Spring's Fury (27 page)

Hugh took a moment to wrench off his helmet, but left his coif tied about his head. The thick black lines that were his eyebrows rose slowly over eyes just as dark. There was a gleam of satisfaction in his gaze. Then, he tilted his head to one side to peer at her, his mouth pursed in interest. His perusal included every inch of her long length.

"I would hardly have known you, my lady." It was a quiet statement. "Marriage has changed you."

"Aye, so it has," she said with a quiver in her voice, hoping to portray herself as a desperate wife. "Oh my lord, I have learned my lesson. Please, no longer damn me for so rudely refusing your affections. I was arrogant and insufferable. Say you will forgive me."

Satisfaction grew in Hugh's expression. Against his sallow complexion, his smiled gleamed brightly. "My lady, who could deny one as lovely as you when you ask so nicely. You are forgiven."

Nicola remembered to smile at him then bowed her head to hide her true reaction. Did Hugh believe her dim-witted enough to forget he had called her an ugly Amazon? But, neither was Hugh dim-wined enough to have forgotten her insults. "You are too kind to me," she said from her meek position, "when my previous behavior toward you does not warrant your aid."

"Ah," the small knight said, "and here I find myself confused. Just how do you believe I can help you?"

Nicola raised her head, her brow creased in a very real worry. There was no sign of his previous smile left in Hugh's face. Had not Tilda's message told him all this? "My lord, I thought you knew. I wish to be free of my marriage. Would that I had accepted your offer last year. You showed more care for me then than my husband does."

Hugh cocked a single brow. "It has taken you these many months to come to this decision?"

"Until Tilda returned home, I had no ally through whom to reach you. When Tilda said you might yet wish to wed me, well it made me believe—" She paused in sudden understanding. Hugh was making certain that she, not he, suggested murder and remarriage. "I thought you might find some way to rid me of my husband. We would then be free to wed."

There.  It was out. Now, all he need do was agree, then retreat to Ocslade. She willed him to hurry.

"Is it murder you have on your mind, then?" Hugh's face remained free of any disgust, revulsion, or even pleasure at the thought of killing Gilliam.

"Nay," Nicola said, keeping her voice soft and feminine.  “It’s not murder when it is done in combat."

"I think the effort would be wasted. Your overlord will not have me as his vassal after I end his brother's life. It’s said that if you scratch one FitzHenry the others are after you like hounds at the hunt." He made it a flat statement, again cautiously avoiding responsibility for what might happen.

"Are you refusing me, my lord?" she prodded.

 "I am only waiting to be convinced. Since you are plotting this, tell me how you think to wed me when your overlord will not have me?"

It came like a lightning bolt. "Throughout all this past winter, Ashby has been plagued by thieves. We thought they’d moved on since there've been no attacks since Easter. What if they have not, and my husband should come across them while hunting one day? Who can blame you for what thieves have done?"

Hugh watched her for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across his narrow face. "Well now, this is indeed the day for surprises."

He turned in his saddle to stare back at the woman who had been his leman these past months. Tilda sat on the ground, her father's head cradled in her lap as she rocked and sobbed over him. "So whore, what is your gain in this?"

When Tilda did not respond, Hugh jerked his head toward the man who had held Thomas's rope. "Make her answer."

The man reached out with a foot and tapped Tilda none too gently on her head. "Answer Lord Hugh, bitch," he said in English.

The girl looked up in confusion. Nicola shifted from foot to foot. This was taking too long. She willed Tilda to say something.

"My pardon, I was paying no heed. What was it you asked of me, my lord?" Both her fine French and the abject humility of the girl's voice startled Nicola.

"What's your gain in this, my lovely?" he sneered. "I have yet to see you do one thing that did not benefit you in some way." There was no sign in Hugh that he had ever held any affection for Tilda.

"None, my lord," she managed.

"It’s true, my lord," Nicola said, hoping to hurry things along. "Tilda and I have been close since birth. She does this only to aid me. Such is the value of our love for each other."

