful as it was, it was her one hope of freedom and revenge, and she did not hate or fear the mindless cripple. It was the cruelty of exposing her, all unready, in her soiled, common, work-a-day garments, without even a proper wimple—only an old cloth tied around her head to keep her hair out of her way. A mere ten minutes’ warning would have given her time to put on her Sunday garments to wash her face and hands and hang around her neck the pretty crucifix carved from a seashell that she had found in the chamber of the late Lady of Tarring.
Hardly realizing it, Gilliane allowed herself to be led into the chapel. She did not see one of the Neville vassals shake his head in sympathy or another shrug his shoulders. They were sorry for her, but, since Gilbert de Neville was dead and his son reduced to such a state, it was best for them to accept the terms Saer had offered for their continued loyalty. If they would accept Gilliane and her children as Neville’s heirs, continue to pay their rents and do their service, Saer promised to protect them from attack by Louis’s forces. They would not be asked to fight for Louis or take any part in the civil war unless they were attacked by John’s men. In that case, Saer would expect them to resist and he would lead them and fight for them with his own mercenaries.
They watched as her hand was thrust into Neville’s. One noted, with a flicker of surprise, that she voluntarily clasped her husband’s hand when she felt it in hers. The brief sensation of surprise passed with the assumption that the girl’s fear of Saer outweighed the revulsion she must feel for the idiot. In fact, Gilliane was not much repelled by Neville. She did not find his incoherent mumbling much different from Osbert’s behavior when he was drunk, which was frequently—except that Neville seemed perfectly gentle. Several times, when Saer and Osbert were both out, she had gone to Gilbert’s cell and coaxed him to crawl to the door where she had given him sweetmeats and talked softly to him.
At first Gilliane had been impelled by the spirit of self-preservation. If she was to be thrust into the cell with Neville or he was to be brought out to couple with her, she wanted to know whether he would be violent. Soon, however, pity made her wish to remove the poor creature’s fear of her. When it was apparent that she was succeeding—he came quite eagerly when she called to him and seemed to recognize her—another idea came to her. If she were carrying Gilbert’s child, she would have more to bargain with when she escaped from Saer.
It was not pleasant to think of coupling with Gilbert, but Gilliane was reasonably certain that Saer would force her to do that to validate the marriage. Moreover, she had an ugly suspicion that, if she resisted or frightened Gilbert away, Saer would arrange to substitute either himself or Osbert for her husband—and Gilliane would a thousand times rather have Gilbert, mad and deformed as he was, than either of them. Thus, when the ceremony was over, Gilliane took her husband’s head gently in her hands and kissed his lips. He responded to that; in fact, had Osbert and Neville’s chief vassal not been holding him, he would have grabbed her there and then. She repressed a shudder. Apparently there would be no need for a substitute in the marriage bed.
They came out of the chapel into the hall again, and Gilliane saw that the servants had cleared the low dais where the high table was usually set. It came to her then that the men she did not know must be Neville’s vassals or castellans, and fury flooded her once more. Saer planned to go through some ceremony of swearing to uphold the marriage contract—and she dressed no better than the meanest serving wench. She would not endure it. She did not think Saer would dare to beat her before all these witnesses. Trembling because of the retribution that might later fall upon her, but driven by the need to salvage some remnant of her pride, she stopped short and curtsied.
“If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” she began.
“You are needed here,” Saer barked.
“Yes, my lord,” Gilliane replied. Her voice shook, but she would not give up so easily. “I do but beg your indulgence for a few moments. I wish to attire myself more fittingly. I did not expect, when
you summoned me…”
To Gilliane’s immense, relief, Saer burst out laughing, but Osbert’s voice rose before his father could answer her request. “To attire yourself fittingly for this wedding, you should roll in a sty.”
Saer stopped laughing and glared at his son. Everyone could see what Neville was, but to speak open insult in front of the men who were pledged to uphold his honor was impolitic. Saer could sense the offended stiffening of Neville’s men. To appease them, he smiled at Gilliane.
“I am sorry, Gilliane. I forgot women make a great thing of such matters as dress. I should have given you warning. Go, by all means, and change your gown, but remember that our guests do not wish to wait until dark for their dinners.”
