who always thought reading was more important than chores
and who still laughs in all the right places.
Prologue
The twigs snapped and popped in the hearth, sending a spray of sparks across the stone. The cauldron bubbled ominously,
the thick brown contents slipping up to the edge and almost over, much like a youth looking into the abyss of sin and toying with the idea of leaping in headfirst.
“Magda, mind the kettle!”
A wizened old woman jumped as if she’d been stuck with a pin, pushed her white hair out of her face with a plump hand
and hastened to the fire.
“Sweet Mary, I think I’ve burned it again!” Magda cried.
‘ ‘By the Fires of Hell, I do hate it when you use those saintly epitaphs,” the second said, coming over and taking away the spoon. She tasted, then cursed. “Lucifer’s toes, must I do everything myself?”
“Oh, Nemain, what shall we do?” Magda exclaimed, wringing her hands. “I cannot bear watching them lose this chance
when the Fates have worked so well in our favor thus far!”
Nemain grumbled as she pulled the pot off the fire.
“Berengaria, come taste this. I say ’tis the worst love potion Magda has burned yet.”
Berengaria didn’t answer. She was far too busy staring out the window and watching the past unfold into the future. It was a
gift she had, this Seeing. It had amused her in the past to see what the future held, to know how kings would die and lands
be lost. It had also come in handy to know beforehand when whatever castle she lived near was to be besieged, leaving her time enough to pack her belongings and seek out new lodgings before the marauders arrived. But this task that lay before
her now was her most important yet: to bring two unwilling and, frankly, rather impossible souls together. Aye, this was
worthy of her modest arts.
She felt Magda tiptoe over to her, heard Nemain curse as she stomped over with her worn witch’s boots, but she didn’t
pay them any heed. Failure had been but a breath away. Had the lord of Blackmour possessed a bit less honor, he would
have ignored his vow to protect and defend a woman he hardly knew. Perhaps honor wasn’t a wasted virtue after all.
Berengaria let the present pass before her eyes, watching the dark, dangerous knight the Dragon of Blackmour had sent
as his messenger. She scrutinized the battle-hardened warrior and was pleased to see that he wouldn’t falter in his errand.
He couldn’t, or all would be lost. There would not be another chance such as this.
“Magda, by my horns, that is a foul smell,” Nemain snapped as she retreated to the far side of the hut. ‘ ‘Pour it out and
start over again. And go carefully this time! It’s taken me a score of years to find the thumb-bone of a wizard and you’ve
almost used it up. I’ve no mind to venture up to Scotland again to search for another!”
“Stop shouting at me,” Magda sniffed. “I’ve only been at this a few years.”
“I daresay even the lowliest priest could tell that. He would sooner think you a nun than a witch.”
Berengaria ignored the renewed bickering. Instead, she watched a homely woman-child of a score-and-one years who practiced with her forbidden sword in the garden at Warewick. The girl’s father wouldn’t be pleased with her disobedience,
but with any luck the Dragon’s messenger would be there before Warewick could learn of her actions. Berengaria nudged
the knight a bit more, like a pawn on a chessboard, forcing him to urge his horse to greater speed. Satisfied he would arrive
in time, she turned her attentions back to the young woman.
“Just a few more moments, my child,” Berengaria said softly, “and then your new life will begin.”
One
Warewick Keep
,
England
1249
The twigs snapped and popped in the hearth, sending a spray of sparks across the stone. One of the three girls huddled
there stamped out the live embers, then leaned into the circle again, her eyes wide with unease.
“Is it true he’s the Devil’s own?”
” Tis the rumor,” the second whispered with a furtive nod.
“He was spawned in the deepest of nights,” the third announced. She was the eldest of the three and the best informed
on such matters. She looked over her shoulder, then looked back at her companions. “And I know what happened to
his bride.”
Gillian of Warewick paused at the entrance to the kitchens. She didn’t like serving girls as a rule, what with their gossiping
and cruel taunts, but something about the way the maid uttered the last of her boast made Gillian linger. She hesitated,
waiting for the girl to go on.
” ‘Tis said,” the third began, lowering her voice and forcing the others, including Gillian, to edge even closer, “that his lady
wife found him one night with his eyes as red as Hellfire and horns coming out from atop his head. He caught her before
she could flee and she’s never been heard from since. Tis common knowledge that he sacrificed her to his Master.”
Gillian felt a shiver go down her spine. Her knowledge of the world outside the castle walls was scant indeed, but she
could well believe that England was full of witches and ogres who wove their black magic in the dead of the night. Her
brother had told her as much and she’d had no reason to doubt his tales.
“He never leaves his keep, or so I’m told,” the second girl said suddenly, obviously trying to sound as important as the third. “He has his familiars see to his affairs.”
“Perhaps he fears someone will learn what he truly is,” the youngest of the three offered.
“A monster he is,” the second stated, bobbing her head vigorously. “There isn’t a soul in England brave enough to face him.
A mere look from his eyes sends them fleeing in terror.”
“And no children in his village,” came the third voice, as low as before. She paused. “Blackmour drinks their blood.”
Gillian gasped in horror and her wooden sword clattered to the floor. Blackmour?
The girls whirled to look at her. The eldest girl hastily made the sign of the cross, then fled, pulling the other two after her.
Gillian stared after them, speechless. The wenches had been talking about the very Devil’s spawn himself, yet they crossed themselves against her?
“Lady Gillian, your father is waiting.”
Gillian spun around to find her father’s man standing behind her. She thought of asking for time to change her garments, then thought better of it. The longer her sire waited, the angrier he would be. When he saw how she was dressed and realized
what she had been doing, he would be angry enough.
She picked up her wooden sword and forced herself to stand tall as she walked behind the steward, even though the mere thought of facing her father’s temper was enough to make her cower. She whetted her lips with a dry tongue as she followed the seneschal up the stairs and down the passageway to the solar.
Gillian left her sword against the wall before she trailed her father’s man into the small chamber where her sire conducted his private affairs. Her heart pounded so forcefully against her ribs, she was sure both men could hear it. Oh, how she wished William were alive to protect her! She took a deep breath and clutched her hands together behind her back.
