Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four)

by Roberta Gellis

  “The lady is here, in the women’s house by the south gate,” he offered hopefully. “I am sure Lady Gilliane would be glad to speak with you if you wish for company.”

  “Lady Gilliane?” Osbert choked. “I…I do not wish to impose myself upon… You see, it is dark already…I am cold and tired and the lady…she must be tired also and wish to go early to bed.”

  Gilliane! Gilliane here! A hundred different notions danced in Osbert’s head, but he needed a few minutes alone to think about what to do. The prior was sorry his guest did not like the treat he had offered, but he had nothing else to suggest. He was sorry he had spoken about the lady at all. Osbert was plainly embarrassed and awkward now. It seemed best to excuse himself and go away so that his guest could recover his composure. Osbert nodded indifferently, scarcely noticing the prior’s departure, his mind busy with this stroke of luck.

  The question was, good luck or bad? And how to use it? Did he want Gilliane back right now? A sultry heat stirred Osbert. The girl was a fine piece of meat, even drugged and flaccid, but that was not important. Would she be useful to him? And could he get away with her without exposing himself to any real danger? The last was most important and, after a little thought, Osbert decided it would be possible. He could not take her tonight, because getting the horses from the stables would arouse too much interest, but Lemagne was not expected back until he had had a morning’s hunting. If Osbert left just before dawn, which would be natural enough, there might be a way to take Gilliane along without arousing suspicion,

  Leaving the remains of his meal untidily strewn on the table, Osbert took himself off to consult with his henchmen. Jean went out softly to spy out the situation while Osbert considered whether the gain was worth the risk. There would be no risk at all in killing Gilliane, but unfortunately Osbert had given his true name to the monks and he would certainly be accused of her death. This would wipe out his claim to the Neville lands because the Church forbade the inheritance of a victim’s property by the murderer. That meant if he took her he would have to produce her in good health, and a reluctant woman was a nuisance to drag along on a journey.

  Osbert felt very annoyed with Adam. He had counted on Adam’s killing Gilliane to facilitate his seizure of the lands, but that stupid Lemagne had not done it. Doubtless he had forced that ninny to yield everything to him. However, the yielding could be easily contested because the marriage contract Osbert had had written ceded all rights and powers to Gilliane’s husband—and he was Gilliane’s husband. Maybe Gilliane had not mentioned that fact to Lemagne in an attempt to save her life. Stupid, stubborn bitch, she always managed to make trouble.

  The word stubborn started another train of thought. Gilliane was stubborn. She might appear to yield, but as soon as she had a chance, she would rebel again. How was it that Sir Richard and Sir Andrew were so friendly with Lemagne that they should go hunting together? Why had the little bitch not gone sniveling to them to protect her? Osbert shrugged and grinned, thinking of the methods Adam would have had to use to convince her to obey him. Apparently he had been so thorough about it that Gilliane was too frightened even to appeal to the monks and he believed it was safe to leave her. Probably Gilliane wished a thousand times that she was back in Cercy keep in France or that… Osbert sat up and smiled more broadly. Doubtless Gilliane often wished she was back in his hands. Well! She might even come willingly.

  Osbert knew no other way of dealing with women than reducing them to a pulp of terror, but he had noticed that gentleness after severity produced the greatest docility. If he could get her away and into one of Louis’s keeps, it would strengthen his claim to Neville’s lands greatly. Her presence might even make the Lord of Lewes interested in taking Tarring for him. Once Gilliane was in his power completely, with no servants or vassals to support her and a clear memory of how much worse her state had been under the hand of a brutal conqueror like Lemagne, it would be easy to make her affirm the marriage contract.

  Soon after Osbert had concluded this brilliant piece of reasoning, based on utterly false premises, Jean returned with the news that the wall surrounding the women’s guest house would not be difficult to scale. In fact, he had been over it already and had found a small door in the wall that the monks used to bring in garden supplies and take out refuse. It had been locked, Jean said, but was not locked any longer. It would be very easy to remove the lady without raising any alarm.