That last word made Gilliane gasp. If there was no dinner fitting for the guests, Saer would beat her half to death. It would not matter to him that he had not told her there would be guests. She curtsied again and fled—not up the stairs to the women’s quarters but down, outside the building to the kitchen sheds in the bailey.
When she had instructed the cooks, Gilliane ran breathlessly up the stairs, tore off what she was wearing and drew on her best tunic and cotte. Between her hurry and exertion and the soft rose color of her gown, she was becomingly flushed when she hurried down to join the men once more. She uttered a low apology for her delay and was so relieved when Saer merely nodded that her eyes sparkled.
Now Gilbert was lifted from the chair in which he had been placed by Osbert and Saer and helped onto the dais, Gilliane following. Because she was particularly keyed up and not at the moment oppressed by fear, she listened closely to and understood what was being sworn. The four men, two vassals and two castellans, were doing fealty to the family of Neville, through Gilliane and her children. Gilliane obediently repeated the acceptance of this oath of loyalty in the words Saer told her to say, waiting for some overt sign that the swearing was really to him—but there was none. That was the doing of Gilbert’s men. Saer had tried hard to convince them that he should be named in the oath as Gilliane’s guardian, but they would not agree because they did not wish to be tied irrevocably to one of Louis’s men. If the tide should turn in John’s favor, they wanted a loophole through which to escape.
Several times Gilbert delayed the ceremony by trying to escape from Saer and Osbert. He was tired, unaccustomed to being held upright for so long. At last he burst into tears and wailed so loudly that the proceedings came to a halt. Osbert made a move to strike the poor creature. Saer managed to block the blow, but Neville’s four men glared angrily. They could accept Saer, but they liked Osbert less and less every minute.
“Let him sit down,” Gilliane begged softly, and, while a chair was being brought by one of the men, she sent a servant for sweetmeats.
Between these and her soothing voice, which Gilbert associated with comfort, he was quieted. Sir Richard, the chief of the vassals who held lands at Glynde, looked at Gilliane approvingly. He had been a friend as well as a vassal of old Gilbert de Neville and had been greatly saddened by his death—although the suspicion that it was not completely accidental had not reached him—and by young Neville’s misfortune. He knew, of course, that his friend had died by Saer’s hand, but such things happened, and it seemed to Sir Richard that Saer was doing his best to atone for the accident. Certainly he had chosen the right woman to marry the deranged and crippled son. No doubt it was the relative wealth and power of Neville’s lands that she wanted, unless she was too afraid of her guardian to protest, but she plainly understood and intended to be kind to her charge.
As soon as the ceremony of swearing was over, Sir Richard voiced these opinions to Saer, which put Saer into so good a temper that he was actively pleasant to Gilliane. He waited patiently for dinner to be served. Also, he decided not to return Gilbert to his cell. Had Osbert not been such a fool, Saer could have put Gilbert into confinement with some excuse about his needing quiet. Now he did not wish to associate himself with Osbert’s actions. He could see that it was of considerable benefit to him that Neville’s men should believe as Sir Richard did.
Thus, Gilbert was seated at the high table between Gilliane and Saer, whose purpose was accomplished by the kindness with which Gilliane cut up her husband’s food, directed his wandering attention to it, and generally attended to him. Toward the end of the meal Gilbert began to whimper, and Gilliane begged that he be allowed to go back to his cell to rest. Saer frowned at the word, but found a way to turn even that to good account.
“I am sorry to keep him thus,” he said to Sir Richard, “but I fear he will do himself some hurt. Sometimes a dim memory of what he was seems to come to him, and then self-hate seizes him—as can be understood. Once he nearly cast himself from a window.”
Sir Richard sighed and looked away. Gilbert had crawled to a mattress on the floor and curled up on it in a fetal position; he was sucking his thumb.
Saer shrugged. “Perhaps you think it would be kinder to look away and let him do as he desires, but I have my guilt to expiate. If Gilliane breeds a son of him, then…I do not wish the blood of the man I killed to die out and thus to stain me forever. No, do not think I am too good to be true,” Saer added cleverly. “If Gilliane breeds a son, I will have benefit all ways. My conscience will be clear and I will have the profit and governance of these lands until the boy is ripe to manage on his own. By then, I will be dead or too old to desire more than a cushioned chair by the fireside.”
