Gilliam made his way up the well-worn path to the wooden door. When he shifted her weight into a single arm to pound upon the panel, Nicola teetered unsteadily in his grasp. Her arms came rushing up to latch around his neck. Beneath her fingers his shoulder muscles were corded and tight. He pounded a second time. "Father Reynard," he shouted, "come, open up to your lord."
The wind swirled around her, tangling in, her hair before it reached down her bare neck. With her mantle only knotted around her shoulders, it gapped to allow the cold air to enter into her clothing. She shivered, turning her head into his shoulder. Just as he raised his fist for yet another knock, she caught the priest's reedy call.
"I come!" Two simple words, yet the very sound of Father Reynard's voice as familiar to her as her own, woke within her a wondrous sense of safety and security.
Nicola caught back a sudden and happy cry. Home! She was home. Here, folk cared for her and loved her; they would never let her be misused.
The bar lifted, and the door swung open with a soft sigh of oiled leather. "Come in," the priest called as he turned back into the cottage's single room. Wooden-soled sabots thudded dully on the beaten earth floor. "Give me a moment to fetch a lamp, then tell me what it is that brings you here so late."
Nicola followed the sound of his shoes to find the man Reynard glanced over his shoulder. Caught in the starlight from the open door, his face floated out of the darkness, round as the moon and equally as pale. Her memory gladly supplied his features.
There was a great beak of a nose above a wide mouth and a dense beard streaked with gray. Beneath thick brows, his brown eyes were trapped in a web of creases along his cheeks. Nature gave him his tonsure, removing fine dark hair in an ever-expanding circle atop his head.
"Father!" she cried out, incapable of containing her joy at homecoming any longer, " 'tis I, Nicola."
"My lady," the priest crowed in excitement, "God be praised. Oh, damn my fingers, I cannot get hold of the fire cover."
There was a shuffling sound, then the clink of an iron hook against clayware. The glow of embers appeared against the darkness as the pottery shield that protected the house from its own heat source was lifted. He touched a frayed rush to a coal until it glowed, then touched the burning stalk against the lamp's wick. A tiny flame appeared and grew, fed by the rancid fat in the bowl. "My lord, it’s so good of you to bring her here to show me she is well and whole."
Now encircled in a yellow bubble of light, Father Reynard turned. The glow turned his pale skin an ivory color, and made dark hollows of his eyes. Silver glinted in his beard where the shadow of his nose did not obscure it. He wore a farmer's rough tunic, no doubt hastily donned, its worn collar loose around his scrawny throat.
"That was not my purpose in coming," Gilliam said. "Although I am glad it pleases you to see her once again. Father, you must wed us this very moment."
Nicola looked up at the man who held her. The lamp light showed her his profile, even and strong. His calmness worried her. She found herself wishing he would rage as another man might have done, so she could know how to battle him.
"What?" The churchman's brow rolled up into thick creases. "But, I thought you were married yesterday, my lord."
"There were complications," Gilliam hedged.
"I refused," Nicola's voice overrode his. "And I will do so again."
"Whatever made you refuse him?" the priest cried in astonishment.
Nicola's heart sank. Of all her folk Father Reynard should understand.
"There is more to it than a simple refusal," Gilliam replied, "but your explanation must wait. Come now, grab up your mantle and hie you to the church to gather what you need for the ceremony."
Still holding Nicola, he turned, preventing any further conversation, and strode swiftly out of the cottage. Left with no option but to follow, the priest clip-clopped along beside him, two paces to every one of Gilliam's. As they rounded the church's corner, Nicola saw no one standing before the door. She grinned in relief. They would not come after all.
Father Reynard opened the door to the holy chamber and hurried in, his heels rapping sharply on the tile floor. Gilliam entered behind him, stopping just beyond the open doorway. Only then did he lower Nicola's feet to the floor.
Her knees shook at the sudden requirement of bearing her own weight, the wound on her shin stretching painfully. When she faltered on her complaining feet, she grasped at his arm to keep herself upright. He let her cling, moving his arm around her to brace her.
