The soldier looked at his lady with a grin. "He'll lift you. Hold still or you could be hurt by mistake." He eyed the lane as if gauging distance, then moved Nicola into position. His hand on her shoulder kept her in place.
"What!" Nicola protested in disbelief at this foolhardy game her husband played. She could think of no worse death than being trampled beneath Witasse's iron-shod hooves. If fear filled her, pride would not let her run. Be damned if she'd let Gilliam or his man see her fear.
Gilliam extended an arm. Nicola squinted in her determination to survive this event. He leaned a little to the side and caught her around the waist. As her feet swung free of the earth, she dug her fingers into the links of his armor, clinging to his arm because her life depended on it. Even beneath his mail and padding, she could feel his muscles harden as he bore all her weight. An instant later, she sat sideways on his saddle. She latched her arms around his middle.
"Are you mad?" she hissed. "This beast of yours could have killed me."
All she could see of his face beneath his helmet and chain mail hood was his mouth. As always, his lips curved in a smile. "As long as you did not move, you were in no danger," he said with a brief shake of his head. "To Witasse, this was just another jousting exercise. Besides, I have decided you live a charmed life. You should have died in the fire, on my blade, in battle with those thieves, in the woods, and under Witasse's hooves. Since none of this happened, I am convinced you are indestructible."
She huffed in disbelief. "Well, do not do it again. I did not much care for the experience. How is it in Eilington? Did you find the girl?"
Gilliam's smile dimmed, and he slowed Witasse to a walk. The big steed protested with a momentary sidelong dance, then submitted. "We found her," he said quietly. "They were brutal, doing torture to her for the pure joy of hurting."
"She was dead?"
His jaw clenched. "She is now.
"Damn," he said quietly, then buried his reaction behind a smile. "So, how was your day, my lady? More pleasant than mine, I hope."
Nicola looked at him, understanding that his hurt over the girl's death went too deep to bear discussion just now. In an effort to protect him from his pain she threw herself into her complaint. "Not yet finished," she said. "Thomas is sending me bundles of willow withes, reeds, and rushes, all of which we need and all of which I have no place to put. Gilliam, I need that barn. You should have raised a hall, instead of cottages."
He tilted his head back a bit to peer down at her from beneath the arch of metal over his eyes. "There wasn't time to finish the hall before it grew too cold to lay mortar. Come spring, we'll begin building." The weight of knight and steed made the drawbridge spanning Ashby's ditch groan as they rode into the bailey.
"Mortar?" she replied in surprise. "You want a stone hall?"
"Aye, think on it, my sweet. With slate for a roof and stone all around us, we'll never again worry over fire eating up what is ours. Nor will we worry over an enemy trying to drive all of us to starve in that cramped keep tower. We'll sit, safe and secure, in our own house atop our own cellar."
As he reined in Witasse near the hall, Nicola looked up at him, stunned at his words. As Thomas said, here was a man with plans for the future. Building a stone house would bite into years of income, even with what they now earned from Eilington. But it was more than that. Our house, he had said. Our cellar. How easily Gilliam included her into his own path, creating theirs out of his.
"I won!" Jos screamed from atop his palfrey in the yard's center. He lifted his arms in triumph. Beneath a steel sewn leather hauberk, recently sent by Lord Coudray, the boy wore a thick woolen tunic and chausses equally as warm. Somewhere in the past month, he had forgotten to be sickly, so his cloak hood had fallen back during his ride. If his ears and nose were red with cold, his dark eyes were alive with delight.
"Do not let it go to your head, lad," Gilliam responded with a laugh. "I gave you nigh on a half-mile head start."
The grooms came running from the stable, armed with heavy leads and their best courage. Witasse only allowed his favorites to attach the leather straps and his affection could be fickle save for the love he gave his master.
With Gilliam's arm to brace her, Nicola slid to the ground. She flew out of range of the beast's hooves. As her husband dismounted, the huge steed turned his head toward the tall knight, his whickering nod a plea. Gilliam drew off his knitted steel gloves and fondled the horse's ears, whispering and talking to the massive beast as if it were a babe.
