Spring's Fury (18 page)

There had been no chance to leave the walls this day, so the question of her needing an escort to the village was moot. The dairy had been in desperate need of cleaning, and her hives were indeed overflowing. These two chores had taken her past the midday meal, after which she'd walked the farm.

It wasn't that Thomas truly meant to cheat the manor, it was just that little game of memory commoners everywhere played against their noble masters. Because Ashby's new lord lacked an in-depth knowledge of the boon work owed to the manor, minor chores had been ignored. Harvesting the grapes growing along the far wall was but one example. Just a few clusters had survived the onslaught of the birds and rot. This meant that she and Gilliam would be drinking ale with their servants all winter. Only her kitchen garden seemed to have fared well. Mayhap, this was because the cook depended on it to keep Gilliam fed. The ground had, indeed, been enriched and worked into a healthy softness. Come St. Edmund's Day, she'd be planting their beans and garlic.

Other things exclusively hers to do, had gone wanting. Her store of herbs had not been replenished. With autumn almost gone, there'd be no chance to replace those that grew only in lea or woodland until summer next. What little she had left in the stillroom were nigh on too old to be of use.

Nicola once again picked up the linen square, drawing needle through cloth in another stitch. If she could finish the edge, she'd have a head cloth for the morrow.

Gilliam came to stand behind her and rested his hand on her shoulder. She lifted her hand, meaning to push away his fingers, but his thumb began to move on her nape, seeking to ease the tension in her muscles there. Nicola gave a soft murmur of reluctant acceptance as his caress eased the terrible stiffness caused by her hard work.

"How goes it?" he asked.

"I am almost done." She bent her head farther forward so he could continue to massage her neck. It felt wondrous. When he finally drew his hand away, she leaned back against him, her head resting on his belly so she could look up at him.

If his lips didn't smile at her, his eyes did. "Jos fell asleep helping me eat my meat pies." This was Gilliam's sixth and final meal of the day. "It’s time we were abed."

"Not yet," she protected quietly. "I'll not go bare-headed another day, and have the village women point and laugh at me." Every married woman in the world covered her hair; whether Nicola's marriage was valid or not, she had no desire to be a laughingstock.

"A shame," he said softly, touching a curl. The feeling of his fingers sliding through her hair sent a chill down her spine. "Your hair is beautiful."

She was too tired to wonder why he would think that the mop atop her head was anything but a disgrace. He seemed to take her lack of response as an invitation to continue toying with her hair, for he combed his fingers through it. The tenderness of the caress caused an instant and uncomfortable pressure beneath her heart. Nicola caught his wrist.

"No more," she said quietly. "You are right. It’s time for bed."

As she stood Roia came from beneath the table to join them. Nicola found their lamp, then covered the hall fire and took up the bucket of clean water. Gilliam lifted his sleeping squire in his arms. She matched him stride for stride as they crossed the bailey for the keep tower.

In their chamber Gilliam laid Jos on his pallet, leaving Nicola to cover the boy. Roia waited patiently, then took up what was now her spot next to Jos. Nicola dared to lay a soft touch on the dog’s shoulder. Roia squinted at her and moved her tail, just once. From deep in his sleep Jos edged closer to the alaunt, throwing his arm around her.

"Did I not tell you he decided he liked dogs," Gilliam said with a laugh as he stripped off his shirt and tunic.

"So you did," Nicola replied, coming to kneel before him to loosen the cross garters holding his boots and chausses to his lower legs. When she was done, she stood back, waiting for him to free himself from the garments so she could hang them and put the boots beside the door. "This squire of yours is a strange one."

"He grows better by the day," Gilliam said, sliding beneath the bedclothes. "Are you still planning to slaughter the pigs on the morrow?'

"Aye, first thing. Why?" She hurriedly stripped off her gowns and hung them atop Gilliam's clothing, then leapt into the bed. Even before she'd pulled the blankets to her chin, she was shivering.

"Save a bladder for him, will you?"

"What a good idea," she said, yanking the bed curtains shut. An inflated pig's bladder was every boy's necessity, especially during this season. "He'll like that." She rolled onto her side and was asleep in moments.

She was late for the next day's midday meal because it had taken her longer than she'd thought to craft her gift for Jocelyn. By the time she entered the hall, Gilliam and the boy were nearly finished with their meal. Fish stew today, this being a fast day.

