In a futile attempt to judge the time, Gilliam glanced up at the overcast sky. Only his stomach's emptiness suggested it was well past midday. This meant they'd yet be on the road well after dark. He frowned. Dark or no, he needed to be home with her safe behind his walls and married to him, all before this day became the next. But how to get there without facing the possibility of de Ocslade's ambush at every turn?
"Hobbe, will you carry a message to Graistan's castellan for me?"
"Aye, my lord," the forester said, then closed his eyes to absorb the words as those who could not read or write were wont to do.
"First, ask him to send men to stand watch over the dead until my cousin Sir Faucon de Ramis arrives to view the bodies. Then tell him that I believe de Ocslade continues to think we haven't yet found the missing bride. This means he'll not be looking toward Ashby as I make my way there. Therefore, Arnult must keep men moving up and down the road as if we yet searched for her. At twilight, the tallest among them must don armor, whilst another dark-haired man must wear a leather vest over a green tunic and brown chausses. These two will ride that devil of mine. Have a care. Armed, I am nigh on twenty-one stone. If they are not to end up beneath Witasse's hooves, they will need to approach that weight."
Walter interrupted in confusion. "Where are they to ride him, my lord?"
"Why, right past de Ocslade's camp at a full gallop, of course," Gilliam said with a casual lift of his shoulders and a wicked smile. "Once they have de Ocslade on their tail, they can scatter and return to Graistan. Arnult should send Witasse to me in a day or two. Take heed, Hobbe. I'll be right disappointed in Arnult if any of Graistan's men are caught. The quality of de Ocslade's horseflesh and his men does not approach Graistan's."
The man's expression blossomed in amused understanding, and he again took hold of the boy's arm and started off to the west, lad in tow. "Good traveling, my lord, and may you survive your wedding night."
"My thanks, Hobbe. Your confidence in me is awe-inspiring," Gilliam called after him.
Walter had mounted. "Hie now, Walter. The sooner you arrive at the hamlet, the greater the head start we have on de Ocslade, and the sooner we are home."
"No longer than an hour, my lord," the man assured him as he started back toward their gathering place.
Gilliam also mounted, but did not urge his palfrey to any speed. A thick carpet of leaves and grasses hid many a digging creature's burrow. To lame his palfrey now would only further delay him.
His stomach again reminded him of the time and he reached behind him for a leather packet. Inside were meat pasties, dried fruits, bread and cheese. He ate swiftly as he rode, leaving the bread and cheese for later, then smiled. Rannulf would have scolded him for his lack of manners. Ashby's relative insignificance was one of the nicer aspects of the place. Gilliam would never need worry over aping Graistan's grand lifestyle, with all the bits of etiquette and diplomacy that it required.
As the beast picked its way at an easy walk in the direction Hobbe indicated, Gilliam scanned the landscape for some sign of Nicola or her pursuers. Here the land rolled, rising into a series of small knolls and hills peppered with the occasional stony outcrop. Holly grew thick and green, startling in a world now trapped in shades of brown. Moments passed without sight of any soul. When he finally caught a glimpse of movement, Gilliam lifted himself in his stirrups to better see.
Hood pulled up against the rain and leaning heavily on a thick branch, the boy who was not a boy hobbled painfully through a clearing. Gilliam watched her slender form for a brief moment, waiting to feel repulsed now that he knew it was a girl beneath that old gown of his. Instead, he found only an ever-growing respect for her boldness and determination. Even shearing her hair had taken courage. There were only two reasons a woman's hair was cut, either to relieve fever or in punishment for lewdness.
He peered through the general dimness for some sign of those who followed her. There was no movement to indicate their presence. Easing back down into the saddle, he urged the horse to a faster walk and started in her direction. As he rounded a thick copse of trees, he again caught sight of his bride.
She stopped and slowly turned her head to look over her shoulder. Gilliam stared in surprise as he saw her face. Where Nicola of Ashby had been almost plain as a woman, she was beautiful as a boy.