Hugh returned his empty black gaze to her. "That creature loves no one but herself; she is not capable of more. This meeting of ours plagues me, Lady Ashby. Your lord husband has not left Ashby on any excuse for the past months, yet within five days of the whore's return, he is off on business."

Nicola's mind scrambled, seeking the right explanation. "As I said, the thieves have kept him trapped here. Believing them gone now, my lord went to do what he could not achieve these past months."

"This sounds plausible enough," he agreed, nodding his head slowly. "Yet I still find myself doubting. I have me an idea. Why do we not wait here until after the midday hour? That way, I will be certain."

"Certain of what?" Nicola clenched her fists to keep from screaming.

"Why, certain that your husband does not wait for me at our designated meeting place. It’s simple enough. If he is not there, he cannot ride back within Ashby's gates seeking you when you do not appear." His grin was the devil's own.

It took every bit of Nicola's strength to stave off her cry of despair. Hugh owned them. Gilliam would come for her with his small force, and he would die.

"Osbert, I think we've caught ourselves another hostage." Hugh said with a quick lift of his brows. "How much do you wager that Lady Ashby's sudden pallor says that her husband comes anon?"

"Why Uncle, I think you are right," said one of the mailed men, his laugh mirthless.

The knight rode forward and drew his horse to a halt directly before Nicola. She blinked away her pain for Gilliam to present a woman's fearful mien. Her only hope remained in lulling them into complacency against her, praying that when the time came to act, she could be of some use to her husband. If only she had her sword and mail!

Enough of this knight was revealed beneath his helm and coif to suggest he resembled his uncle in his dark complexion and black eyes. However, instead of being small and slim, he was near her height with powerful shoulders. His gaze wandered over her, much as Hugh's had done.

"Now, Uncle, why did you tell me she was an ugly creature? I think I will not mind bedding her at all." Nicola's eyes flew wide.

"Aye, I think I will enjoy comforting you in your grief, poor widow that you will soon be. If your overlord's pride would never let him accept my dear uncle as his vassal, his business sense will not deny him the joining of our houses. I will be a palatable substitute, especially since you will give me a son to be Ashby's heir." Osbert had the gall to wink at her. "You need not worry overmuch about pleasing me. I am a simple man. Tie a woman to my bed and I am happy, is that not so, whore?' He shot the question to Tilda.

"Aye, my lord," the girl replied with a tremble in her voice.

Again, Hugh turned in his saddle to look at Tilda. "My lovely, I might just see to it you receive those coins I promised you in November. You've done far better than I expected."

"I want no coins, my lord," Tilda said, her head bowed. "I have pleased you. That is sufficient reward."

"You need the coins. A Judas like you cannot survive without blood money. Osbert, against the chance of Lord Ashby's appearance, take Lady Ashby onto your saddle. Her husband will need to see we hold her."

Nicola's gaze darted frantically around the circle of men until she once again won her calm by force of will. The knife on her calf burned against her skin. Aye, if she were calm and meek, she would win herself a chance to wreak some sort of havoc.

Osbert reached down a hand. Instead of fighting, Nicola helped him to raise her into his saddle, easing into a sideways seat in front of him. As he rearranged his reins, one leather strap at either side of her, she bowed meekly and stared at her leg. It would not take much of a reach to get to the knife, but once she had it where could she use it against a man dressed in mail?

She raised her head to look at her captor. His eyes gleamed as he smiled slightly. The links of his mail were too small to allow her dagger to penetrate any one circle. She knew there were vents beneath each arm, but those would not be easy to reach, nor would an injury there necessarily render him helpless. Ah but if she could get him to remove his coif, his throat would be vulnerable.

With a trembling smile, she screwed her expression into one she thought was terror. "I am very frightened, my lord." It was but a whisper. "Say you will not hurt me."

"If you do not fight me I can be kind." His reassurance rang hollowly against his previous threat of tying her to his bed.

