by Lynn Kurland
Christopher held up his hands in surrender and a small, nervous laugh escaped him. “I vow you’ve convinced me. Pray, lady, do not draw your blade!”
Berengaria loosened her hold on Christopher’s hands when she realized she was nigh to drawing blood. She patted his hands in apology and smiled.
“I do tend to the passionate at times, lad.”
Christopher leaned back against his chair and folded his arms over his chest, cocking his head to one side as if he listened intently.
“Are you a witch? In truth?”
“In truth?” she said with a smile. “In truth, I have a few gifts, a handful of which aid me when I need them to.”
“And those would be?”
“The Sight,” Berengaria said softly, not wanting to grieve him.
“That must serve you well,” he replied, just as softly.
Berengaria smiled. “We live in perilous times, my lord. Marauding knights take what they want for their own, when they want it and the cost to others be damned. For myself, I can only say I’ve never been caught with my kettle still on.”
Christopher laughed softly. “Indeed, lady. Then I’m pleased your Sight has served you so well. Now, what other gifts does a full-fledged witch possess in these perilous times? I’ve often wondered. Perhaps I could borrow a few to add to my own reputation.”
Berengaria wished Christopher could see her smile. What a gentle creature this dragon was under all his fire and smoke. Gillian could not have been blessed with a finer man.
“I fear my gifts may not serve your reputation, my lord. I have a knowledge of herb lore. Also of midwifery. Though she knows it not, I brought your lady into the world.”
“And a fine job you did indeed, mistress.”
“I tend to believe such,” Berengaria said modestly.
Christopher sighed and dragged his hands through his hair. Then he gave her a weary smile. “What does your Sight tell you at present? Other than the fact that your two companions are fair to falling through the wall in their effort to hear what we are saying?”
Two gasps and a shuddering of the unstable wall lent credibility to Christopher’s words. Berengaria laughed.
“You are more observant than I, my lord. What my Sight tells me is that you’ll have need of a midwife soon enough and I would hope you would remember where you could find one.”
Christopher smiled. “You are a witch in truth then, lady, for I had considered procuring a nurse or two for my future children.”
“Three!” a voice called from without. “A nurse or three!”
“Three, then,” Christopher agreed. Then he stopped short. “How soon will I need you?”
“Within the half year, I should expect.”
Christopher paled. “You jest.”
Berengaria patted his knee and rose. “Hurry off to the keep, my lord. We’ll be there when you need us.”
Christopher rose, looking dazed. He left their modest hut, looking none too steady on his feet.
Berengaria watched him go, scattering obstacles out of his way and leading his feet in the right direction. She smiled to herself. Perhaps not giving him a full list of her talents had been a good thing.
She struggled to keep her feet as Magda and Nemain rushed past her into the hut. She stared into nothing and watched Christopher enter his hall. Already his step was more confident and his shoulders squared. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the noise Magda and Nemain were making.
“I say we fashion him a potion in gratitude!” Magda exclaimed joyfully. “I’ll put something on right away.”
“Lucifer’s nose, Magda, we must pack!” Nemain exclaimed. “I can’t gather my things if you’re puttering about amongst my pots. Now, leave off, novice, and let me be about my work. Lord Blackmour will be having guests for the birth, perhaps again from the north. I may be replenishing my thumb-bone sooner than I’d hoped!”
Berengaria stepped outside for peace. She cast her gaze to the future, praying she might see something to aid Christopher.
She saw nothing. She struggled to brush aside the darkness that hovered over coming events like a heavy fog.
It was useless. Either her gift had departed, or the future was too uncertain to be seen. For the first time, she understood a bit of Christopher’s frustration.
And she prayed the darkness was just her own failing.
thirty-three
GILLIAN SAT ON A BOULDER AND STARED DOWN THE PATH that led up the steep side of the cliff from the shore. Every time she looked at it, she marveled anew that she had managed the climb. But managed it she had, partly thanks to Colin’s having pulled her halfway up the incline behind him. Once at the top, the last thing she’d wanted to do was try to get back down. At least the steepness of the way reassured her that her father wouldn’t come seeking her. It was a comfort knowing she had safety enough to prepare to meet him.
Her ascent had been accomplished nigh onto three weeks ago. Now she sat, stranded on a bit of land that was separated from the rest of England just as Blackmour was. Safe though she might have been, she’d never felt more alone in her life.
She looked out pensively over the ocean. She forced herself to look straight forward and not to her right. To her right, Blackmour hovered out over the sea like a huge beast of prey Gillian half wondered if any of the fish in the ocean dared approach. She certainly wouldn’t have, in their place. Blackmour was every bit as harsh and intimidating a keep as it had seemed the first time she’d seen it. Only she knew the warmth that waited within.
Had waited within, rather. The warmth would be gone now, but at least he would be at peace. And in a few months, she would deliver his babe and that would perhaps please him. At first, she’d thought to merely send the child to the keep and remain at the Lord’s Hall. Now she knew she couldn’t let her child go. It was the only part of Christopher that remained to her.
Though keeping the child might still be in question. She’d missed her monthly courses but twice. She might have suspected nothing except that she was so violently ill at the mere smell of food.
