Читать книгу The Hidden Heart - Sharon Schulze - Страница 13

Chapter Three

The look Steffan gave her just before he spurred his horse into a gallop haunted Gillian through the rest of the day. She’d never cared for him in the slightest; indeed, she’d felt nothing but scorn for him for as long as she could remember. Her other Welsh kin—her distant cousins Ian and Catrin, especially—were dear to her. She welcomed their rare visits to I’Eau Clair. Her father had respected them, had encouraged her to nurture these ties to her mother’s family.

Now that she was seated at the table in her solar to tally the accounts, she could hold back her thoughts no longer.

She tossed aside the quill she’d been using and settled back in her chair, tugging off her veil and unplaiting her tightly braided hair. The thought of taking Steffan as her husband disgusted her. Had Rannulf FitzClifford spoiled her taste for all other men? When she thought back to his last visit, to the closeness they’d shared...

How could she ever hope to have that with another?

And to abandon her as he had—without warning, without reason. Had he gained all he wanted from her, and desired her no more? Or had he found her lacking?

The answer was beyond her ability to understand. She’d never have an opportunity to learn the answers from him, that much had been clear from the message he’d penned upon the betrothal contract.

She fought the urge to draw the crumpled parchment from the box where she’d locked it away. In the week since she’d found the missive, her mind refused to set her free of it. Her thoughts circled, distracting her as she sought some way to protect her people, her home.

Was she doomed to mourn his loss yet again?

Rannulf FitzClifford did not deserve her attention or the time she’d wasted upon the lost cause he represented.

Matters of far greater import weighed heavy on her. How to provide for her people, to protect them, to uncover the miscreants who seemed set upon destroying all her father had established. She raked her hands through the trailing mass of her hair and pressed her fingers against the throbbing ache at her temples.

The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs to her solar provided a welcome distraction. She rose and opened the door.

Will reached the top of the spiral stair and hurried to her. “Riders approach, milady,” he said, his urgent tone matching his expression.

Gillian drew the door closed behind her and sighed. “Not Steffan again?” she asked, already racking her brain for another way to keep him outside the gates.

“Nay, milady. ‘Tis far worse.” Will motioned for her to precede him down the stairs. “’Tis a war party, Lady Gillian, nigh a hundred strong. They’re armed to the teeth and provisioned for siege, to judge from the size of their baggage train.”

Her heartbeat raced, increasing the sense of urgency flying through her veins. Was this the attack she’d feared since the raids began? She’d known ‘twas but a matter of time before I’Eau Clair itself became the target!

Her boots clattered on the stone risers as she hastened down them, snatching up her hem and running once she reached the great hall. “Muster anyone who can fight in the bailey at once,” she told Will, who followed hot on her heels. “And send the older women and the children to wait in here.” Her maid met them near the door. ”Ella, you’d best prepare to care for the wounded in here as well,” she said.

“Aye, milady,” Ella said, then snatched at Gillian’s arm as she made to pass through the door Will held open. “Here now, where are you going?”

Gillian drew a deep breath. “To the walls.”

“Nay, child, ’tis no place for you.”

Gillian reached down and took Ella’s hand in hers and lifted it, freeing herself. She gave Ella’s fingers a quick squeeze before releasing her. “Where else should I be? I command I‘Eau Clair now. ’Tis my place to lead my people.” She pressed a kiss to Ella’s wrinkled cheek and gathered up her skirts again. “I’ll be fine,” she said before she turned and left the hall.

“Where is my sword?” she asked Will as they hastened through the crowd already gathering in the bailey.

Will stopped in his tracks. “You’ve no need for that,” he said, his voice more stern than she’d ever heard it. “Do you think to lead us in battle? By Christ’s blood, Gil—”

“Bring me a sword, Will. Now.” Not waiting to see if he’d heed her command, she continued on and raced up the gatehouse stairs.

A lad dashed after them, calling for Will, and entered the gatehouse in their wake. “A moment, milady,” Will called as Gillian headed for the wall walk.

He took her sword from the boy and handed it to her, his lips twisted into a rueful smile.

“You know me too well,” she said as she slid free the blade and set aside the scabbard. Fingers clenched tight about the hilt, Gillian drew a deep breath to settle herself and stepped out onto the walk. Still not ready, she moved past the first merlon, catching a glimpse of what awaited them below.

