Spring's Fury (16 page)

Nicola stared after him, gnawing on the roll's hard crust. She knew better than to take all Thomas had said at face value. It was his duty to protect the villagers' interests, even if they conflicted with what was Ashby's good.

So her husband had a head full of plans, did he? Gilliam's comments on the wool market leapt to her mind. Ashby's folk had always been farmers first, their sheep raised more for their milk and meat than for their wool. Nicola paused. The western edge of Ashby's lands was a wide expanse of grassland, suitable for sheep. Why had she not thought of this before now?

She made a soft sound of disgust at herself. It wasn’t just her father that had let the years plod by unchanged, it was her as well.  It had never occurred to her to do anything differently.

Irritation rose, stirred up by force of habit.  Was she to just step aside and give Gilliam control of Ashby?  Never! This was her home, not his.

The petulance in her thought brought her up short. Whose good was at stake here, hers or Ashby's? Even to her own ears, it sounded more like she did not wish to share what she named hers, no matter the cost. Nicola did not like the way that thought fit, nay, not at all.

By day's end, Nicola knew two things: she would not regain her ability to work until her feet healed and her still room was empty of weapons. Since there was naught she could do about the weapons, she stretched her feet a little closer to the hearth stone, hoping the heat would speed healing. Not being able to walk was worse than being a prisoner. Here she was trapped in her hall, when all her home waited for her inspection.

Night had seeped beneath the hall door and through the smoke hole to enfold the big room in a quiet dimness, the loudest sound now the fire's crackling hiss. Through the dancing flames, Ashby's servants and soldiers were but gentle mounds, draped in blankets as they found their ease on their pallets.

Trapped by her feet, Nicola had turned to sewing to pass the time. She jabbed her needle into the side seam of what would soon be her undergown. In the basket by her feet lay the pieces that would become the overgown. Both were cut from the sturdy brown fabric meant for soldiers' tunics. They would hardly be fashionable, but they would suit her needs. All she lacked now was a proper piece of linen from which to make a wimple.

If she finished these and her feet were still a problem, there was retted flax and clean fleece laid by in the cellar, just waiting for her distaff and loom. These chores were usually left to winter's depth, when the cold trapped every man within doors. Still, better weaving than boredom.

The door opened and she glanced up, already knowing it was Gilliam and Jocelyn. The boy yawned, tired rings beneath his eyes. Trotting behind his new lord all the day had left its mark on him.

"Did you see an owl?" she asked when they joined her near the fire. She caught the needle into the material, then folded away her handwork, storing it in the basket.

"Nay, my lady," Jos replied in what almost sounded like disappointment. When Gilliam had suggested they search for the night hunting birds, the child had sneered, saying that he had no interest in such things. "Lord Gilliam thinks we might have heard one."

Nicola nodded, slipping her shoes back onto her feet. The heat had helped; the blisters were drying. She banked the fire, laying the cover atop it and stood. She handed Jocelyn the lamp from the table's edge. "Carry this for me. I can manage the bucket." The morrow's washing water stood at the opposite end of the table.

"Nay, I'll carry the water," Gilliam said, grabbing the bucket's handle. "You've trouble enough staying upright and walking, much less trying to carry anything."

"What do I look like, some weak woman," Nicola shot back. She needed no help, especially from him. "You were gone all day, and I managed well enough without you. I can do so now."

He smiled at her. "Of that I have no doubt. However, since I have the bucket and you'll need to fight me to retrieve it, humor me in this. Come, now, poor Jos is struggling to keep his eyes open." He started toward the door.

Nicola glanced at the boy, awaiting his reaction to the shortening of his name. Jocelyn only rolled his eyes in defeat and followed Gilliam. Still shaking her head in amusement, Nicola brought up the rear, her steps far less stilted than this morn.

They waited for her at the door. "Jocelyn," she said, "I've laid you a pallet in the keep chamber, but that room's too crowded even with just the bed in it. Your lord will have to have a care for where he steps."

"I would never step on Jos," Gilliam protested with mock hurt, his foot suddenly resting atop the boy's toes. Jos sidled out of his way, something akin to a giggle escaping him. When Gilliam tried it again, the lad slid out the hall door ahead of them. With his hand cupped around the lamp to protect the flame from the wind, his passage across the bailey was ghostly.

