"You are doing this on a dare?" There was astonishment in his brother's quiet voice.
"Nay, Geoff," Gilliam said, his own tone firm in determination. "You have heard my reasons for setting my hand around Ashby. It is mine, and I'll not release it to any man or woman. The dare only makes the possibility of failure and a life filled with domestic war easier to swallow."
Geoffrey nodded slowly as he digested his brother's words. "Your reasons I accept."
Coudray's lord came to his feet and signaled to his men, who had joined the other gaming soldiers. "Robert, bring my pack so I may change. Who is gathering the wagers on this wedding?"
One man threw up a hand. " Me, Lord Geoffrey."
"I'll lay three marks on my brother's survival," he said. The men all groaned at so rich a sum, hinting they thought he'd soon be parted from it. "Brother or no, my money's well placed," Lord Coudray insisted.
"How can you believe so when you've not seen my opponent?" Gilliam laughed, feeling easier about this wedding now. Perhaps this speech with Geoff was a good thing, after all.
"I learned my lesson last June, when I wagered against your chances of taking down Ashby's walls with a ballista. Never again, my mother's youngest son," Geoff said with a quick smile. "I cannot afford to underestimate you.”
The porter cried sharply in surprise from his post at the doorway. Gilliam leapt to his feet as Geoff turned, his hand on his sword hilt. Dressed in a gown of fine red wool trimmed in silver and gold, Rannulf FitzHenry, Lord Graistan, stormed into the room.
"I'll cram this marriage down that godforsaken churchman's throat or die trying," he bellowed. "No sanctimonious little monk tells me who I take as my vassal. Gilliam, fetch the vixen you so desire."
* * *
On the landing atop the spiraling stairs leading to the north tower chamber, Gilliam raised a hand in greeting to the guards. His smile was not forced. "A fine day, my lads. Your lord has declared that my wedding begins this moment. I've come to fetch me a bride."
"By yourself?" one scoffed.
"Aye," the other agreed. "Where are your ropes? Yestermorn, you had to hold her whilst we bound her."
"Ah, but today is different." Gilliam wagged a finger at the man. "I’m guessing our prisoner plots escape, fearing the abbot cannot or will not prevent our marriage. If I am right, she'll not let herself be bound. Stand back now and let’s see."
The guards smiled skeptically, and the door opened. Gilliam stepped past them, ducking beneath the lintel to enter the small room.
Nicola of Ashby was pressed into the room's far wall, prepared for battle. As always, her height surprised him. She nearly looked him in the eye when he was the tallest man he knew. Strong, too. It was truly a shame she hated him
He took a step toward her. She leaned forward as if preparing to hiss and spit, moving into the beam of murky light spilling through an arrow loop. With so long a face, there'd be no one to call her a beauty, but her hair was marvelous and her eyes, magnificent. Aye, 'twas her eyes that turned a plain girl into a striking woman. They were almond-shaped and ringed by thick, dark lashes, set beneath brows that were almost straight. Their color shifted with her moods, brown when she was calm and green when she was remembering how much she despised him.
"It’s time for our joining," he said quietly.
"Nay," she replied. "The abbot said the ceremony would be delayed until Sext."
Gilliam only shrugged. "My brother considered the change of plan a mere suggestion on the churchman's part. He has decided 'tis time for us to wed, little girl."
"Little girl?" she retorted in anger. "Do you think to make me feel small and helpless by insulting me so? Well two can play that game, pretty boy."
"I had not thought you'd noticed," he teased, impervious to her taunts. "Would you like to observe my profile? I've always thought it was my best feature." Gilliam turned his head to the side, and the guards behind him hooted with laughter.
Nicola narrowed her eyes at this preening cock's vanity. Gilliam FitzHenry's chin and brow were perfectly proportioned, his nose neither too small nor too large and without crook or hump. Golden hair curled loosely down the strong column of his neck. High cheekbones lifted over a wide and clean-shaven jaw. Aye, she'd noticed he was a handsome man and hated herself all the more for doing so. Save for Ashby's fields and forests, a man like him would never have glanced at a horse-faced Amazon like her. Angry at herself for reacting to his beauty, Nicola threw another insult.
