by Lynn Kurland
’Twas far easier than tampering with matters of life and death.
thirty-two
CHRISTOPHER SAT IN HIS GREAT CHAIR BEFORE THE hearth in his bedchamber with a cup of wine in his hands and stared pensively into the flames. Staring was, of course, a misnomer for what he was doing. He was looking blindly into the flames, as blindly as he did aught else in his life. Indeed, the whole of his life was nothing but darkness, though now it was a more complete darkness than usual. It had been so for a fortnight.
Since the day Gillian had left him.
He had planned to send her away. He had wanted her to go to someone who could care for her properly. He had sat on the floor in his tower chamber, too numb to even flinch at the stitches he had eventually allowed Jason to take in his flesh, and turned over in his mind a list of allies to whom he could send her. He knew he had sunk to new lows when he had seriously considered giving her to Kendrick of Artane, the womanizing whelp. Not that Kendrick wouldn’t have cared for her well. It was just the thought of anyone else, especially someone as flagrantly charming as Kendrick, touching Gillian’s soft skin that had made him grind his teeth in fury.
Christopher had passed a day or two in misery, not moving except to take care of the most pressing of needs. He’d had the presence of mind to wonder why Gillian hadn’t come seeking him, but he’d assumed she’d had the good sense to simply leave him be.
He had assumed incorrectly.
Jason had read him the letter Gillian had sent along soon after her flight, a letter full of apologies for having been the cause of his grief. She blamed herself for all the ills that had befallen him, from his inability to protect her from her sire, right down to his blindness itself.
Christopher cursed softly. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to fling his goblet against the wall as he might have another time. Even cursing was almost too much of an effort. What good would it do him anyway? It wouldn’t heal his eyes and his eyes alone were what could have made the difference. That truth resonated in his soul, shaking his very bones with the force of its vibrations.
If he’d been able to see, he would have cut Bernard of Warewick to ribbons. Slowly. Methodically. Likely with a bit of artistry, to pay the whoreson back for every moment of pain he’d caused Gillian over the years.
If he’d been able to see, he wouldn’t have let feelings of worthlessness distress him when Jason’s kin had departed. He would have ridden back to Artane with Robin to show Gillian the only true home he’d ever known. He wouldn’t have fled to his tower like a bastard son, shamed by what he could never be.
Aye, and if he’d been able to see, he would have likely come to his senses about Lina on his own and cast her far from him. He never would have been hurt, he never would have felt scorned. He never would have known how it felt to have a beautiful woman look at him and find him so terribly lacking. His pride would be intact, not hanging about him in shreds. Aye, he would have remained the proud, peerless warrior, sallying forth to tourneys across the whole of France and England merely for the sport of it. He would have multiplied his wealth again many times merely from the knights he would have held for ransom. He would have held a few barons and earls for ransom while he was at it.
If he could have seen them to best them.
And if he’d had his sight, he also would have been too stupid to realize what a beautiful soul Gillian of Warewick hid under her unruly curls and not-quite perfect face.
But he studiously ignored that thought.
The door opened softly behind him to his right and Wolf whined a low greeting. Christopher lifted his head.
“Colin?” he asked hopefully.
“Nay, my lord. ’Tis Jason.”
Christopher smiled grimly. “I should have known. A horrendous stench did not attend your entrance.”
He fell silent and listened to Jason seeing to his usual tasks of cleaning mail and putting away clothes. It must be morning again. Christopher hadn’t left his chamber in so long that he’d completely lost track of time.
“Fair weather or foul, lad?”
“A bit of a chill, my lord. It would seem the summer begins to wane already.”
So soon? Christopher shook his head in disbelief. Surely he couldn’t have passed an entire summer with Gillian already. Of course, much of that time he’d spent lazing in bed with her. It was understandable that the days had gone by without his having noticed them.
He ruthlessly pushed aside the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. Gillian’s name hadn’t been spoken since she left and he fully intended that it remain that way.