She paused for a moment, scarce able to breathe, then forced herself to turn and look over the wall.

“Holy Mary save us,” she whispered. She leaned into the crenel, her free hand braced on the low stone wall as she gazed, transfixed, at the army spread out across the crest of the hill.

They were doomed.

Rannulf sat atop his stallion before the familiar gray walls of I’Eau Clair Keep and fought back the wave of memories threatening to flood his mind. He could not permit his heart to reign over his head, no matter the provocation.

He would not allow himself close to Gillian again.

A flash of red—Gillian’s hair, no mistaking it—moved swiftly past the crenels of the gatehouse tower, making his heartbeat trip and falter for a moment.

He doubted the battle between heart and mind would ever cease. The moment he’d dreaded since the night he met Talbot had arrived, and he felt no more in command of himself now than he had the last time he’d seen Gillian.

He took a deep breath and reached up to tug his helm lower over his brow—a more comfortable position, true, but also a way to hide his identity from Gillian’s keen eyes for a little while longer.

By the rood, his reaction to her this time was stronger than ever before, and he’d yet to face her.

’Twas all he could do to stay put, and not spur his mount far away from the one woman he’d prayed he would never have to face again.

Nicholas nudged his mount closer to Rannulf’s. “How long do they expect us to sit here before someone comes to answer our summons?” Nicholas asked, low-voiced.

“There’s some movement on the wall,” Rannulf said, just as Gillian came fully into view between two tall crenels.

The sight of her traveled from his eyes to his brain, and then to land like a blow from a mailed fist to his chest.

How could he have forgotten how lovely she was? Her unbound hair framed the pale alabaster glow of her face, the wavy mass hanging past her waist to disappear behind the wall.

“By the Virgin,” Talbot declared, his expression as awestruck as his tone. “Please let that be my ward.” He urged his horse forward and whipped off his helm. “Milady,” he called. He bowed so low, Rannulf noted with disgust, ’twas a wonder he didn’t fall from the saddle.

Gillian straightened and moved nearer the edge of the wall, revealing the sword she held in her left hand—and the full beauty of her form, outlined against the deep blue sky. Rannulf bit back a smile of admiration at the sight of her courage. His heart sank at Talbot’s obvious appreciation, although Talbot had yet to notice the blade of Gillian’s weapon gleaming in the sunlight, he’d wager. He doubted armed women were Talbot’s style.

However, ’twas Rannulf’s misfortune that Gillian, armed or no, was all the woman he could ever desire.

If she’d changed since he’d last seen her, ’twas only to become more beautiful.

And more stubborn? a voice in the back of his mind mocked. Her sweet temper turned bitter by your betrayal?

“Milord.” She responded to Talbot’s greeting with a curt nod—the perfect accompaniment to the sharpness of her voice—and no smile of welcome brightened her face. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

Talbot’s shoulders stiffened. “I am Lord Nicholas Talbot of Ashby, sent by King John to protect Lady Gillian and her lands. Have I the honor of speaking to my ward? Pray open the gates at once, that I might meet you.”

“To any preening fool who rides up to the door? I think not.” She leaned forward. “What proof have you of your claim?”

“The king’s writ, signed and sealed by our liege himself,” Talbot replied, his tone as cold as hers.

He turned to Rannulf and motioned him forward.

Rannulf rode up to join him, careful to center his attention on the man beside him, not the siren poised above him. Would she be able to feel his presence, as he was all too aware of hers?

“Milord?” he asked, pitching his voice low.

Talbot reached into a leather pouch on his saddle and drew forth a rolled parchment. He held it out toward Rannulf. “Will you permit my vassal to carry the writ within?”

Gillian stared down at Lord Nicholas Talbot. He appeared far too self-assured and handsome—and arrogantly aware of the fact, ’twas easy to see—for her to trust him any more than she’d trusted Steffan that very morn.

She eyed the vassal, who had yet to take the scroll from Talbot. Did the fellow await her permission? Somehow she couldn’t imagine that was the case, but who knew what his hesitation might mean? She could not judge him by his expression, with his face hidden by his helm, but that he was a warrior she could readily see by his strong build and well-worn armor.