"Your face is bare. I think this is because even at two and twenty you are incapable of growing a man's beard."
"Tomorrow's morn offers you the chance to discover the truth," FitzHenry said with an amused lift of his brows.
"You are overconfident." She infected her haughty comment with scorn. "No churchman will marry us when I am betrothed to another. You are doomed to remain landless."
"I say your tale of betrothal is false. Now, why do we not go to the abbey and discover which of us will win this war of ours." He paused a moment, then shrugged his dark mantle over his shoulders. "Will you be bound this time?"
When he stepped toward her, Nicola saw how the sleeves of his blue gown strained at the bulk of his upper arms. She drew a frustrated breath. Even worse than being a murdering, home-stealing son of a rich man, the preening cock was stronger than she.
"How proud you are of your power," she said, needing to sting him, "but I think that is all there is to you. Big men are like oxen, strong and dim-witted."
A broad grin set long creases into his cheeks and sparked in his bright blue eyes. "My dear Lady Ashby, sparring with you is as interesting as watching corn being ground into flour. You are like the beast, forever going 'round and 'round in the same path. Not that I mind the insults, only your lack of creativity."
Nicola turned her face to one side and closed her eyes, wishing she could shut him out of her life as easily. Mother of God, she hated this FitzHenry and his taunting. He was a jackanape, a buffoon, always looking to make her the butt of his jests.
"My wit has rendered you speechless, eh? Well, you're not the first to be struck so."
These soft and laughing words were spoken almost into her ear. Nicola gasped. When she opened her eyes, she found he now stood directly in front of her. His brows were raised as a smile played at the corners of his well-formed lips. She sidled right, he shifted to block her. She eased left, he followed.
"Tsk, Lady Nicola, how could you have been so careless?" he chided. "It’s a poor tactician who stages a defense in a place from which there is no escape." He braced his hands on the wall above her shoulders, preventing any further movement. "See? Now you are trapped."
Nicola ached to push him away from her. But to fight him meant she would be bound when Tilda might yet appear with escape thrown over her shoulder. She would simply have to endure his nearness until he was done teasing and moved. Nicola glared up at him, hoping her stare would intimidate.
He only smiled. Mary, but she wanted to slap that smug expression off his face. Instead, she lowered her gaze to his shoulders. They were massive, his chest broad. She huffed in disbelief and dismay. And folk called her a giantess? Even the heat of his body was greater than hers.
At first, the warmth that flowed from him was welcome after hours trapped in this unheated room. But with each beat of her heart it grew warmer until her cheeks burned with it. His nearness became unsettling; her senses all twisted and fluttered oddly within her. Nicola tensed against them. If she couldn't escape him this day, the rich man's son would take her to his bed. He had to, for until he took her maidenhead he would not truly own Ashby.
His hands shifted on the wall behind her, his wrists now resting on her shoulders. With his touch came the reminder of how great his strength was. Here was the one man who could take from her what she would not give.
Rage at this thought roared through her. Captivity had turned her womanish. Her body was the only thing left that belonged to her, and he was the one man to whom she wo
uld never surrender it. Aye, she'd kill him before that happened. What sort of daughter laid with her father's murderer?
"Do you think to frighten me by this?" she snapped.
"Frighten you?" he asked, seeming genuinely surprised at her question. "Is that possible?"
"Nay." She raised her chin a notch, but couldn't stare down her nose at a man who was half a head taller than she. Nicola settled for a haughty look. "It’s just that I tire of this game of yours."
"I see. Well, then, if I cannot intimidate you, I suppose we should be on our way. We have an appointment with the abbot." FitzHenry stepped back and extended a huge hand. "I can hold your hand or you can be bound. Which would you prefer?"
Nicola silently offered her arm. She swore her skin crawled as his strong fingers closed around her wrist.
The two guards at the door laughed. "Is this the same creature as yesterday?" one jeered. "Lord Gilliam, if all it took to master her was a ride over your shoulder, she'll be sweet as cream after this night's ride." He and his compatriot roared at the jest.
