In the instant of silence following her cry, the abbot turned a vicious brown gaze on her, while Lord Rannulf's eyes were steel. Nicola died a thousand deaths, all hope of escape slaughtered by her wayward tongue. They would bind and gag her for certain. When the pressure of her intended's hand on her arm urged her slightly nearer to him, she did not resist. Instead, the strength of his chest at her back was almost welcome.
"Did you think he was your champion?' FitzHenry murmured. "More fool you. All he wants is a slice of the power that belongs to my brother. He cares nothing for what it costs you or me." His bitter words offered more understanding of her helplessness than all the abbot's empty prattling of yesterday.
The courtyard behind her exploded in screams, punctuated by the clattering of hooves against cobbles; Nicola turned. Three knights, dressed in chain mail with swords belted over their green surcoats, plowed steaming mounts through the frantic crowd. Hugh de Ocslade and his much larger nephews drew their steeds to a heaving, dancing halt before the porch steps. She smiled in relief and certain triumph.
"Say no more," the older nobleman called up to the abbot. "She is my betrothed."
"This is not possible," Lord Rannulf shouted in angry disbelief.
"'Would appear you are mistaken," the churchman said, his tone superior and snide.
Behind her, FitzHenry drew a ragged breath. "Nay," he whispered. "There is no contract."
Hugh de Ocslade dismounted, his nephews choosing to retain their seats, and Nicola tossed a haughty look over her shoulder at him. "Ah, but there is. As I warned you, you will never hold me." This time when she yanked away her arm, he released her. There was something new and dangerous in his blue gaze.
"Shall I show you how wrong you are?" he breathed into her ear.
Before she could move, the big man turned her, his arms closing tightly around her. She was jerked into his embrace, her face forced into the curve of his neck. Nicola splayed her fingers along the broad and unyielding planes of his chest and shoved. Nothing happened.
"Leave go," Nicola managed to get out, but his collar swallowed her words. His gown had been stored in lavender; with every breath she tasted its scent. She arched her neck against his restraining hand. His grip on her nape tightened until her head was tucked under his chin. Her cheek fitted into the curve of his throat, and she felt his pulse throbbing against her jaw.
"Lover, I am destroyed." His powerful voice carried the mocking words to every corner of the courtyard. "Did you find my caresses so lacking that you had to seek out another to take my place?" He paused a moment, then called to the crowd. "How shall I convince her of her error?" he asked those watching, his tone that of a befuddled man.
Outside the cocoon of his hold, Nicola heard his audience respond with laughing cries for him to kiss her.
"My lord abbot," Hugh protested, "he is abusing what is mine."
"Free her this instant!" The abbot's command grew shrill as he climbed the stairs toward them, until Nicola could nigh on hear the little churchman breathing at her elbow. She waited for Gilliam's hold on her to relax. It did not.
"Shall I release her?" the big man asked the crowd, his voice congenial and easy.
The commoners' negative reply shook the porch beneath her feet. They shouted and stamped, until the courtyard rocked with their demand that he kiss the disputed bride into choosing him.
"Holy Jesus, do it, then, before they riot," the churchman said in irritation.
FitzHenry only called humbly to his audience, "Do you think a kiss will do the trick? I could not bear to lose my bride over this, not with us so nearly wed."
At their screams of encouragement, his palm cupped her skull. The pressure of his hand on her head insisted she tilt her face up to his. Nicola stiffened her spine, resisting with all her might, every muscle taut. He'd not humiliate her this way. She wouldn't allow it.
Hard fingers dug through the thick cushion of her hair and into her scalp. Slowly, steadily, her head leaned. When the tip of her nose met his, she glared at him, her mouth held in a narrow line of hate.
FitzHenry was grinning, but behind that amiable shield his jaw was so tense it created tight hollows beneath his high cheekbones. Nicola fought a start of fear then despised herself for her weakness. "Fool," she hissed, "I am no faint-hearted female to be cowed—" Her last word disappeared in a gasp as he laid his lips atop hers. The crowd cheered in enjoyment.