"Might I look upon your face? If I see proof of this kindness in your expression, I would be much at ease." Her fright seemed to please him, for he grinned broadly and wrenched off his helmet.

"Loosen my coif lacing, my lady, and look upon your new master."

The arrogance in his voice was a spear's thrust to her gut. Rage simmered just within her control as Nicola did as he commanded. She was careful to see that his hood lay all the way back, exposing the whole of his throat to her. Aye, he was her master, but only for the moment.

"Now, my lady, since we are not long from being united in marriage, why not kiss me and give me a try?" he asked with a laugh.

Nicola shook her head in a shy
nay
, then bowed her head like a modest maiden. Her humble posture concealed her careful reach for her concealed dagger. The quarrel whirred so close to the back of her neck she swore it shaved hair from her nape. Osbert gagged and reeled in the saddle. Blood, warm and wet, spattered Nicola's cheek. The knight's horse rose on its hind legs in reaction to its master's sudden relaxation. Nicola instantly grasped the reins, kicking her leg over the horse's head to sit astride, her skirts at her thighs. She didn't know whether to curse or bless Jos.

She glanced behind her. Osbert's life blood flowed from the torn vein in his neck, his eyes already going glassy in death's onset. His sword hilt was within reach. Nicola praised God as the blade came easily from its leather scabbard.

"To arms!" Hugh shouted, reeling his mount around to face the edge of the woods from whence the attack had come. When the next expected bolt did not arrive, Hugh glanced back at Nicola then looked again, his lips twisting into a snarl of rage. "Take her!"

Nicola jabbed both heels into the beast's sides. The horse's sudden motion made Osbert's limp body tumble off the saddle. Sword lifted to strike, she sent the frightened horse barreling toward the soldiers ahead of her. Her blade met the first man's. His surprise and her womanhood made his swing sloppy. Her blow sent him flying from his saddle. It was distraction enough to escape their circle.

"Run, Tilda!" she screamed in English as her horse galloped toward the woodlands.

"Fetch her back, you idiots!" Hugh's shout was high-pitched in rage.

Nicola's horse entered the trees on a wide pathway, but she rode past the oaks into the thicker wood. Pulling the beast to a sudden halt, she slid off then struck its hindquarters with the flat of her blade. The horse ran, dodging the trees and bushes.

Without hesitation, Nicola threw herself into a deep tangle of holly and bracken. Tall and thickly leaved, the holly offered sharp thorns along with concealment. It tore away her head cloth and scratched her face and hands as she drove herself deeply into it. She crouched as horses galloped past the bush, chasing the runaway steed.

There was a rustling beside her, and Dickon appeared. Nicola stared in surprise. "Jos wants to know if you are unhurt."

Only then did her hands begin to shake over how that lad had shot across the skin of her neck. "By our sweet lady's tits, you tell that boy if we live through this day I will have his hide." It was an angry, fearful hiss.

Dickon grinned. "I will tell Jos you are well, my lady."

The horses returned to pass her hiding place at a much slower pace. "She's not on the steed, my lord," a man called.

"Damn that vixen! I’ll have her life for Osbert's." Hugh's cry was almost grieved. "Search the woods for both her and the whore. Bitch of Ashby!" he shouted out, "you will pay for Osbert's death with your own life."

"Well, well," Gilliam's deep voice boomed from the meadow's northern edge, "look who I meet this day. Once again, you trespass, seeking to steal from me my wife. This time, you die, little man."

Nicola crept out of her hiding spot, sword in hand. "Go home, Dickon. Tell the folk there will be a battle here, and they must stay away." She reached down to gather up her hems and tuck them into her belt. Without hauberk and shield, she was trapped here in the woods, but if she needed to fight in her own defense she would be ready.

"Aye, my lady." The lad crept out after her.

Nicola came to stand beneath the giant oak. She peered above her. Jos was not in the lower fork, but in a smaller one, higher up. The greater height offered him a clear line of sight and, although not as broad as the other, he yet had floor enough to set his foot in his bow and draw the string.