She shifted at the thought. She might have shifted more easily, but Colin had piled every fur and blanket available around her, as if he expected her to die from a chill at any moment. She wore them all to humor him. It was easier than fighting him.
“Gillian,” Colin boomed from behind her. “It grows chilly.”
“True enough, my lord,” she called back over her shoulder.
His grunt of displeasure almost made her smile. It was no wonder Christopher kept Colin about the hall. Baiting him was good sport.
“I said it grows cold,” Colin said from directly behind her. “’Tis well past time you were inside.”
“Go away, Colin. There is nothing to do inside.”
“There is nothing to do outside.”
“I can stare at the water out here.”
“You can stare at the fire in there.”
“Colin, you’re a pest.”
Without warning, he plucked her up, furs, blankets and all, and carried her inside the large, stone hall. Gillian sighed and surrendered. If she did what Colin asked, he would cease bothering her.
He deposited her in a chair by the hearth and sat down across a chessboard from her. Gillian rolled her eyes.
“I don’t want—”
“Chris enjoys a fine game of chess. ’Tis past time you learned to play.”
“I don’t like chess.”
“I don’t give a pig’s arse what you like.”
Gillian looked at him so long, silently, that he started to squirm. Then she spoke.
“I’ll hardly have the chance to play with him, Colin.”
“You don’t know that,” Colin said gruffly.
“I do know that. He would never come for me, and I surely don’t expect him to.”
“He’ll be here,” Colin said stubbornly, “when the time has come for it.”
Gillian looked away. “Not that it matters. Robin will arrive soo
n; then I’ll begin my training. ’Tis hard to believe it has taken him this long, but I’ll be patient a bit longer. After all, he is an important lord with many things to see to.”
Colin coughed. “Indeed.”
Something in his voice caught her attention. She fixed him with her most piercing stare. “You sent the message to Artane.”
He squirmed. “Aye, I sent a message or two.”
She threw off the furs and blankets. “There was the one I wrote for you to Christopher,” she said, counting on her fingers, “then two or three more by your own hand.” She felt unease begin to build in her. “Surely one of those was to Lord Robin.”
Colin frowned fiercely and remained silent.
“Colin!” she exclaimed. “You vowed you sent it!”
“What I vowed,” he muttered, “was to save my own sweet neck and even you will have to admit that it’d be the first thing I’d find severed if Christopher thought I’d actually done such a thing.”
“But I have to be trained!”
“What you have to do is wait for Christopher to see to Warewick,” Colin threw back. “’Tis his right to repay your sire for what he’s done and I’ll not rob him of the sport.”
Gillian jumped to her feet. “But my father will kill him!”
“Sit, child. Your sire will do nothing of the sort.”
“You’ve no idea what the man will do.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Very well, then, my lord Berkhamshire, I’ll go myself.”
“You will go nowhere.”
“Aye, I will. ’Tis obvious I cannot trust you to do as you’ve promised.”
She pushed her chair back from the chessboard and cast Colin a displeased glare. Saints, but the past three weeks had been wasted! She could have been to Artane and well on her way to being trained by now.
She pulled her cloak off the back of her chair and drew it around her shoulders. The climb to the shore was still possible that day. Indeed, she could be to the shore and halfway to Blackmour by noon.
“You cannot go,” Colin said.
Gillian ignored him. She would have to have a horse, obviously. Christopher had several in his stables. She would choose what looked to be the fastest mount, then be on her way to Artane before sunset. At least she had a few training herbs left her. She’d saved them against the time Robin would come. She would need double the amount now, for she had half the time in which to perfect her skill.
“But where did I leave them?” she muttered to herself.
Colin cleared his throat. “You cannot go.”
Gillian fixed him with a steely look. “And why not?”
He looked at her for several moments in silence, his face turning redder by the heartbeat.
“Because ’twill hurt the babe,” he said finally, in a strangled voice.
Gillian froze. “The babe?”
“Aye, the babe.”
She clutched the back of the chair. “How did you know?”
“You puke up everything I cook for you,” Colin said, sounding rather irritated over the fact. “I daresay you aren’t doing it out of worry over me freezing my sorry arse off outside.”
Gillian felt the floor become unsteady beneath her. She leaned heavily against the chair. Saints above, she hadn’t considered harm to the babe. Even if she trained until her skill was matchless, she might still lose. How could she put her child in that kind of danger?
She sank down into her chair.
“I fear you’re right,” she whispered.
“I daresay I am.”
Gillian felt tears begin and she looked up at the ceiling in an effort to stop them from slipping down her cheeks.
“I wanted to see Christopher avenged,” she said, blinking hard. “I have failed him even in that simple thing.”
“You’ve failed him in no way, lady. You’ll bear him a strong son.”
She shook her head. “Somehow it doesn’t seem enough.”
“’Tis a far better work than killing.”
“But my sire—”
“If you wish to spite your father, think on what bearing Christopher a son will mean. The child will inherit all of Warewick and Blackmour both.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted.
“I’m certain your sire has.”