  Gilliane had waited for Adam to visit her until the dusk turned to full dark. Then she told Catrin to light her candles, and still waited. It seemed incredible that no one would come a few steps to bid her good night, to ask if she were safe and comfortable. Then it occurred to her that it was not a few steps. Male and female guests in the abbey were lodged in widely separated quarters. How silly to have forgotten. Perhaps the abbot considered it wrong for the men to visit the ladies’ house after dark. Would that stop Adam if he desired to come? If he desired it, nothing would stop him. Gilliane sighed and fought back tears.

  In her bed robe, while Catrin brushed her hair, Gilliane told herself firmly not to be a fool. She felt odd, she assured herself, only because it was strange to be alone in a house. True, it was a very small house, and it was not isolated, being separated only by a wall and a gate from the abbey proper. Still, in winter, there were few travelers and there was no one in the guest house except herself and Catrin, and…

  Alone! It was the first time, Gilliane realized, that she had not been surrounded by the servants and families of her men since she and Adam left Tarring. Although she had longed for Adam’s embrace, Gilliane had not been silly enough to imagine he could come to her under those circumstances. But here…the monks did not guard the wall or the gate. Perhaps Adam had not come because he intended to make it a really good night later, after everyone else was abed. Gilliane promptly sent Catrin off to her own tiny sleeping cell.

  When the woman was gone, Gilliane began to cast around in her mind for a suitable subject for conversation. In the few days they had been lovers, Gilliane had discovered that Adam, for all his big body and eager passion, was not in the least animalistic. He did not like to grab her as soon as they were together and set about lovemaking. First he wanted to talk. Almost any subject would do, but it was best if it was something that could soon lead to kisses or touches. Gilliane frowned and then smiled broadly. He had asked to see how she wore her knife. What could be better than to show him her naked thighs? She popped out of bed, gasping a little as her feet touched the cold stone floor, retrieved her weapon from where Catrin had laid it on the chest, and strapped it on.

  Comforted and expectant, Gilliane did not fight sleep, but something in her remained dimly aware so that she knew she would wake at any sound. Little could be heard through the thick mud-and-wattle walls, however, and Gilliane slept peacefully until the sound of the bells in the high tower drifted down through the thatch of the roof. It was shortly after compline that she had gone to bed; thus, when the mellow tolling disturbed her, she knew it was the bell for matins. Midnight, and Adam had not come. Fear and reason fought each other in her head, mixing with dreams when she dozed intermittently, bringing now hope and now despair. At last, when the night candle began to pale as the sky grayed with the coming dawn, Gilliane could bear lying still no longer. She rose and began to dress. Catrin would be distressed, but Gilliane needed to do something to fight the black cloud that was enveloping her spirit.

  The movement helped a little, but only a very little. Desperately, Gilliane searched the room for something to distract her. The bare monastic cell held nothing of interest—a bed, a low chest, a stool, a crucifix. Gilliane’s eyes lighted on that. She had not dared to confess her sin to the priest, but she could confess it to the Merciful Mother of God who understood all things of the heart. She knelt on the floor below the cross and began to pray. Tears came soon, and the sound of her own soft sobbing covered the stealthy footsteps in the corridor that paused and then quickly, very quickly, closed her doorless cell.<
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  Chapter Sixteen

  When a strong arm seized Gilliane around the breast and an iron hand clamped across her mouth, she felt not fear but joy. Adam did not want her to cry out with surprise, her heart told her. She did not struggle when Pierre pulled her upright and turned her around. Although there were tears on her cheeks, her eyes were alight with love. Her shock at seeing Osbert was so enormous that the expression of delight was frozen on her face for one instant. In the next, before fear could enter her, she realized that Adam had never returned to the abbey the previous night. It was Osbert’s horses she had heard at the gate. That revelation held her free from terror just long enough for what Osbert was saying to penetrate her mind.

  “So you are glad to see me, are you?” he sneered. “You have learned what it is to be a captive of one of these English barons. Well, well, perhaps you have learned your lesson and now you will be glad to be my wife. I find that you will be useful to me, so, if you will agree to be obedient in the future, I will not punish you for your past misbehavior. Show yourself to be grateful and docile, and I will even forgive you—perhaps.”

