Cuthbert blinked and swallowed. From what Lady Gilliane said, it was plain Sir Adam was not at the abbey. Moreover, her fear at the mention of the abbey could not be mistaken. All Cuthbert knew was that it had been intended she rest there, but his mind boggled at the idea that the monks had had anything to do with her bloodied and disheveled condition. Nonetheless, his first duty was to make her comfortable, and his second, as she suggested, was to let his master know that she was safe. The first was simple enough. Cuthbert had all clothing and gear removed from the tent he shared with the other masters-at-arms and brought Gilliane there. He apologized for the crude and none too clean accommodations, but Gilliane smiled tremulously.
“I am very glad to be here, and would be were there only the cold ground to rest upon.”
So Cuthbert settled her on his sleeping pallet and covered her with all the blankets in the tent. Then, seeing she was still shaking, he offered his cloak. Gilliane refused with another smile.
“The cold is inside me, Cuthbert,” she said, “but I grow warmer already. Now send at once to my lord that he may know where I am.”
Gently as it was said, that was an order. Cuthbert strode out calling for a horse to be saddled and a man to serve as messenger. The message the man must carry was no problem, but where he should be told to go Cuthbert had not the slightest idea. He was struggling to think of a way to ask at the abbey where Sir Adam was without either having the messenger fall into enemy hands—if the monks were enemies—or betraying that Lady Gilliane was with them. What he could do if so great a churchman as the abbot came to claim Lady Gilliane, Cuthbert could not imagine.
Fortunately, these bemused wonderings were all proved unnecessary in the next few minutes. Cuthbert was summoned to the northern perimeter of the camp by Sir Richard’s master-at-arms, who pointed at a lay brother.
“He has brought my master’s seal,” John of Glynde reported, “and bids us break camp and march north along the road where Sir Adam has gone already.”
“Break camp!” Cuthbert exclaimed, wondering how he was going to move his mistress.
Then, suddenly, an idea came to him. As the leader of a free mercenary group, Cuthbert was far more accustomed to thinking for himself than a man like Alberic, who had always had one master he trusted. If Sir Adam was rushing north without summoning the men himself, it had to be because he was in desperate haste. Cuthbert had not forgotten the little scene he had witnessed between Adam and Gilliane in the storage shed, and he promptly connected Lady Gilliane’s condition with Sir Adam’s haste. He turned to the lay brother.
“Do you know wherefore this message is sent us?” Cuthbert asked.
The whole abbey knew, of course, of the abduction of the lady, for Catrin’s screams, once she had been released, had rung through the building. The abbot had not enjoined secrecy, so the lay brother told the tale, delighted to have a piece of news that would keep soldiers enthralled. He related Osbert’s abduction of Lady Gilliane with great zest.
Cuthbert clapped a hand to his head. “Let every mounted man make ready and ride north at once,” he ordered. Then he turned to John of Glynde. “My lord will follow Sir Osbert with your master and Sir Andrew, having been told that Sir Osbert had with him only two men. But I know that fearful beast would not travel without a party to protect him. Sir Adam and the others will ride into a full troop. Do you go with the mounted men. Meanwhile, I will have the camp struck and we will follow you as fast as we can, carrying the lady in a litter—or, perhaps, leave one extra horse. She said she was not hurt. Perhaps she will wish to ride.”
The extra horse was left, but the question of Gilliane’s riding never arose. When John of Glynde galloped north at the head of the mounted troops, he saw his master waiting in the road. Sir Richard had decided that it would be best for him to stop the troops rather than let them go to the village and start east. The news, cried aloud by John of Glynde as soon as he knew his voice would carry to Sir Richard, sent Sir Richard careening off in the direction Adam and Sir Andrew had taken. They were not far out of sight of the road, still examining Pierre’s corpse in considerable puzzlement.
Indecision continued to rack Adam, growing worse every moment, so that he now felt completely paralyzed, sure that anything he did would be the wrong thing. “Look here,” he called, afraid even to trust his own interpretation of the obvious and totally blind to Sir Richard’s haste. “This man has been stabbed—”
“It does not matter,” Sir Richard shouted joyously. “Lady Gilliane is safe in camp with our own men. Cuthbert—”
Color flooded Adam’s face and his eyes came alive. “Safe?” he gasped. “Safe?”