"You coddle him worse than you do Roia," Nicola called to her husband as the grooms led the horse to his paddock.
Gilliam wrenched off his helmet, pushing back his mail coif, then removing the leather cap he wore beneath it. "Aye," he replied as he ran a hand through his hair, "my heart is taken. I'm sorry that it could not have been you who won it. Alas, you have been usurped in my affections by a horse." His blue eyes gleamed as he gave his head a sad shake.
Nicola could have groaned. Why was she forever trying to match wits with him? All she ever ended up doing was feeding his ceaseless need to play. She made a face at him and entered the hall.
In the bailey, Gilliam said, "Come, Jos, since we're dressed for it, let's be off for the practice yard."
Even from inside the hall, she could hear the boy's groan. "My lord, you know how poor I am with a sword—" Jos caught himself. "I will try, my lord." There was grim, if hopeless, determination in the lad's voice. Nicola shook her head at his steady change. Jos had never had a chance against Gilliam's persistence. Each day he behaved more like a respectable boy.
Nicola paused to push an errant strand of hair out of her face with the back of a hand, then straightened. With these sacks moved out of the cellar's corner, there was just enough room to stack the bundles of osier branches. The reeds wanted drying before they could be stored.
She stepped back to see what she had accomplished. There was a slender bit of dark wood curving out from behind the sacks, its color startling against the white-washed wall. Nicola shoved her way back into the newly emptied corner to look, then cried out in pleased surprise.
Trapped between barrels and the wall was her father's crossbow, which had once been stored in her stillroom. She pushed and shoved the sacks far enough away from the wall to begin easing the bow out, and something else clattered to the floor. It was her practice sword, the one her father had given her when she was but eight. He had promised she would grow into it, and so she had.
Nicola stared in astonishment. How in God's name had these come to be here? Then, again, with the chaos that was Ashby before her return, she wondered why their presence here surprised her. Nothing had been where she expected.
She picked up the sword. The grip felt good in her hand, the blade's balance familiar. She and her father had sparred from time to time, and he had been proud of her ability to use the weapon. Eventually, he had grown too heavy and slow to be a challenge for her. She smiled a little at the memories and set the sword by the cellar's ladder, then came back to extract the bow.
When it was free, she ran her hands over its shining length, checking the bindings for rot. It took a special craftsman to fix a bow such as this. Only the string was loose. It was a two-footed bow, meaning a man braced both feet into the bow to draw its string into the catch. Although its range was limited, its accuracy was a thing to be reckoned with.
She had toyed with it only long enough to learn to shoot and hit a target, then set it aside. With all her other duties, there had been a limit to the amount of time she could dedicate to weapons, and the sword was her favorite. Her sword in one hand and the bow in the other, Nicola clambered up the ladder, meaning to restore the items to her stillroom where they belonged.
The day had grown into an unseasonable cold, making each breath sting her lungs. As she crossed the demesne, nearing the practice yard, she heard Jos's whine.
"Please my lord, you can see this is hopeless. I will never be able to strike with a sword, and
it’s awfully cold out here."
"Boy, do not complain. If you work hard enough, you'll be warm. Try again." Gilliam's voice was patient and calm.
"It’s hopeless," Jos whined again.
"You have only begun to learn. You cannot expect perfection when you've just started. No more excuses. Come Jos, lift that blade," Gilliam urged.
Nicola detoured to watch for a moment. The two stood in the center of a beaten square of earth. Jos now had his hood tucked tight around his ears. His cloak was buckled into his belt, and his nose was bright red. He clutched a short practice sword in one gloved hand and a round leather shield in the other.
Armed with an identical weapon and shield, Gilliam was bareheaded, having discarded his cloak along with his own sword and scabbard. With the thickness of his padded gambeson and his heavy woolen chausses, donned to protect his skin from the metal coat and stockings he wore, it was hardly surprising he had no concept of the chill.
Her husband extended his blade out before him. Jos squinted in concentration, lifted his sword for a sideways blow, and swung. Gilliam twisted his wrist to give the boy an extra sting as their weapons connected. There was a tiny clash of metal, and Jos fell back with a cry of dismay.
