Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four)

by Roberta Gellis

  Suddenly Adam began to shake. “Knepp is so near,” he said to Sir Richard. “I see the track to the east plain, but what if de Cercy sent the men east and took Lady Gilliane to Knepp? Would he not do that, hoping we would pursue the men?”

  “That is possible,” Sir Richard growled, “but—”

  “Well and so, it will not take more than a few minutes for me to ride a wide circle round and look if there be a fresh sign of horses going west or southwest,” Sir Andrew interrupted. “There may not be anything, but I have a good eye for such things.”

  That was very true. During the hunt the previous day, Sir Andrew had twice pointed them in the right direction when the belling of the hounds was confused by intervening woodland. He had seen signs of the stag or the dogs that the others had missed. Sir Andrew might not be sharp-witted, but his eyesight was very keen, and what he knew how to do, he did right well. Sir Richard had been watching Adam’s face while Sir Andrew spoke and saw there both relief and a desperate impatience to be doing something himself.

  “Go you north, Andrew,” he suggested, “at your best speed and then westward and then south, afterward turning east and, if needful, north again. We, in the meanwhile, will follow this track more slowly so that we come together to the east. If you have found nothing, we will be somewhat forward on our way. We also will look for signs of any who might have turned aside.”

  “The men?” Adam asked as Sir Andrew set spurs to his horse and rode off. He had to wet his fear-dried lips to make them flexible enough to form words.

  “There is time for that,” Sir Richard replied soothingly. “If we see some sign that Knepp should be our goal, we can return to this place. Then either Sir Andrew or I will wait to turn the men while you ride with the other to Knepp to speak your mind.”

  Adam had stopped shaking, but the fear that he was not doing the right thing, that he was not acting fast enough, that because of his stupidity and inability Gilliane would suffer, tore at him. They rode in silence, Adam well to the right of the main trail, watching for any sign that a party had separated from the force and ridden south. There were no such indications, but that was to be expected so close to the starting point. Very soon—in fact, before they were completely out of sight of the camp area—they pulled up sharply at the sound of a voice hallooing and calling Adam’s name. When they turned, they saw a rider coming full tilt who could only be Sir Andrew. Adam swallowed sickly and the color drained from his face until even his lips were white. Gilliane, his Gilliane…if she was not lost to him through her own treachery, what had been done to her?

  He spurred toward the oncoming rider. “They rode to Knepp?” he called.

  “I do not know, my lord,” Sir Andrew shouted back, “but you had better come and see.” When they were galloping back, he continued, his voice still loud with excitement, “Three horses came off the road, not at the camp but southward, toward the abbey. There is a man lying dead, stabbed through the throat, with signs on the earth that he fell from the saddle and was dragged. I read other signs also, my lord, but what they mean I cannot guess. It is best that you see this for yourself.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gilliane clung desperately to the pommel and reins with her left hand. She was aware of a sound, a horrible screaming kind of laughter, but she could not pay attention to that and it stopped. Pierre’s body, caught by the leg in the right stirrup, was dragging at the saddle and threatening to trip the horse. She was also aware that the haft of her knife was slippery and sticky at the same time. That was funny, that was. For an instant, she shook with laughter, but then she heard Osbert shouting and nothing was funny anymore. She clung tighter than ever to the heaving rump of the horse with her knees and leaned forward to chop at the stirrup leather. The knife caught in it once, twice, then nicked the horse because of the wild jostling.

  The poor beast neighed and veered even farther left, increasing its speed to the limit of its ability. Pierre’s weight, yanking violently at the slits Gilliane had made in the leather, had its effect and the stirrup tore loose from the saddle. Pierre’s body fell free and rolled—right under the hooves of Jean’s pursuing mount. With a shout and a terrified neigh, man and horse crashed to the ground. The frightened animal flailed its hooves, the man who had been in the saddle screamed with pain as the horse’s weight crushed his leg and its frantic efforts to rise inflicted worse injury. From a safe distance, Osbert screamed curses at his men mingled with questions about what had happened.