“She is free and alive, at least,” Sir Richard amended carefully, a little concerned that his man’s report might be too sanguine, “but—”
Sir Richard had no opportunity to finish what he was saying. It was doubtful if Adam had heard his second statement. He had torn the reins of his great gray horse from Sir Andrew’s hand, leapt into the saddle, and was off, flying for the camp at a rate that none of the other mounts could hope to match.
Sir Andrew’s mouth dropped open. “What ails him?” he asked. “You said Lady Gilliane was safe—did you not?”
“He is young,” Sir Richard replied carefully. “It has weighed greatly on his spirit that he left our lady without protection for so slight a thing as a hunt for pleasure.”
Because Sir Andrew was not someone he could confide in on a delicate subject, Sir Richard had not said what he really thought. A rather pleasant idea was stirring in Sir Richard’s brain. Had Adam realized, when he thought he had lost Lady Gilliane, that he cared rather more for her than for any common vassal?
It was not impossible. Adam had at first seemed stunned and then furious when they learned of Gilliane’s abduction. It was only later, after he had had time to think, that he had become frightened about what could have happened to the lady. Perhaps as the cruelties that might be practiced upon her came into his mind, he understood that she was very precious to him.
For all his looks and his power, Sir Adam was a very innocent young man, Sir Richard thought. In this he was completely mistaken. Sir Richard was confusing the training and advice pounded into Adam by Robert of Leicester and Lord Ian—which forbade Adam to boast of, or even speak of, his relationships with gentlewomen—with lack of experience. This wrong impression had been reinforced by the way Adam blushed when offered a bed partner in Sir Andrew’s keep. Because he was already convinced that Adam had no amatory interest in Gilliane, Sir Richard did not understand that Adam’s embarrassment was owing to Gilliane’s presence when Sir Andrew made the offer. A man of Adam’s training did not accept the use of a whore in his mistress’s presence.
As it was, Sir Richard decided that Adam should be given a time alone with Lady Gilliane. Having been shaken out of his indifference, Adam might expose his newfound concern. Gilliane was a very beautiful woman, and once the problem of the forced marriage had been settled… Sir Richard frowned. It would not be sufficient to have the Church set the marriage aside, he decided, so he would not mention that expedient to Adam; de Cercy would cause endless trouble; he would have to die. The idea caused Sir Richard no discomfort. He was drawn from his thoughts by Sir Andrew gathering the reins of his horse preparatory to mounting.
“Wait,” Sir Richard said, coming down from his own horse. He wanted Adam to have more time than five minutes with Gilliane. “Tell me what Sir Adam was going to say about this body.”
Had Adam known of Sir Richard’s device, he would have blessed him for it. Not that Sir Richard’s or Sir Andrew’s presence could have affected his behavior. Adam was too far gone to have cared if the whole world stood and watched. He thundered into camp, completely unaware of the confusion of striking tents and loading pack animals.
One of the men set to watch for trouble—Cuthbert knew that setting up and striking camp were the times the men were most vulnerable to attack—did run off to tell the master-at-arms that Adam h
ad arrived. However, Adam did not need his intervention. He had headed directly for the masters-at-arms’ tent, knowing that it was the best available and that Gilliane would be there. She had been lying still, fighting the nervous reaction to her ordeal, which became more intense as the shock of relief diminished, when she heard the pounding of hooves. Because Cuthbert had ordered silences in the vicinity of the tent in which Gilliane lay, the sound was clear and the fact that the horse was approaching was apparent. For a second or two, Gilliane refused to believe that this could be a further threat to her.
Soon past terror overwhelmed reason. Gilliane cast off the blankets wrapped around her and jumped to her feet. The low tent, which had been a secure haven, suddenly felt like a trap. She rushed toward the entrance, just as the horse was pulled to a snorting, sliding halt. Too late! Gilliane shrank back, fumbling frantically in her skirt for the opening that would permit her to draw her knife. The tent flap lifted. Gilliane drew breath to scream for help—and Adam stepped in.
