"Come now, my lady, let us remove these things you wear," Athelina, the village ale taster said. A lifetime spent selling ale had taught her to keep a low and soothing voice, what with her long custom of easing tempers made sore by too much drink. "You must be ready when your husband comes."
"It’s obscene what you did to your hair," chittered Anne, the tolltaker's wife, as she took Emotte's place as critic.
"Enough, you silly bitch," said Maida, the oldest woman in the village. Her grandsons now farmed what her husband had once held. "Her hair will grow. Now, as for those clothes, the sooner you are out of them, the better you will feel." She nodded in agreement to her own words, the rapid movement of her head mouse-like.
Nicola glared at them all, arms crossed tightly before her. "If you no longer want me in your homes, so be it. Be gone with you."
Margery lay a hand on her shoulder. "You cannot mean this, not with your own heart still aching over your father's death. Think of Alice. She was so hoping you would return before the babe's coming. Look, here comes Berthilde with warm water for washing." The group shifted to let a portly woman enter with a bucket and cloth. She made her way to the stool and set her things upon it.
"Come now," Athelina cajoled, her rough hand comforting as she took Nicola's fingers. "Come now, lass. We're so glad you've come home to us. It’s but a little thing you need do to be one with us again."
Beaten by her own need for them, Nicola was drawn from the corner. She stood silent and still as the women fell to their work. They stripped away her hauberk and ruined tunic, then lifted off the shirt. There were soft cries and gentle clucks at the great bruise made by Alan's kick.
When it came time to remove her chausses, the bucket was set aside and Nicola given the stool. After the warm, wet cloth had loosened the material from her wounded leg, she looked at the knife wound. It was angry and swollen.
Margery took a wide blanket from the bed to wrap around her as someone ran to find bandaging for her leg and a salve for her torn feet. Fully washed and her hair combed into some semblance of order around her face, Nicola sat shivering beneath the blanket. Berthilde had gone to fetch the priest.
Nicola's eyes closed. She was exhausted and injured, incapable of preventing Gilliam from taking what she would not give him. The door opened. She peered up from her crouched position on the stool. Gilliam ducked to enter the room. His head nearly touched the ceiling, his shoulders made the chamber seem impossibly small.
Murmuring softly and looking like a flock of doves in homespun gowns made dull by the dim light, the women circled around the tall man to remove his clothing. Father Reynard went to bless the bed. Nicola latched her gaze onto the priest, refusing to look at what went forward only three feet from her nose.
The bed was an expensive piece, what with its embroidered curtains. Even in this low light the yellow and green stitching was vibrant against the blue background. The priest pushed back the bed curtain to reveal a thick mattress, covered with blankets and furs. Bolsters promised lush softness for her aching head. In all her life, Nicola had never slept in such a bed; her body ached to be at rest within it. Were she but alone it would be a wondrous experience.
"Come now, my lady," said Margery, her voice sweet. "It's time."
There was a woman at each elbow to lift her whilst the ale wife pulled the blanket from her grasping fingers. Those at her side put their arms behind her back to support her on her injured feet. The cold air made her skin prickle as Nicola closed her eyes in abject shame. She knew all too well she lacked the roundness of a true woman's body, and Gilliam already thought her too thin, having said as much. His scorn would come at any moment.
"I see no defect." Gilliam's deep voice seemed oddly breathless.
He had not laughed. Relief and gratitude washed over her, and Nicola hated herself for it.
"Your turn, my lady." Berthilde whispered in her ear. "You must say if you see any defect in his form."
Nicola opened her eyes. He was watching her, the gleam of the low light in his eyes disguising any emotion she might have recognized. Mother of God, but he was beautiful. Golden light lay shadows on the gentle curve of his brows, the fine rise of his cheekbones, and the strong column of his neck. He had washed, for his hair was now the color of dark honey and yet heavy with moisture.
