She yawned. "I am tired beyond tired," she murmured. "If I am to do as you wish, I must sleep. Pull up the bedclothes, will you?"
"I think your feet will keep you at a slow pace for a day or two," he said as he did her bidding. "They will take time to heal."
"If you want me to succeed, you had better hope not. It’s already the first week of November, and God alone knows what yet needs doing. Now, hush and let me sleep."
The command in her voice made Gilliam smile. It said she was glad to be home and even more pleased to be needed. Aye, she would do as she said, at least for a time. He'd be a fool to think her resistance finished.
Gilliam eased down onto the mattress beside her, wondering what avenues of escape he had left open to her. She could still run to Ocslade, but having avoided the man in Graistan's woods, he doubted that possibility. Her folk had thrown their lot with him, ending the chance of supporting her in rebellion.
Look as he might, he could find nothing left for her, save his own murder. In that case, it was probably a good thing he’d installed the main barn's lock onto the armory's door. His men had searched all of the home farm, bringing every weapon and sharpened tool to be locked within that shed. The cook was vowed to count his knives and relinquish none to his lady, save for the task at hand. He smiled. They had found weapons scattered all over Ashby, sheds, barns, even the little chamber built off the dairy apparently used to store herbs and cures. He only hoped they'd found them all.
When he was sure she slept, Gilliam dared what he could not do while she was awake and combed his fingers through her hair. It was heavy and soft, curling around his fingers in a wondrously silky web. What a shame she liked him so little. He lay back into the bolsters and let sleep overtake him.
Nicola started at the wet touch on her cheek and opened her eyes. The bed curtains were thrown wide, and the tiny chamber was bathed in hazy light, entering through the east wall's single narrow slit. At the edge of her vision were legs clad in dark chausses above familiar boot tops.
Pushed into her face was the great, square muzzle of a huge, spotted dog. As the beast snuffled and nosed her, its breath clouded, warm and moist, around her in the cold air. The dog's eyes narrowed. Its lip lifted into a trembling, soundless snarl.
Nicola's eyes widened at the sight of huge teeth. "Jesu," she whispered and rolled slowly onto her back, and the dog freed a deep and threatening rumble.
"Nay, Roia," Gilliam said. The noise instantly stopped.
Fully dressed, with her pin catching his mantle closed around his shoulders, her husband watched her. "I can hold them off no longer, my sweet."
As if to prove his words, there was a sudden sharp knock on the door. The dog turned and charged the thick panel, its bark vicious as the hair on the back of its neck rose.
"Holy Jesus," Nicola gasped, coming bolt upright and shifting deep into the bed's interior, the sheets pulled up to her neck as if linen were somehow a defense against sharp canine teeth.
"Enough," Gilliam said quietly. The dog looked at him, gave the door a final husky bark and returned to the bedside. It leapt into the space Nicola had occupied a moment before with an ease that spoke of ownership.
"Get down, you twit," Gilliam told the creature with a laugh. His pet leapt down, and he sat beside Nicola on the bed's edge.
"My lord?" came a woman's fearful cry from outside the door. The huge creature growled again.
"Give us a few more moments," Gilliam called in return.
"Is this your dog?" Nicola asked him in an angry whisper.
"Aye, she is Roia, so called because she is the spawn of our own king's alaunts." Upon hearing her name, Roia placed her head on her master's thigh, eyes suddenly soft with pleading. He scratched her ear, and she grinned, her massive jaws agape. "You are a great hunter of boar, are you not, sweetling? She has also decided this chamber is hers and mine, alone. We must convince her that you and Jos are not intruders, but family. Until she is accustomed to you, 'tis best you make no sudden movements toward me; she's a jealous bitch." He quirked his brows at her, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Now I know you are truly mad. No one in their right mind would keep such a pet." It should have been a stronger retort, but Nicola kept it gentle, not wishing to antagonize the dog.
"Nay," Gilliam laughed, "you have it wrong. 'Tis I who am her pet. So are you ready to face them?"