  Clinging precariously to the saddle from which each jolt threatened to tear her tiring hand, Gilliane was carried blindly southward. The situation could not endure for long. A more expert horsewoman, who was not in addition hysterical with terror and revulsion, might have managed to soothe the horse and bring it to a stand. Gilliane’s body did its best by instinct, but her mind was black with fear and horror and it did not help. In a few minutes, the horse set its foot into a rabbit hole and stumbled. The jolt finished the task that fatigue had begun. Gilliane’s hand was torn from the pommel, the reins slipped through her fingers, and, as the horse righted itself and fled onward, she slid to the ground.

  It was cold, so bitterly cold. Gilliane began to whimper and then to sob. So cold. So cold. Feebly, Gilliane tried to pull her cloak closer around her, but her right hand was frozen hard around… She shuddered violently and choked off her sobs. The knife with which she had killed Pierre, that was what was in her hand. She shuddered again, but she wiped the blade carefully on her already bloodstained skirt and, crouching like a terrified animal closer into the rough brush, she stared around to be sure no one saw and slid it back into its sheath.

  For a considerable time, Gilliane crouched perfectly still, keeping herself silent with an effort of will. As the light grew, she moved enough to find a larger bush to conceal her. That was the instinct of a hunted thing and did not require thought, but when the move had been made, her mind became aware of the cramping of her limbs and began to consider confusedly why it was necessary. Shock receded with the brightening morning. By sunup, everything that had happened was clear in Gilliane’s mind. Far from feeling sorrow or revulsion, she was aware of a fierce joy and satisfaction in the memory of Pierre’s death and looked with considerable approval at the bloodstains on her hand and riding dress.

  Gilliane’s only regret was the loss of the horse. She realized that had reduced her chances of extricating herself from this situation alive, but she did not fear death nearly so much as she feared falling into Osbert’s hands. That set her heart pounding again, and she peered cautiously out from her inadequate shelter. The low rise of ground on which she found herself seemed to be grazing common, although she could see no signs of animals on it now. Her position afforded very little view, however, and she attempted to rise to her knees. The effort drew a soft exclamation of pain from her, for she was stiff from the cold and from remaining so long in one position.

  Hard on the heels of Gilliane’s suppressed cry of pain came a somewhat louder gasp of relief. If she had been still so long as to grow stiff, her pursuers must have missed her. Perhaps they had continued on the trail of the bolting horse. If so, they must already know she was no longer on the animal’s back. The light had been good enough to see that much for some time, Gilliane thought. It behooved her to get as far from the spoor of the horse as she could—only in what direction? She remembered that she had deduced Osbert was returning to a troop of men he had left camped. It would be a real disaster to stumble into that camp.

  The notion did not cause any sense of panic because thinking of encamped men reminded Gilliane of Adam’s troops. She knew where they were—a little south of the abbey—but where she was with respect to the abbey, she had no idea. While Gilliane rubbed and flexed her arms and legs to make the blood run quicker in them, she cudgeled her brains. They had gone through the garden of the guest house and out…out… She could not remember. No matter how often she went back to the freezing moment in which she had seen Osbert standing in the
entryway of her chamber, she could remember nothing between the time she had decided that she must seem to go with him willingly and the time she realized Osbert must be riding to join a troop of men. Then Pierre had insulted her. There was a blur in her mind again except for the decision to kill him.

  The actual killing was gem-bright in her memory, and she dwelt on it lovingly, gaining strength from the rich satisfaction of vengeance. She wished it had been Osbert. If only it had been Osbert! The dissatisfaction reduced her feral delight and brought her mind back to its basic problem. As long as Osbert was alive, he was a danger to her—and to Adam also, if Osbert held her. She must find Cuthbert and Adam’s troops. But where? Which way?

