"What are you doing?" she breathed in hoarse protest when her breast responded to his touch. She should be fighting him, not lying here like a spider's victim, bound tight in a web of sensation.
"Driving myself mad with wanting you," he whispered in her ear, then rolled onto his back to stare at the cloth ceiling above them. His eyes closed after a moment, and he drew a long unsteady breath. "You said me nay. Hurry Nicola, else I'll reach for you again. I cannot promise I will listen to your nays if you stay."
With a sharp cry of dismay, Nicola threw herself off the bed. What was wrong with her? Roia leapt to her feet with a deep bark, and Jos cried out in startled awakening. She snatched all the bits of her attire, then threw open the door to race blindly down the stairs.
Nicola stopped at the cellar's tall wall, yet trembling in reaction. Jesus God, what had happened to her need to keep her body as her own? Closing her eyes, she realized that now even her body would betray her. Aye, a goodly portion of her was still eager to know more of him, begging her to let him touch her once again.
She leaned her forehead against the cold stones and fought to find her anger. What sort of daughter panted after the man who had ended her father's life? The harsh chastisement had no effect. Her body still pulsed and throbbed in a most disturbing way.
Never before had any man looked at her the way men looked at Tilda. Those who came to sue for her hand had only wanted Ashby. But Gilliam already had Ashby. Not only that, he was a man who could have any woman he desired. Yet he said he was driving himself mad for want of her. Her!
Pride scolded her for this foolish thought. This could only be another of his terrible games. No man wanted the ugly giantess of Ashby. The anger she sought returned. As she used it to destroy this ridiculous weakness she was developing over him, she cinched her belt tight around her waist. Let this morn's event stand as a lesson to never again try to repay his taunts with one of her own. Nicola found her comb in her purse before tying on her head cloth. She would have to be constantly on her guard if she was to keep herself from becoming vulnerable to him.
Striding swiftly to the hall, she let the morn's deep chill drive away what remained of the heat he awoke in her. At the door, she called, " 'Wyna, bring me a bit of bread and cheese and come with me. We have sausages to make. Bring a cloth as well, for I need to do my washing in the kitchen shed." She did not wait, instead retreated to the kitchen and began rebuilding her defenses.
“Alice," Nicola said, "your time is too close. The babe already sits right atop the doorway. See
how low you carry him?" She touched the top of Alice's great bulge, which had lowered substantially in the last days. "If the babe has not come before tomorrow midday, you should stay at home."
Ashby's manor and its lord hosted an ale, a dinner for the villagers, three times a year. In spring it was to celebrate planting, and there was one to mark midsummer, but what with this year's tangle of events, the summer feast had been forgotten. The final ale was usually held on Martinmas in honor of the plowmen. It, too, had been disregarded because Ashby could not provide the meal just then, but Nicola did not wish to miss the celebration altogether. Thus, she had reset the date for December's first day.
"My lady, every other soul in the village will be in your hall tomorrow," the commoner protested, brushing the remains of the bread and stew they'd shared onto the floor for the chickens. "What if this wee child of mine decides to come after the meal has started? I would have to trundle to the hall by myself, shouting for you to come." Alice laughed gently at that image and handed her lady the rinsed cups.
Nicola stepped around the fire and set them on the hearth wall's shelf. As tall as she was, she had to duck beneath the hams and slabs of bacon hanging from the cross beam. "The music and dancing may serve you ill.”
"I am hardly going to dance," Alice said with another laugh, then paused and caught her lady by the arm. "Now, why is it you worry so over me? It’s not birthing that has given me difficulty, only keeping the babes until that time. Why, when Edwin was born, it took me but a few hours to produce him. I remember Agnes remarking on how easy his coming was." In her first pregnancy, the one that secured her marriage, Alice had brought forth a boy-child. The lad had died of illness the year after his birth.
Nicola gave a small shrug. She yet clung to the delivery of Alice's child as the event that would release her from the burden of Ashby's destruction. " It’s but a little foolishness on my part. When I left Ashby, my home was naught but a ruin. I returned to find it half rebuilt and you at long last successful in carrying a child past the first months."