“You sent for me, my lord?”
Bernard of Warewick was a tall, heavyset man, a warrior who had survived countless battles and would likely survive
countless more. Gillian forced herself not to cringe as he turned his substantial self around and looked at her, starting at
her feet and working his way up—his eyes missing no detail. She felt as if her boots were caked with twenty layers of
mud, not just one. She was painfully conscious of her worn tunic and patched hose. Her hair, which was never obedient,
chose now as the proper time to escape its plait. She felt it fall around her face and shoulders in an unruly mess.
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
‘ ‘Can you not do something with those locks? They look like straw.”
Gillian’s shoulders sagged.
“And I expressly forbid you to set foot in the lists. Perhaps you need to have your memory refreshed.” His eyes slid
pointedly to a birch switch leaning against the wall.
“I wasn’t in the lists,” Gillian whispered. “I vow it.”
“You were in the bloody garden!” he roared. “Damn you, girl, I’ll not bear such cheek!”
Before she could move, he had snatched up the rod and brought it across her face.
The sting told her the skin had broken, but it could have been much worse. She took a step back, ready to drop to her
knees and curl up to protect her face from more painful blows.
“My lord,” the seneschal put in quickly, quietly, “perhaps you should wait. Until after,” he added.
The sound of the cane cracking against the far wall made Gillian jump. At least the switch was far from her. She looked
up to see the tic under her father’s eye twitching furiously. Sweat began to drip down his face and his breathing was a
harsh rasp in the stillness of the chamber. He fixed his man with a furious glance.
“Bring the whoreson in. I’ll beat respect into this wench after he leaves.”
The moment her father’s notice was off her and on the door, Gillian scurried over to a corner. She put her hand to her
cheek and found the cut to be only a minor one. Oh, how was it all the other daughters in England bore such treatment?
She had lain awake nights in the past, wishing she had the courage she knew other maids had to possess. She imagined
them bearing up bravely and stoically under the lash while she herself was reduced to tears and begging after only a stroke
or two. Lately, just the thought of the pain and humiliation was enough to make her weep.
Her brother had sheltered her as much as he could, but he had been away much of the time, squiring and warring. But
when William had been home, he had shooed the maids from the solar and taught her the rudiments of swordplay—with wooden swords, of course, so no one would hear. He had even fashioned her a true sword, a blade so marvelously light
that she could wield it easily, and so dreadfully sharp that she had once cleaved a stool in twain without much effort at all.
But her sword was currently hidden in the deepest recesses of her trunk and it was of no use to her. Her brother was
buried alongside her mother in the deepest recesses of the chapel and he could not save her. Gillian again put her fingers
to her cheek, the feel of the broken skin reminding her all too well what she would suffer at her father’s hands once his man
had departed for safer ground. She never should have gone out to the garden. If she hadn’t thought her father would be
away for the whole of the day, she wouldn’t have.
The door burst open and a tall, grim man strode inside. He was dressed in full battle gear, as if he expected to sally forth
and slay scores at any moment. Perhaps he had expected a battle in Warewick’s solar. Gillian would have sold her soul to
have relieved him of his mail and donned it herself.
The man made her father a curt bow.
“Lord Warewick, I bring you greetings from Lord Blackmour. He trusts all is in readiness.”
Gillian paled. The Dragon of Blackmour? What could he possibly want with her father?
“Aye, all is in readiness,” Bernard barked. “But he was to come himself. I’ll not bargain with one of his underlings.”
The man smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “My lord Warewick, I am Colin of Berkhamshire and I am not an underling.”
Gillian caught her breath. Merciful saints above, Colin of Berkhamshire had a reputation for violence and cruelty that
spread from the Scottish border to the Holy Land . William had traveled with him on the continent and told her tale after
bloody tale of the man’s lack of patience and his love of slaying those who offended him. It was said he’d once cut down
five knights his size because they dared comment on the style of his tunic. Seeing Sir Colin in the flesh left Gillian with no
doubts the tale was true.
She looked quickly at her father, wondering if he had realized his error. His expression gave nothing away, but the tic
under his eye twitched with renewed vigor.
“Hrumph,” Warewick grunted. “Even so, I’ll not have Blackmour insult me by not coming himself.”
Colin’s smile grew chillier and Gillian pressed herself harder against the wall, ready to duck should a fight ensue.
“I’m of the understanding that you can find no other mate for the child,” Colin said. “As she is far past the age when she
should have been wed, I should think you would be anxious to rid yourself of her. My lord has accepted your rather
ordinary and unimaginative dowry and done it willingly. Perhaps you would be better served by keeping your pride on
a tighter leash. There are other maidens with more attractive holdings than hers.”
Colin’s words sank into Gillian’s mind like sharp daggers, painful upon entry and excruciating as they remained. She
wanted to draw air into her lungs, but her shock was too great. She stood still, listening to her father and Colin of
Berkhamshire discuss her marriage.
To Christopher of Blackmour.
“Nay,” she whispered, pushing herself away from the wall. “Father, nay!” She crossed the chamber and flung herself down
at his feet. Her terror of Blackmour overcame all the fear she felt for her father. Anyone but Blackmour, anyone at all. He
had horns, he drank children’s blood, he danced under the moon as he worshipped the darkness. “Father, I beg you—”
“Silence, wench,” he thundered, backhanding her.
Gillian went sprawling. She rolled herself into a tight ball, preparing for the inevitable blow to follow. She cried out when
she felt hands haul her to her feet.
But the chest she was gathered against and the arm that pinned her against that chest were not her father’s.
“Hush,” a deep voice commanded. “I’ve neither the time nor the patience for tears.”
Gillian had never been so close to a man other than her brother or father and she found she didn’t care much for the
sensation. Not only was Colin of Berkhamshire only slightly less evil than the Devil himself, he smelled.
“The child comes with us. Now. The ceremony will be a se’nnight hence. The banns have already been read.”
Gillian closed her eyes and began to pray. Oh, God, not to Blackmour!
“The bold whoreson! I might have changed my mind.”
“Indeed?” Colin drawled. “You rid yourself of your daughter and gain a powerful son-in-law with the same deed.