The priest's lamp flame weaved and hopped in the draft as he crossed the room's length. Setting the burning bowl on the altar, he pulled a robe on over his tunic and took up his great cross. Once again, the lamp came flickering through the dark toward her. Reynard stopped directly before them. Nicola watched his eyes widen in reaction to what he saw. "My God, what have they done to you?"
"What you see she did to herself in trying to escape me," Gilliam said. "Lower your lamp and look at what she wears."
Reynard did as suggested, and his expression sagged. With a thick finger he touched her hauberk, then caught one of the short curls that lay soft against her cheek. "Jesus God and all His saints, she's made herself a boy this time," he said with a gusty sigh of strained patience.
"This time?" Gilliam laughed. "Do tell me what else she has done. I cannot wait to hear."
Nicola cringed in the face of his amusement, then rage washed over her, taking with it her common sense. "Do not laugh at me!"
She swung at him, her fist rebounding off his arm. An instant later, she hung over his shoulder, bottom up, head and feet dangling. She tried to lift herself, but the bruise on her side came to life, taking her breath with its pain. "Damn you, put me down." It was barely a gasp.
"My lady, cease. You must not do so to your husband," Father Reynard pleaded, stunned by her assault on the nobleman.
"This dirty pig is not my husband, nor will he ever be," she cried. "Leave me go, you great oaf." She slammed a fist into Gilliam's back.
"I have had enough of your abuse," the big man shouted, the power of his voice shaking the rafters above him. "Hit me once more and pay the price."
Awed and not a little frightened by the strength of his anger, Nicola went instantly still. Blood throbbed into her head. "Aye, and what will that be?" Although she made of her question a dare, she waited warily for his answer.
"Hit me and you'll know," he said, his voice tense and hard.
His open-ended threat was worse than any specific promise, since she could not guess what he had in mind. Her imagination insisted on offering her image after possible image, all of them unpleasant. Trapped between fuming anger and very real worry, she was utterly helpless. Once again, the potential of defeat loomed before her.
"My lord, put her down," the priest begged on her behalf.
Nicola sighed in relief. There would be no need to submit. Reynard would convince Gilliam to release her.
The priest continued in a placating tone. "Come now, my lord, be at ease. It’s late and we are all tired. Go you to bed and rest. Everything will seem better in the morning. You can marry her then."
"Father, I will not tolerate your interference here." Gilliam's words were hard as stone. "This is no child to be protected, but a woman full grown. She must learn that if she abuses me, she will pay the price. I think she has been too long indulged in her rages and misbehavior."
Nicola's eyes flew wide. "Misbehavior?" she cried out, her voice muffled by her undignified position. "I have been kept a prisoner for months, my home has been given to the man who killed my father, and when I resist, you call it misbehavior?" She blinked away angry tears. "I hate you!"
"You may hate me all you wish, but you will not hit me," Gilliam snapped. "Vow you will strike me no more and I will let you down. Do not swear to this lightly, for I will hold you to your word. Break it at your own peril."
"Father Reynard, make him put me down," she cried to the priest, not willing to give Gilliam con
trol over her fists.
"It's wrong that a woman strikes a man," the priest said softly.
"I hate all men." It was a private snarl of rage, said under her breath. "I am sorry I struck you," she managed louder, through gritted teeth.
It wasn’t what Gilliam wanted from her, so he said nothing.
Her head was pounding now. "Brute! You take this battle by simple virtue of your size and my injuries. I vow before God in this holy place to strike you no more. There. I have sworn, now I hope you choke on your victory."
Gilliam still said nothing and made no move to release her. Nicola knew what he wanted, but she waited until she could absolutely no longer bear her aching head.
"Please put me down." It was but a soft whisper.
She was immediately lifted off his shoulder. Her vision swam, and she swayed against him when he set her feet on the floor. He caught her close, holding her tightly to his side.