Now, Colin’s name was a different story. Christopher knew full well that Colin had gone with Gillian to keep her safe. It was somehow fitting. Gillian had tamed all of them and Colin was no exception. Christopher found it amusing how his fiercest of friends hovered over the lady of Blackmour like a nursemaid. Or he might have been amused, had he not been so hurt that Gillian had obviously found Colin’s companionship preferable to his. Aye, she had found him lacking indeed, despite her pretty apologies to the contrary.
“Any message from Colin?” Christopher asked, then marveled that the words had come from his mouth. It had been the very last question he’d intended to ask.
“Aye,” Jason said, sounding understandably hesitant.
Christopher froze. That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. He set his cup down carefully next to his chair.
“In truth?”
“Aye, my lord, two missives. Shall I read them to you?”
Christopher very carefully leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “Well, it isn’t as if I can bloody read them myself.” He gestured to the stool across from him. “Out with it, lad.”
Christopher heard Jason drag up the stool and sit, then listened while Jason unrolled the parchment.
“I daresay Lord Colin didn’t write this,” Jason said. “’Tis in a very fair hand. Why, I’ve no doubt the lady—”
“Content yourself with reading the words, Jason,” Christopher interrupted.
“Of course, my lord,” Jason said softly. “It reads: ‘Christopher, you blighted whoreson,’” Jason coughed, then continued, “‘send me stores! I’m freezing my arse off up here while you’re roasting your toes next to a cheery blaze. Wood, food and several bottles of wine would be well received. More to follow later.’” Jason cleared his throat. “To be sure, Lord Berkhamshire must have dictated that word by word. Surely the lady—”
“Indeed,” Christopher said shortly. He drummed his fingers on the wood of the chair. That Colin had sent word must mean Gillian hadn’t traveled far. But where were they?
Christopher chewed on his next words a good long time before he spat them out with as much haste as possible. “And where do you suppose the whoreson is keeping himself?”
Jason cleared his throat. “The Lord’s Hall. Or, more precisely, in a tent next to the Lord’s Hall. It would seem that the hall itself is being occupied . . . by . . . er—”
“I see,” Christopher said hastily, sparing Jason another tongue-lashing like the one he’d given his squire the first time the boy had said Gillian’s name in his presence. “Well, that is news indeed.”
“Would you care to hear the other missive now, my lord?”
Christopher waved him on. “’Tis unlikely it is any more offensive than the last.”
Jason unrolled the second letter. “‘Chris, I’m writing this myself as I can’t let on what I’m telling you. Damned stubborn woman you’ve wed, and no mistake. She’s fixed on the idea of killing her father to avenge you and won’t be trained in swordplay by anyone save Artane himself. I’m supposed to have sent for him, but haven’t yet. Thought you’d want to know what she’s about first. The wench has spine, I’ll give her that. I’ll keep her here until I’ve heard from you, what you want done and all that. Berkhamshire.’” Jason rerolled the missive. “Shall I fetch aught to reply with, my lord?”
Christopher shook his head. “
Not as yet, lad.” He rubbed his hands together, then flexed his fingers. “Best hand me the first one, Jason. No sense in having it be lost.”
“And the second?”
Christopher gave his squire what he hoped was a silence-inducing frown. Jason gulped and immediately pressed a scrap of rolled parchment into Christopher’s hands.
“There it is, my lord. The first one.”
Christopher waved toward the door. “I need nothing now. Hie yourself down to the kitchens and find something to eat. You sound hungry.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Christopher waited until Jason had gone before he leaned his head back against the chair. He ran his fingers over the parchment he held. It was something she’d touched, held, perhaps even wept over. Christopher dragged his sleeve across his eyes quickly. Saints above, ’twas simply a letter.
But it made him realize yet again just how much he missed her.