Wild and tangled curls framed her face, a dark brown halo of hair, softening and shortening her features. Her jawline was round and feminine, and he now found cheekbones where before it had seemed she had none. As he watched, she chewed thoughtfully on a thumbnail then turned her back to him once more.
Gilliam clenched his teeth to stop his shout of protest. He wanted to stare at her until he could reconcile this pretty soft woman with the angry plain bride he'd been offered. In the next instant, she stumbled and fell. He went rigid with concern. If her ankles were as slender as her wrists, she must surely have broken something in that fall. Once again, he set the horse into motion, his gaze yet trapped on her.
She drew up a knee and lay her head upon it as if exhausted. In the scrabble of brush between him and her, he caught signs of movement. Her followers. The two men crouched low and crept closer. The need to keep her safe roared through Gilliam. He urged his mount into a faster pace. They would die before they touched her.
Nicola slowly eased herself into a sitting position, then drew her knee up to pillow her head upon it in defeat. She was too exhausted even to groan in pain. Her side ached, her leg wound burned, and her feet were naught but bloody ribbons. Empty since last even, her stomach took this moment to register its protest. She tried to rub the pain from her twisted ankle. It was useless.
Whatever it was that had been following her now came closer. In her mind's eye she saw the wolves of last winter, huge and gray, their yellow eyes shining with hunger. Without raising her head, one hand reached for her stick, the other went to her belt and the dagger sheathed there. She'd not easily give them her life.
A shiver wracked her from head to toe, and she cursed her addlepated dislike of being dirty. Like a fool, she'd stopped at a small stream to cleanse the blood from her clothing and the muck from her hair. In removing the grime, she had also given herself an unexpected dunking when she'd slipped down the bank. Her gloves had gone floating away on the current and her sodden garments turned icy cold in the chill day.
Nicola freed a sound that mingled a laugh and a sob. Perhaps this was God's justice, her punishment for trying to escape a woman's life. She smiled in bitter amusement. At least she could blame only herself for what happened now.
"We can take her, Ott." Although the words were no more than a low utterance, they rang clear among the silent trees.
Nicola kept her head on her knee. So not wolves, but one of the remaining thieves. Damn her, but she should have brought that sword with her instead of leaving it in Alan. She rolled her eyes at that thought. What good would it have done her? Not only was she too tired to lift the heavy weapon, her feet would never support her as she struck.
The rustling of their approach grew steadily louder, then ceased. "Wait. What if she is not hurt, only resting?" This was a sibilant hiss, borne to her on the frigid wind.
Her spirits lifted a little. Their uncertainty gave her an edge, however slight. Without raising her head, she slowly drew her dagger and tightened her grip on the stout stick in preparation for their attack.
"She's not moving. Together."
Branches snapped and saplings cracked as they rushed her. Nicola reared back, raising her stick. There were only two men, not three, coming at her. Her edge grew a little larger.
Grinning, the one who had dared touch his tongue to her cheek wrenched away her staff, without seeing the dagger in her other hand. Nicola lunged upward, shoving the blade deep into his belly. He screamed and thrust her away, then staggered to one side.
Nicola toppled backward, rapping her head against a stone as she met the ground. Stars popped into being before her eyes, her vision of them
framed in a soft, warm darkness. She gasped for air; her lungs refused to work. Shouting, the other man threw himself atop her. She barely felt his impact before he was scrambling back onto his feet and was racing away from her. As from a great distance, she heard his scream. The sound was cut off, mid-cry.
Breath rushed back into her. With air, her whirling thoughts steadied. She struggled into an upright position, her head now pounding in tune to the pulsing of her feet, and immediately wished she hadn't.
Coming toward her was a horse. In its saddle sat Gilliam FitzHenry, his thick golden hair curling charmingly against his perfect brow and cheekbones. He was cleaning his sword on his cloak hem and had not yet looked at her. She stared at him in dismay.
The rich man's son was the picture of comfort. Beneath a leather vest much like hers, he wore hunting garments dyed a deep chestnut color. His knee-high boots, no doubt well-fitted and wondrously comfortable, were bound to his legs with cross garters. As he returned the huge blade to its scabbard at his side, he looked toward her. His blue eyes came to life as he smiled. Between his sword and his smile, she thought his broad grin by far the sharper weapon.