She looked around the massive bole; her heart caught and clung to the sight of her Gilliam atop that huge black beast of his. His helm was in place, disguising his face from her. He sat impossibly tall in his saddle, his great sword in hand, braced crosswise before him.

With Witasse snorting and sidling in excitement, Gilliam entered the meadow. Ashby's men spread themselves in an even line behind him, stretching across the lea. Sheep bleated, dashing wildly in every direction to avoid the horses. Nicola nodded in approval. Gilliam meant to keep Ocslade's men within range of Jos's bow. With one quarrel still in poor Osbert, his squire had eleven more. If Jos hit true, that was eleven men who would not fight. Eleven from forty was twenty-nine to Gilliam's twenty. Much better odds.

She took a moment to scan Hugh's ranks, seeking Tilda. There was no sign of her. Nicola sent a brief prayer winging skyward, not only for herself and her husband, but that Tilda had not been murdered.

When Gilliam was within five yards of Hugh, de Ocslade threw up his hand. One man blew a horn in alarm, and the rest charged. De Ocslade's men screamed at the top of their lungs as they threw themselves into battle. Gilliam's soldiers added their own shouts, bravely riding forward to encircle their enemy.

Someone grabbed Nicola's hand. She tore free, half raising her sword, before seeing that it was John.

"Come stand across from me along the pathway. We'll see if we can stop a few from reaching the lea," he said.

She glanced above her, meaning to shout a warning to Jos, but the boy had already turned. He aimed his bow at the open area through which the hidden men must pass if they chose this path. John and she crouched at either side of the wide pathway, the safest route out of the woods for a horse.

Their first foe appeared, trotting carefully through the close trees, his eyes focused on the meadow and not the greenery around him. Nicola rose, sword at the ready. Although his chest was well protected with padded leather, his leg was not. With all her might, she sent her blade into his horse's side, crushing the soldier's lower leg to cripple him even as she broke his mount's ribs.

Another mounted man not as cautious as the first, galloped toward them as the injured horse turned, screaming in agony. The horses collided, oncoming rider tumbling head over heels to lie still in the pathway. Nicola raced forward to make certain that the soldier could not fight, but the fall had done her work for her. His neck was broken.

Another came, howling as he rode. John heaved a good-size stone at him, striking the man in the head and knocking his helm askew. Blood poured from his broken nose as he slumped limply in his saddle.

His horse halted and stood quivering in fear. Nicola ran to free one of the soldier's feet from his stirrup, then shoved him off his mount. When he hit the ground, she ended what the lad had started.

Three from twenty-five who hid. Another left the woods with a quarrel in his shoulder.

A boy's terrified cry rang from the woodland's edge, the sound cut off in awful finality. Nicola threw back her head in despair. The weight of it drove her into that terrible calm of hers. All that lived in her now was the desire to kill Hugh and his men for what a babe had sacrificed. She strode along the path toward the field.

The gentle lea was awash with men, some mounted, some on foot, others on their backs for all time. Sheep bleated, swords clashed, Witasse screamed in rage. Men's shouts mingled with the moans of the injured.

It was now fifteen of theirs against twenty-eight of Hugh's. From above her another quarrel flew. A man arched and fell, then did not rise. At the far edge of the battleground Witasse lifted himself onto his hindquarters. Gilliam had dismounted to allow the horse to act in its own defense. The great beast lashed out in his blood-induced fury, trampling beneath his hooves those who sought to capture the costly steed. He roared toward another group of warriors, and men scattered.

Alfred stood in front of her, surrounded by three, death inescapable if she did not help. She swung. One of his foes lost his arm. She whirled from that blow into her next, drawing her sword upward as she turned, and buried the blade into the second opponent's unprotected back. Alfred finished the last.

Nicola started toward the next clutch of soldiers. "My lady, you're not armed! Stop, go no farther!" She heard Alfred's call, but his voice made no dent in her quiet.