His shoulders were nigh on twice the width of hers, one of them bearing an almost round bruise. She grimaced in the sudden realization. That was where she’d stabbed him with her pin. Force of habit made her consider the wound with a healer's eye. She'd done only a little damage, there was no need for even a bandage, now that the wound had formed a scab.
Clinging to that safe dispassion, she finished her inspection. The wet strands that clung to his neck were yet dripping water onto his shoulders. Nicola followed a single, shining bead as it traced its way over the smooth, masculine swell of his chest to the flat plane of his stomach. Here the droplet crossed a scar. The old injury gleamed ruddy where it marked him waist to hip. No wonder he disliked the needle. It had taken many a stitch to close him. It was a miracle he'd survived at all, much less regained his health and strength. Her gaze descended past his hips. Jesu, if he was massive, there was no excess weight clinging to him. His legs were long, each thigh thicker than her own waist. Even his feet were big.
She looked at her own slender and torn feet. Although she was the tallest woman she knew, never had she felt so small or helpless. She would lose, even if she fought him with all her strength. "I see no defect," she mumbled to her toes.
"There! See, this was not so difficult," Berthilde murmured. She and Athelina led Nicola to the bed. "Go beneath the blankets so you do not freeze. Remember now, there must be blood on the sheets in the morning." The women helped her into the bed and under the bedclothes, then backed away from her. "Do as you are told and on the morrow you will be a woman. You will see. All will be well." They were drifting to the door.
Nicola slid across the mattress to where the bed met the wall. Only when they were gone, taking Father Reynard and the light, did she cry after them, "When have I ever done as I was told?"
The night candle flickered just outside the head of the bed, its meager illumination barely penetrating the thick darkness. She watched as Gilliam moved to shut the door, his form but an uncertain shadow. At the heavy clank of the lock, Nicola's heart exploded in panic. The new door had been fitted with the previous panel's lock. Once again, this chamber became a prison, only this time it would hold Ashby's lady, not its overlord. Oh, sweet Mary, but he was locking her in to assure his success.
Rage came roaring in after panic. Damn him, but she'd not let him take all she had left. If those godforsaken betrayers in the village wanted to turn their backs on her, they should do it. It was better to lose them than herself.
The mattress dipped as he sat on its edge, the ropes supporting it straining against his weight. Nicola eased back until she felt the cold wall against her shoulders. Drawing new strength from the stones of her home, she tensed in preparation for the coming battle.
Gilliam sat on the bed's edge. He had no experience with unwilling women. Bedding Isotte had been a spontaneous event, goaded into being by both his youthful lust and his desire to prove the injury had not damaged his manhood. He'd used only whores since then, paid to feign desire. He glanced across the mattress at his wife. She was clutched into the bed's far corner, hidden from him in the dimness. He didn't care to see her face.
A few moments before when she had looked at him in the required perusal he had expected to see hatred, pain, or even disgust in her expression as she faced what was for her the ultimate defeat. Instead, there had been only a worrisome blankness. Gilliam knew many a man who sought just that sort of emotionless state prior to battle. If she fought him, how in God's name was he supposed to do what needed doing without hurting her?
Turning so his back was braced against the head of the bed, he eased his legs beneath the cold bedclothes and shut the curtains. There was an
instant darkness within the bed. It shielded him from what he could not bear to face. Gilliam closed his eyes with a sigh.
Her image rose before his inner eye, stripped of her masculine attire. Even with her cropped hair, there was nothing boyish about her. She was sleek as a cat and as fragile-looking as a reed, with skin smooth and white, except where her side was marked with blue and green. He opened his eyes in recognition of a neutral subject.
"That's a right awful bruise you've got. How came you by it?' He kept his voice quiet and calm.
"I was kicked whilst defending myself from rapists," she replied, making it clear that she considered him one in the same.
Gilliam squeezed his eyes shut in a disappointment so terrible he wanted to howl against it. "Do not do this," he begged softly.