That was too much. The alternations of terror with relief at last overpowered Gilliane. She took a single faltering step in Adam’s direction, uttered a sound midway between a gasp and a sob, and fainted into his arms.
Adam’s bellows of terror brought Cuthbert, Sir Andrew’s master-at-arms, and half the men in the camp running with drawn swords. This was of no particular help, except for giving Adam an outlet for the rage fear bred. He cursed poor Cuthbert with every foul word he knew for not attending properly to his mistress, for leaving her, hurt and helpless, without attention, for not bringing her back to the abbey where she might have been cared for properly by the physicians among the monks and her own maid. Had Adam not been holding Gilliane in his arms, Cuthbert might have been dead before he could find words with which to defend himself.
At this point, Gilliane recovered consciousness. “My lord,” she whispered, “please do not blame Cuthbert. He wished to take me back to the abbey. I would not go.”
“What?” Adam snarled. “Were the monks party—”
“No, no,” Gilliane assured him in a stronger voice, pulling herself upright. Fear that in his rage Adam might order his men to attack and even raze the abbey increased her strength. Actually, she had no idea whether the monks were in league with Osbert, but that was far less important to her than keeping Adam from getting into trouble with the Church. “I was only afraid they would have no way to protect me if Osbert returned there. It was silly, but I could not endure…” She dropped her head forward and rested it against Adam’s breast.
“Gilliane,” he exclaimed, “where are you hurt?” Without waiting for an answer, he lifted her and laid her down on the pallet again, snarling over his shoulder that hot wine should be brought. Poor Cuthbert backed out of the tent fearfully. As soon as they were alone, Gilliane lifted herself and slung her arms around Adam’s neck to cling like a limpet, whispering, “Do not leave me. Do not.”
“No,” Adam assured her. “I will not. Only tell me, beloved, where you are hurt. So much blood…” He choked, thinking of the women in the village and their bloody skirts.
“Not mine,” Gilliane told him, and her voice was suddenly stronger. “That is Pierre’s blood. I killed him.”
Adam blinked. The man who had been stabbed in the throat! The frightening pallor was gone from Gilliane’s face, and her eyes sparkled with remembered satisfaction.
“Killed…how?” Adam asked.
For answer, Gilliane slid one hand through her skirt and drew out her knife. Adam blinked again. There was no doubt about it; that knife had been used recently and not well cleaned. Before he thought, Adam had spoken severely on the subject of not cleaning weapons properly.
“I am sorry, my lord,” Gilliane murmured contritely, “it was so dark, and I was so frightened. I could not see to clean it right.”
And Adam swept her back into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time because of his relief at having her safe, his joy at knowing surely and certainly she had not gone willingly with Osbert, his gratitude for the docility, the sweetness of disposition that permitted her to apologize when he censured her. Any other woman with the courage and strength to kill her abductor’s henchman and escape would have burned the ears off his head for scolding over a trifle like an ill-cleaned knife. Their lips met and, when neither could breathe, parted.
“I have been dying for that,” Adam sighed.
“You too? I thought, since you had the company of other gentlemen, you would not long for me.”
“Are you accusing me of being a man-lover?” Adam teased.
“Not that!” Gilliane giggled, then continued more soberly, “But I know men find women very dull company and prefer to talk to other men.”
“Most women are dull,” Adam replied, grinning as he added, “but not ladies who stick knives in the throats of those who displease them. That is a sure way of gaining rapt attention—even if it is only to watch your knife hand.” He kissed her again. “No, my love, I do not find you dull. In fact, as I feel now, I would give half of all I possess to rid myself of your men and have you to myself for half a day.”
“I do not think you should do that,” Gilliane remonstrated, brushing her lips across Adam’s throat between words. “You would surely regret it—for only half a day. Could we not make the time a little longer?”
“Devil,” he groaned, nibbling her cheek and the tip of her nose, “I am suffering the torments of the damned. I want you. And you have been torturing me apurpose.” That was said jestingly, but suddenly he kissed her more violently, muttering, “I could feel you looking at me. I was fit to burst all day yesterday. That was why I went to hunt. I could not bear to be near you and not touch you any longer. Beloved, forgive me.”