  Gasping more with fear than with pain, Gilliane levered herself to her knees and then, trembling violently, to her feet. She stared about, her heart thudding in her breast, her mouth dry with fear. Shaking with cold and terror, she looked round and round, but no shouting horseman bore down upon her, and after a moment, she steadied a little and was able to move. Which way? Every instinct in her screamed to crouch again in hiding, to crawl away into the dark. Only there was no dark, no safety on the open hillside, her reason told her. Which way? “Ave Maria, gratia plena…” Gilliane began to whisper, calling on the source of mercy, the Woman who would understand fear and weakness. Which way? She had only one single fact. Adam’s men were south of the abbey. Turning her left shoulder to the newly risen sun, Gilliane began to stagger south.

  Gilliane’s own fear was the worst enemy she had at that moment. Although she seemed able to think clearly enough on practical matters, she was suffering severely from shock, exposure, and fatigue. Never once did it cross her mind that Osbert must know Adam had only gone hunting and would soon return. In safety, Gilliane might have realized that Osbert would be too frightened of being caught by Adam to search for her for more than a few minutes.

  In fact, Osbert had not searched for her at all. Actually, he had very nearly set spurs to his horse to run away as soon as he realized Jean’s mount was down and Jean was hurt. The only thing that made him dismount and extricate Jean from his predicament was the knowledge that, if he left the injured man behind, Adam would find him. Not for a single second did Osbert delude himself that Jean would resist questioning for his sake. Jean would tell Adam anything he wanted to know—and a good deal more. If Osbert had the quickness and courage to do it, he would have killed Jean then and there, however, he was not even brave enough to try to stab a hurt man pinned down by a fallen horse. Osbert knew Jean would expect he might try such a trick. He might grab Osbert’s hand and then turn the knife against his master.

  Cursing and whining, Osbert helped yank Jean’s horse to its feet and helped Jean crawl into the saddle. Then he rode swiftly back to camp, leaving his injured man to make his own way as best he could. Osbert was sure Jean would follow. No man wishes to be questioned by an enemy. The camp, Osbert discovered, was a chaos. Only half the men were there, and many of those were drunk. Screaming and laying about him with the flat of his sword, Osbert drove some of the sober to fetch their mates from the village they were terrorizing and others to sober the drunk and strike camp.

  Thus, Osbert had never given a thought to the pursuit of Gilliane. He had no room in his mind for anything beyond his steadily rising panic. He could think of nothing except what would befall him if Adam Lemagne should return sooner than expected and catch him. Indeed, no sooner were the men-at-arms who were mounted assembled than he ordered them to accompany him and rode off as fast as he could for Lewes. He knew Knepp was nearer, but Adam would know that also, and Osbert assumed Adam would go there first. It did not occur to him that the trail his men left would be clear. Besides, Lewes was in the heart of country controlled by Louis, whereas Knepp was only a few miles from Arundel.

  Osbert knew, as well as anyone else among Louis’s men, that Arundel had been to visit Geoffrey FitzWilliam and Ian de Vipont and that he was sulking and glowering. If Arundel should wish to ingratiate himself further with de Vipont by doing him a favor, could he not order Knepp to give Osbert up to de Vipont’s stepson? Knepp was not Arundel’s stronghold, but they would never defy him. His power in the area was very great.

  By sunup, just about the time Adam was stretching and yawning himself awake in the hunting lodge and Gilliane was moving to a better shelter under a larger bush, Osbert’s men got under way toward the east. While Adam rode to the abbey, received the news of Gilliane’s abduction, and began his desperate hunt for her, the troop moved toward Lewes, making better time than usual because Osbert’s panic had communicated itself to his men. Meanwhile, the Abbot of St. Leonard, having stared at Sir Richard’s seal ring for some moments, moved to help the poor lady entrusted to his care in the most efficacious way he knew. He hurried to the chapel and began to pray.

  He told God how a traitor had misused His house for evil purposes and brought shame upon His servants. He prayed for the safety of poor Lady Gilliane and that the intentions of Sir Osbert might be confounded. He prayed also that Sir Adam would not blame him or his innocent monks for the crime that had been committed, that he would recover the lady unhurt and, therefore, not be inclined to vent his wrath on the abbey. Much comforted after confiding his problems and worries to the ultimate source of help, he rose from his knees and went to his chamber. A lay brother was then called into his presence. Slowly and carefully, the abbot related the message he was to carry to Adam’s men. When the brother had twice repeated the message correctly, he was given Sir Richard’s ring and went to the stables to have a mule saddled.