I suspect that changing your mind was the last thing you intended to do.”
“Begone,” Bernard snapped, but there was no fury behind his word. ‘ ‘And take that sniveling wench with you.
The sight of her sickens me.”
Gillian was too terrified to argue. She squeezed her eyes shut as Colin swung her up into his arms and carried her
from the solar.
“Your chamber, my lady?” he barked.
Gillian couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even find her tongue to ask Colin to pick up her training sword—not that wood
would have served her where she was going. Steel was the only thing of use against warlocks, or so she’d heard.
She listened to her father’s steward give Colin directions, respectfully spoken of course, then felt herself being carried
up the steep, narrow steps to the tower chamber, a pitifully small place where she had passed all of her days.
“Pack only what can be carried easily,” Colin said curtly as he set her down on her feet. “Your husband will provide
you with whatever else you may need.”
Husband? The Devil’s own spawn? Despoiler of maidens, scourge of England , ravager of Blackmour? Aye, she knew
much of Christopher of Blackmour and the tales were grim ones indeed.
He had driven his wife mad, killed her and then buried her unshriven. He was known to take the shape of a wolf, loping
over his land with long, lanky strides, ripping the throats from sheep and unwary travelers alike. It was rumored he
practiced his dark arts by candlelight in his tower chamber, for ever the shadows could be seen dancing wickedly therein
in the deepest of nights.
She had no doubt that all of what she’d heard was true. She believed in witches, and magic, and in men changing their shapes when the moon hid his face. And she could readily believe the rumors of Blackmour’s harshness, of the beatings he dealt his servants, of the cruelty he showed to every soul who crossed him. And now she was to be his. Exchanging one prison for another, with like jailors.
For a brief moment, she toyed with the idea of taking her own life. She could pull the sword from her trunk and fall upon it before Colin could stop her.
A firm hand grasped her by the chin and forced her face up. She looked into Colin’s grim expression and quailed. It was no wonder he was so feared. There was no mercy to be found in his gaze.
“The cut on your cheek is not deep,” he said. “I should kill Warewick for having marked you, but my lord will be displeased
if I rob him of future sport. Gather your belongings and let us be off. We’ve a long ride before us and I’ll start it before more
of the sun is spent on this ill-fated day.”
She was surprised enough at his words to hesitate. Had he come near to offering to defend her? He wasn’t going to simply ignore Warewick’s treatment, as did all the rest in the keep?
“I’ve no time to coddle you, girl,” he said, releasing her face abruptly. “Don’t stand there gawking. Your father has sold you to the only bidder and you’ve no say in the matter. Pack your things and let us be away, while my mood is still sweet.”
The saints preserve her if she ever saw him when his mood was sour. As for the other, she readily recognized the truth of it. Her father could have sold her to a lecherous dotard or a five-year-old child and she wouldn’t have had a say in either. That
he had sold her to Christopher of Blackmour only proved how little he cared for her. Aye, her fate was sealed indeed.
Unless she somehow managed to escape Colin between Ware wick and Blackmour.
She turned the thought over in her mind. Escape was something she had never considered before, knowing it would have
been impossible to get past her father’s guards. Now things were different. She might manage it.
She turned to her trunk, her mind working furiously. Aye, she would escape, and she would need clothing that wouldn’t
hamper her as she did so.
She reached for her two gowns, ones she had worn to please her father, to make him look on her with favor— gowns that
had tears in the back, reminders of just how futile her efforts to please him had been. Nay, those garments wouldn’t serve
her while she fled. And, should she by some malevolent bit of misfortune arrive at Blackmour, she had no intention of
anyone knowing how her clothing had been ripped so she might be beaten more easily.
She pulled tunics and hose out instead, things of William’s she had cut down to fit her frame. No matter that they were
patched and mended a score of times. Indeed, such mending would perhaps make others think she was merely a poor
lad in search of supper. She would beg a few meals, sleep a night or two under the stars, then find herself in London
where she would seek aid from the king.
Assuming, of course, that London could be reached in a day or two. How large was England , anyway? A pity her father
had been too ashamed of her to let her outside the inner bailey. It would have helped to know where she was going. No
matter. She would watch the position of the sun, as William had taught her, and go south. London was south. She would
reach it eventually and find the king. He wouldn’t refuse to aid her. After all, she was the only child left Warewick, flawed
and unworthy though she was.
Clothing decided upon, she dug into the bottom of her trunk and came up with her sword, wrapped in a tunic.
It was torn from her hands and Colin barked out a laugh. “What is this?”
Fear overcame her. Nay, not her true sword. Not the sword William had gifted her …
” Tis naught of yours,” she said, making a desperate lunge for it. Her sword was the one thing in the world she ould trust
to protect her and she would never relinquish
Colin held it above his head, far out of her reach. “You’ll have no need of this, lady. My paltry skills will assure your safety.”
“That is mine, you … you swine,” she blurted out, using William’s favorite slur.
Colin’s expression changed and she knew her cheek would cost her. In an instant, her choices paraded before her,
showing themselves in their fullest glory. She could defend herself, or she could die. She might have survived a beating
at her father’s hands, but she knew she wouldn’t survive the like at Colin’s. She grasped for the last shreds of her courage
and brought her knee up sharply into Colin’s groin.
He dropped her sword with a curse and doubled over, choking. Gillian dove for her sword, then lurched to her feet,
fumbling with the wrappings. She jerked it free of its scabbard and brandished it.
‘ ‘I know h-how to use this,” she warned Colin’s doubled-over form, “and I wouldn’t think t-twice about g-gelding you
if need be.”
“Pox rot you, wench,” Colin gasped. He lurched toward her, still hunched over.
Gillian leaped backward in terror. She caught her foot in her gown and went down heavily, dropping her sword along
the way. It skittered out of her reach. Gillian cried out in fear, for she had lost her one advantage. She knew it would be impossible to retrieve the blade before Colin reached her. So she did the only thing she knew to do: she bent her head
and cowered, waiting for the first blow to fall.
“Pick up your sword, girl,” Colin said, panting. “I’ve no stomach for beating women. And I remember telling you I wanted to be gone before the morn was wasted. Your father’s house feels more unfriendly than a camp full of infidels. I’m certain you’re as eager to leave as I am.”
