"What are you doing," Jocelyn asked in irritation, only then remembering to add, "my lord."
"Hold up your hands, boy" Gilliam said, calmly and quietly.
Jocelyn eyed his lord, his jaw firmed in refusal. The ball rattled as it struck his head, and then struck him again. Jos made a small sound of anger, the growl of a just-weaned pup. When Gilliam tossed it at his head yet one more time, he snatched it out of the air with no difficulty.
"Will you look at that, my lady? Our Jos has just caught himself a ball," Gilliam said with a laugh. "What do you think, Jos? You have just done what you cannot do."
Jos clutched the ball to his chest in surprise, his eyes wide. "I caught it," he breathed to himself, then stared down at the bladder held tightly in his arms. "I caught it."
"So you did," Nicola said with a wide smile. "Here, toss it to me, and let us see if you can do it again."
Jos rolled the thing across the table, not daring to throw it. Nicola sent it back to him, careful to aim the bladder so it would fall into his arms, whether he caught it or not. It wasn't necessary. Jos snatched it out of the air with ease.
If Jos had not lied about this being his first time to play with a ball, the way his eye and hand worked together spoke well of his coordination. A man with this ability had archer's hands, or so her father had always said. If Jos were longsighted as well, he might do well with a bow.
Gilliam set aside his stew. "My turn," he said taking the bladder from Jos, bouncing the thing in his hand. He sent it high above the table.
Jos frowned as he watched it, but caught it nonetheless. "I did it," the boy breathed in complete astonishment. "I can do this."
His lord reached over to tap him on the cheek. "Jos, take a moment to consider this. If you can do as other boys do and catch the ball, might your lady mother be mistaken about your capabilities as a squire?"
The boy clutched the ball to him, a pinched look on his face. “It’s possible," he agreed reluctantly. As if he had startled himself by this admission, he hurried on. "This is but a single thing. What if I cannot do the others?"
"Jos, you can if you let yourself try. All I ask is that you do not fight so hard to prove yourself incapable." Gilliam laughed and came to his feet. "Grab up your cloak, boy, and let's go see if you can toss the thing as well as catch it."
A horse's high-pitched and frightened complaint echoed in from the bailey. The sound of men screaming exploded in its wake, shattering the gray silence of a rainy day. There was the splintering crash of wood.
"My lord!" came a frantic shout from outside the door. "That devil horse of yours has arrived and hurt Alfred!"
Nicola leapt to her feet, but not as quickly as Gilliam was on his. He ran for the door, shouting behind him, "Roia stay! The rest of you as well."
Nicola paid no heed and raced after him. If a man was hurt, she was needed. She stopped just outside the door.
At the center of the bailey was a huge, black monster of a horse. Men peered out from behind a nearby shed. Two soldiers were trapped behind Ashby's broken and fallen cart. Lying still in the muck was Alfred. Hooves flashed above him; mercifully the horse did not land his blows.
"Hold still, all of you," Gilliam bellowed. "I must bring him to me."
Putting his fingers to his mouth, he loosed a piercing whistle. It echoed against the surrounding walls. The horse responded with another high-pitched cry, then settled onto all four feet, grunting and groaning. Great clouds of steam clouded before his muzzle as he snorted, skin twitching.
Nicola stared, torn between fear and appreciation. Rain made the beast's ebony coat gleam. The big horse was pretty for his breed. As massive and vicious as the warhorse was, Nicola could imagine Gilliam sitting on no other steed; they matched each other in their beauty.
Gilliam took two steps toward his horse. The creature swung his head toward his master. Again, Gilliam loosed a piercing whistle. The shrill sound rattled against the cloud-cast skies.
As the horse shifted toward his owner, Alfred made a small noise and moved, just a little. He lived! Nicola gave thanks to God, then willed the man to crawl out of range of those iron-shod hooves.
Alfred drew his knees up as if preparing to do so. The horse sidled, startled by the movement then tensed to rise again. Alfred instantly relaxed into limpness.
"Witasse, my little lad," Gilliam crooned in a sing-song voice, "come to me, my child. Come, now."