By God, but she hated him. Nicola wanted desperately to push him away, but knew if she did she’d fall. Nor did she wish to look at him, knowing he would be smiling now that he'd dealt her yet another defeat.
When she was again steady in herself, she managed a huff of rage. "Leave go. I cannot bear your touch."
"What a shame that is." There was, indeed, a smile in his voice. "I have discovered I find you enormously attractive, if a mite wild."
His taunt sliced through her, sharper than Alan's knife. No man found her attractive. "Liar! Now, leave me go. I can stand on my own," she said, keeping her eyes averted from him. "Leave me go."
"I think I cannot do so until we are well and truly wed. De Ocslade may be breathing hot and heavy on my heels. I'll not cede him Ashby for want of exchanging simple vows."
"De Ocslade? What do you mean?" The priest's nervous question brought Nicola's attention back to him. The man's eyes shifted from her to the taller man at her side.
"Your lady claims to be betrothed to Ashby's neighbor—" Gilliam got no further in his explanation.
"What!" Reynard yelped. He started at her, his brows fair leaping from his face in stunned disbelief. "How dare you lie about so holy a thing!"
"Do you think I would have done so if I'd had any other option?" Nicola retorted in irritation. Through the open door she saw a parade of light as Ashby's serving folk came bearing burning torches. If she did not win the priest's support, her cause would be finished. In desperation, she clutched at the churchman's sleeve.
"You must understand," she begged, "I never meant to stay married to that little ferret for long. Once de Ocslade was in his grave, Ashby would be where it belongs, in my hands."
Father Reynard's mouth dropped open, and his face grew icy still.
Gilliam stood so close, she both felt and heard his chuckle as it rumbled from him. "Oh, my girl, here I was thinking you preferred that man to me. If my heart quails that you intend that same fate for me, at least my self-worth is restored."
"Murder!" the priest finally managed to gasp out, tearing free of her grasp to back away. "You meant to do murder? Holy Mother come this night and save this poor woman from herself," he prayed aloud, then abandoned the potential of heavenly intervention for a more earthly solution. He grabbed Gilliam's free hand and knelt before him."My lord, I beg you, if you can tolerate the union, let me marry you this moment. Truly, she is not as insane as she sounds. Lady Nicola is a fine healer, she keeps a clean house and a savory kitchen. Her cheeses are renowned, and that's God's own truth. I begged her father to curb her headstrong ways. He didn’t see how he spoiled her. Please, my lord, I see how desperately she needs your controlling hand. Perhaps what her father ruined, you can restore."
"Nay, Father Reynard!" Frustration and outrage tangled in her panicked cry.
Gilliam's laugh was warm and deep as he drew her closer to him. "Have no fear, I want her, mad or no. Gather your wits for the doing of this deed, Father. As you can see, she will fight us to the end."
Nicola tried to wrench free of him, but there was no escaping his powerful embrace. When he lifted her into his arms, she strained against his hold and he played as though to drop her. With a gasp, she caught him around his neck, then angrily brought a fist before her in threat. He arched a brow.
"Is your word worth nothing?"
"You took my vow unfairly from me," she retorted, yet let her hand open and drop to her side. Unable to strike out but still needing to vent her rising anger, she grabbed him by the collar of his hauberk. "None of this is fair."
He looked at her. Caught between the glow of the priest's lamp and the growing brightness outside the church door, Gilliam's hair glinted like spun gold. Shadows played along the contours of his face, outlining his finely molded lips. It must have been a trick of the light that made his expression seem gentle and almost sad.
"I know," he agreed quietly, "but screaming over it solves nothing. We will be wed, and you must find what good you can in this."
"What sort of daughter does that make me?" she protested, heart aching. Against her will, a single tear traced its way to her jaw. He opened his mouth to protest, but Nicola put her hand over his lips to silence him. "I cannot bear to hear you say again you did not do what you did when I was there and saw it all."