Gillian froze, hardly able to believe her ears. When she felt no blow come, she lifted her head to see what Colin was doing.
He was staring down at her, but his hands were clutching his thighs. They were not clenched and held high, which, to her
way of thinking, boded well.
“I said, wrap up your blade, wench.” Colin straightened, then limped over to her trunk and looked inside. ”What of these gowns? None to suit your finicky tastes?”
Gillian couldn’t manage an answer. Colin hadn’t struck her. Indeed, he seemed to have forgotten her insults. She watched
him in shock and not just a bit of suspicion. She had wounded more than just his pride and he wasn’t going to repay her
for it? It took nothing more than the thought of such an act of defiance crossing her face for her father to punish her.
What manner of man was this Colin of Berkhamshire?
Colin picked up a gown and looked at it closely. Gillian wasn’t a skilled seamstress and the gown showed clearly how oft
it had been torn. There was even blood on the garment he held, a mark she had scrubbed repeatedly, and unsuccessfully.
Colin flung the garment into the trunk and slammed the lid shut. “Christopher will have other gowns made for you. You’ll
not wear those in his hall. Saints, but I’d pay for the pleasure of meeting Ware wick in the lists,” he muttered.
He turned, strode over to her and drew her to her feet. He retrieved her sword, scabbard and dropped clothing, then
shoved it all into her hands. He took hold of her arm and kept hold of it as he pulled her from the chamber, down the
circular stairs and across the great hall.
Her father stood at the door to the hall, his mouth open and likely full of more words that certainly wouldn’t please Colin.
Colin shoved him out of the way, then herded Gillian and the rest of his men to the waiting horses.
“You can ride?”
“A bit,” she managed the moment before he tossed her up into a saddle.
They were through the inner gates before Gillian had the chance to find her seat astride her horse. The outer gates had been reached and breached before she could catch her breath or find her wits to marvel at the dumbfounded look on her father’s face. Whatever Colin of Berkhamshire’s other flaws might be, he certainly had a way about him that annoyed her father.
The memory of her sire’s spluttering was almost enough to make her smile.
Colin set a brisk pace and by the time Gillian thought to look over her shoulder, her father’s hall was small and becoming smaller by the hoofbeat. She clutched the hilt of her sword and stared back at her prison in fascination. Odd how a place
that had held her captive for the past one-and-twenty years seemed so puny and insignificant when viewed from a safe distance.
“Watch your mount,” Colin barked, snagging her reins. “I’ve no time for coddling your tears.”
“Oh, but I’ve no tears to shed,” she assured him quickly.
“I shouldn’t think you would have,” Colin said, tossing her reins back at her. “Look sharp, lady, and don’t force me to halt
for you. I haven’t the patience.”
Gillian nodded and took hold of her reins, contenting herself with that tiny bit of control. It was, like her freedom, not
destined to last more than the time it took them to travel from Warewick to Blackmour.
Unless she could truly wrench destiny to her own pleasure.
She looked about her at the score of grim-faced warriors and her heart sank. How could she elude them? Or escape
them once they took up her trail? There wasn’t any hope. She was doomed to be carried off to another prison likely
as terrifying and stifling as the one she had just left.
Courage, Gill. You’ll not live forever at Warewick. Someday a handsome lord will take you away and
make you his, and then think on how happy you’Il be. I know it will be so.
William’s dying words came back to her, making her want to weep with despair. What William couldn’t have known,
what even the most fiendish of village witches couldn’t have imagined, was that she wasn’t going to a man who loved
her, who had offered for her out of affection, or even lust.
She was going to the Dragon of Blackmour.
Two
The Dragon of Blackmour sat in a chair in his bed-chamber with his feet up on a stool and cursed the fool who had
invented ale. Saints, it was poison! His head throbbed. The fingers he put to his head throbbed. He could have sworn
the soles of his feet throbbed, but he wasn’t truly sure as he couldn’t feel anything past his knees.
He fingered the rolled parchment he held, then cast it aside, not caring where it came to rest. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t remember every bloody word written there. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair, allowing the
words to swim before his mind’s eye.
I, William of Warewick, send greetings to Christopher of Blackmour. Time is short, my friend, for I know
I am approaching my end. I adjure you to remember your vow, the one I begged you to make in the event
of my death. You are the only one I trust with such a deed, Christopher, and I implore you not to fail me.
Upon your honor, hold fast to your oath and see to what I cannot. God will bless you for your goodness.
I write this by my own hand, this fourth day of April, the Year of Our Lord, 1248.
William had penned those words a year ago. At the time, Christopher had thought William had slipped too far into his
cups and was imagining his coming demise. With his own head currently paining him nigh unto death, Christopher could
well understand the feeling.
But now he knew William had been in earnest.
And it was all because of the vow. By the saints, he had been daft to ever make such a promise. The very last thing he
needed was a bloody wife!
He rose with a hearty curse and left his bedchamber, making his way with care down to the great hall. Too much ale
had made him clumsy and he had no intentions of misjudging his step and tumbling down the stairs.
Chris, I’m trusting you to see to Gillian if anything ever happens to me. Do whatever you have to do to
take her from my sire. You know as well as I what her fate will be otherwise. I know she’s not beautiful,
but there are qualities more desirable than beauty.
Christopher smiled bitterly at the thought. Aye, qualities such as loyalty, something he knew firsthand.
“My lord, I brought you something to eat.”
Bile rose in Christopher’s throat at the mere smell. “Take it away, Jason!”
He listened to his squire scurry away, then sighed as he made his way to his chair at the high table. Jason of Artane
should have had a better master, one who could have given him the training he needed. Christopher had tried to send him
away three years ago, after the wounding, but neither Jason nor his father would accept it. Christopher had been left with no choice but to allow the boy of ten-and-six to remain, to become indispensable to him. A pity, really. Jason deserved better.
“My lord, here is herbed wine. If you’ll hold your nose and drink it, your stomach will be settled.”