Drawing her mantle tightly around her against the frigid wind that spattered her with icy moisture, Nicola stared after the boy. "Gilliam, he should be sleeping in the hall, where there's fire and warmth. So should we."

She turned to look at her husband. It was so dark between them, he was hardly more than a shadow. As always, she felt his heat reach out to her.

"Nay, that is my chamber, and he must sleep with me. Come spring, the hall will rise. I've planned for an antechamber where Jos can keep his pallet. Until then, we will have to survive in those cramped quarters." His hand slipped beneath her elbow and led her into the bailey. "Come now, with the three of us in that small room, we'll be warm enough."

The sky was heavy, the wind whistling around them as they crossed the open area. Leaves rattled past them, and the oxen lowed from their byre. There was a movement from behind them. Roia followed.

"She's not sleeping with us, too, is she?" There was a touch of panic in Nicola's voice.

His laugh was low and quiet. "What can I do? She'll stay nowhere else. I chained her in the stable last night, and the grooms say she howled the whole night long."

"But Jocelyn hates dogs," she protested as she started up the steps. She was less intent on defending the boy than on protecting herself. Gilliam kept his hand at the small of her back against the possibility of ice on the steps.

"Not so much after today. He and and Roia have come to an understanding. Do not worry, I will keep you safe from her."

"Even if she doesn't eat me alive, she will give us all fleas," Nicola said, recognizing a hopeless cause.

Jocelyn had left the door ajar for them and gone to light the thick night candle from his lamp. He'd left the little bowl, now dark and solemn, beneath the big iron candleholder. With but a single flame to shed its light in the room, the bright bed curtains were naught but gray shrouds, the bed's interior a dark cave.

The boy had already stripped away his tunic, but kept his chausses and shirt on against the chill. When Nicola knelt beside the thick straw mattress that lay against one wall to shove aside the blankets and furs, the boy leapt within them. He settled, his back toward the wall, and she swiftly tucked the many layers around him, then smiled at him to bid him to sleep.

"Good night, my lad," Gilliam said from beside the bed's head. "Sleep deeply, we have much to do on the morrow."

"Aye, my lord," he managed, his eyes already closing.

As Nicola stood, Roia moved past her, this time offering no comment on her dislike for Ashby's lady. Seeing the pallet for its potential warmth and comfort, the big dog circled several times over the half Jos left empty, then settled with a groan.

Nicola turned, meaning to ask Gilliam for help with her laces. Her husband had his back to her, his tunic and shirt already stripped off. The candle's golden light gleamed against his bared shoulders and back. She held back, once again in awe of the very size of him. If she touched him, would he feel hard like a wall or would there be the normal softness of skin? The desire to know grew until she lifted a hand.

Startled by this ridiculous urge, she brought her errant fingers back to her side and cleared her throat. He looked over his shoulder at her, the light flowing over the handsome lines of his face. This was the man who would share her bed for the rest of her life.

"Would you mind loosening my gowns?" It was a shy question.

"Not at all," he replied with a quick laugh, turning toward her. His hair shone like gold as he moved.

Nicola offered her wrists first. "By the morrow's end, those gowns I'm sewing should be done, or so I hope." The words came out in a hurried stream as she watched him work at the thin string. It still surprised her that his fingers could be both so nimble and so large.

"That brown color does not suit you at all," he said, glancing up at her.

She shrugged. "What does the color matter?  They will be practical gowns,” she said, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Jocelyn. "I can hardly do the slaughtering in these, that much is for certain. The other I can stain without worry. Besides, you cannot much like having to do this chore like some fine lady's maid."

He smiled. "You are wrong. I am a man who thought never to marry, therefore so domestic a task as this gives me great pleasure." There was something more than simple pleasure in his voice, and it set her pulse to a new beat.

Nicola was very happy to turn her back to him and let him work on the overgown's string. "Why would you think never to marry?" She released her belt's knot and hung it from a hook on the bedpost, then glanced over her shoulder at him. The masculine planes of his chest glowed in the weak light, outlined by night's shadow. "Your brother is a powerful lord who holds many properties. Surely he would give you your own fief."