"Aye, Margery said that you called it an omen," the woman said with a smile. "That's a heavy responsibility for one so simple as me to bear. Still, I will do my best to give you your sign." Alice settled onto the stool before her own hearth, knees spread wide to accommodate her heavy belly. She reached for a partially woven basket and set it upon her knee, her swollen fingers already finding the familiar rhythm of plaiting. "The babe and I will be fine. Until the morrow, my lady."
"Until the morrow, then," Nicola offered with a smile, but her worry refused to be eased. Birthing could be dangerous and she more than Alice needed this child's arrival to go well.
As Gilliam had again been called to Eilington—the carpenter's daughter had gone missing—it was Walter who guarded her this day. She signaled to the soldier that they were ready to leave. The man, his plain face caught in lines of boredom, preceded her out of the cottage for safety's sake. She followed, shutting the panel behind her.
This day found the world trapped beneath a deep and silent blanket of clouds. The air stung her nose, promising sleet or possibly an early snow. Nicola had traded her coarse wimple for a scarf of thick wool to protect her from the day's deep chill.
"So, you drew the short straw this day, eh, Walter?" Nicola hid her laugh at his startled look. It was a source of great amusement to her to know she was the bane of these soldiers. They complained to Gilliam that she worked them too hard and made them participate in menial chores.
"Pardon, my lady. You shouldn’t know about that," he said in embarrassment.
"You can ease the sting by talking to me of these thieves as we walk to the reeve's house," she offered. "Tell me why my husband is so convinced it’s our neighbor who does these deeds." She crossed her arms tightly beneath her mantle, starting down the lane toward the outskirts of the village and her last stop of the day.
"I think me it’s the care with which these events happen. Thieves count on their speed and their ability to elude their pursuers, not taking time to obliterate their tracks as these do."
Nicola made a face, accepting the logic of his words against her desire to do otherwise. "Still, it might be thieves, just a different sort."
"Aye, it might be," Walter agreed. "That’s just the issue. There’s never a sign left that says it is or is not Lord Ocslade who does these things "
They stopped before the wooden door in the long house. The low of oxen came from the ell at the building's far end, the warmth these animals provided almost as valuable as the beasts themselves.
It had taken all her strength to work up the nerve to make this call. Nicola had not been able to face the reeve since that first attack, but Thomas's absence from the table this day coupled with the day’s cold weather told her that his hips must be aching so badly he could not walk. She reached into her pack to touch the wax-sealed jar of rub and found herself praying the stuff could do more than ease physical pain. If Thomas did blame her for the village's latest troubles, perhaps the balm could soothe his anger. She lifted her arm, hesitated, than rapped sharply on the panel.
Rather than their serving girl Thomas's daughter-by-marriage opened the door. "My lady, what a surprise." Johanna was a fresh-faced lass with bright eyes, and no more than a year Nicola's senior. She'd done well in her marriage to Young Thom, turning a middling farmer's daughter into a leading village wife. So too, had she benefited from Agnes's death, becoming th
e mistress of the house years before she might otherwise have held that position. Her son, delivered just before their wedding two years ago, clung to his mother's skirts.
"Is Old Thomas in?" Nicola asked shyly.
"Aye, he's been laid low by this cold. Come in, my lady, come in."
Nicola shook as much mud from her shoes as she could before stepping inside. Several chickens darted within doors as she entered. "My thanks, Johanna. Can my man here sit by your fire whilst I visit?"
"Of course, my lady." To Walter, Johanna said, "Take a seat by the fire. Would you care for a cup of ale and a bite of bread?"
"Aye, I would. Thank you, goodwife," Walter replied with a smile for the pretty girl. He shut the door softly behind him and the room retreated into deep shadows, save where the fire's light reached. The air inside was heavy with the smell of animals and smoke, flavored with the scent of curing meats and of beans stewing in the large iron pot hanging over the fire.