A cold cup was pressed into Christopher’s hand. He held his breath and downed the contents, then waited for the nausea
to come. He leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes, remaining still until he was certain his stomach wouldn’t
reject Jason’s brew, then he nodded and handed the cup back to his squire. A calm belly was no blessing, though, for it
gave him nothing to think on but his own black thoughts. Saints above, what had ever possessed him to promise William anything at all?
He hadn’t given much thought to the vow he’d made his friend, though he remembered well enough the giving of it. It had
been during the time he and William had been squiring together at Artane. Christopher had been watching Lord Robin, a
man he worshipped to the depths of his soul, pick up his young daughter and carry her back to the house, giving her gentle words all along the way. He had followed, then run bodily into William, who had been staring at their lord with a grief-
stricken expression.
Christopher had never forgotten the look on William’s face. He had never known his friend to be anything but merry, but
that day William had turned to him in obvious torment.
“Promise me,” he had said, his face ashen. “Promise me that if anything happens to me, you’ll take my sister away from
my sire. Vow it by the Holy Rood, Chris. Vow it now.”
Christopher had been too unsettled to do anything else. Once he had given his word that he would see to William’s sister,
his friend had slowly returned to his normal, cheery self. But from then on Christopher had marked the way William studied their lord with his daughter.
Christopher sighed and raked his hand through his hair. It had been years since he had given any thought to his rash words.
He had been far too busy seeing to the tangle that was his own life. He’d had holdings to see to, a short, disastrous marriage
to endure, then months to spend living in his own private hell as he recovered from the sabotage which had cost him so dearly.
Then had come the fateful visit from one of William’s guardsmen. Edward had arrived half a year ago and given Christopher
the tale of William’s death—and the sounds of beatings that echoed in the stillness of the night at Warewick.
And of Gillian’s attempts at pretending she wasn’t the recipient of those beatings.
Christopher forced himself to release the arms of his chair, then flexed his fingers. It wasn’t wise to let the tidings affect him
so deeply. What went on at Warewick wasn’t anything that didn’t happen frequently in the whole of England . Christopher himself had endured several choice beatings at his father’s hands.
But he had given William his word and William had called him on the bargain. His damnable honor had risen up like fat to
the top of soup and he had choked on it. He had fought for air for almost half a year after William’s death before giving in
and sending his messenger to Warewick with his offer.
He had known he wouldn’t be refused. As far as he knew there wasn’t another man in the realm who would take Gillian’s dowry, something he had no use for. Her gold could be spent in one trip to market. Braedhalle, her dower estate, was the
most pitiful, overworked, barren bit of soil he had ever seen. Add that to her lack of beauty and it was a wonder Warewick hadn’t packed her off to a convent years ago. Nay, not even the Church would have taken her. In their eyes, she had no
value at all.
Christopher rose with a curse. As if he cared what anyone thought of the girl! The Church likely had reason for not wanting
her. What would they want with a child who possessed neither beauty nor wealth?
He strode across the hall, wanting nothing more than to escape his thoughts. He had done the honorable thing and sent
for her. He would wed her and give her the protection of his name. His word was fulfilled and now he could turn his mind
to other things.
Without warning, he smacked his shin smartly against the end of a bench and gasped out a curse.
“Who put this here?” he bellowed.
“I beg your pardon, milord,” a timid female voice answered. “I moved it to clean the hearth and forgot to move it back.”
“Don’t forget again,” Christopher snarled and marched across the rushes. He marched carefully, though. His shin smarted
worse than his pride, and that was smarting mightily at the moment.
He stepped outside the hall and a chill breeze caught him full in the face. It cleared his head far better than Jason’s brew had. He moved over to the bench that sat near the door to the great hall, probing for it unobtrusively with his uninjured leg. Upon successfully finding it, he lowered himself with a sigh. The wall at his back was cold and the early spring sun a poor warmth,
but he didn’t care. He fixed a grim look to his face, one that was guaranteed to insure privacy. And with his precious privacy, he made a list of what he would not do.
He wouldn’t let Gillian disrupt his life. He would bed her a time or two, get her with child, then never speak to her again.
That was the only way to assure she didn’t steal his heart, then rend it in twain.
He would also hide his flaw from her. She, like most of his household, would never know just how badly he had
been injured.
“My lord?”
Christopher sighed at the interruption. “Aye, Jason.”
“I’ve the missive you dictated to my sire, informing him of your coming nuptials. It requires your signature.”
“Bloody Hell, I’m occupied now.” Saints above, would this farce of a marriage never cease to disturb his peace?
“It will take but a moment, my lord. I’ve everything needful on this board: ink, a quill, and wax. And you wear the
proper ring.”
Christopher felt the indentations on the ring he wore. “I knew that, Jason.”
“Of course, my lord. ‘Twas merely a tactic to convince you of the ease of the task.”
“I don’t want things that are easy, damn you!”
There was silence.
“A poor choice of words,” Jason said softly. “I only meant that it would be quick and painless, not that it was simple.”
“Aye, I know,” Christopher said, with a deep sigh. “My growls are just growls, lad, and not meant as censure. Here,
give me what I need.”
Jason set the small board on Christopher’s lap and put the parchment atop it.
“At the bottom, my lord. On your right hand.”
“In the usual place,” Christopher observed dryly.
“You like things to be orderly. I try to humor you as I may.”
Christopher felt a smile tug at his mouth. If there was anyone who could charm him out of his foul mood, it was his squire.
“Such cheek from such a wee lad,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll wrestle after I finish this great, imposing task, and I will repay
you for using me as sport.”
“I would relish the challenge, my lord.”
Christopher felt for the edges of the missive, then lifted the quill.
“A bit more to the left,” Jason murmured, so softly that Christopher barely heard him, “and up. Aye, that’s it.”
Christopher signed his name carefully, then lifted the quill. It was taken out of his hand and he heard Jason brush sand
across the parchment. It was rolled, then Jason swore.
“Bloody Hell,” he muttered, with the same inflection Christopher always used. “The wax never goes where I want it to.”
He was silent for a moment or two more as he worked with the missive. “Here, now, my lord. Tis ready.” He took Christopher’s hand and guided it to the parchment. “Hold but for a moment. Aye, well done. With your leave, I’ll deliver
this to the messenger, then return for your sport.”