His mouth was warm and soft. His lips touched hers, lifted, then touched again. There was no offensive taste nor any undue pressure, things Nicola had always assumed accompanied this act. Yet somehow, this discovery, that kissing was not a brutal bruising of flesh, was more worrisome than she could have imagined. When his mouth retreated, it was far enough so that his lips but grazed hers. His arms were like steel around her, holding her still when she would have struggled.
"Little girl," he breathed against her skin, "see how tightly I can hold you? If the abbot gives you to that puny strip of flesh, I'll make you his widow by the morrow's dawn and take you uncontested by the next sunset." With that said, he again pressed his mouth to hers.
Nicola was powerless to stop his lips from exploring hers. Every inch of them seemed to touch. How could there be no pain when the intensity of his caress grew? Her breath tangled in her throat, and her skin burned. Heat grew from some hidden source within her, followed by waves of terrible sensation. Frightened to the depths of her soul, Nicola gave voice to a tiny cry.
At the sound FitzHenry released her so suddenly she stumbled back in surprise, her fingers flying to her lips in a belatedly protective gesture. Her mouth felt swollen, and his male taste lingered on her lips. Nicola wiped it away with the back of her hand.
"Murdering pig!" Her voice trembled oddly. She tried again. "Dirty whoreson, I cannot bear your touch."
Her erstwhile bridegroom watched her for a moment, then slowly smiled. This time, there was only amusement in his face. "An interesting choice of words. I would have thought it was a dirty pig and a murdering whoreson."
The commoners roared and, once again embarrassment ate Nicola alive. She found strength in it. Aye, he had won this skirmish, but she would still take the day. Armed with new confidence, she turned her back on him.
Hugh yet stood beside his mount, but he'd removed his helmet and pushed back his mail hood, revealing black hair and beard both streaked with silver. He opened the scrip that hung from his saddle and withdrew a fold of parchment: the contract that he and her father had drawn up prior to June, the one that she had refused when she refused Hugh. "My lord abbot, I have brought you my contract to review."
"Come, Lord Ocslade," the abbot called in friendly invitation. "Show me your parchment."
Nicola could have laughed at the look of triumph on the abbot's face. All she and Hugh need do was convince the abbot they had exchanged vows. In the churchman's determination to defy Lord Rannulf, he would surely ignore the lack of proper seals on the document Hugh bore.
Lord Rannulf held out an arm to prevent the smaller man from reaching the stairs. "What he carries cannot contain my mark since I have never seen it. Without my approval, his contract is not valid."
"God's law supersedes Man's in this," the abbot sniffed. "If the betrothal vows have been said, they must marry."
"You will not trespass on what is my right." Lord Rannulf's voice held a deadly threat.
"Rannulf," Gilliam called to his brother, his tone mild, "this has you so hot you cannot think."
Nicola stared over her shoulder at Gilliam, startled that he was so calm when his brother was on fire. He graced her with a brief cool glance that said more than words. Holy Mother, but he'd do it, he'd kill Hugh and take her before she could petition the court for her freedom. She'd not have a chance to prevent their marriage. Panic rose, then Nicola reminded herself to take only one step at a time. It was useless to worry over what had yet to happen.
To his brother, Gilliam said, "Come, let the man show Abbot Simon his contract, whil
st you read over his shoulder as my clerk. Geoff will be here at any moment to add his authority to our claims. I want no slur on my ownership of Ashby."
Lord Rannulf made a sound that was nearly a growl, and strode up the stairs to stand near the abbot.
De Ocslade glanced between the two tall men, a slight look of surprise on his face. Nicola knew he was as startled as she had been to learn that Graistan's lord could read. So few in their part of the world did so. A moment later, Hugh came forward and found a place on the porch between Lord Rannulf and Nicola, a beech flanked by towering oaks. He handed the abbot his document.
"There is nothing amiss in what lies on the page, only the lack of Ashby's seal."
"And mine," Lord Rannulf snapped.
"That is not my fault," de Ocslade retorted. "John died on your brother's blade before he had the chance to forward it to you. He meant to add his own seal after your approval. If you disbelieve, Osbert and William here witnessed our exchange of vows."
"You exchanged vows prior to receiving approval? How very unusual, almost dishonest, one would say." Lord Rannulf's comment dripped scorn.