"What choice have I?” she retorted. "I have sworn not to make you Ashby's lord. Now, since you seem to put such stock in my vows you'd hardly want me to break this one, would you?" It was the gauntlet thrown, pure and simple.
Gilliam rubbed his hand against his brow, fighting an errant surge of anger. He eased down onto the mattress and tried to stretch the stiffness from his legs, but his knees remained bent to an uncomfortable degree. God's blood, but he was cold and tired to the bone. Ashby could be attacked at any moment, his wife would fight him, and he could not relax because the damn bed was too short.
He turned to her, attempting reason before anger completely overtook him. "You have stabbed me, run from me, made an enemy of my neighbor, and tried to use the villagers against me. These things I can understand and forgive because of what you say I did to your father. Now the battle is done; you fought honorably and well in defending his memory, but you are beaten. Accept your defeat with grace. You are no longer his daughter, but my wife. You must cede to me in this."
"I will not."
"Do you beg me to force you?'
"Try it, if you dare." It was a viper's hiss.
Her arrogance sent rage roaring through him, all hope of control destroyed by her threat. "You go too far, madam. Whether you like it or not, you are married to me and you'll not tell me nay on our wedding night!"
With that, he reached into the shadows to catch hold of her. The little fool lashed out, and he immediately grasped her arm. She pried futilely at his restraining hand as he slowly and steadily dragged her toward him.
She braced a foot on his thigh to throw herself back at the wall. Although she did not get far, he could move her no more. The tension in her body told him she had wrapped her free hand around the bed's far post. Unless he chose to dislocate her shoulder, she was impervious to his pulling.
"Come to me," he demanded. Every irritation and inconvenience of this day was fuel to his anger. Yet holding her wrist, he reached into the darkness of the corner and gripped her opposite shoulder. She tried to sink her teeth into his forearm. "Damn you!" It was a deafening bellow as he snatched back his arm.
Her feet scrabbled against the mattress, shoving the bedclothes onto the far end. She thrashed and twisted as she struggled to free her trapped arm.
Gilliam tugged her once, hard, then released her. She fell back into the corner with a cry, too surprised to fend him off as he lunged forward and grabbed her at the waist. His hands did indeed span her middle, but beneath the silk of her skin he felt the hard strength of her muscles. He yanked, but she now had both hands fastened to the pole behind her.
"Nay," she cried as he wrapped an arm around her. She was gasping and panting for breath. Within him flickered the beginnings of triumph. If she were already winded, she'd not last much longer.
Again her foot slammed into his thigh with bruising impact. He grunted in pain and caught her leg to prevent her next kick. She yelped, and he realized he gripped her knife wound. Gilliam freed her calf, but not before he felt the warmth of blood on the binding. The thought of her pain rode him hard. He'd have done better by her if he'd simply ripped her from the corner, rather than trying to ease her out.
"I am done with this," he warned her, anger hardening into determination. "I'll not allow either of us to be wounded in this foolishness of yours."
Rising to his knees, he reached over her back and into the corner. His hands closed over the delicate bones of her wrists, and she gasped at his bruising grip. With his thumbs, he forced her fingers to open and tore her hands free of the post. With both of her wrists caught in one hand, he wrapped his free arm around her waist.
She writhed and kicked, but he threw her down onto the mattress, then pinned both her legs to it beneath a thigh. He eased atop her until his wife lay trapped beneath him. He drew a deep breath at the effort it took to hold her down while trying not to crush her with his bulk at the same time.
"What if you did win free of me, where would you run?" he asked sharply. "The door's locked."
She cried out, a desperate sound of frustration and something else. Against his chest, he felt the rapid pounding of her heart. Her breath came in short, shuddering gasps. Then, she bucked beneath him, trying to dislodge him. It was a horrible parody of the lovemaking they should be doing.
Gilliam's stomach twisted in him, and he knew he could not force her, not even for Ashby's sake. He wanted to scream and shake her into understanding the hurt she was doing to them both. "Yield," he demanded hoarsely. "You must yield."