Christopher nodded and waved the lad away, unable to speak. Life was a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn’t swallow
past it, couldn’t spit it out. couldn’t drink to cover it up. As with his affliction, life was something he couldn’t escape.
Saints, what would Gillian think when she learned?
Three
Gillian had been curious at first, when she could see only a speck in the distance that Colin assured her was indeed
Blackmour. She had envisioned a humble place, likely smaller than her own home, and rather more primitive. After
all, it was rumored to be only a few days’ ride from the Scottish border.
But now, as she sat but a few hundred paces from the outer walls, she realized just how wrong she had been.
Blackmour was enormous. It was a grim fortress that sat so far on the edge of the land that she fancied it ran the
tremendous risk of slipping over the cliff and plunging into the sea—though how anything so large could have ever
been moved she didn’t know.
The first line of defense was a tall, smooth wall topped with unfriendly arrow slits. She watched the weak sunlight glint
off the helmets of the guards who walked the walls, guards whose eyes searched out the landscape for any who might
attempt entrance without permission. The drawbridge yawned open as she approached and a heavy portcullis was raised,
its steel-tipped spikes hanging threateningly over the pathway through the tunnel.
She reined in her mount and simply stared at what was going to become her home. How would she ever survive a lifetime
in this gloomy place? From what she could see of it, the inner wall was no less tall than the outer and it boasted not only
arrow slits but fixtures for the dropping of boiling oil onto whatever army dared topple the outer walls. Gillian suspected
no foe ever saw the inner walls, much less stood underneath them to be boiled alive.
“Lady Gillian?”
She blinked, startled from her contemplation of her new prison, and looked at Colin. “Aye?”
“We’ll stop again in the inner bailey and you’ll look to your heart’s content. I’ll not linger outside the walls.”
Gillian nodded and followed his horse up the final distance to the outer bailey wall. Her eyes adjusted readily to the
darkness of the long tunnel under the wall and she suddenly found a strange comfort in knowing that the outer defenses
were so thick. If nothing else, Christopher of Blackmour would keep her safe.
But that also meant that if no one could get in, she wouldn’t be able to get out. Merciful saints above!
She only realized she had jerked on her reins when her horse reared.
“Whoa!” Colin exclaimed.
Without warning, he scooped Gillian off her saddle with one arm and set her down sideways behind him.
“Peter, see to her mount. Do not look down, lady. I’ll not have you send us both into the abyss with your screaming.”
Abyss? She looked down to her left and stifled a cry. They were nigh onto crossing the bridge that spanned the short
distance from the whole of England and what she could see was the lamentably small island that served as Blackmour’s foundations. She clutched the back of Colin” s cloak as his surefooted mount trotted over the heavy stone bridge. In truth,
the span was large and sturdy, but that knowledge didn’t convince her to loosen her grip. The slightest misstep would have plunged them over into the sea.
“You never said it was perched out here on nothing,” she ventured, clinging to fistfuls of Colin’s cloak and praying she could keep her tenuous seat atop the horse’s rump.
“A fine aerie for the Dragon of Blackmour, is it not?”
She could have sworn he was laughing, for his voice quavered just the slightest bit. She, however, saw nothing humorous
about the Dragon’s choice of nests.
“If one doesn’t care for great tracts of land surrounding one’s home,” she muttered under her breath.
“Nay, lady,” Colin said, “Blackmour suits those of us who live here perfectly. Christopher employs his own guard year-
round and his men have grown accustomed to the lack of land about the walls. This isle is far larger than it looks at first
glance, so you needn’t fear for places to roam. You’ll see that for yourself soon enough and no doubt find it to your liking.
“Of course,”—he cleared his throat suddenly and made a few gruff noises—”I couldn’t care less if you like it or not. And
I’ll surely not have any time to show it to you. You’ll see it or not by yourself.”
Gillian pretended not to notice the slip in Colin’s ruthlessness. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Though he’d
complained loudly about every stop he had called for her sake, he had called them often and ignored her protests that she
was managing well enough with his brisk pace. It was difficult to believe that a man of Colin of Berkham-shire’s reputation could possess any sort of kindness, but she couldn’t deny what she had seen. A pity her future husband was a sorcerer and would possess no kindness whatsoever. No warlock did. All the gentler emotions were burned out of them in the course of their mastery of the darker arts.
She forced thoughts of Lord Christopher’s evil habits out of her mind as they rode out into the inner bailey. It did no good
to think on what he was, for it would only increase her fear. She already had enough of that, and to spare.
She stared at the lists on her left. Mailed men currently trained with their weapons of war. The men trained very hard—likely
in fear of incurring Blackmour’s wrath. She would have trained just as hard in their place.
The lists gave way to a smaller wall that surrounded the inner courtyard. Smaller was, of course, an understatement. Indeed,
all of Blackmour seemed to make a mockery of her home, a place she had considered quite large and fine.
Tucked into one corner of this smaller courtyard was the great hall. A chapel huddled a ways away from it, along with a garrison hall and, further still, the stables. A modest garden sat between the great hall and the chapel. A pity she would
never know the peace of sitting amidst the herbs and dreaming.
Colin dismounted at the steps to the great hall, then held up his hands for her. She was deposited on her feet and
commanded to enter the hall.
Gillian paused at the threshold, wondering if it were too late to turn and bolt.
She turned away, and her nose made immediate contact with Colin’s broad chest. He put his hands on her shoulders
and turned her back around to face the gaping hole of the hall doorway.
“Courage, my lady.”
If she’d had courage, she would have drawn Colin’s sword and run him through, then escaped on his horse.
But she was a coward.
So she crossed the threshold.
* * *
Christopher concentrated on counting the final steps down to the great hall. He seldom miscounted and usually descended
them with a confident air. Now he crept along like a bastard son of the lowliest tanner, afraid of even his own shadow. Ten-and-six, ten-and-seven, ten-and-eight. He inched the toe of his boot forward and encountered nothing but solid
ground. He cursed under his breath. What had ever possessed him to offer for her? He was a fool!