"Hey, now, mind your tongues. This is my wife you discuss, lads," he replied, his protest tainted by the amusement in his tone.
Nicola's pride writhed in humiliation; his touch on her was more than she could bear. She jerked her arm free. Faster than she dreamed possible, he grabbed her at the waist.
"Ride or walk?" he asked quietly. His fine features showed no sign of anger or irritation, his gaze was calm, as if he truly awaited her decision.
"Walk," she said, pride aching at having to submit to his control.
Once again, his fingers closed around her slender arm. "Do you never eat?" he asked. "You are too thin, I think me."
"I think I do not care what you think."
The big man only laughed. "That, I already knew, little girl. Come, we have a date with a churchman."
Gilliam released Nicola once they had climbed the four steps leading to the church door. Rannulf, his harsh face held tight in lines of rage, stood at the base of the stairs. The boy Jocelyn yet remained in Graistan keep, while Geoff worked himself out of his mail and into a suitable gown.
"Arnult," Rannulf said to Graistan's young castellan who stood at the abbey's gate, "go fetch our good lord abbot. Use your sword if you must."
As the man turned to do as bid, the sub-abbot came flying from the dormer. Long and lean, the monk held his arms out in protest as he raced toward them. His habit's wide sleeves flew behind him like wings. Gilliam grinned: a stork, not an angel.
"By whose right do you come bursting in here?' the holy brother cried.
"By my right as protector of this place.” Rannulf's voice was cold, slicing through the sub-abbot as he sought to attack the master behind him. " I will have a word with your lord. Warn him not to keep me waiting, else in a quarter hour's time I will order my men to ransack your house, removing the many gifts I have given you over the years."
The monk said nothing, but his eyes widened until they nearly leapt from their sockets. He whirled and darted back to the abbot's office.
Gilliam glanced at Nicola. The color of her gowns became her, making her eyes seem greener. Just now, she was frantically scanning the throng of people in the abbey's cobbled yard. He tried to follow her gaze only to free a sound of wry amusement. Despite the cold and misty weather that was staining his gown, most of Graistantown's inhabitants were now crammed inside these tall stone walls.
Beggars in motley rags were pressed up against modest housewives, their hair covered in white wimples. Apprentices, stealing an hour from their masters, ducked away from the wealthy merchants, dressed in bright robes of scarlet and blue. It seemed no one could resist the promise of entertainment equal to yesterday's. Perhaps this was a good thing. Their number disguised the presence of the soldiers, drawn from Coudray, Ashby, and Graistan, who now lined the walls.
In the next moment Gilliam saw Nicola's shoulders relax. She loosed a deep sigh. So, he was right. Yesterday's tale of betrothal was nothing more than a delaying tactic. She counted on someone in the crowd to free her.
Gilliam leaned toward her. "It will not work. You cannot escape me, for you are already mine."
Nicola turned on him, eyes narrowed and jaw tensed in rage. "You will never hold me, murderer."
That stung him. "I did no murder," he retorted. "Your father begged for my sword, even lifting his own in invitation. Would you rather he have burned?"
"Nay," she cried out, sounding like a small child, "I could have saved him, but you murdered him." She turned away, but was not quick enough to hide her sudden tears.
That surprised him. Gilliam hadn't thought her capable of such a feminine expression. The crowd's murmur of excitement alerted him to the newly elected abbot's appearance in the courtyard. He turned to watch.
Small and slender, his features meek, the churchman hardly looked the sort to stand down a baron. Abbot Simon was a far more traditional leader than his recently deceased predecessor. 'Twas freedom from Graistan's secular ruler he now sought, using pride as his shield and Church law as his sword.
Rannulf called to him. "It’s Terce, my lord abbot. We have a wedding to celebrate."
A pinched and furious line appeared between the churchman's delicate brows. "I delayed the ceremony until Sext, allowing more time for de Ocslade's arrival. If you think your threat of violence will alter this you are wrong. Indeed, your attempt may only succeed in my disallowing altogether any joining between Lady Ashby and your brother."
"Praise God,” Nicola muttered.