  Glad to see him? Those first words struck Gilliane with almost physical force, making her aware that Osbert had read the expression of joy and misunderstood it completely. Her eyes closed as her senses wavered for a moment when shock and fear dispossessed the gladness. Adam was not in the abbey. He was still hunting in the forest. He did not know she was in danger, could not help her or save her. She was again in Osbert’s hands.

  Grateful and docile. Those words penetrated also, connected with the first ones, and set up a train of ideas. If she resisted, Gilliane knew what would happen. She would either be killed or rendered unconscious and kept that way by blows or drugs, or bound hand and foot and gagged. In any case, she would be made and kept helpless. By God’s grace, perhaps because she was at that very moment praying for help and mercy, she had been given a chance to save herself. All that was needed was the resolution to appear glad, grateful, and docile. Hatred flared up in Gilliane and, for a moment, she thought she would not be able to continue the impression God’s mercy had first given Osbert. The thought of the divine help already given steadied her, and then she realized that her pretense need not continue long. Indeed, it would soon be useless. Gilliane knew that Osbert would maintain this softer attitude only while her resistance could cause him inconvenience.

  Whether even this knowledge could have made Gilliane act as her intelligence told her she must was not put to the proof. Just as she reopened her eyes, hoping her hatred did not glare out of them like a beacon, Osbert’s attention was diverted by Jean, who entered the room softly.

  “The maid will warn no one,” Jean muttered.

  Has he killed poor Catrin, Gilliane wondered, fear replacing hate in her eyes. Her affection for the maid made her raise her hands—not to claw at Pierre’s arm but to clasp them prayerfully and extend them as far as she could toward Osbert. He looked at her consideringly and then smiled nastily.

  “Let go her mouth,” he said softly to Pierre, “but only a little. If she even squeaks, clap her silent again and I will strike her witless.”

  The moment her lips were freed, Gilliane gasped in a thin whisper, “You have not harmed the maid, have you?”

  “Why?” Osbert asked.

  To say she was fond of Catrin would sign the poor woman’s death warrant, if she was not dead already. Glad to see Osbert. Gilliane knew she must prove she was glad to see Osbert. Perhaps she could work on Osbert’s cowardice and save Catrin at the same time.

  “Sir Adam will be fit to tear you apart if the maid be harmed,” Gilliane whispered urgently. “He sets great store by her, and she has been my warden and a spy upon me for each word I say and each blink of my eyes.”

  Nervously, Osbert glanced at Jean. “Nay,” the man responded, “she is only bound and gagged. I thought we might take her as a plaything. She is a little long in the tooth, but not ill favored, and any well will do to stick a ladle in when one is thirsty.”

  “Leave her here,” Osbert snarled. “She can tell her master nothing that the monks will not tell him anyway. I do not wish to be burdened with two double-laden horses.” Then his eyes moved to Gilliane. “It was wise you warned me. Come quietly out now. The monks’ servants will not come here before it is time to break the night’s fast. By then we will be well away, and by the time that loudmouth Lemagne returns, we will be safe behind the walls of Lewes or so close that no pursuit can take us. Even if he comes early, he will rush off to Knepp, which is much closer.”

  At the words, Pierre released his hold on Gilliane. If the illusory freedom this gave her was meant as a temptation, Gilliane was not stupid enough to succumb to it. She made no move at all while Jean handed Pierre her cloak and the latter put it roughly around her, squeezing her breast and leering as he did so. Even in the corridor, Gilliane’s busy brain warned escape would be impossible. If she tried to run toward the gate to cry for help, she would never succeed. There might be a moment when the men were mounting, Gilliane told herself, but she did not really believe it. Even if all three should mount at once, which would be incredible carelessness, what good would it do to run? On horseback the men would overtake her long before she could get to the abbey gate. Bitterness began to rise in Gilliane’s throat and hopelessness began to cloud her mind. Still, she was not yet so desperate as to throw away any chance of escape, and she stood quietly while Pierre mounted and did not struggle when Jean lifted her to ride pillion behind him. Osbert was already mounted, but Jean stood close beside Gilliane until Pierre had pulled her arms roughly around his waist and clamped them firmly under his elbows so that she could not pull loose and throw herself off the horse without giving him warning.