The great horse shuddered and shivered, seeming almost to shake his head in refusal. He turned to face his master, putting his back to his victim, but did not move out of kicking distance.
"Witasse, lad, come now, come to me." Gilliam took a step toward his warhorse.
He repeated the words again and again, until he was nigh on singing the steed a lullaby, taking tiny steps toward him. Witasse held his ground, drawing sharp breaths as if testing the air for some enemy scent. Nicola glanced around the circle. If she came at Alfred from behind the shed, the horse would not see her. She might be able to drag the man out of range.
Intent on saving Alfred’s life, Nicola slipped away, easing toward the shed’s corner. Once she was there, she peered out from behind it. Gilliam was closer to his steed, but the horse had not yet moved. Willing Alfred to lie still and soundless, she crouched down and eased out from behind the corner. She kept her every move fluid and slow to keep from startling the horse.
"Nicola," Gilliam said in the same soothing tone, "he is disturbed by the smell of the man's blood. You must come away from him."
Nicola gave her head a small shake. His words only added to her urgent need to rescue Alfred. She eased into a squat beside the man's shoulder, forcing herself to ignore the massive hooves with their sharp iron shoes. Alfred's head was toward her, covered in blood. His eyes were closed, but the tenseness of his form said he was not unconscious.
Slowly and carefully, Nicola extended a hand and laid it on Alfred's shoulder. "I can only drag you," she breathed in English, her words barely above a whisper.
The warhorse gave a startled whinny, ears shifting as he caught the unfamiliar sound of her voice. Gilliam's soothing tones had the stronger influence. Witasse's attention remained on the big man.
Gathering a handful of Alfred's tunic, she slowly tugged him toward her. Inch by painful inch, she eased the soldier out of range of Witasse's massive hooves. The man's head struck a stone, and he groaned in instinctive reaction. Instantly, Nicola thrust backward, yanking the man toward her, certain the warhorse would strike.
Hooves flashed toward her face, only a foot from her nose. Nicola bit her tongue. A scream of fear could only make matters worse. She wrestled Alfred to the edge of the cart, thinking only to get him out of the creature's sight. The two men behind it helped her pull the injured man into its protection.
She glanced over the broken cart as Gilliam grasped his steed by the bridle. "Once they've taken the horse to the stable, we'll get you into the hall, Alfred," she panted, sitting down hard into the mud. "Mary, but I think my stomach is still out there in the mire."
"Mine as well, my lady," Alfred managed in a hoarse grunt of pain. "You have my unending gratitude."
Nicola gave his shoulder a squeeze while on the other side of the splintered cart, Gilliam called to the grooms. "Come fix his leads. I will help you take him to his paddock. Nay, nay, my lad," he said as the horse snorted again. "You are home now. You are home."
"Stupid man," Nicola cursed him quietly. "Only you would turn a beast like that into a pet." She checked Alfred's eyes, looking for a sign of damage to his brain, then smiled when she found none. The blood came from a nasty cut at his hairline.
"Arm's broken," he said. "Held it up against the blow."
Nicola smiled at him. "I can fix that," she said soothingly. The sound of the grooms and her husband speaking to the horse grew faint.
"Right, then," she said to the two men, "let us get our Alfred into the hall "
Once the injured man lay on a table, his head pillowed
on Nicola's mantle, she sent a dairymaid for bandages from the stillroom while Wyna went to find two pieces of wood of the shape and size she needed. Safety allowed Alfred to release his hold on consciousness and drift to a place beyond pain.
She lifted his arm. It was crooked, but the broken bones had not cut through his skin. That was a blessing. She felt along his arm, checking for the right spot to place her hands so she could force the two pieces of bone into one. A firm thrust, and it was done. Now all that was needed was to bind it into stillness and let time mend it. She set his arm gently at his side.
"We need to talk." Gilliam's words were cold and hard as he grabbed her arm, then yanked her along behind him, nearly knocking off her feet.
"What are you doing?" she cried as he forced her around the hearth. She tugged on her trapped arm as her feet slid in the rushes. "Stop it, I say. I have work that must be done. Leave go this instant."