Gillian nodded. He no doubt had. For all she knew, her sire suspected she was with child.
“I wonder,” she mused, “if Berengaria has an herb for the bearing of a healthy babe.”
“I’ve no doubt she has anything a maid might imagine she needs,” Colin said.
Gillian looked at him and found herself smiling. “Think you?”
“Aye,” he said. “Saints above, but I’ve never seen so many pots in one hut before in my life!”
Gillian leaned back against her chair and smiled. “And you would know, my lord, as you’ve spent ample time peering at them.”
“Sshh,” Colin whispered, casting her an irritated glance. “It isn’t as if I wish everyone to know!”
Gillian shook her head, amused. The saints only knew what Colin had ingested on his various and sundry trips to Berengaria’s hut over the past three weeks. Whatever brew he’d drunk didn’t seem to have harmed him. Perhaps he’d partaken of a few herbs of wisdom along the way. Though she hardly agreed with his methods of keeping her at Blackmour’s Folly, she couldn’t disagree with the results.
“I suppose you’re right about this,” she admitted.
“Aye,” he agreed. “I am.”
“I don’t care overmuch for your deception.”
“Were you ready to listen to reason a fortnight ago?” he asked.
She paused, then shook her head. “I daresay I wasn’t.”
“Then perhaps my deception served its purpose.”
Gillian sighed and looked into the hearth. The fire was warm, but it failed to soothe her. Giving up her vengeance was not an easy thing. She’d lain awake nights plotting it, praying the doing of the deed might ease Christopher’s pain. And now to turn away from it?
She sighed. It was the better choice. She could use her strength to fashion a healthy babe. It was something that required nothing but her own humble skills. It certainly was a better work than killing. Her sire would likely meet his end on the end of someone’s sword eventually. It didn’t have to be hers.
“The saints only know what my father will do once he’s back to himself,” she said quietly.
“Well,” Colin said, “I’ve a good idea of what you’ll do and that will be to stay here until Chris comes to fetch you. And while you’re here, you’ll learn to play chess.”
“But I don’t want—”
“You’re as stubborn and irritating as your lord, Gillian. You deserve each other. You’ll drive each other daft in short order and I mean to be there to watch. Now, we’ll discuss again the pieces and their purposes. You’ll never best Chris unless you listen to me.”
“Colin . . .”
“For every time you win, I’ll let you sit outside.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “I’ll go outside when I please anyway.”
Colin lifted one eyebrow and smiled a very dangerous smile. “Is that so? Perhaps you forget who sits across from you.”
Half a year ago, Gillian would have been sweating with terror. Now she only laughed. And she was so surprised by her courage that she laughed again.
“Aye, I know well enough. The fiercesome Colin of Berkhamshire whose underbelly is softer than my dragon’s. I do not fear you.”
“Warren!” Colin barked at one of his men, who jumped to his feet immediately and rushed to Colin’s side.
“Aye, my lord!”
“What did I do to the last lad who said he didn’t fear me?”
The blood drained from the man’s face. “My lord, I beseech you not to make me say. I’m still having foul dreams on account of it.”
Colin waved the man away and he went gladly to join his fellows on the other side of the small hall. Colin looked
back to Gillian and raised one eyebrow arrogantly.
“Well?”
“Would it soothe you more if my teeth chattered, or shall I burst into tears?”
Colin looked at her from under his eyebrows. “Saints, Gillian, I do believe those herbs worked in truth. Even Chris trembles just a bit when I turn fierce. And here you sit with me without so much as batting an eyelash.”
Gillian’s smile faded. “He doesn’t fear you either. He loves you dearly.”
Colin scowled and coughed gruffly a time or two. “He loves you more. Now, to the game before all this talk irritates me. My men will weep if I truly become angry.”
Gillian nodded and let Colin distract her. It was certainly easier than letting her thoughts wander, especially since they always chose to wander back to Christopher. She pulled one of the knights off the board and fingered it, trying to pay attention to Colin’s explanation of its purpose. Gillian knew very well what a knight’s purpose was for she had one at home that she was very much in love with; only he certainly wasn’t made of carved wood.
What was Christopher doing? Could it be possible he was thinking of her, or had he forgotten her the moment she’d left?
“Gillian, pay attention.”
Gillian gave Colin a weary smile and struggled to do as he asked.
• • •
CHRISTOPHER FINGERED THE DULL EDGE OF THE WOODEN SWORD. He smiled in spite of himself. It had been years since he’d held the like. He’d had his own when he was a child, of course, but his sire had never stirred himself to demonstrate the use of it. Nay, those weren’t the memories that made Christopher smile. It was thinking of the first time he’d put one in Jason of Artane’s pudgy three-year-old’s hands. Jason had waved the sword about, in ecstasies of delight, only to turn and wallop Robin squarely in the—well, in a most tender spot. Robin had doubled over with a gasp and Jason had fled around to the back of Christopher’s legs. Christopher had found himself being used as a shield by both Jason and his instrument of torture. At ten-and-nine, Christopher had well understood Robin’s discomfort, but he’d indulged in hearty laughter once Robin had limped off to recover. Saints, what a memory!