Grinning like a madman, another simple soldier reached out to grab her arm. Fist clenched, Nicola brought her elbow crashing into his midsection. His eyes bulged for an instant before her blade followed her blow. He dropped away, and Alfred was suddenly at her side.

Nicola caught sight of the man who was responsible for all this. Hugh, yet mounted as his horse was not the weapon Witasse was, rode around the backs of five men, cursing and goading them into attacking those they had surrounded.

"To me!" Her husband's bellow from the center of that circle penetrated her calm. Gilliam needed her.

Nicola ran toward her love, Alfred hard-pressed to keep abreast of her. Her blade sliced into one man's back at his waist. He fell backward onto her arms; she stumbled beneath his weight. Alfred shoved the man off her. Nicola struggled to regain her footing.

A soldier turned to strike. Nicola automatically raised her shield arm; it was empty. She threw a desperate block, but knew it would not deflect the blow. The man fell toward her, the steel-tipped quarrel having pierced both the front and back of his leather armor and the padding beneath it.

Three of Ashby's men had joined their lord to form a ring of shields against Ocslade's greater number. "To me!" Hugh shouted, calling the remainder of his men to come overwhelm Ashby's few.

Nicola grimaced in a rage she could not feel. She snatched her dagger from its leg sheathe and darted beneath Hugh's blow to plunge the well-honed blade into his horse's neck. It was no different than slaughtering a pig.

"You foul misbegotten bitch!"

Hugh swung at her. Despite the writhing of his steed it was a well-aimed blow. Nicola stumbled in her escape. Alfred shoved her aside, taking what was meant for her.

Nicola scrambled to her feet. Hugh was down, his leg caught beneath his mount. He glared at her as she raised her sword then grinned. Nicola leapt away instinctively, without thought.

"Uncle!" Hugh's other nephew's blade cleaved the air where Nicola had stood. A quarrel sped past him, missing only because his horse shied at that instant.

Hugh crawled from beneath his mount. "Henry, take that bowman!" he shouted, limping to join those who attacked Ashby's lord.

"Nay!" Gilliam bellowed with all the power of his voice, but he was yet trapped within the ring, five of his own men now forming a circle of shields with him against the ten who ringed them. "Defend Jos," he shouted to any of Ashby's soldiers free to do so.

"William, kill that bitch," Hugh screamed to his mounted nephew.

Ten yards from Nicola a man wrenched his bow from his back. She ran for him. The soldier leaned, placing his foot into the crossbow's curved arm; his back was exposed. She would die before he'd shoot her Jos. Hooves tore the turf behind her. She feinted away from the bowman. William rode on by, confounded by her swift and contrary movement.

The soldier had the quarrel in its trench, the bow stock to his eye as he sited the boy in the tree.

Sliding on the wet grass, Nicola shifted direction, sprinting for the archer. Again, William came for her. She heard Jos's quarrel as it whirred above her at the same time she saw the bowman release his trigger.

The knight behind her screamed in agony. His cry was echoed by Jos as the quarrel penetrated his body, toppling him out of the tree. Incapable of pain just now, Nicola avenged Jos's death by killing the bowman, then raced back to Gilliam. William's horse came trotting by, its master dragging from one stirrup. As the body turned, she saw the quarrel that had penetrated his face, stopped only by his helmet's back.

The circle of men around her own consisted of but Hugh and seven others. However, Ashby retained only two besides her love. Her husband glanced at her from behind his shield, upon which three men beat. "A shield, my love, then back to back," he called. "We stand or fall together."

She snatched up the shield Alfred had carried. When she started toward the circle, one of Ocslade's men turned to the attack.

"Nay," Hugh snarled. "Let her join them. We'll save her for the last and have some sport before it's done."

Nicola found her place beside her man. "Use my back and turn," Gilliam panted to her from over his shoulder. "Take the one to your left."

At his command, she rolled, bringing her sword up in her most deadly motion. The soldier held his small, round shield high in expectation of a man's overhand blow. Her sword tore through leather, her blow losing impact in the padding he wore beneath it, but still finding skin and bones to break. She kicked him off her blade.