"My lord, it shivers in my hand when I hit your blade," Jos complained. "How am I to hold it when it leaps and bounces in my hand? It hurts."
"Nay, it cannot hurt you when you wear gloves, you twit. Besides, this is what you seek to learn. You must find the grip that allows the blade to vibrate as it will without causing you to lose your hold. Come, boy. Try again."
Jos once again prepared himself to strike. As he swung, Gilliam lifted his blade just enough so the boy missed. "You are supposed to strike my blade, not turn in circles," he chided with a laugh. "Keep your eyes open."
"My eyes were open. You moved your blade before I struck." Jos was panting, his breath misting before him. "Now hold it still." He swung. Again, Gilliam shifted the blade just a little, so Jos's blade took its edge in a tooth-jarring impact. The boy fell back in surprise.
Nicola grinned. "For shame, my lord," she called to Gilliam, "you are cheating."
Her husband instantly turned toward her, the strong planes of his face revealing a subtle pleasure. Where his gaze touched her face, her skin warmed. Thank the Lord she had hours filled with reasons to keep her distance from him. "I did not know you were watching us," he said with a quick laugh. "What are you carrying there?"
He set down his weapons and came striding to her, his eyes on the crossbow. Nicola damned herself. Too late to hide the one, but she swiftly moved her practice sword behind her back. Why had she even stopped to watch? "I found this old bow in the cellar while I was making room for the willow branches. I was taking it to be stored with the rest of the weapons," she lied.
"Hey now, this is a pretty thing." Gilliam took the crossbow, testing the trigger.
"It belonged to my father, given to him by the old king. I am glad it did not burn in the fire. It’s good to have something to remember him by," she said, ready to sacrifice the bow in order to keep the sword.
"Aye, that it is," he agreed, and pulled off a glove to run his hands over the wooden bow, then lifted the stock beneath his eye to check its aim. With his eye still sighted in the distance, he asked, "So, what story clings to the sword?"
His question startled her since she hadn't realized he'd seen it. "None that I know."
"God's truth, madam?" he asked with a lift of his brow. "Since the armory is in the opposite direction from where your toes point, your answer has me wondering."
Nicola shrugged in defeat then paused in surprise. The thought of Gilliam taking her weapon woke no anger at all within her. "It’s mine. My father gave it to me."
"So you have no further use for it, do you?" There was laughing skepticism in his voice. Only when he was done speaking did he lower the bow and glance at her. There was nothing for her to see in his expression save amusement.
"'It’s but an old practice sword. What use has a meek and mild housewife for such a thing?"
"Meek and mild?" he threw back. "You dare not call yourself that when I have seen the fruits of your skill?"
"My lord, I am so cold," Jos said, his teeth chattering. "Are we finished yet?'
Grateful for Jos's interruption, Nicola sought to return the favor. "You should let him go within, my lord. He has not capacity to generate heat, and 'tis an icy day."
"Now, why should we quit when we're having such fun?" He dropped his arm around the lad's shoulder. Jos stumbled under the weight of it.
"Fun? Only you would think standing in a chill wind swinging a sword would be fun," Nicola scoffed. "Poor Jos is miserable. Let him go to the kitchen and get himself a cup of warm broth." The prospect of food always seemed to move Gilliam.
Jos gazed hopefully up at Gilliam, his thin brows raised in question. Ashby's lord looked from the boy to Nicola. A slow grin spread across his face and woke in his eyes. "Since you plead for him, I'll let him go, but only if you bring that sword of yours and come spar with me."
"What?" Nicola cried in disbelief. "You must be mad to suggest such a thing. You are a knight and fully armed, whilst I have only wool to protect me from your blows. I am not even wearing gloves."
"What is this? Excuses? These I hear from Jos, I do not expect them from you. Since you have no gloves, neither shall I. What's a few blisters between friends, eh?" Gilliam tore off his other glove and tossed the pair aside, then retrieved his practice sword and shield.