He hadn’t been waiting in the hall when she had arrived, though he’d been kept abreast of the happenings. Jason had been
run ragged trying to see to Gillian’s comfort and appease Christopher’s demands for tidings at the same time. But the lad
was young; he would bear up well enough under the strain.
The one person Christopher hadn’t talked to was Colin and he was furious about it. He had sent Jason down with explicit instructions that Colin present himself with all due haste. Colin had sent word back that he couldn’t possibly leave Gillian
alone and if Christopher wanted to talk to him, he could bloody well haul his stubborn arse below to do it. There were
times Christopher wondered why in hell’s name he had ever saved Colin’s sorry neck in the battle of Coyners. He was
even sorrier that Colin was his brother-in-law and not his vassal. It made ordering him about nigh onto impossible.
Now, hours later, Christopher stood unwillingly at the bottom of his stairs, wondering why he found himself in this pitiful
state.
He listened to the sounds in the great hall, trying to divine where everyone was. There was the usual racket from the kitchen: pots being washed, servants gossiping, kitchen lads being slapped and scolded for stealing treats. He heard the scrape of
wood against stone as the trestles were dragged across the floor to the wall. A man laughed and others joined him. He
heard Colin’s booming curses, but he did not hear a woman’s voice.
Yet he knew she was there. The hall smelled different. The faintest scent of roses drifted toward him.
“Gillian,” he barked.
The splat of wine and the ping of a silver goblet hitting the stone floor told him he hadn’t been mistaken. He could have
sworn he heard her teeth begin to chatter.
“Come here,” he commanded.
He heard Jason murmur soothingly and heard a chair graze the stone. He held out his hand, waiting for her to come put
hers in it. Her shuffling step stopped; then cold fingers came to rest on his palm.
She was terrified. He could feel it in the chill of her skin and the way her hand trembled against his.
“Jason, she should be sitting closer to the fire,” Christopher rumbled. “Her lips are blue.”
That was a flash of inspiration. Her hands were freezing; her lips would surely be blue.
“Forgive me, my lord.”
Her voice was whispery soft and tinged with terror. Christopher dropped her hand immediately and felt for the wall
behind him. The saints help him, he was going to do something absurd, like haul her into his arms to comfort her. He
backed up until his heels hit the bottom step.
“We’ll wed at
, five days hence. Do not make me wait when the time comes. I am not a patient man.”
With that, he turned and walked back up the steps, concentrating on nothing but their number. He sighed as he reached
the top, then went stumbling forward before he realized he had miscounted. He caught himself heavily with one leg, the
impact shooting pains up through his foot to his hip.
“Bloody Hell,” he muttered under his breath. He straightened, hoping no one had seen him, and continued on his way to his chamber.
Once there, he closed the door and made his way to the hearth. The lit candle was exactly where it always was and he
started a fire quickly with the peat and kindling. He wrapped up in a fur and sat down with a deep sigh. The chill dampness
of the ocean rarely bothered him, but tonight was different. The chill was in his heart. A few days ago, he’d complained
loudly about what little Gillian had to offer him. Now he began to realize just how little he had to offer her.
A wet nose nudged his hand and Christopher sighed again as he scratched his favorite hound behind the ears.
“Women,” Christopher muttered. “Wolf, my friend, keep yourself away from them. They’ll cause you naught but grief.”
Wolf growled softly and licked Christopher’s hand. Christopher ruffled the hound’s fur as he turned his face back to the
warmth of the fire. There was much to be done in preparation for the ceremony. He knew he wouldn’t be so fortunate as to have Warewick decide not to appear at his daughter’s wedding. Nay, the man would come to gloat, if nothing else. After
all. he was gaining a tie to Blackmour and all that went with it. A tenuous tie, to be sure. If Warewick thought to form any
kind of friendly alliance, he was deluding himself.
Wolf lifted his head suddenly. Christopher stiffened along with him at the sound of a soft footfall behind him. He hadn’t
heard the door open. Thinking deeply behind an unbolted chamber door was never wise.
Wolf growled low in his throat, which narrowed down drastically who the caller could be. Wolf accepted few people:
Jason, Colin and Christopher’s captain, Ranulf. Anyone else was considered a threat and treated accordingly.
“Who is it?” Christopher asked, not turning his head.
“Janet, my lord. Master Jason thought you might be wanting something to eat.”
“Put it on the table.” He waited until he heard the sound of a wooden trencher being set down and the girl’s footsteps
retreating before he rose and bolted his bedchamber door.
Christopher forced himself to eat, though he had no appetite. Aye, ’twas the thought of marriage that soured him so on
the idea of food. A pity just keeping Gillian at Blackmour wouldn’t be sufficient to keep her safe. Marriage it had to be.
Christopher put the trencher down on the floor and let the enormous black hound finish the meal. He couldn’t bear the smell.
Rising abruptly, he walked over to the alcove and threw open the shutters, letting the chill sea breeze wash over him. Saints,
he didn’t want a wife! Gillian would expect civility, perhaps even kindness, and he had none of either to give. His heart was
cut off from those foolish feelings just as surely as his keep was severed from the rest of England . He had no desire to
change things.
Why should he? Life had dealt him the crudest of blows. How could anyone expect him to bestir himself to care for another soul? He had his hands full with Jason and the running of his household. He had no need of any more complications.
And if it weren’t for his damnable honor, he wouldn’t be contemplating the thought of facing a priest with a woman by his
side for the second time in his miserable life.
He closed the shutters with a bang, then turned and strode across the chamber. He snatched up his sword and stalked out
into the passageway, feeling the intense need to cut something to ribbons. Perhaps a few hours in the tower chamber would take his mind off what his vow would demand he do five days hence.
Honor.
What a perfect waste of a man’s energy.
Four
Gillian sat in her chamber, chilled to the bone. She had risen at dawn, dressed, then remained where she was. There was
no sense in giving up the safety of a barred door, though the necessity of that was still in question. Lord Christopher had
taken one look at her and fled back up the stairs, surely to retch over her ugliness in private. It was unlikely he would seek
her out and she couldn’t have been happier about it. She hadn’t seen his horns the night before, but then again, she hadn’t
had much of a look at him.