For what he was doing and saying, Gilliane would forgive him anything. Her hands moved frantically over him, but there was no way to reach Adam’s body through his mail. Only his face and a small portion of his neck, where his hood was unlaced, were free of the confining armor. Gilliane was just about to voice her frustration when a throat was cleared raucously at the tent opening.
Chapter Eighteen
Two flaming faces turned to Sir Richard, who fixed his eyes upon a most fascinating crease in the roof of the tent and hoped blandly that Lady Gilliane had not been severely injured. Since it was evident already from her occupation, her high color and her sparkling eyes that nothing serious was amiss with her, the blandness was scarcely unfeeling.
“No, no,” Gilliane stammered, “the blood is not mine.” She had said it so often that the words came without thought. “It was Osbert’s man, Pierre. When I drew the knife from his neck, there was a great rush of blood.”
Sir Richard’s eyes, withdrawn hastily from the roof of the tent to fix on Gilliane, bulged with surprise. The change in his expression from rather indulgent approval to amazement bordering on disbelief was very apparent. Adam understood at once that Gilliane’s vassal was well pleased with the scene he had come upon. Apparently the flicker of suspicion Sir Richard had felt with regard to Neville’s death was gone for good. Adam could only wish he was as sure of Gilliane’s innocence as Sir Richard was of his.
The shock of surprise administered by Sir Richard’s interruption had temporarily cooled Adam’s passion. In place of the heat came a nasty chill. He had suddenly remembered the knife driven into the chest after the man was dead. The lack of significant bleeding from the second wound betrayed this. It was what Adam had been about to point out to Sir Richard. But to stab a corpse was an act of deliberate viciousness that Adam did not wish to connect with Gilliane’s character.
Sir Richard cleared his throat again, swallowed, and said in a strained voice, “That was a very clever stroke, my lady.”
“Then it must have been God who directed my hand,” Gilliane replied more composedly. She had recognized the fact that Sir Richard had no intention of disapproving or asking questions about her relationship with Adam. “I know no more about where to strike than you know about embroi
dery, Sir Richard.”
It was Adam’s turn to stare as the truth of that penetrated him. What was wrong with him, he wondered, that he always seemed to burden Gilliane with evil? How would she have known the man was dead? He laughed aloud at his own stupidity. Cuthbert, emboldened by the normal conversational tones he heard and by Adam’s laugh, then entered the tent carefully carrying a leather jack full of hot wine. This he proffered to Gilliane, who looked at the large vessel with wide eyes.
“Oh, thank you, Cuthbert,” she said faintly, struggling to control a rush of giggling.
Gilliane had to suppose either that the men did not bother to carry drinking cups or that Cuthbert felt it would contaminate her in some way to drink from a cup used by a common man. But the smell of the wine recalled to Gilliane that she had eaten nothing since the preceding afternoon. Suddenly, she was ravenous.
“Thank you,” she repeated, reaching for the jack. “And do you think you could find for me some bread and cheese, or cold meat, or anything? I am so hungry.”
When Cuthbert returned with half a loaf of coarse black bread and a slab of cheese, Adam began to instruct him to have a litter prepared for Gilliane. To this she objected strenuously, pointing out that it would slow them down and that her bruises would be more hurt by the jostling of a litter than by sitting in a saddle.
“I can ride,” she insisted. “I assure you I can ride.”
Sir Richard was again surprised. He was growing more accustomed to Lady Gilliane’s hardiness, but still he could not help objecting. “You have suffered great fear and exertion, my lady. Perhaps we should rather stay another day and permit you to rest and recover.”
“I will not chance that,” Adam replied. “It is most likely that de Cercy has fled to Lewes, but we cannot really be sure. It is also possible that he circled around to obtain reinforcements from Knepp and will come down upon us. We have men enough to drive them off, but I do not want Gilliane in the midst of a battle. What I thought was to carry her to Trueleigh Hill, which is no more than twelve or fourteen miles, and leave her there with Sir Hugh—”
Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four) Page 28