"Nay," Nicola looked at the door in dismay. Beyond that thick barrier were the women who came to witness her removal from a yet pristine marriage bed. "This explanation of yours will not work."
He lifted a single, finely arched brow, and deep creases appeared along his cheeks as he smiled. "Ah, my wife, what need have we for explanations when there is blood on the sheets?" He seemed very pleased with himself.
"What!"
Roia lunged for Nicola, snapping and snarling. Gilliam grabbed her studded collar. "Down."
Much more carefully, Nicola pulled back the bed-clothes. There was, indeed, a small smear of red staining the middle of the bed. Damn him!
"You lied to me," she cried as quietly as she could. She dragged the bedclothes back around her to guard against both him and the cold. "You took me while I lay unconscious in exhaustion."
Gilliam's eyes flew wide in shock. "l swear to you now, on my honor and all I hold holy, that when we lay upon this mattress in lovemaking, you will not sleep through it." Although laughter tainted his protest, she could tell her accusation had truly stung him.
So the peacock thought himself a great lover, did he? She supposed it went along with his pretty face. Still, it was nice to have tweaked him, however blindly she'd managed it. "Have I insulted you?" she asked in feigned innocence.
His mouth lifted in a crooked smile. "Deeply. Look at your leg, then, perhaps I should tell you how I found that spot." His good humor was back.
"I do not wish to know," she replied in her haughtiest voice. He was as bad as a little lad, needling and prodding, his teasing endless and his barbs as sharp as his Roia's teeth. Nevertheless, she extended her wounded leg out from beneath the blankets. Blood had soaked through the bandage until it was thick and red. Aye, here was the source of the mark. Once again, she looked at the stained linen.
Understanding and triumph rose in her. Through this little bit of blood, she gained all she wanted: her home, her folk, and control over her own body.
"Here," her husband said to her, reaching for last night's cloth, yet hanging over the bucket's edge. It was stiff from cold. He shoved it into the icy water and handed it to her. "Wash that leg to conceal the source before I let our witnesses enter. Once the ritual is over, you must be up and about your day. I'll not have it said my wife is a lazy slug-a-bed."
"I have nothing to wear,” she complained, suddenly impatient to reclaim her place as Ashby's lady. More than anything, she wanted to peer into every nook and corner of her home to refamiliarize herself with what was hers. "My gowns were left behind at Graistan."
"Your wedding gowns were mine," he said, the muted laughter in his tone warning her that some sort of dig was on its way. "You would hardly want those any longer."
"That much is for certain," she retorted warily as she scrubbed away the blood. Nicola didn't dare glance up for fear she'd only feed his game. "It’s the other set of gowns I meant, my everyday wear."
"Well, if you had truly wanted them, you'd have stayed at the abbey and wed me, rather than running. Ah, well, there's naught to be done about it now, but I have an idea. Since you are already accustomed to male attire and we know you can wear my clothing, I will lend you a tunic."
This brought her head snapping up, and Nicola glared at him. Although there was no smile on Gilliam's lips, his eyes gleamed wickedly. Here was his barb. Just as she suspected, his taunts over yesterday's events would be endless.
"I think not," she managed as she lowered her gaze to glare at her clean leg. She wouldn't give him any further fodder for his sick wit.
"A pity, that,"
he murmured, rising. "I rather liked seeing your legs exposed beneath a tunic's hem. Come, Roia."
Nicola watched from the corner of her eye as he and the dog moved to the door. Once he had a hold on his beast's collar, he opened the panel. The alaunt growled and tried to lunge at those who waited outside, but Gilliam's grip on the dog was as inescapable as his hold on Nicola had been. "It’s safe. Come you within."
Margery, a chamber pot tucked under her arm, and Emotte, bearing a steaming bucket, eased cautiously around the dog and into the chamber. They had their backs toward their lady as they warily eyed the huge animal.
Only then did Nicola realize she yet held the bloody cloth. It would hardly do to have the women find it and make unfortunate guesses. She shot Gilliam a swift and worried look, holding it up for him to see. He raised his hand, suggesting she should toss it to him. The damp ball sailed over the villagers' heads and disappeared into his palm. His mouth curved, and he winked to compliment her accuracy.