The wind tossed Nicola's skirts and lifted her head scarf. Even as the desire to meet him sword to sword grew in her, she realized how idiotic the notion was. All she would earn was his disgust and scorn. "Why?"
Gilliam shrugged. "I would know how you did those men." There was nothing in his tone to indicate another motive.
"Oh well, if that is all, it’s an easy tale to tell. It was naught but good fortune coupled with my strong desire to live. Besides, they were but starving thieves while you are a knight, fully trained. There can be no comparison."
"Since you are so afraid of me, I promise you I will only defend myself against you, not strike out." There was amusement in his voice.
"Afraid of you, big man?" Her words dripped scorn, "I think not."
The memory of how easily he had disarmed her after her father's death rose within her. Then, she’d been overwrought by smoke and grief, else he'd not have done it so quickly. Now, her sword seemed to quiver in her hand as if it had a life of its own. The need to meet him and show him she was not as inept as he thought her overwhelmed her sense.
"Come Nicola," he goaded, his deep voice filled with teasing challenge, "show me what you know. Unless you wish me to think you incapable. We both know that’s an untruth, do we not?"
Nicola rolled her eyes at this ridiculous prod. It would serve him right to taste her skill. Aye, she could repay him just a little for all his taunts. She gazed at Gilliam. His eyes were alive with interest as he juggled the sword before him in what she presumed was invitation.
"My lady, please," Jos begged, "do what he asks. I am nigh on frozen, through and through. Please?" The boy wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, a little too violently to be credible.
"For you, then, Jos," she said, trying to hide her growing excitement over the match behind a casual voice.
Gilliam smiled broadly. "Jos, give Lady Nicola your shield and take yourself to the kitchen. Be swift in returning as this is but a pause in your lesson."
Nicola's brows rose, almost insulted by this. Did he truly think she would be so easily beaten? The urge to show him differently grew to tantalizing proportions.
Jos dropped his sword without a second thought and thrust the shield into her hand. "Thank you, my lady," he said in gratitude, then dashed for the kitchen.
She waited until he was out of sight, then loosened her mantle and threw it aside. Reaching for her skirt hems at either side of her, she tucked them into her belt.
"C
heat! I shall be distracted by the sight of your bared legs." Her husband laughed.
"Does that mean you will change your mind about this match?" she retorted. "This is how it must be, for I cannot spar with you if my skirts keep tangling around my ankles."
"I will suffer the distraction," he said, a brave hand over his heart. "Come now."
Nicola strode forward to meet him. When she stopped in front of him, he lifted his blade. "Ready?" he asked.
In response, she swiftly brought the sword up from her hips. Had he been a second slower, he'd have felt its blunt edge against his ribs. Gilliam's eyes widened in appreciation, then grinned and gave his blade a casual twist. The motion sent her stumbling back, but even before she'd caught her balance, her sword was moving.
Their blades met again and again in a rapid fire staccato. As he’d vowed, he played only a defensive game, working to simply deflect her attacks. That he so easily anticipated her movements spoke both to his speed and her own lack of practice. After a few moments her muscles began to warm, making her movements more fluid. Of a sudden, her body began to remember what she'd spent years teaching it.
Now Gilliam was striving to block her attacks. Dressed as he was in his heavy armor, she held the advantage in both speed and agility. She pinned him with four upward strikes using all her power, driving him back step by step. Through her concentration Nicola watched her husband; his smile never dimmed, although sweat beaded on his brow. When he caught her look, he lifted his brows to encourage her. She grinned broadly, dropped an overhand attack on him, then used his all-too-predictable backward thrust to turn her. She whirled, blade dropping, then coming up at him in an arc.
Gilliam stumbled back, having barely fended off the attack. "Jesu," he breathed in surprise. "I just saw my life pass before me."
She opened her mouth to retort, but he had discarded defense and was coming for her, sword raised for an overhand blow. Armed with the power of his shoulders, this was the only blow of his against which she had no defense. Nicola dropped, rolled to the side and leapt out of his reach even as her husband's sword cleaved through open air.
The Seasons Series; Five Books for the Price of Three Page 88