But Blackmour’s Folly! He rose suddenly and began to pace. Why, by all the saints, had she fled there? The one place she’d chosen was the least likely place he’d ever be able to manage. Even sighted, he would have been a fool to tread that path. It was the only reason his father had built the bloody place as a haven from his shrewish wife! It was safe from any siege, friendly or not. How Gillian had managed it was a mystery.
Christopher’s only faint satisfaction was the thought of Colin huddled on that pitiful bit of soil in a tent, shivering from the damp and from the continuous winds that buffeted the place. Death by ague would be a fitting end for the traitor.
His pacing took him to his window and he threw open the shutters. The chill wind off the water hit him full in the face. And if he felt it, Gillian felt it too. She would be cold. The girl’s feet and hands were particularly susceptible to the chill. He remembered how it felt to have her appendages seeking his warmth during the night. And once he had woken to warm her hands, well, there hadn’t been any reason not to warm the rest of her, had there? Christopher closed his eyes and let the memories wash over him.
Gillian under him with her body open to him, welcoming him with soft sighs and words of love. Gillian pushing him back onto the bed and loving him boldly, the heat from her cheeks telling him that she was blushing furiously. Sweet, gentle Gillian who had turned out to be a terrible tease, a sharp-tongued jester, a passionate lover. She had blossomed before his very sightless eyes. He had given her safety and she had given him her soul.
And then she had taken it away from him because she thought she was the cause of all his troubles.
Christopher pushed away from the window, blaming the chill of the wind for the tears coursing down his cheeks. If only he could see! Then Gillian would have no reason not to love him. She would never have any reason to leave him. And even if she might be so foolish as to think she had caused his woes, he could bloody well climb that treacherous path to the Lord’s Hall, jerk her to him and never let her from his arms again.
Christopher dragged his sleeve across his face again, then carefully set her missive down on his table. Then he left his bedchamber. His feet seemed to know exactly where they wanted to go, a place his mind wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
He didn’t believe in magic.
Bloody hell, he didn’t believe in witches either!
• • •
BERENGARIA WATCHED IN SURPRISE AS THE DRAGON LEFT his lair and walked purposefully across his inner bailey. In her mind’s eye, she saw him come through both gates, cross the heavy stone bridge, and stride through the village. She was so surprised that she hardly managed to scatter the obstacles from before him and lead his feet in the right direction.
Moments later a sharp rap sounded on the door. Magda answered it before Berengaria could stop her. And then Magda swooned, right into Nemain’s arms. A smile touched Berengaria’s lips at the sight of Nemain struggling to hold onto Magda and gape at the Dragon at the same time. It was a sight she was certain she would carry to her grave.
“I seek Berengaria,” the deep voice said curtly.
“Aye, m-my lord,” Nemain said, overcome.
Magda’s swoon ended conveniently and she regained her footing. “Of course, my lord!” she exclaimed, taking Christopher’s arm and pulling him inside. She waved her spoon about excitedly. “We’re so honored to have you visit us! Let me prepare something warm for you to drink.”
“Nay, I’ll do it,” Nemain broke in, pushing Magda aside. “You’ll burn it, little abbess.”
Magda turned and thwacked Nemain smartly on the hand with her spoon. “You stop calling me that!”
“I’ll stop it when you learn to prepare a decent love potion!”
“Enough,” Berengaria said, pushing Nemain and Magda both toward the door. “If you’ve a mind to give His Lordship something, give him peace and quiet. Go forage for herbs and do not come back until I call you.”
Protests were vociferous, but Berengaria prevailed. She shut the door on her two companions, then saw Christopher settled on the only chair in their hut. She drew up a stool and sat down before him. And for the first time in her life, she had a good look at Gillian’s fierce and intimidating husband.
He looked neither at the moment. His handsome face was drawn and haggard, as if he’d suffered much over the past fortnight. His hair hung into his blue eyes. His hands were clasped loosely between his knees and his shoulders were bowed. Berengaria’s heart broke at the sight. How she grieved for what this sweet lad had suffered in his lifetime.
She brushed away a tear or two and laid her age-spotted hand on his knee.