 "I was wasting away to a mere shadow of myself," Gilliam called to her as she and 'Wyna entered. "My pardon, but we started without you." He served himself another portion of the stew.

"How can I complain over you when I am the one who's late?' Nicola stopped in the doorway to stomp the mud from her shoes and loosen the knot at the mantle's shoulder. Roia appeared suddenly, sitting alert in the open area before Ashby's lady, great jaws agape and tongue lolling.

"Hold this 'Wyna," Nicola said softly, handing the inflated bladder to the woman as she took her mantle by the corners. Today's rain was a far gentler sort than yesterday's, but she had been outside much longer. She snapped the mantle in the air, over and over, until it was free of the clinging droplets, and Roia was panting against her efforts to catch them.

"Silly beast," she told the big dog, tying her mantle back around her shoulders. The alaunt widened her grin as if to agree. Retrieving the bladder from 'Wyna, Nicola hid it behind her back and started through the big room toward the back table.

Thomas sat as he always did, at the head of the right table, placed above the soldiers that guarded Ashby's walls. Instead of acknowledging him as she used to do, guilt kept Nicola's gaze fixed ahead of her. Did Thomas also believe Hugh was behind the murder? If so, she was certain the reeve would never forgive her, not after what her earlier meddling had cost him. She moved around the table and took the bench next to Gilliam's, it having become her accustomed seat.

"Does the reeve's presence bother you? I can tell him to eat with us no longer," her husband offered in a whisper.

Nicola shot him a startled look. "Nay, you cannot," she said sharply. "Tradition says Ashby's reeve takes his morning and midday meal at your expense. You cannot bar him from our hall."

To escape this conversation she turned to face the boy across the table from her. "Jocelyn, I have something for you." She produced the inflated pig's bladder and rattled it for the lad, to show it contained beans.

"What is it?" he asked, staring at the toy, but not taking it from her. Nicola looked at him in surprise and set the ball in the middle of the table.

"Jos, 'tis a bladder for tossing or kicking," Gilliam said, sounding shocked. "Now boy, do not tell me you've never before had a ball. Why, it’s required of every lad to play with one of these during autumn."

Jocelyn looked up at his lord with an adult expression of disdain. "The tossing and kicking of balls is for commoners. My lady mother does not approve of such things."

Nicola laughed as Gilliam rocked back on his bench. He was truly mortified by Jos's claim.

"Then call me common," he cried. "What sort of mother keeps her son from the joys of boyhood?"

"I find my joy in the quill and scroll, my lord," the boy replied.

"You scribe and read?" Nicola asked in surprise. Outside of churchmen, the only folk whom she knew could read and write were Lord Rannulf and his wife. Everyone else, at least in her corner of the world, left that chore to hired clerks or monks.

"Aye.  It’s all I am fit for." What should have been a self-deprecating comment was uttered with great pride.

"Not true," Gilliam retorted swiftly. "Here"—he took the bladder from the tabletop and bounced it in his hand—"take it."

"What's the use?" Jocelyn asked with a deep sigh. "I cannot throw it, and I cannot catch."

Nicola eyed him in skepticism. "You just said you'd never been allowed to have one. How do you know you cannot throw or catch?"

"I know," the boy replied with absolute certainty. He mournfully lifted another spoonful of stew off his bread trencher and into his mouth. "What other boys can do, I cannot."

Nicola eyed him skeptically, wondering which he enjoyed more, his helplessness or having piqued his noble master. 

"Try it," Gilliam said, his voice empty of any emotion. "Come, lad, hold up your hand."

"I cannot do it," Jocelyn insisted with a sad shake of his head.

"Hold up your hand," his lord said again. His voice was quiet.

Nicola looked at her husband in surprise. Gilliam was angry. He had not drawn down his brows, nor was there any black look in his eyes, only a humorless tone of voice.

"Jocelyn, you should try," she said softly, then wondered why she bothered to intervene.

"I mean no disrespect, my lady, but I do not want the thing." Again, Nicola saw herself reflected in his manner.  He was just as determined not to do this as she had been determined not to marry Gilliam.

The bladder bounced off the top of the boy's head, then rebounded toward Nicola. As Jocelyn blinked in surprise, she grabbed the ball out of the air. Gilliam said nothing, only made a motion with his fingers indicating she should return it to him When she, did, the ball again flew across the table and struck Jocelyn atop his head. Gilliam snatched it back,

"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. "l 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."