Defiant (4 page)

“True enough. But ‘twas only a tup after all and not much more. Asides, ‘is cock were as soft and stubby as they come. If we leave the body ‘ere I’ll be ablamed for it and it will be worse than if you ‘ad not interfered a’tall.”

“He’s not dead.”

Shifting her yellow shawl on her shoulders, the girl looked from the open-eyed brute to Gwyneth and back again. “Beggin’ your pardon again, me lady, I think that ‘e is.”

Ice ran up Gwyneth’s spine. He was not dead. He could not be. That would just be wrong of him to up and die on her like that.

She stared at the man, at his carelessly flopped legs and arms, at the white patch of skin and lifeless member exposed between his turned-down hose and flipped-up tunic, at his dirty black hair … at all the blood on his face.

A red liquid pool was forming around his head. His sightless eyes were turned upward toward the tree canopy. Trying not to look at his nakedness, she bent slightly forward to determine if his chest was moving up and down at all.

Naught. Not even the tiniest of movement.

She bent down farther.

Still nothing.

The forest spun in a lazy circle as she straightened; the colors swirled as if she had drunk too much mead. Oh, heavens.

She clutched her throat. Why had she left the great hall? Why? How would she ever explain this to her father?

“Well, come on then"—the girl tapped Gwyneth on her shoulder—"let’s move ‘im, aye? We’ll weight ‘im down with stones and sink ‘im in the river.” She latched her hands around one of the man’s legs and began to drag him. The body moved a few fingerlengths toward the water. Panting, the girl stopped. “You gonna ‘elp or just watch, me lady?”

Startled, Gwyneth flinched.

Dead.

Completely dead.

Gone.

Not coming back.

Stinging acid rose in her throat. It burned her tongue, the back of her mouth. Clenching her stomach, she turned to one side and retched over a pile of leaves as a series of dry heaves overtook her.

Her mind whirled, the thoughts tangling one upon the other like balls of embroidery thread. She should not have left the keep. She should have paraded around exactly as her father had wanted, married the first man who offered. They would come for her, put her in prison. Shudders rocked her body. She would be branded a murderess.

“Me lady?” The girl slid next to her and put her arm around Gwyneth’s shoulder. The wind seemed to kick up. Leaves swirled. Or maybe that was her own dizziness. She sank downward, but the girl held her upright. “Me lady, cease. ‘e was a bad man and not deserving of your spewing, I swear. The earth’s a better place now. ”

The earth was covered in blood.

Murderess.

How could she face the stares of others when they discovered this? No decent man would marry her, now that she had blood on her hands.

Her father might disown her …

She tried to suck in a breath, but her chest caught, making it impossible to take in a lungful. She coughed, then heaved again.

Reaching forward, the girl wiped beads of sweat from Gwyneth’s temple. How could she be so calm when it felt as though the world had gone mad?

She gazed at her, and her features—the chin mole, the wide eyes, the mussed hair—all seemed to meld together like wax.

“Me name is Irma, me lady. Wot’s yours?”

“G-G-Gwyneth of Windrose,” she stuttered, then out of habit added, “How do you do?”

The simple introduction brought a measure of familiarity into the scene. Gwyneth knew plenty about being introduced at faires and tournaments. She tried sucking in another deep breath and this time was able to do so.

“Well, grab a leg then, Lady Gwyneth.” Irma wrapped her dusty hands around the man’s ankle.

Choking back her revulsion, focusing on the task, Gwyneth took hold of the man’s other ankle. The man’s green leather boots were still warm from his body’s heat.

She shuddered, and together, the two girls dragged him to the river.

How could she have killed a man? How could she—

“'e deserved it, me lady,” said Irma, as if reading her mind.

Her voice calmed Gwyneth’s spinning emotions. She clutched her chest, feeling the carved wooden cover of the book that the young monk had given to her. A book from an earlier time. A treasure. An anchor in a spinning world.

The man’s body stretched out behind them on the ground. Leaves and sticks slid aside as his head thunked over tree roots and small sticks. A trail of crimson marked their path.

Shuddering, Gwyneth looked straight ahead, focusing on the sound of the babbling river, on the knotty tree branches, on the feel of the grass and leaves beneath her feet, on anything besides the horrible deed she had just committed.