Once at the room's far end he swung her around him, shoved her up against the wall, pinning her to it by her shoulders. His eyes were alive with rage, his mouth narrowed and hard. "I commanded everyone to stay in the hall," he said, the words barely managing to exit past his gritted teeth. "You disobeyed me. I told you to leave the man. You disobeyed me, again. You went behind Witasse, you idiot."
"I could not leave Alfred to be killed," she said, struggling against his hold on her. "I knew I was quick enough to escape your brute's kick. Now let me get back to that poor man."
"Why you are not dead is beyond me!" If one could scream in a whisper, he had just done it. "I should kill you for this."
Nicola relaxed against the wall to stare up at him in scornful confusion. His reaction made no sense. "You would kill me for not dying?"
Gilliam drew a deep and shuddering breath then leaned his brow against hers. "By God and all his saints," he whispered. "I have never been so frightened in all my life as when I saw Witasse kick at you. I was sure you were dead. Do not ever, ever do that to me again." With that Gilliam released her and strode swiftly away.
Nicola stared after him in amazement. Now, what was eating him?
"Jos," Gilliam called to his squire, who hung a shy distance away from the injured man as if he wanted a better look, but dared to come no nearer.
"Aye, my lord?" The boy had his ball tucked beneath his arm.
"Come, let us find a dry spot and see how far you can toss that ball of yours." There was no sign of his previous emotion in his voice. Nicola shook her head in bemusement over her husband's odd behavior, then returned to tend poor Alfred.
"It’s you who wants to sleep in this unheated chamber, so I say it must be you who breaks the ice on the water. I'll do it no more," Nicola said sleepily. It was the end of her second week home, and in only two weeks she'd come to be right sick of this awful room.
"Living at Graistan has made you soft," Gilliam said, by way of a "good morrow."
"If being locked in a storeroom for months on end can make one soft, then soft I am," she retorted.
The day's chores called to her, but it felt so good to lie here surrounded by warmth and comfort. She reached out to crack the curtains. Dawn's rosy glow had begun to fill the room.
"We'll see the sun this day," she said, letting the curtain fall closed and pulling her arm back beneath the blankets.
"Thank God. I am tired of riding in the rain. More to the point, I am tired of riding between here and Eilington." He turned his back to her and yanked the covers up over his shoulder.
Nicola stared at what she could see of him above the blankets. He lay with his back to her, his hair tousled from sleep. The fair strands were longer than most men wore and lay in fine curls along his strong neck.
"I heard you went yesterday." She hadn't seen him since yestermorn when they broke their fast together. From that time on her day had been occupied by processing apples. Some had been sliced for drying, others would become cider and vinegar, stored in casks. The task had been finished by torchlight, long after Gilliam and Jos had retired. Nicola looked at her hands. The fruit had left a dark stain on her skin, a sign of work well done. "What sent you there?"
"One of the farthest-flung houses had its wall broken. Everything of the slightest value was taken, the rest laid waste."
He told this to the wall, his voice holding a tone of frustration. This was the third incident since the stranger's murder. A field had been trampled at the beginning of this week, and another ewe had gone missing.
"Oh," was all she said, understanding his distress. She knew all too well how hard it was to sit idly by while others suffered. It must be harder still when one possessed the size and strength Gilliam did. "Thieves, again."
The linens rustled as he turned to lie on his back beside her. "De Ocslade," he said.
She stared at the perfection of his profile. "You are wrong. As I said, we've had this sort of problem before. What happens now is no different." He had to be wrong else she could not bear it.
"Well, one way or the other, I am tired of riding between here and Eilington. I think I will set our men into a patrol."
Nicola stared up at the cloth ceiling above her. "My father tried that in times past. The thieves waited until they knew when the soldiers came and attacked in between."
"That's easy enough to cure. Our patrol must not be regular. We'll do it by coin toss. If we see our beloved monarch, we go to Eilington; if we see the cross, we stay home." He tried to stretch, but the bed was too short for him. His hands hit the wall behind him and his knees stayed bent. "I am getting up. Go you first, so I do not have to crawl over you."