That brought a smile and a nod of true comprehension. Indeed, it was a most reasonable attitude. Saer had not mentioned Osbert or his purpose in these arrangements, but Sir Richard was not troubled by that. He had seen Neville’s reaction when Gilliane kissed him and he assumed that Saer planned to provide for Osbert either by another marriage or a grant from Louis, if and when John was defeated. Perhaps Saer even planned to use Sir Richard and the other vassals and castellans to win Osbert a heritage. That did not bother Sir Richard, either. He had several neighbors he would gladly eliminate with Saer’s aid, and as for Osbert ruling that land, Osbert could be got rid of easily enough, Sir Richard thought.
The other men felt less strongly than Sir Richard, but nonetheless had been aware of unease about accepting their lord’s slayer as their present protector. Gilliane’s appearance and behavior toward Gilbert had soothed their discomfort. Thus, all were in high good humor, eager to make themselves pleasant toward the bride and to assure her that they approved of her. There was to be no bedding ceremony as there could be no question of repudiation. Neville’s deformities of mind and body were obvious and Gilliane had openly accepted them. Clearly, also, Neville was in no state to repudiate his wife. To expose her was then useless; to expose Gilbert would be a senseless cruelty.
Gilliane went to her chamber when Saer told her to do so and quietly made ready, with the help of the maids. She knew what was coming, of course, but she could not help being repelled and frightened, and she wept softly. It was dreadful to be married only because one was driven by hate and fear.
One of the women, who had acted as personal maid to her, pressed a small clay pot into her hand. “Anoint yourself below with this,” Catrin whispered. “It will ease the pain. It will also deprive you of the pleasure—but there can be no pleasure with such a man. Poor lady. Poor little lady.”
The sound of voices outside the room made the maids withdraw hurriedly. Gilliane stifled her sobs as well as she could and got into the bed, covering herself as completely as possible. She could hear the men come in with Neville, but they were hidden from her by the bed curtains. Suddenly there was the sound of a struggle and Gilbert screamed in terror.
“What is wrong?” Sir Richard asked.
“He is afraid to be naked. I do not know why,” Saer replied harshly.
He did know why, but he was not about to admit that Gilbert’s mindlessness was as much owing to the torture he had ordered inflicted as to the head injury—which he had also inflicted. Both torture and treatment, which was almost equally painful, we
re carried out when Gilbert was naked. Saer was too economical to ruin clothing.
“What the devil is now to do?” Sir Richard gasped, struggling to hold the squirming, screaming creature.
Gilliane was shaking with fear, but she could not endure the pathetic cries she heard. “Let him come to me as he is,” she called. “I will try to calm him.”
She sat up, clutching the coverlet to her, sobbing with a mixture of horror, pity, and grief over her fate, which seemed to grow ever more dreadful. Gilbert was dragged to the bed and pushed into it.
“Hush,” Gilliane soothed, trying to steady her voice, “hush. No one will hurt you.”
Again her voice seemed to exert a calming effect. As she repeated her assurances over and over, Gilbert stopped screaming and struggling to get to the floor. He lay quiet, panting with fear. Saer looked at Gilliane significantly. He wanted her to get on with disrobing Gilbert and then couple with her husband, but she would not do it. She lifted her head defiantly, uncaring of what the later cost might be.
Sir Richard put his hand on Saer’s arm and drew him toward the door, whispering, “It is men he fears. Leave him with her. I do not believe he will hurt her and, in any case, it would be easy enough for her to escape him. We can wait outside if you wish. Lady Gilliane can call us if she needs help.”
Alone with her husband, Gilliane let go of the covers. She felt no more shame at being naked before Gilbert than before a small child. “Gilbert,” she murmured, stroking his hair, “do not weep. No one will hurt you. Come, you know me. I have never hurt you.”
He quieted and his clouded eyes sought her face. Gilliane touched his cheek and forced a smile. Something stirred in his usually vacuous face. He lifted his maimed right arm as if he would imitate her gesture. Very gently, Gilliane pressed it away and took his left hand, which she put to her own face. The fingers touched her cheek, moved to her hair, stroked the thick chestnut waves. Pity for him and for herself brought tears again.
Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four) Page 4