Nicola leapt in. She'd spent her months of imprisonment concocting answers for all the possible questions he might ask. "You are right, Lord Rannulf, it was unusual," she said smoothly, "but my father had been after me for months to accept Hugh. When I finally agreed, Papa insisted on immediately saying the vows, fearing I would change my mind."
The churchman fingered the single wax disk at the parchment's edge then opened it. Lord Rannulf shifted slightly to read over the abbot's shoulder. While they did so, Nicola looked at the smaller man who held the properties to the south of Ashby.
Hugh's head barely topped her shoulder. He shot her a brief glance, his sharp sallow features hard with the same disgust she found reflected in his black eyes. Nicola looked away and fought a mad desire to laugh. Of all her suitors, Hugh hated her most. At their last meeting, she'd blackened his eye and threatened death after he had tried to force himself upon her. He'd called her a breast-less Amazon unworthy of any man's bed, then told Papa he couldn't wait to marry her. This was exactly why she'd chosen him for her plan to retain sole ownership of Ashby. If murder needed doing, she would have no trouble murdering Hugh.
When the silence continued, Hugh spoke to fill the void. "My Lord Graistan, I do not know if you recall, but we met some years back. I hold properties along Ashby's southern border. This makes Lady Nicola's alliance with me a profitable one for all concerned, even you. It was for this reason John of Ashby begged his daughter to accept me. I was grateful when Lord Ashby's remarriage finally drove Nicola to find her own husband in me."
Gilliam's lips brushed her ear, startling Nicola. "You would spread your legs for this babbling dwarf? Little girl, my estimation of you has dropped substantially in the past moments."
Nicola wrenched away only to bump into Hugh. The smaller man wobbled unsteadily on the edge of the porch, before catching himself. He shot her an irritable look then prattled on. "I realize this comes as a surprise to you, but there is truly nothing remarkable in either the contract or our joining."
Lord Rannulf gave a grunt of acknowledgment and continued reading. A moment later he raised his brows in surprise then looked up at Nicola. "On what date did you share these vows?"
Nicola hesitated, scrambling in her memory for the date that this contract had been drafted. Then she frowned as an alarm bell clanged in the recesses of her memory. He was asking more than just the exact date.
"Come, Lady Ashby," he insisted, "what was the date?"
She hedged. "I cannot recall exactly when, but at least a week before we came to Graistan for Papa's wedding."
Her overlord nodded slowly, then smiled and turned on the churchman "My lord abbot, there were no vows spoken, and the girl proves it by her own words. On the day of Lord Ashby's marriage to my ward, Maeve, John complained before me, my wife, and all those in my hall that he could get his daughter to accept no man."
Nicola suppressed her flinch. Mary, but how had she forgotten that? She sagged. It was because Papa complained so often about her unmarried state, she'd long since ceased to heed him when he did.
"Now, my lord abbot," Graistan's lord bent an intimidating look onto the churchman, "about my brother's wedding."
Abbot Simon only raised his brows and turned on Gilliam. "My Lord Gilliam, you heard the girl's father say these words?"
Gilliam shook his head. "I was not at Graistan at that time."
The churchman turned back to Lord Rannulf and shrugged in dismissal. "My lord, I find in your words proof of nothing, since there is no one but you here to witness them, whereas this man has witnesses who will say that vows were spoken. I see no reason to dismiss de Ocslade's claim on her. They must be wed."
Nicola's hopes leapt even as her warden's expression froze. She was right. The churchman would uphold the contract no matter what.
Lord Rannulf released a long, slow breath. "This has gone too far. You can be assured my complaints will be forwarded to Bishop William." His quiet words were more threatening than a shout. "As for this contract, you will marry my brother to Ashby's heiress as planned. If not, I will hold de Ocslade and his knights prisoner as Gilliam rides from here with the girl. My brother will keep her in secret and without marriage vows until she carries his babe in her belly, rendering moot all question of betrothal or forced marriage. You will not misuse me in this."
"Nay!" Nicola screamed as his trap snapped shut around her.