  “Hold tight,” he said, “or you might bounce off and get your pretty ass hurt.”

  In all her life, no matter how little she had been regarded while Saer was alive, no common servant had dared to speak to Gilliane in such a way. Even Jean and Pierre had kept their distance and kept their tongues still in their heads in the past. Since Saer’s death, Osbert had been freed from needing to keep even the appearance of proper behavior, and his servants’ license had grown with his depravity. Osbert heard, but made no sign. He was, in fact, growing to fear his men a little, and yet he could not do without them. It was easier to ignore such things. Even if Pierre used Gilliane, what was that to Osbert? Women did not wear out down there. A taste of Pierre as a lover might even make Gilliane more receptive to his own attentions.

  Fortunately for Gilliane, shock had held her silent. Emboldened by her apparent passiveness, Pierre bore down on her arms as the horses got under way at a quick trot. Gilliane’s hands were forced from Pierre’s waist down along his belly. “A little lower, doxy,” he muttered, “and you will have a fine handle to cling to.” Still Gilliane was silent, but her shock was past. Hate and rage built in her, stripping away her normal timidity and gentleness. Then the movement of the horse thrust her forward against the saddle so that the knife strapped to her thigh pressed painfully into her flesh. A fierce, bitter joy filled Gilliane. She had forgotten the knife. There was a chance, if not to escape, why then, to avenge herself. Brightly now she looked about her. The horses had spread apart, about a length between them. Osbert led, she and Pierre were in the center, and Jean brought up the rear. The road was paler than the fields on either side, but there was no sign at all of trees. They were moving north at a smart pace and Gilliane realized that they must be going to join Osbert’s troop. She would need to act at once.

  A little sound finally forced its way past Gilliane’s lips. Actually it was a titter, displaying how near she was to total madness, but Pierre thought it was a giggle. He turned his head. Gilliane’s face was too close to his for him to see her expression; however, her hands moved, not to pull free but forward and down. Pierre gave a gratified grunt. He was a little surprised, but you could never tell with women, and this one had coupled willingly enough with a crazy crippl
e. Doubtless she would couple with anything that presented a shaft to her. Still, the idea of futtering a lady was exciting enough to Pierre to produce a visible result.

  Pierre relaxed his grip on Gilliane’s arms warily, ready to grab if she pulled away. Again came that titter. The sound was strange enough this time to make Pierre a bit uneasy, but, before he could think about it, Gilliane slid her left hand past the slit in his steel-sewn leather armor and gently tickled the shaft that was pressing hard against his chausses. Pierre drew in his breath sharply. Gilliane felt him again, a trifle more firmly. Her other hand moved also, as if unsuccessfully seeking an entry and finding the way crowded. Then it moved up over his thigh. Distracted by the pulses of pleasure that Gilliane’s rubbing was generating, Pierre let her right arm slide out from under his. There was no danger of her getting away while her left arm was held, and, besides, she was pressing close, pushing her breasts into his back. He made an obscene remark, not meant to offend but to excite.

  The words had no effect on Gilliane whatsoever. She was totally committed to her purpose and nothing could stop her now. As she caressed Pierre’s private parts with her left hand, feeling his sighs of pleasure with her body, her right hand groped frantically for the open seam of her cotte and, when through that, for the matching open seam in her tunic. Scrabbling her short shift higher, she at last was able to grip the haft of her knife firmly. It was easy enough to draw it, but she had to increase the speed and pressure of her left-handed caresses while she maneuvered the blade through the openings in her dress.

  Now Gilliane could feel Pierre shift in his saddle, pressing back to give more freedom to his swollen shaft. Gripping it firmly between thumb and little and ring fingers, Gilliane extended her index and middle fingers forward to rub round and round on the head, exposed and throbbing. Another choked obscenity burst from Pierre.