When they neared the water, Irma gathered river rocks and began stuffing them into the man’s tunic and breeches. She untied his pouch and pushed it into the bosom of her dress.

Gwyneth gasped at the girl’s unemotional, mercenary action. She felt more blood drain from her cheeks as if it would flow down her body and pool on the ground to unite with the dead man’s.

Irma stuffed another rock down the man’s tunic. “Beggin’ your pardon, me lady, but I didn’t kill nobody—you did. Now hand me another stone.”

Body trembling, Gwyneth mindlessly bent down to do as Irma had requested. She could see the book’s spine poking out of her bodice and she forced herself to think about that—of how she would learn to read. Of how she would fly above the mundane world like the carved dragon on the cover.

The rock she picked up felt cold and solid in her hand, a little piece of reality in this turbulent world. The trail of blood merged with the mud, turning it a dark, murky color. They would have to cover it before they left. Her mind raced for excuses that she could give to her father for the amount of time she had been gone. Should she confess?

Nay.

She forced her mind to calm. Get rid of the body. Go back to the feast. Soothe her father. It would be simple. Easy.

At last the man’s tunic and hose—Irma had pulled them back up on his legs—were stuffed to overflowing with rocks. He looked like a bumpy, overfilled scarecrow.

Irma stripped off his boots with the same cold efficiency she had given to the pouch. They were unusual—green leather with fancy silver buckles—and would likely fetch a high price. She threw the man’s drinking horn into the pile as well.

“Well, ‘tis done,” she said, tossing the boots beside a nearby sapling. “'elp me drag ‘im to that rock and push ‘im off. The water’s deeper there. They won’t ne’er find ‘im and ifin they do, well, then we’ll be long gone.”

Horrified by her own actions, but knowing she had no choice, Gwyneth did as she was told.

“No one must ever know of this,” she said, her voice sounded small. If anyone found out, she’d be imprisoned, ostracized. Her father would never forgive her for destroying his plans for a decent marriage.

“Of course not, dearie. No one will find out.”

They stood on the rock watching the man drift downward and become covered by the swirling river. Bubbles flowed to the surface and popped. Even after he disappeared, they stood there for a long time. Not speaking.

“Wot were you doing here, me lady? Asides rescuing the likes of me, I mean,” Irma finally asked.

Gwyneth blinked as if waking up from slumber. The day’s events seemed foggy, unreal.

“There was a feast—lots of people—I felt crowded.”

Irma cocked her head to one side, the same way she had done earlier. Her eyes were keen. “There’s more to the story than that, ain’t there?”

Gwyneth nodded, but her problems seemed so petty, so mundane in light of the rape and murder.

“My sister was mean to me.” There was something of a release that came in her chest at admitting something so trivial. As if things were normal again and she only had to deal with adolescent problems and not the sin of killing a man.

Perhaps she could dedicate her life to the church like the young, handsome monk who had given her the book. “Ever since I started into womanhood, my father has been determined to use me for political gain. I have duty and responsibility to be the lady of the keep.” She pulled the book out from her bodice, inspected the gilded dragon on its cover, and was pleased to realize it was unharmed. It was a token from the time before she was a murderess. “Even strangers are handing me instruction books on the place of women,” she continued, but her thoughts drifted to how the monk had winked at her.

“Hmph,” said Irma, crossing her arms. “I can tell you much about the place of women. But finish your story. You came out here to get away from the fancies?”

“I thought I could find my younger sister. Oft she roams in the forest with her pets. ”

Irma gave a pointed look at the bosom of Gwyneth’s gown, at the swell of cleavage pushed up on the shelf. “Better the animals of the forest than the animals of the feast. ”

Gwyneth shrugged, feeling self-conscious that she had said anything at all, that it had even bothered her that Brenna and Emily disliked her. She had done nothing to harm them. Unlike what she had done to this man. Her hands shook with sudden nerves.

“Methinks you oughta be using your beauty,” Irma continued. “With your looks you could have anything you want. ”

“Except friendship—”

“Bah. You do not need friends like those. Think about your own wants.”

She longed to say that she wanted the love of her sister, the regard of her father, the respect of the servants, but out of a sense of camaraderie with Irma, she bit her tongue. “A noblewoman’s life is about duty.”