As Rannulf began to protest, Gilliam grabbed his bride's wrist. With Ashby's ownership secure in his hand, he shouted over his brother's complaint. "Churchman, you have no basis on which to disallow this contract. My dower is the village of Eilington and the cost of rebuilding Ashby. This is one third of her value, as required. Where there is no inequity, how can you refuse to wed us?"
The abbot shot him a harsh glance. "You speak with the ignorance of youth. The Church has the right to prevent forced marriage when the wedding is not in the best interest of the bride."
"I am her warden and overlord," Rannulf snarled, "therefore a better judge of what is in her best interest than an insolent churchman who reaches beyond his rights."
The abbot straightened to his tallest, hands on hips. "This discussion is pointless. She is betrothed, and you cannot marry her elsewhere, my lord. God's law supersedes even yours in this."
"Damn you, there is no betrothal," Gilliam said, his words ringing against the walls. "If there were, the man would have claimed her the day after Ashby's lord died. You called the banns. Did he come? Nay. Her tale is as false as your pride!"
"Have a care with what you say," Rannulf snapped in harsh warning.
Gilliam turned on his brother, no longer trying to suppress his anger. "Nay. I held my tongue yesterday in deference to those I saw as older and wiser, but no more. I will not put my fate into the hands of this churchman when he is prejudiced against me."
"You have no choice in this" was Abbot Simon's scornful response. "If there is a contract between Ocslade and Ashby, you will cede those lands to their rightful owner."
"I am the rightful owner. By my sweat is Ashby's perimeter wall rebuilt, and by my design will I raise a new hall. 'Twas me and no other lord who on Michaelmas past delivered the hideage our king asked from us. Aye, folk who ran from me in terror this June past now gladly call me their lord and entrust in me their lives."
Outrage flamed in Gilliam's heart, and he lifted Nicola's arm to display his hold on her. "Look upon this. Ashby's ownership is in my hand, and there it will stay."
* * *
Her heart aching, Nicola wrenched hopelessly against FitzHenry's grasp. Although she didn't win free, he let her lower her arm. Could it be true that Ashby's folk called him their lord? How could they trust both life and livelihood to him, when he had killed their relatives and destroyed their homes in his siege of Ashby. Nay, he must be lying.
"Murderer," she
cried, her voice harsh with hurt. "You cannot keep me, and I will never make you Ashby's lord."
"Hold your tongue, vixen," Lord Rannulf snapped. "You have no place in this discussion."
His unfairness dug deep, and she clenched her fists in indignant disbelief. "How can you speak of my best interest, then give me no voice when it’s my life you wrangle over, not some far-flung field." Her voice cracked in resentment. No man saw her as a being in her own right.
"Silence the bitch," the puny churchman shouted. "I will not tolerate her impertinence."
Nicola turned on the abbot in shock then wondered why she was surprised. He, too, was a man. She should have known his concern for her was nothing more than pretense. All he wanted was a weapon to use against Lord Rannulf. Her anger at his betrayal devoured her common sense. "Damn you all," she shouted, "you will listen to me! My father's murderer will not become Ashby's lord."
In the instant of silence following her cry, the abbot turned a vicious brown gaze on her, while Lord Rannulf's eyes were steel. Nicola died a thousand deaths, all hope of escape slaughtered by her wayward tongue. They would bind and gag her for certain. When the pressure of her intended's hand on her arm urged her slightly nearer to him, she did not resist. Instead, the strength of his chest at her back was almost welcome.
"Did you think he was your champion?' FitzHenry murmured. "More fool you. All he wants is a slice of the power that belongs to my brother. He cares nothing for what it costs you or me." His bitter words offered more understanding of her helplessness than all the abbot's empty prattling of yesterday.
The courtyard behind her exploded in screams, punctuated by the clattering of hooves against cobbles; Nicola turned. Three knights, dressed in chain mail with swords belted over their green surcoats, plowed steaming mounts through the frantic crowd. Hugh de Ocslade and his much larger nephews drew their steeds to a heaving, dancing halt before the porch steps. She smiled in relief and certain triumph.
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 71