Gilliam had used her motion to hide his own. His great sword flew crashing against one man's shield, then another's neck. One of their own cried out and fell.

"Again," he breathed. Once again, they turned in unison. Two more of de Ocslade's men dropped.

"Jesu," Hugh spit out in deep frustration and disbelief. Even with his leg injured, he was agile and skilled enough to wound the last of the Ashby soldiers. That left only Ashby's lord and lady. Hugh dropped back a step. His remaining three men did so as well.

Nicola turned slightly, her arms aching and her breath burning in her lungs. "Gilliam," she breathed. "I love you."

He stared past Hugh's shoulder as if startled. "We live," he panted with what sounded like a laugh. He drew back his blade.

De Ocslade prepared to meet Ashby's lord, sword to sword, only to arch, his mouth opening in surprise. He stumbled forward, turning instinctively to face his attacker. Gilliam's filthy blade roared down, the power of his blow cutting through mail and padding.

Hugh made no sound as he fell, only jerked and gasped as Gilliam freed his weapon from torn flesh and twisted metal. Then, he was still. Standing just behind where Hugh had been was Tilda. The girl bore a soldier's sword in her trembling hands.

There was no time to think. Even as Gilliam turned on two of the remaining men, Nicola took the other. Swords beat on shields a little longer before they sent the men to their just reward.

And then it was finished.

 The ensuing quiet was broken by the bleat of sheep, Witasse's snorting breath, and the moans and cries of the injured. In that instant, a lark lifted its voice in the joy of spring.

Gilliam sank to sit on the ground, and Nicola followed suit, raising a trembling knee on which to lean her head. Her gowns were heavy with blood, her arms like lead, her legs quivering in exhaustion, and her lungs aching. With her shoulder leaning against her husband's back, she could feel him panting in exertion. Her husband fell back to sprawl on the ground beside her.

Nicola raised her head. Tilda yet stood rooted in place, the blade now dangling from her fingers. The girl's entire body trembled, and her brown eyes were wide in shock and horror.

"He killed my father," she shuttered. "He killed Papa." Nicola could only nod in response. The girl's eyes rolled up into her head, and she dropped to the ground and lay still.

* * *

"My lord, do you yet live?"

Gilliam opened his eyes to look upon Father Reynard's homely face, the man's great beak of a nose quivering in appalled concern.

"Aye," he said, incapable of more. From the beginning of the conflict through its remarkable end, he'd held the faith that they would survive. Now that it was over he found himself incapable of believing they had triumphed.

Then he smiled. If someone had told him this morn that the reeve's daughter would save the day he would have called him a liar for certain. His grin broadened against his disbelief. It was no less than a miracle.

The priest turned to Nicola. "My lady, do you yet survive?"

"Aye."

It was a sad sound, as if she wished the answer were otherwise. Gilliam struggled to sit up, his mail rattling against the effort, so he could look on her.

"God be praised," the priest said, blessing himself in the intensity of his relief. "Where are you injured?"

"Save for blisters, I am not hurt." Again, her voice was empty in sorrow.

Gilliam stripped off his gloves then removed his helmet to better see her. Nicola lay on the grass, her head to one side. Tears made tracks through the filth on her face. She was covered in blood from head to toe, her sleeves so full of the stuff they hung heavily from her arms.

Reynard tried to wrestle her into a sitting position. "Come you quickly, then. We are taking the injured to the church. While the village women can tend most of them, there are several who demand your special skills."

"Leave her go, Father," Gilliam said, pushing the priest away from his wife. "She is exhausted and sick from the battle."

"My lord, their need is urgent," the churchman pleaded. "Only she can save those who are most gravely injured."

Gilliam turned his back on him, then touched Nicola's cheek. "Are you ill again?"

She shook her head, yet keeping her face turned away from him. "It’s easier, just as you said. The killing I did this day was simply what must be done, and that is all." The emptiness of her voice frightened him.