“Mayhap. But if I had your looks and position, I’d be the most sought-after woman in England. I’d command respect and wield power, make changes for good.”

Gwyneth sniffed, appalled at the girl’s cheek. A woman wielding power like a man? “A woman is to marry, care for a man’s household. I need to get back to my father.” She should go home, get away from these fanciful ideas.

“Just look how lovely your hair is. The color is magical and it’s thick and long like a princess.”

“I’d like to cut it off.”

“Nay, me lady. Do not say such. With your beauty, your strength, you could learn to control men rather than be controlled by them. ”

The thought held such appeal that tears welled unbidden in Gwyneth’s eyes. She wished she could be that sort of grand woman. But the men she knew horrified her, and now the thought of facing a wedding night, of experiencing what Irma had just gone through, sent a shot of repulsion up her throat.

“I—I’m not strong.” An abrupt longing for her dolls burned into her mind, but she pushed it aside. When she had first come here, she felt like a child, a girl, but things had changed.

“Mayhap not this instant after you jes killed off a man, but you could be a grand lady who sets things aright for justice in the world between men and women, jes as you did today.”

The thought sounded positively sinful. And yet, she’d been setting things in order around the keep—structuring the maids, dusting the rugs, organizing the pantries—ever since her mother had passed on. Perhaps setting order in the world would be a mere extension of that.

She stopped sniffling and stared down at the rips on her houppelande, at the hands that had just gripped a stick and pounded in a man’s head. “I’m not going to murder anyone else!”

“Of course not.”

“Then whatever do you mean?”

Irma took her hand and the gesture startled Gwyneth. It had been so long since someone had made a play for friendship that her heart gave a little leap. Since her mother had died and she had been made to fill the role as lady of the keep, her childhood playmates seemed to have all faded.

“There is a place I know, women who have been wronged by men—a noblewoman such as yourself could work to set things aright. You could use your dazzling beauty to charm your way into places that plain-faced peasants like me cannot go.” Irma thumbed the mole on her chin.

A tear flowed down Gwyneth’s cheek, but inside she felt a glimmer of hope that seemed to have been all but dead this past year. That her life could be more than an endless parade of silly feasts with gossiping matrons, leering men, and giggling, cruel girls held appeal. Her mother had been a grand lady—modest and kind. She’d made a difference where she could, but in the end it seemed that she did little more than mend her father’s socks.

Gwyneth wanted … more.

Irma wiped away the moisture on Gwyneth’s chin with her thumb. Another tender gesture. Something her mother would have done. But her mother was gone. Her only ally was dead.

Embarrassed by the way she craved the attention, Gwyneth remained perfectly still, neither moving backward nor leaning forward.

“You have lovely blue eyes and don’t want to make them puffy with crying,” Irma clucked. “But you could wear a little kohl, mayhap.”

The young monk’s cross came into view in her mind’s eye. “Harlots wear kohl.”

“So do queens. Like Cleopatra.”

Gwyneth glanced from the blood trail in the trees to the river where the dead body was. It was nicer to think of herself as a queen than a murderess. She ran her finger along the edge of the pages. Surely queens would know how to read. She would find the young monk and ask him to teach her.

“You can’t go back to the keep looking like you are. Your dress needs stitching and your hair is tangled.”

Looking down at her disheveled form, Gwyneth tried to brush a spot of dirt off the blue silk of her dress. She pulled a leaf out of her hair.

“We’ll hide the tracks and then you’ll come with me an’ I’ll take you to put on a bit of kohl. Yer face is pale as a ghost—it’ll give you some color.” Irma’s voice was firm, resolute, kind. “I’ll tell you about the women you can ‘elp. I want to be friends.”

Friends. How nice it would be to have a friend again.

“Asides, you can meet me daughter.”

Daughter?
Irma was surely not old enough to have a daughter. “H-how old are you?”

“Don’t know really. Wots it matter? How old are you?”

“Fifteen summers.”

“Must be nice to know such things, I think.”

They stared at each other for a moment, then, as if knowing exactly what to do, Irma took Gwyneth firmly by the hand and led her away from the bank of the river, away from the man sunk down in the bottom of the muck. Away from innocence and childhood and all the things that had seemed so important only hours before.