Nicola clenched her teeth. Mary, but she hated FitzHenry and his sick wit. Why couldn't de Ocslade have found her? Hugh might have bound her, beaten her, or killed her, but she was absolutely certain he wouldn't have laughed at her. This murdering whoreson would start by jeering at her for dressing as a man. He would continue by poking at her inept escape attempt. But his crowning moments would come while he taunted her over her hair. Her pride would never survive his battering.
Jamming her hood farther down onto her brow, Nicola threw herself to her feet. Her ankle screamed in protest, her toes burned as blisters tore, but her need to be free of him was by far the stronger impulse. Hobbling as swiftly as she could, Nicola made her escape.
The jingle of iron and creak of leather behind her suggested he was dismounting. She drove herself harder. After no more than fifteen yards, she heard him right behind her. Nicola released a small cry, but it had more to do with anger than pain. Damn him, he wasn't even running!
She felt him reach for her. With her fists clenched, Nicola whirled, ready to battle him to the end. Her ankle gave as she turned. Instead of striking out, she yelped and fell into his surprised grasp, then slid out of it and down his legs into a crumpled heap at his feet.
Defeat was absolute. She was finished. Nicola stared at the knee above the top of his soft leather boot and gulped back a sorry sob.
"Not a word," she warned his leg. "I'll not tolerate a word from you."
He made a deep, rumbling noise that sounded suspiciously like a muted laugh. She leaned back to glare up at him "If you tease me, I vow I will tear out your heart."
The murderer raised his finely arched brows over his beautiful blue eyes as if weighing the value of her threat. "I thought you intended that fate for me no matter what I do or say. Are we parlaying here? If so, then I agree not to tease you if you agree to wed me without complaint."
From her seat on the cold ground, his height and breadth were indeed intimidating. Nicola scooped together the shattered bits of her pride, and swiftly stitched them back into some sort of protection. "Murderer, I will never wed with you, nor will you ever own me."
He considered her in silence for a moment, then squatted down beside her to look her eye-to-eye. "Too late, my girl, for it seems I own you already."
"Nay!" She scooted back from him.
As he reached for her, there was fiery glint from his shoulder. "My pin," Nicola cried, grabbing for that precious reminder of her previous life.
"It’s yours no longer," Gilliam warned, catching her hand.
"But you cannot keep it," she protested, wrenching her wrist from his grasp. Regret, sharp and sudden, rushed through her. She should have understood when she struck him with it, it would be lost to her. As with everything else she'd done this day, she hadn't thought far enough ahead to consider the outcome of her actions.
"What are you willing to trade for it?" he asked quietly. "For the right price, you can have it back."
She instantly blinked away her hurt. She wouldn’t let him use it against her. She shrugged. "Nothing. Keep it, if you want it. I always thought it a gaudy piece, anyway."
Gilliam nodded slowly, the curve of his mouth touched with consideration. "As you will. Are you hurt?" Ignoring her yelp of protest, he grasped her leg to examine her twisted ankle. "Jesu Christus, what have you done to your foot?"
His harsh question made Nicola start. "The boots were too small," she answered weakly.
"Fool," he snapped. He tugged on one boot, but her foot had swollen and it was stuck fast. From his belt he took a small dagger.
"What are you doing?" She tried to kick free of his hold.
He shot her a look of disbelieving irritation. "Sawing off your foot, what do you think I'm doing? Hold still."
Using only his knife's tip, he tore at the shoe's seams. With an unexpected gentleness, he peeled away the leather shoe, then cut away her stocking. Instead of being thankful at this release from torture, her foot throbbed with thrice the intensity. Nicola leaned back on her elbows, clenching her eyes shut to keep tears from falling. The pain ebbed to a tolerable level.
"Give me your capuchin to use as a wrapping." His voice was now soft with what might have been pity.