When she again writhed beneath him, he could bear it no longer. Better to crush her than make himself sick. He relaxed atop her, letting her bear his full weight, certain that not even she could lift him. Her breath came whooshing from her in what almost sounded like a sob.
"Do not force me," she cried as if her heart were breaking. "Please, please, do not force me." There was no longer any trace of hatred or anger in her voice.
Gilliam laid his cheek against her and felt the warmth of her tears on his own skin. "You should have told me you were afraid." In his relief, the words were no louder than a whisper. "I do not mean to hurt you. What happens between us cannot be worse than tearing that wound of yours afresh."
"I am not afraid," she insisted, then shuddered in a wracking sob.
He could feel her cry as it tore through her. Lowering her arms, but not releasing her wrists, Gilliam eased to one side, then drew her back against his chest. Her hair was soft against his throat, her skin warm on his. "If not fear, then what?"
Another sob shattered her before she could continue. "Is it not enough for you that you now own my home and my folk? Take me then, but know that you destroy me in doing so, leaving me nothing to call mine own, not even my body."
Gilliam raised his brows in surprise at the true nature of her resistance. "Why did you not say this to me when I first came to bed? This is something I can understand."
"Why should you, of all people, listen to me when no one else does?" Her words were broken by her weeping. "Not Lord Rannulf, not the abbot, not even my folk."
Encouraged by her honesty, he took a moment to consider his options. He already knew he could not force her, and she was telling him a willing joining was impossible for her. At least for now. Whether their marriage was consummated this night or not, their futures were forever intertwined. The importance of that long line of tomorrows far exceeded his need for bloodstained sheets tonight.
He smiled slowly. She was offering him the tool he needed to gain from her what he most craved. "Will you parlay with me now?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
"Parlay? Why should you wish to do so, when I lie in utter defeat beside you? You can take what you want." Her fading sobs came as soft hiccups.
"How do you know this is what I want?" he asked gently. "What I need is for you to prepare this house for winter. I am told you can do it, but I need to know you will do so honestly, not trying to hurt me by cheating Ashby and its folk. Give me this and I will be content."
"You need me?" The surprise in her voice was colored with the slightest trace of pleasure.
"Aye," he replied, startled by her surprise. "There is much here that I do not know and more
to do than I can ever accomplish alone. Did Rannulf not tell you that he moved forward our wedding date at my request? He wished to wait until the hall was rebuilt."
"You need me." Her words were barely audible.
Gilliam freed a confused breath. "Of course I do. Are you not Ashby's lady, the one on whom we rely for our daily meat and bread? What is your answer? If I leave you as the owner of yourself, will you give me what I need?"
"I must think a moment." She lay still and soft against him. Gilliam bowed his head to rest his brow on her shoulder. Her skin smelled clean and fresh. His knees fit nicely into the bend of hers, and her back was warm against his chest. Lord, the curve of her buttocks against his groin was tantalizing. He freed her wrists to lay his hand against her hip. It was necessary to put a bit of distance between her and that part of him not willing to trade lust for cooperation.
"I cannot comprehend how you dare to offer me this," she said, as if his movement had stirred her to speech. "Without our union you are not truly Ashby's lord."
"Who is to say there was no union, save you and I? I will say you were virgin when I took you but left no blood. If you call me husband and share my bed each night, why should anyone question our marriage?"
She peered over her shoulder at him. Even in the dimness, he could see the wary lift of her brows. "It’s not good enough and you know it. You must take me, and there must be blood on the sheets to prove it."
He shrugged. "Since I will not force you and you cannot give yourself to me, what choice have we? My little falsehood will have to do."
A slight movement of her head sent a thick curl tumbling over her brow. By God, but he wanted to run his fingers through her hair, if only to see whether it was as springy as it looked. The corner of his mouth lifted in a small, bitter sneer. Should he do so, she would only scream and leap away, just as she had done when he had kissed her cheek in the woods. She wanted him not at all.
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