Johanna set her son on a stool then took a lamp bowl from a shelf at the back wall. With a burning twig from the fire, she lit the wick. Grabbing up a stool from a corner she started toward the back of the room. Nicola followed, looking around her with interest.
Thomas had rebuilt his house without much change from its original design. As with every other cottage, the hearth wall was filled with shelves. Some of these held cups and spoons, others bore small pots and knifes. Precious iron-bladed tools hung on pegs, wooden handles shining with a recent oiling. Bags of grains, nuts, and dried fruit were stacked alongside barrels of cider and ale. Johanna had left her spindle and distaff leaning against one such stack when she answered Nicola's knock. The housewife was turning hemp nettle into thread.
A new loft now reached out from the back wall, held up by thick posts, the only access a ladder. Since Old Thomas could never have climbed the rungs, Nicola assumed the upper floor was where Johanna slept with her Thomas.
"Father," the girl called out, "our lady has come to visit with you." Johanna set the stool down just beneath the loft's edge. Her lamp went onto the room's only chest. The meager light illuminated a thick pallet covered deep in blankets.
Thomas gave a startled grunt, as if awakening. The straw in his pallet rustled as he moved. "Has she now?" His tone was surprised.
With a groan and much shifting, the burly man brought himself into a sitting position. The lamp's light revealed little more than the curve of his cheeks and the redness in his beard before it threw flickering shadows onto his thick, bare chest. Johanna handed him his tunic from a hook on one post. As Thomas shrugged into his garment, Nicola sat upon the stool and Johanna retreated to the fire. The silence between the noblewoman and the reeve lengthened into discomfort.
"My lady, 'tis good of you to come visit an old man." It was a formal and polite statement, not at all his usual manner with her.
"My lady, is it now, Thomas?" Nicola chided softly. "What happened to Colette?"
A slow smile spread across the man's mouth, his remaining teeth gleaming in the low light. "Then you've forgiven me for trespassing into your life, have you? I had no right to scold you that day. I thought you were avoiding me for hatred's sake."
"Oh Thomas," her cry was low, but full of pain, "I've been avoiding you because of my shame, not your words. My lord thinks it’s de Ocslade behind these incidents of thievery we’ve suffered. If that’s true, I will have betrayed you and Ashby twice. It’s bad enough I caused Agnes's death, now this. How can you ever forgive me?"
"Ah lass, have you been tormenting yourself, then?” The man rubbed a weary hand over his face. "Let’s begin at the beginning, with my Aggie's death. If I had listened to my wise wife that June morn, we'd have stayed home and dined at our own fire. She warned me you meant to snap the gates shut to try your skill, but I would not heed her. Nay, I was stubbornly set on preserving my own status, and a reeve always eats in his lord's hall. Now tell me, who holds his wife's death in his hands?” He tried for a light tone, but there was sadness in his voice.
Nicola looked up in surprise. "You blame yourself?"
"Blame? Nay, but I hold myself accountable to God for my foolish pride. I do my penance and pray for forgiveness. Where's the point in blaming when Agnes remains just as dead no matter who did what? As for Lord Ocslade, how long has that nobleman been after Ashby, Colette?"
Nicola straightened on her stool. "Since my brother's death when I became heiress." Even at twelve, she had been taller than Ashby's neighbor.
"If he’s been set on owning Ashby for years, how then does it become your fault now? If it is he who does these things, then I think it more likely he seeks to discover what sort of man lurks beneath the youthful exterior of our new lord. Were Lord Ashby easily intimidated, Lord Ocslade would have gobbled us up already."
"Would that this was true," Nicola said, hearing but not certain if she believed.
"Who can say? I do not much care to waste my time on trying to fathom the thought processes of noblemen. Taken as a whole, I find they make no sense." His eyes gleamed from their deep sockets as he smiled, then dimmed. "I can only hope that little whore of mine is not helping Lord Ocsalde to hurt us."
He reached out to lay his rough palm against Nicola's cheek. "Where you can only hurt me, Colette, my Tilda's betrayal could kill me."
"Nay," Nicola said instantly. "She would never betray her home."