"I will wait for you in the bailey below," he said to her, then he and the dog were gone down the stairs.
"Thank the Lord above," Emotte said with a sigh as big as she when they were gone. She set her bucket of warm water on the floor. "That creature looks half-wolf if you ask me."
"I'm informed that it’s but a hunting dog, an alaunt with royal lineage, no less," Nicola said, making conversation to steady her nerves. "I can only hope that he does not wish to keep it in here, since it clearly dislikes me." She boldly threw aside the bedclothes to reveal the red mark.
"My lady," Margery cried in pleasure, setting down the pot she carried. Even Emotte managed a fair imitation of a smile.
Nicola slid from the bed, her sly sense of triumph growing. "Margery, I've nothing to wear, not even shoes for my feet. Can you help me find something suitable?"
"Your clothing is here, my lady." The peasant woman unwound Nicola's gowns from around her arm. "Your lord brought these with him."
Nicola's eyes widened in dismay as her shoes clattered out from beneath Emotte's arm. He'd offered her men's clothing, knowing full well where her gowns were. "Ooh, that horrible jackanape," she muttered beneath her breath.
As the women set to stripping the stained linen from the bed, folding it carefully for preservation, Nicola washed in the water Emotte had brought. The bone-chilling cold of the air urged her on to swiftness. She donned the fine linen chemise, then grabbed up her undergown. The high neck garment was made of a fine woolen fabric and dyed a pale green. When Margery laced the narrow sleeves from forearm to wrist, they fit like a second skin.
The overgown was a contrasting green and made of a warmer fabric than its companion gown. Wide, bell-shaped sleeves were trimmed with a silken braid. Its hemline rose in the front, but the back trailed out behind her.
These gowns had been made for her at Graistan, where a fashionable cut and much lacing were mandatory. Here at Ashby, the dragging hems would be a nuisance and the long sleeves a fire hazard. Still, since everything else she owned was naught but cinders, she was grateful for them. Given time, she could make others.
Once Margery had salved and bandaged her feet, Nicola carefully drew on stockings and eased into her shoes, loosely tying the laces. Nicola knotted her belt around her waist; the eating knife was still missing. She pulled her mantle around her shoulders, tying it in place. There was no pin. Nicola turned toward the door.
"Wait," Emotte said "You are a married woman now, where is your wimple? It’s not fitting that you go out without a head covering."
Nicola shot her an irritated look. "Would you like to loan me yours, since I have none? Give me time to make one."
"Do not wait too long," the woman warned as she opened the door. "It’s bad enough your hair is short, but if you go about bareheaded as well, folk truly will begin to think you an immoral woman." Emotte opened the door and was gone.
"Well, folk already think you are a sour old woman," Nicola muttered after her, then turned to Margery. "My thanks to you for coming with Emotte this morn. Your company makes hers bearable."
"She has her moments, my lady," Margery said with a laugh. "Alice would like to know when you might come to her."
"As soon as these feet of mine will bear the walk," Nicola said, then smiled in true enjoyment. "I could not believe it last night when I saw her, all full with a babe. It was like an omen."
Margery looked at her as if Nicola had just grown another nose. "How is that?"
"Here is Alice with a history of losing babe after babe, yet despite the terror of June past, she held this one. Surely this pregnancy of hers is a promise that things will return to what they once were." Nicola shrugged against her sudden and silly belief that delivering a healthy child for Alice would somehow remove the burden of Ashby's destruction from her heart.
Margery laughed. "Alice would think you daft for putting such a sign to her babe." The commoner's soft brown eyes gleamed in amusement. "My lady, it’s right fine to have you home. We have all sorely missed you and your care for us." With that, the woman left the chamber, her shoes tapping briskly down the stone stairs.
Nicola stared after her, hope growing steadily. She was needed and missed. If Gilliam thought building cottages were enough to steal her folk's loyalty from her, he was wrong. No matter how hard she needed to work, she would restore the trust she had destroyed until they loved her as they once had.