  As the abbot was telling God about Gilliane, she came to the top of another rise. She had been walking for what seemed to her hours. Indeed, the effort she had expended was enormous, for her legs were both stiff and shaky. In the beginning, each step was a torment. Then it became easier for a time, as she grew warmer, but fear is a dreadful eater of energy. A distance that, under normal circumstances, Gilliane would have considered a pleasant walk took twice the time and became an exhausting, overlong journey.

  Because it had been so hard to walk in the beginning, Gilliane had kept repeating to herself, “A little farther. I must manage to go a little farther.” The words wove themselves into the staggering rhythm of her walk as she struggled onward. Fatigue and fear and the effort of restraining herself from huddling into a ball and waiting for death dulled her mind until the words she murmured to herself became her only thoughts and she continued to plod, head down, watching herself put one foot ahead of the other.

  Gilliane did not realize she had crested a rise; she did not notice that she was coming downhill and that the angle of the slope had been driving her as much east as south. The pull of the down-slope quickened her pace and the low winter sun dazzled her eyes. Tired, hungry, thirsty, she was not watching her path, but only the movement of her own feet. Suddenly, she set her foot unwarily on a stone that tipped, casting her forward. As she fell, Gilliane cried out shrilly. Then, although she was on the ground, it seemed to her dazed mind that she was still falling. And so she was; she was rolling downhill—but she did not understand that and she screamed in earnest, for there is no fear so deep or basic in the human instinct as the fear of falling.

  In the neat and well-regulated camp where Adam’s, Sir Richard’s and Sir Andrew’s men were settled, it was relatively quiet. The bustle of wakening, Mass, and breakfast was over. Until they received orders to break camp, load the pack animals, and move out, the men were free to do as they liked within the camp. They were talking, doing minor repairs on their weapons and armor, or gambling, but there were no loud voices or rushing about. Such behavior was sure to draw the attention of a master-at-arms, and that always meant trouble.

  Thus, when a woman’s shrill cry rang out, most of the men heard. If the sound had not been repeated, they would have shrugged their shoulders, thinking it was an animal cry that had been altered by wind or distance. Still, for a moment or two, each man who heard fell silent, listening, and into that sil
ence Gilliane’s terrified screams came loud and clear. All rushed toward the sound. In seconds, a keen-eyed youth had spotted the dark bundle rolling down the hillside well beyond the perimeter of the camp.

  The dark bundle was moving, struggling to rise. Cuthbert and three of his men set off at a run. Shaken and dazed, Gilliane had not yet struggled to her knees before they were upon her. Actually, she had not even realized that the faint thudding sounds she heard were men running and not her own overdriven heart. The one fear saved her from the far greater terror of seeing herself trapped. Hands had lifted her to her feet and Cuthbert was crying aloud, “Lady! My lady! What do you here? What has befallen you? God save us, look at the blood!”

  The hands that had pulled her up so roughly were withdrawn as if Gilliane were made of white-hot metal. She wavered and would have fallen again had not Cuthbert reached out toward her and permitted her to grip his arm.

  “The blood is not mine,” she said. Gilliane’s voice was thin but perfectly calm. The shock of finding herself safe after so much fear and suffering was so great that Gilliane felt nothing at all. She was responding automatically to what was said to her.

  “But you fell!” Cuthbert exclaimed, torn between concern for his mistress and fear that he was somehow to blame for what had happened. “Are you hurt?”

  “A little bruised and very tired,” Gilliane answered without concern.

  “Shall we carry you, my lady? Should I send the men to bring a litter? Where…? The camp—it is not fitting! A horse—could you ride back to the abbey if I led the horse?”

  At the word abbey a shudder ran through Gilliane and her hands tightened on Cuthbert’s arm. “No! Not back to the abbey! I will go to the camp. And you must send a man at once to tell Sir Adam that I am safe with you.”