The need to win free of his control overwhelmed all else. She lunged for Hugh. The smaller man threw up his arms, expecting a facial blow. Instead, her hand curled around his sword's hilt. With a foot planted on his hip, Nicola shoved him to one side, drawing his blade from its scabbard as she moved away from him.
"I think not," Gilliam snapped, as he grabbed her upper arms from behind her.
Nicola growled in frustration and released the half-drawn weapon with a hard push. Overbalanced, Hugh tumbled down the steps, his mail rattling against the stone as he rolled. The horses danced in surprise. Braced against Gilliam's broad chest, Nicola lifted herself and landed a vicious foot in Lord Rannulf's middle. Her warden groaned as he fell into the abbot. The churchman clawed at the baron to steady himself. In doing so, he pulled the bigger man down atop him.
Before they hit the ground, Nicola had her pin out of her mantle and cradled in her palm. She smashed her heel down onto Gilliam's cloth-covered toes. He yelped, his grip relaxing just long enough for her to lurch free. Her mantle fell between them as she whirled, her makeshift weapon held at the ready. With all her might, she slammed it deep into the thick flesh of his shoulder.
"Bitch!" Gilliam roared and reared back, both hands cupped at the wound. Red showed dark against his blue gown. Nicola's stomach leapt in fear. If he caught her now, he'd kill her for sure. She whirled toward the courtyard gate and freedom.
"Come!" Tilda shouted from the courtyard floor.
Nicola sprang without thought. Even as her feet left the porch top, she knew Gilliam was grabbing for her. She felt the rush of air as he missed. Then he was falling past her, his feet tangled in her mantle.
Yelling in a wild mix of terror and triumph, her skirts hiked well above her knees, Nicola hit the courtyard stones running. Lord Rannulf's men fought their way forward, only to be pushed back as the laughing crowd parted to let her pass. The commoners knew as well as she that a noblewoman's chance of escaping the town was nigh on impossible.
Nicola raced after Tilda, through the abbey's arched gateway and onto High Street. A man, dressed in a deep yellow gown trimmed in cloth of gold, shouted in surprise as she and Tilda nearly barreled into him. A boy in blue and red stood beside him.
"Fetch her back," the man commanded the two soldiers behind him, but the two girls were already past him on the clothmakers’ lane, sprinting toward the chandlers’ sweet-smelling enclave. Nicola glanced behind her. The townsfolk had all tried to exit at once and clog
ged the gate with their mass. Those soldiers commanded to follow had not been able to do so.
Tilda pulled Nicola around a corner, then tore between a wine merchant's warehouse and a cookshop. The alleyway here was so narrow that Nicola could have touched both sides with outstretched elbows. Halfway along the buildings one of the cookshop's wall beams had curved outward until it touched the building next to it. Save for a small triangular gap near the ground, it seemed the walls met with no space left behind them. Tilda dropped her pack and shoved it through the gap, then fell to her belly and wiggled in after it.
Nicola followed suit. The damp ground reeked of slop and offal. She held her breath only to panic at the sound of pursuit. The townsfolk were laughing and calling gleefully for the runaway bride, the soldiers were cursing, using the foulest of both French and English obscenities.
Spurred by what would happen if she were caught, Nicola thrust herself past the bend with one powerful push. Tilda yanked her to her feet. Hidden from the street by the bowed beam, they were guarded at the back by some building's rear wall, which was without window or smoke hole. Above them the slate roof of the warehouse touched the cookshop's thatching. The gap they'd just come through was the only way in or out.
The voices of those who followed grew louder then faded as they sped on down the lane. Nicola turned to Tilda, her fingers already loosening her gown's laces. "Hie, open that pack. We've no time to lose. Hurry, turn me into a boy."
Gilliam curled as he fell, taking the brunt of the impact on his uninjured shoulder. He rolled to his knees and leapt up, yanking her pin free of his flesh. The fabric of both his gown and shirt ripped as it exited. Damn that vixen. His best gown was truly ruined. He started forward only to be stopped by the roiling mass of humankind fighting its way through the abbey gates.
"Alfred, hie and see the main gate shut," he shouted to the soldiers battering their way through the mob, trusting his powerful voice to carry over the commotion. "Robert, you are for the postern."
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