Hating that he had seen her momentary weakness Nicola sat up, harsh words on her lips. But Gilliam paid her no heed, only worked to loosen the sodden knot in her cross garter. She watched in fascination. How could hands so big be so nimble?
When the narrow cloth band was loose, he looked up in expectation. "Come now, give me your hood."
Nicola reached for her capuchin, then paused. The thought of his disgust when he saw her hair was daunting. Her jaw tightened in anger. What did she care what he thought?
Drawing herself up with as much dignity as possible while sitting on the damp ground with her foot in his lap, Nicola yanked the garment off over her head. With it still clutched in her hand, she made a show of running her fingers through her short curls, then held it toward him. She boldly met his gaze, brows lifted as she dared him to say a word.
Gilliam studied her face for a long moment. His gaze touched her brow and her cheeks only to soften as he stared at her mouth. His look awoke in her the oddest need to touch him. Nicola's breath caught in her chest. What sort of spell was he trying to weave over her? Seeking to distract him, she shook the hood before his face.
"Take it, then." She shoved it at him. "But you best save half of it for the other foot. It’s worse than this one."
There was a flicker of hurt in his eyes as he took the hood from her and tore it down its center seam. "Is your hatred so deep that you would rather cripple yourself than marry me?"
Nicola shrugged and looked off into the distance. "You murdered my father. I cannot marry you."
"I did no murder," he protested as he used one portion to cover her bared foot, binding it in place with her cross garter.
"I was there," she retorted. "I saw what you did. Yours is a useless argument."
"That's true enough," he replied, and fell silent as he started on the other boot.
This time when he peeled away the sodden leather, Nicola was already leaning back on her elbows, steeled for pain. The throbbing tore through her far worse than the other foot. With a quiet moan, she collapsed against the earth and concentrated on giving him no further sign of weakness. The hurt ebbed only as he encased her foot in cloth.
"What is this?" he asked a moment later, tugging gently on the strip of gown wrapped around her calf.
The fabric of her chausses had clotted to her sliced leg. As he moved the bandage, the scab reopened. Blood trickled around her calf, warm against her icy skin.
"A knife wound. Leave it be." It was a tired request. Nicola lay on her back, staring up through bony branch fingers at the glowering sky above her. "I'm trying to keep it flat so it can be stitched shut. I'd n
ot have it heal all warped.”
"You want stitching?" There was genuine horror in Gilliam's voice. She could fair hear him shudder. "Have you ever had a wound stitched?"
His reaction did much to restore her and ease the sting of her defeat at his hands. Nicola levered herself up on her elbows to look at him. There was a decidedly greenish tinge to his fair skin. The thought that a man as powerful as he could be afeared of needle and thread made her smile. She pushed herself into a sitting position, folding her legs, tailor-fashion. "Nay, but I've done it enough times to others."
"That explains it," he said weakly, then continued in a stronger voice. "Were you wounded anywhere else in that battle of yours?"
His question brought the event of this morn rushing back to her with sickening intensity. Nicola gagged, remembering the feel of her blade entering living flesh, the spray of warm blood over her hands and arms, and the ease with which life departed a body. Trying to control her womanish reaction, she swallowed and stared at her lap. Her hands lay there, palms up and still stained with her last victim's blood. Her stomach rolled and heaved within her.
"Holy Mother, I killed them," she moaned softly, staring with horror at her fingers. Her stomach tried to empty what was already barren.
Nicola twisted around to hide her reaction from Gilliam. What a fool she was, becoming sick after killing in her own defense! She chided herself for being naught but a weak-kneed woman, but it did nothing to stop her stomach from heaving again. Fists clenched and back stiff, she demanded it cease. It paid her no heed. She leaned forward, her arms crossed tightly about her middle.
Gilliam grabbed her by the shoulders. She tried to pull away, but he was stronger than she. He dragged her back into his embrace, his arms forcing her to lean against his chest. When he spoke, his voice was low and soothing. "Your first time to kill, eh? Your illness will pass. Breathe."
"I cannot," she gasped in humiliation
He pushed her head back against his shoulder and tilted her chin upward, then held it there. "Breathe," he commanded.
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