"Crawl over me," she said. "I am not yet ready to rise."
"I will break the ice for you," he offered with a laugh.
"My thanks," Nicola grumbled as she arched her back to ease the kinks, then sat up, clutching the bedclothes to her against the frigid air. She pushed back the curtains and reached blindly along the post for their clothing. Tossing them into her lap, she found her undergown and tugged it on before separating what was hers from his. She turned, putting her legs over the bed's edge, lifting and pulling until the warm gown reached her ankles.
He eased across the mattress to sit beside her. They both looked at the sleeping boy and dog. "What would he do without her to keep him warm, or she without him?" Gilliam mused.
Jos had taken Roia beneath his blankets with him, the two of them sharing the bolster. The dog acknowledged her master's rising by opening her eyes and twitching her ears then retreated into sleep.
"Far less scratching. She has fleas," Nicola said, thrusting Gilliam's chausses at him. "Dogs should stay in a kennel. They are dirty creatures."
"She is not a dirty creature. Roia is very well-behaved; she never uses the hall as a latrine."
Neither of their voices contained any rancor. This discussion had become part of their morning routine. She tied his cross garters, and they argued over Roia. Gilliam eased off the bed to don his chausses. Dawn's light fell across him, revealing the scar on his abdomen.
"What caused that scar of yours? It looks like it must have been horrible." Nicola untangled her overgown from his shirt.
"It was."
While waiting for him to expound, she tugged on her final gown, then tied her mantle around her shoulders. The cold air once again at bay, Nicola took up her stockings and shoes, and once more looked at Gilliam. He had tied the drawstring to his chausses and was reaching for his boots, leaving his shirt and tunic for last as he always did. The cold never seemed to affect him.
"Well?" she asked after another moment.
"Well, what?" he asked blankly.
"How did you get that scar? Do not pretend you misunderstand me, for I know very well you do not." If the last two weeks had taught her anything about the man to whom she was married, it was that he was not in the slightest dim-witted. It was only his placid manner that suggested that of him. Nicola eyed her feet as she pulled on her stockings. There was only a trace of a mark left on one, all else had healed. "Come now, tell,
" she insisted, donning her shoes.
He had one boot on, the other yet in hand. “It’s embarrassing." He actually flushed.
Nicola smiled at his discomfort. "What? You embarrassed? Now, that's a hard thing to picture. Put on your other boot, and I will come tie your cross garters. You can tell me the tale while I do it." He shoved his foot into the boot, and Nicola knelt before him, leather bindings in hand.
"Why are you so curious about it?"
"I am not curious," she scoffed. "I am amazed. The thing has the look of a death wound. I would know what caused it."
"If you must, then," he said reluctantly. "I was but ten and six and yet residing with my foster father. He had five of us squired to him, and we were a daring bunch, each always trying to outdo the other in acts of what we thought was bravery. One day, we were hunting boar and"—he paused to lift a shoulder just a little—"I said I could ride it before we killed it."
Nicola sat flat on the ground and stared up at him in shock and disbelief. "You didn't."
"Aye, I did. Ride it, that is. Not for long, mind you. He nigh on took my insides out in repayment." Gilliam smiled a sheepish smile. "I told you it was embarrassing, a boy's stupid trick. Enough of that." When he offered her his hand to aid her in rising, she let him draw her to her feet.
"I cannot believe you were such a fool," she whispered, still unable to comprehend his story. "Ride a boar? And here I'd come to think you more clever than that."
"Do not make me sorry I told you," he warned, then added when she again shook her head in disbelief. "Taunt me over it, and I will get my revenge."
"Do you think me afeared of you, big man? Hah! I think I shall cherish this bit of knowledge forever, oh great boar hunter." She smiled in smug satisfaction.
"Now you've gone too far," he growled, and jerked her into his embrace. Before she could resist, he had tossed her onto the bed, then dropped atop her. "I will squash you like a bug."
"Nay!" she squealed, trapped beneath his weight. "Cease you, or you will damage me. Get off, you great oaf," she managed, "or I'll box your ears."
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