She paused. Why not? Tilda had meant to betray her to Hugh.
"This is where her heart is," Nicola said with more confidence than she felt. "When Tilda has had enough of de Ocslade, she’ll come home." Oddly, she found herself wishing Tilda would never return. How could they ever mend what they had destroyed between them?
"Would that she does not." If Thomas's words were hard, his tone was broken.
"You would turn your back on your own daughter? Thomas, you cannot." Her cry was as much a plea for herself as for Tilda.
"Colette, I cannot look at my daughter without spewing harsh and hateful words. She is my shame. Although she has dowry aplenty there's not a decent lad within the village who would have her. Those she's wounded want her naught, and those she's not yet touched will not go where others have been."
He freed a scornful laugh. "Save Muriel's son. The boy's a good enough farmer even at sixteen, but it would gall me to pay merchet to wed my daughter where there was no dower."
"Nor would Tilda like living with Mad Muriel in that hovel," Nicola murmured. The woman was the poorest in the village, her young son barely keeping life and limb together from their garden and few strips of land, coupled with what he earned when he hired out. "Mayhap, this would be Tilda’s penance for using so many men," she added softly.
"Mayhap." Thomas's wide mouth lifted into a bitter smile. "You do your penance, too, do you not?"
"Aye, prayer after tedious prayer," Nicola said with a small smile. "Just when I think I've come to the end, Father Reynard finds me another sin to bow over."
"Nay, I meant by this marriage of yours. It must gall you right smartly to be wed to the man who took down your walls and ravaged your hall."
"Do you know I've been so busy doing a whole season's worth of work in one month, I haven't had time to even think about that?" Nicola leaned back on the stool, her hands laced over her knees. "Aye, with days that stretch from dawn to well past the midnight hour, I am too exhausted to care who shares my bed at night." Save that Gilliam was wondrously warm and never failed to use his hands to ease her stiff and aching back.
"Is that so?" The low light found Thomas's deeply set eyes and made them glimmer oddly. His strange tone made Nicola nervous. She opened her pack to find the jar.
"Thomas, I came not only to speak with you, but to bring you a rub. When I did not see you in the hall this day, I guessed the cold had made your pain worse."
"Ah, you are a saint, Colette," the man said with a broad grin. "These hips are so bad that I could not join the folk gathering osiers and reeds for you this day."
"Augh!" Nicola exc
laimed, heels of her hands pressed against her forehead. "More things to be sorted, and me with no place to put them nor time to shift things. I had to store bags of shelled nuts atop a shed roof, covered with a greased cloth to protect them from the damp, for lack of another spot? I need that barn!"
"Poor babe," Thomas crooned. "Best you be dashing home, then. The bundles will be in your yard come nightfall."
"My thanks for your pity," Nicola said with mock sarcasm, then leaned forward to press her lips against the man's leathery cheek. "Be well enough to come to the ale, Thomas. I would see you dance and laugh. Until the morrow."
"Until the morrow, Colette," he said in fond farewell.
With her heart easier than it had been in a month's time, Nicola left the reeve's house with a spring in her step. She and Walter made their way back along the deeply rutted lane that led to Ashby's gate.
From behind them came the pounding of hooves. "Make way!" Jos's voice rang against house and sky. Nicola and Walter leapt out of the track. His chunky pony tore past them, mouth open and hooves flying as if the devil were after it. Nicola looked back along the lane to the road.
Because it was.
Witasse's dark coat was visible against the faded brown of the hills through which the road cut. Ashby's lord turned his mount off the road and onto the lane. Nicola and Walter moved well aside to watch.
It was an awesome sight, the huge black beast galloping toward them, head straining forward and mane flying, Gilliam in the saddle, fully armed with a maroon surcoat atop his mail, his cloak flying out behind him in careless disregard for the cold. Even in the day’s gray light his mail shone like silver.
When her husband saw her, he raised an arm in greeting, then set his knees to Witasse's sides. The horse's gait changed and slowed.
"Walter, I'm coming for her. Do not let her run." Gilliam's shout echoed in the clouds.
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 87