She tugged Will aside. “What think you?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“Aye, why allow a fox amongst the chickens?” A few more whispered words sent Will on his way.

She stepped back toward the crenel. “Your vassal may remain where he belongs, milord—by your side,” she called to Talbot. “Have one of your lackeys bring the writ to my man who awaits him below.” She pointed to the door in the wall beneath her. “He will bring it to me.”

Talbot frowned, then called to a man in servant’s livery from among the mounted men ranged behind him. “As you command, milady,” he replied with ill grace. He handed off the scroll to the manservant who approached him on foot and settled back in the saddle to stare up at her.

Gillian fought the urge to glare back as she waited while Talbot’s man gave the parchment to Will and Will hurried to her side, Sir Henry following hard on his heels.

“I was watchin’ from the other tower, but I figured you’d want me over here,” Sir Henry said.

“Aye. I’d appreciate your counsel.” She set aside her sword and reached for the message Will held out to her.

She stood behind the bulk of a merlon to read the scroll, out of sight of Talbot and his men, for she’d no desire to provide a show for their enjoyment, depending upon her reaction to what the parchment revealed.

Her hands remained steady as she unrolled the writ, examined the seal—King John’s, that much at least was true—and began to scan the words scrawled boldly across the page.

She finished reading, then closed her eyes for a moment before handing the king’s writ to Sir Henry. “He has the right of it,” she murmured. “We’re to welcome Lord Nicholas Talbot, such vassals as he’s brought along and all their men, to ‘aid in the defense and protection of the keep of I’Eau Clair, and specifically the person of its heir and lady—’” She drew in a deep breath. “Me.”

Scowling, Sir Henry looked up from perusing the document. “We’ve no choice but to let them in.” He gave back the parchment. “Though I must admit, all those men’ll come in handy, should we be attacked again.”

Will glanced over the wall. “That they will. Most of them look as though they know how to fight.” He nodded. “And I’d rather fight with ‘em than against ’em.”

Both of them were right. And wasn’t this what she’d hoped for? Help for her people, protection for I’Eau Clair—it seemed her prayers had been answered after all.

How could she regret giving up command of the keep, when it would benefit them all?

“Tell them to lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis,” she ordered. Once Will left to relay her command, she took up her sword once more. The scroll clasped tight in her right hand, her sword in her left, Gillian left the merlon’s protection and composed herself to be hospitable. “My lord Talbot.” She curtsied. “You and your men may enter l’Eau Clair and be welcome.”

Gillian used the brief time it took for Talbot and his party to enter I’Eau Clair to twist her unruly hair back into a rough braid and cover it with a piece of veiling. Emma had just settled a copper circlet upon the finely woven linen when the pounding of booted feet on the stairs heralded Talbot’s arrival.

She dismissed her maid and, heart racing, settled back into the commodious seat of her father’s great chair and reached out to clasp the carved armrests in her hands. The appearance, at least, of command. The chair held pride of place on the dais at the far end of the great hall from the stairs, providing her with a clear view of the entire chamber. It also placed her on display.

Talbot led the way, the sunlight streaming through the tall windows gleaming off his blond hair and the silver embroidery adorning his surcoat. Some might count him handsome, but to her he appeared too polished, too finely turned out for a true warrior.

Gillian lowered her gaze lest he find her staring, and remained seated when he stepped up onto the dais and swept a low bow before her. “Lady Gillian.” He reached for her right hand and raised it to his lips, allowing her a glimpse of his unusual violet eyes before she glanced past him at his men. “Rumors of your beauty did you scant justice, I fear.”

“Milord,” she murmured. She bit back a snort of disgust at his empty flattery and sought to look more closely at his retinue where they stood grouped before her on the main floor of the hall, for something seemed familiar....

“Permit me to introduce my men,” Talbot said as he moved aside, allowing her a clear view of them. “Chief among my vassals is—”

Gillian rose to her feet when the man stepped up onto the dais and swept her a bow so low, it seemed almost a mockery. It took all her control not to lash out with her hand to strike his beloved, lying face.

Only the faint negative shake of his head kept her from saying the name before Talbot did, that and the fact that her shock at the sight of him was so great, she doubted she could force a sound past her lips.

Talbot’s words sounded in her muddled brain, echoed loud over the confusion reigning there.

Rannulf FitzClifford.