She followed Margery to the open door and stopped on the short landing just beyond the threshold. Before June's fire, her view would have been of the hall's back wall. Now, she saw only open sky. It was well into the middle of a cold but sunny day, with just a wee breeze to play around the hems of her skirts.
The chill air brought with it myriad familiar sounds: the cry of wild geese on the wing, the song of men hard at threshing, and the soprano voice of the river against the steady drone of the mill wheels it powered. The yeasty aroma of bread baking in the public ovens wafted to her.
Her gaze drifted right, to the thick forest of oak and ash that lent Ashby its name, then to the south. Here, outlined by more distant woodlands, the hills rolled gently away from her walls. Those nearest to Ashby were covered with furrowed fields, their crazy pattern speaking more to the needs of drainage than order.
Nicola knew by heart which strips were hers and which belonged to the villagers. The fields already rested, although the season was not yet done. Some showed the dark, rich hue of turned earth, having been plowed and sown with winter wheat, while others were yet ankle-deep in stubble. The harvest remains were presently being consumed by both cattle and sheep.
Clutched between these fields and her walls, was the village. Newly thatched and whitewashed, cottages were scattered haphazardly along the riverbanks, their fresh gold and white colors startling in a rapidly fading autumn world. Fowl and pigs wandered freely along the rutted paths between the dwellings. In the village green, children screamed and raced, tossing a ball between them. It was all so familiar and right that it filled Nicola with joy. She was home.
"Do you intend to stand up there all the day?" Gilliam leaned against the raised stone cellar wall, Roia sitting at his heels. Just above his head, where her hall floor had once been, there was now only wooden planks to keep out the elements. Suddenly, she saw him as she had that day in June, his mail stained with blood, his sword swinging as he cleaved his way through her folk in the burning hall.
What an arrogant child she'd been, foolishly thinking she could hold the walls against this man. How arrogant she still was to think things could ever return to what had been. Every day for the rest of her life, she must face how she had hurt those she loved most. Nicola covered her face with her hands, refusing the burden of what she'd done. She heard Gilliam climb the stairs.
"Nicola?" It was the first time he’d used her Christian name. His deep voice turned the soft syllables into silk.
"This is very hard," she breathed into her palms. "Seeing you standing there made me think of that day."
"Wou
ld that I could retreat into the past and change what was done, but I cannot." His voice was filled with regret.
Oh, Lord God, so did she too wish. If only she could change the past. Nicola dropped the shield of her hands from her eyes. Gilliam stood on the step just below this short landing, bringing them eye to eye. He watched her with such intensity that she drew a sudden breath. His gaze touched her brow, then her lips, down the exposed line of her throat. An odd pressure woke just under her heart.
"That color suits you," he murmured a moment later, lifting his hand as if he meant to touch her face. He caught back the motion, his hand dropping to his side. "It seems you found your clothing, Lady Ashby." His brows lifted in tune to his smile.
His words destroyed the disturbing sensation of the previous moment and reminded her she was angry with him. "What would you have done if I agreed to wear your tunic?"
His eyes glinted in pleasure. "You are very predictable. Your pride would never allow you to take my clothing."
"Predictable, am I?" She drew herself up to her tallest. "Good, then you'll soon become bored and go torture some other unfortunate soul."
He only shook his head, untouched by her scorn. "Boredom is the one thing I cannot imagine existing between we two."
"More's the pity," she snapped. "Oh, and by the by, while you continue to wear my pin, you seem to have forgotten to give me one. Or a knife with which to cut my meat." There was no longer any banter in her words.
"God's truth, madam? Now, why ever would I have forgotten to give you these things?" he asked, his expression innocent and surprised. His fingers touched her pin on his mantle.
Nicola narrowed her eyes at his possessive gesture. Another taunt on his part. "I am at a loss. Why?"
His hand moved from the pin to his wounded shoulder as he grinned. "No doubt 'tis this ache of mine that has caused my absentmindedness."
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 82