“My lord?”
He cleared his throat and lifted his head. “You are Berengaria? Gillian’s Berengaria?”
“Aye, my lord. That I am.”
Agony twisted his features. “Then I’ve come to ask a boon.” He shifted restively on his chair, as if he would have much preferred to be up and pacing.
“My lord,” she began, but he held up his hand.
“I beg you, allow me to finish.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve seen much in this world that I cannot explain. I always considered myself to be fairly learned. I could read and I knew my numbers well enough when I could see them. And I’ll tell you now that I’ve never had any use for witches.” He paused. “But that was before . . .”
“Before you lost your sight?” she finished softly.
“Aye.” He took her withered hand in both of his and clutched it. “I beg you,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll do anything, give anything. Just make me see again. It’s all I ask. I’ll give up all I have. All,” he repeated. Tears slipped down his cheeks. “None of it matters to me.”
Berengaria put her free hand over his. “For what reason, my lord?”
He swallowed hard. “For Gillian.” He bowed his head. “So she’ll have a husband who’s whole.”
Berengaria’s heart broke at the sight of such a proud man so bowed with grief. And she would have given anything, aye, everything she’d ever possessed or hoped to possess if she could have done what he’d asked of her.
But she couldn’t.
“My lord,” she began softly, “if I could . . .”
He lifted his head and looked in her direction. “Then you . . . cannot?”
“Nay, my lord,” she said, as softly as before. “God knows I wish I could. It is far beyond my art.”
“But the herbs you gave Gillian—”
“Crushed rose petals.”
Christopher’s sigh came straight from his soul. “Of course. In truth, I think I knew it all along.”
He started to rise, but she stopped him by holding onto his hands.
“There is something,” she offered.
He sat back down. “There is?”
Oh, the hope in his voice! Berengaria smiled through her tears.
“Aye, there is. ’Tis the magic of belief.”
A small smile touched his lips. “Lady, you speak to me as if I were a small lad, still swayed by tales told at bedtime.”
She smiled
in return. “Can you doubt the truth of it? You and I both know I gave Gillian nothing but simple herbs, but did she?”
“Nay. She believed it fully.”
“And because of her belief, she gained courage and beauty, did she not?”
“She was never ugly, lady.”
“In her mind she was.”
Christopher laughed, but it was without mirth. “And so you tell me if I believe it strongly enough, I’ll regain my sight?”
“I think, my lord, you know exactly what I mean.”
He sighed and looked heavenward. “If I believe she loves me then she truly will.”
“She loves you already. ’Twas your disbelief in that love that made you doubt her. And it was your disbelief in your own worth that finally drove her away. The thought you avoid most diligently is the heart of the matter, my lord. Had you had your sight, you never would have learned to love Gillian. You would have been wed still to Magdalina of Berkhamshire. The outer beauty of her face would have soon faded and left you with a woman whose inner ugliness would have driven you from your own home. Your life would have been a series of meaningless tourneys and travels on the continent merely to escape her. Your dissatisfaction would have grown until it hardened your heart into stone.”
Christopher swallowed, seemingly speechless.
“The Good Father above does not gift us useless blessings,” Berengaria continued. “The loss of your sight forced you to see with the eyes of your soul. It was with them that you saw Gillian and loved her. Think on the joy she has brought you! She will give you beautiful, strong children. Your life will be filled with true, stalwart friends who will be more than willing to be your eyes for you in return for the gift of yourself you’ve given them, a gift that cannot be measured by coin.
“When Jason leaves you to seek his own way, his uncles will send sons to be trained by you; then Jason will send his own sons. You will teach the lads more than swordplay, you will teach them to be men, to be grateful for what they have and take nothing for granted. And all along this course set out before you, you’ll have a sweet, gentle girl by your side, a woman-child who loves you more than she loves herself, who sees your blindness as a blessing, not a flaw. And she will only call you a fool if you do not go to her!”