His eyes closed briefly, then his lips touched her palm. She jerked her hand away in surprise. When he spoke it was more sigh than comment. "You have turned my blow into what it was not. Would that I could retract it, for I see now it will cost me more dearly than I imagined."
"Nay," she said, her voice strengthening as she fought to hide her weakness behind anger. "Nay, I do not accept your apology, and I will not marry you. The villagers will support me against you."
"I pray not," he replied. Where his face had shown sympathy a moment before, there was now only amusement. "Those cheeses of yours have me positively intrigued.”
She turned her face away from him as he carried her out of the church. When he set her down before the door, her hauberk was caught firmly in his fist. Nicola blinked against the artificial brightness and scanned the growing crowd huddled around the doorway. Wrapped in cloaks, mantles, or blankets, flickering light gleamed off their brows and noses, but left their identities disguised by the night.
The wind toyed with the fires, sending great tongues of flame leaping high into the sky. Showers of sparks were teased away from their mother source and into whirling dances of death. In a sudden gust the torch flames all bent to one side, their stinking black smoke so dense it was even visible against the darkness.
One man pushed his way through the crowd, his rolling gait, caused by rheumy hips, identifying him as Thomas the reeve, Tilda’s father. He wore only a short tunic beneath his mantle. Outlined by the fire's glow, she saw the thick hair covering his legs; he'd not even taken time to don his chausses. At his present age, it was hard to tell if Thomas had ever resembled his beautiful daughter. He was all wild tawny hair and heavy beard with eyes so deeply set they disappeared into the leather of his face.
Nicola let her mouth lift slightly as the stocky man stared at her. The creases of his face drooped in disappointment as he took in her attire and shortened hair. After a moment, he shook his head and backed into the crowd. Thomas would not support her. Her betrayal of Ashby had cost her his love. Once again, a tear dared slip free of her control. She angrily wiped it away.
"My friends," Father Reynard called to the assembled folk in their native tongue, "our new lord asks you here to witness his wedding to Lady Nicola. Our lady has refused to wed with him once before, and will attempt to do so again. You must decide if it is in our best interest to ignore her cries of forced marriage and see the deed done."
"This you cannot do," Nicola protested in that same tongue. "If you choose to support him, you dishonor my father's memory. Do not allow Ashby's new lord to be the same man who killed your loved ones and destroyed your homes."
"With respect, my lady, who among us can afford to worry over honoring or dishonoring a memory?" This was Alexander atte
Lane, the village carpenter. "Besides, no killing would have happened if your sire had not taken Lord Graistan prisoner. Lord Gilliam cannot be blamed for coming to free his kin."
"How can you excuse him?" she cried in disbelief. "Is this how you feel about it, John over Brook?" She turned to confront a grim-faced man of middle years. "Your daughter was among those who perished that day." The girl had been one of Nicola's dairymaids. She picked the man because he usually loved to scream over the injustices done him. Tonight, he betrayed her.
"My daughter is just as dead no matter who did what. It's my home and farm that must concern me now. Over the last months I have found Lord Gilliam attentive to those issues first in my heart. Look around you. What he destroyed to rescue his brother, he has spent his sweat to rebuild. By the strength of his arm did we have trees to hold up our new walls. Aye, 'tis by his decree and his assistance that we have both house and harvest to save us from the winter's cold."
"Hah!" It was a scornful sound to mask her ever deepening despair. "Do you not see that he has done so only to buy your loyalty? Once he has it from you, you will no doubt find a different sort of man hiding behind that ploy."
"What she says could be true, but after five months of dealing with this lord, I think it unlikely." William Smith, Ashby's blacksmith closed his hefty arms over his chest. "What says our reeve to this?"
Thomas threw back his shaggy head. "I will say nothing. You all know the noblewoman is closely bound to my family. My opinions will remain my own."
There was a subtle easing in Nicola's heart. If he would not support her, neither would he participate in her downfall.
"My lady, there are worse husbands to have than this one." This was a woman’s voice, lowered with a sultry pitch. "A great hulking man like him will keep you warm these long winter nights."
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 79