His hands stilled suddenly, resting against her spine. "Who can say? My father left me nothing but his name, and that was all I ever expected."

The pain in his voice surprised her. More than that, it told her he had never expected more because he did not feel he deserved it. Something terrible must have happened between the brothers. Again, she glanced over her shoulder at him. There was a bitter cast to his mouth. "Why?"

"Here, this one is done," he said, ignoring her question.

She slipped the loosened gown off her shoulders and stepped out of it. The undergown had a single tie at mid back. He worked at the knot. In the silence of the room, the material's rasp seemed overly loud.

"You'll not say?" she prodded quietly.

As he freed the tie, he said, "Perhaps another time." His voice was tight and low. He turned swiftly away from her to finish disrobing.

Nicola slipped out of her undergown, leaving on her chemise. This she did not do for modesty's sake, since all men and women slept without clothing, but as one more layer against the room's deep chill. She gathered up both their clothing and hung them over the bedpost, then retreated to the bed. Gilliam already lay near the wall, hidden in the dimness.

Only when she slipped beneath the bedclothes, did she realize her husband's back was toward her. Nevertheless, he was blessedly warm. She closed the curtains, creating an instant and complete darkness. When she lay down, it was just close enough to him to borrow his warmth. She drifted to sleep, wondering what he could have done that was horrible enough to banish his humor.

Smoke curled up and over her shoulder. Nicola turned to look behind her and saw tiny tongues of flame hop, one above the other, up a wall. Men and women she'd known all her life raced soundlessly past her, mouths wide in horror. She looked to where they ran and saw the hole carved in the wall. There was safety for her there.

Nicola started to follow them, but something held her trapped. When she looked behind her, she saw the fire now had her by the skirt. The flames swiftly consumed the fabric as it sought to reach her. She thrashed and kicked, desperate to be free of the burning cloth. A huge dog ran toward her, growling and snapping. She cried out, no more capable of escaping the terrible creature than she could the fire... .

"Roia, nay. Hey now."

Startled by an unexpected voice and a touch upon her arm, Nicola cried out and fought her way upright. She was trapped in complete darkness. Panic exploded within her. Which prison was this?

There was movement behind her, a rustling and creaking then arms came around her. By their strength and bulk, she recognized Gilliam. "Are you awake?"

"Aye," she murmured, waiting to feel trapped by his hold. Instead, she found only comfort. On the morrow, she would warn him against such intimacy. They had agreed her body was her own. But just now, she was too tired to talk about it.

Nicola relaxed against him, and he leaned his cheek against her bare neck. His skin was rough with the day's growth of beard. A tiny spark of amusement filled her. Was he so vain he kept himself barefaced apurpose? She yawned, already drifting back to sleep.

"What did you dream?" His voice was low and so deep, it rumbled around the confines of the bed. He lowered her back into the bolsters, his huge hand moving to ease the tension from her back.

She murmured and leaned forward, giving him access to more of her aching spine. He worked at the kinks in her muscles. "It’s the same each time. I am trying to escape the fire, but no matter how I run the flames are eating me up."

"Hmm. 'Twas a frightening thing, that."

"What?" she managed, more asleep than awake.

"The fire. Me in my armor and gambeson, I kept expecting to drop with the heat, but I couldn't allow myself to do so. When none of you inside Ashby answered my calls, I was certain Rannulf was dead. I had set my heart on avenging him, even if it cost me my life. I owed him that much."

"Why?" she asked, more to hear his voice than in any need to know the answer and forgetting she'd asked him this earlier.

"A few days before he came to Ashby and was taken captive, we fought, he and I. I said things"—he paused—"things of which I am not proud." His hand receded, and he eased back down beneath the bedclothes.

She smiled just a little into the bolsters. "I see he has not yet forgiven you your harsh words," she murmured.

"How so?" lt was a surprised question.

"He gave you me, did he not?" It would serve Gilliam rightly to be served a little of his own humor.

"You made a jest," he breathed in astonishment.

"Did you think I could not?" she retorted in sleepy irritation. "Now, leave me to my rest. It’s the middle of the night." As she drifted off, she was sure she heard his laugh, low and soft.