A soft knock sounded on the door and she jumped. She wiped her suddenly damp palms on her skirts and crossed to
the door.
“Aye?” she asked hesitantly.
“Lady Gillian, ’tis Jason. I’ve come to fetch you down to break your fast.”
Gillian hesitated. What fate awaited her below? Would Lord Christopher be there? Would he beat her in front of the
servants to show them her place from the start?
“My lady,” Jason said, “should you fear Sir Colin’s poor manners at the table, there is no need. He and my lord are shouting
at each other in the lists and will likely remain there for the rest of the day. You may come eat in peace.”
Gillian opened the door slowly and looked out. Jason made her a low bow and smiled. Gillian returned his smile, albeit
shakily. Jason of Artane seemed to be a sweet, gentle boy and she wondered what had possessed his father to send him
to squire with a monster like Christopher of Blackmour.
“Come now, lady,” Jason said, offering his arm. “My lord gave me leave to eat with you and I never forgo the pleasure of serving a comely maid. Then, if it pleases you, I will show you about the castle.”
She nodded and took his proffered arm. If Jason noticed her hesitancy in doing so, he hid it well. He kept up a steady
stream of chatter as he descended before her down to the great hall. Gillian paid little heed to Jason’s words; she was far
too busy gaping at her surroundings. In her fear the day before, she hadn’t had the stomach to do more than stare at the
floor and pray for deliverance. Now she wondered how she could possibly have been so distracted that she didn’t mark anything about her new home.
Blackmour’s great hall was the finest thing she had ever seen. It made her father’s small hall, with its fire in the midst of the
floor and the thick smoke clogging the air, seem barbaric. Lord Christopher’s hall boasted four hearths set into the walls,
with flues to carry the smoke outside. Gillian could actually look up and see the ceiling.
Not only was there a great lack of smoke inside, there was light from windows set up high in the walls. The weak spring sunlight filtered in and was absorbed by the fine tapestries lining the walls. It must have taken a score of seamstresses years
to complete those hangings. Oh, how much she had missed in never having seen aught but her father’s house! Either all of England was much richer than her sire, or Christopher of Blackmour had more gold at his disposal than the king.
The meal was certainly the finest she had ever been served. There was white bread and tasty porridge in abundance, though she ate little of it. She had intended to use it to shore up her strength, but after the first time a knight had come bursting into
the hall, she remembered again just what her situation was: She was a prisoner in the Bane of Blackmour’s keep. The saints only knew what torments he had planned for her. Terror lodged in her throat, making it impossible to swallow her meal.
Jason, though, seemed to have no fear of his surroundings, if the relish with which he attacked his food was any indication.
Then again, a lad of some ten-and-six years likely never let anything get in the way of filling his belly.
She jumped when she found he was looking at her. His brow was furrowed.
“The fare doesn’t please you? Shall I call for something else?”
She shook her head quickly. ” ‘Tis wondrous, truly.”
“Then why don’t you eat, my lady? You’re powerfully thin.”
Gillian picked up a bit of bread and ate obediently. There was no sense in offending her future husband by having him learn
she hadn’t partaken of his food. She wouldn’t give him reason to beat her—more reason than he would find on his own.
“Perhaps you would care for a bit of air?” Jason asked.
Leave the great hall? Venture out into the same place where Blackmour might be roaming? She felt her chest tighten and
her breath begin to come in gasps.
“I couldn’t disturb His Lordship,” she managed.
“I spoke of the battlements,” Jason said. ” ‘Twill give you a commanding view of the surroundings. I daresay Sir Colin didn’t allow you much time to look about.”
Gillian felt some of her fear diminish. Perhaps she could manage the battlements. If Christopher and Colin were in the lists,
she would be safe above.
She nodded and then allowed Jason to help her up from her chair.
“I always go up to the battlements when I’m allowed time for myself,” he said, as he walked before her up the steps.
“The view is so fine?”
Jason grinned. “Nay, I know that ’tis the one place I am safe from Sir Colin and his foul temper.”
“And why is that?”
“He is terrified of being much further off the ground than where being atop his steed places him.”
Gillian blinked, surprised. Then she smiled. The thought of the fierce and intimidating Colin of Berkhamshire being afraid
of such modest heights was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. Why, even she had felt no fear when gazing down
at the courtyard from her tower window at Warewick. Well, that was certainly something to remember the next time the man frowned at her to frighten her.
“I tease Sir Colin when I can,” Jason continued, “by inviting him to come up and scout with me, telling him that my lord finds
it too menial a task for himself. ‘Tis usually at that moment that something pressing requires his immediate attention. I try not
to laugh, but I usually can’t help myself.” He grinned again. “If I’m quick enough, I can flee to the battlements and escape his wrath, though he usually lies in wait for me below. A lad can only haunt the walls for so long before hunger drives him to descend.”
Gillian froze in midstep. “He beats you then?”
“Of course not, my lady,” Jason said, a puzzled frown crossing his brow. “He wouldn’t dare. I belong to my lord Christopher and Sir Colin would surely answer to him if he took sport of me. That isn’t to say,” he added, with the twinkle back in his eye, “that he doesn’t propose a wrestle now and then. He does his bloody best to crush the life from me, but I relish that challenge. There are few who face Colin of Berkhamshire and live to tell the tale.”
“And your lord?”
“Even fewer, my lady, even fewer. Know you nothing of him?”
“Just rumors,” Gillian said as she resumed the climb. “I know little of the world outside my home. This journey was the
first I’d ever made out of the inner bailey.”
“I see. Then perhaps ’tis best that I leave you to form your own opinions. Here we are at the door. You aren’t afraid to
go out, are you?”
She shook her head in answer.
“We’ll make the circle then,” Jason said, taking her arm and leading her over to one wall. “This wall faces west, over the
baileys and inland.”
Gillian looked down over the courtyard and saw the chapel and other outbuildings housing the smiths and such. Outside the courtyard wall the bailey was full of merchants milling about, dogs barking, men cursing, horses stomping and pawing the
earth. The sound of hammer against anvil rang out in the morning air, mingling with the other sounds of castle life. It was a
bit like Warewick; only here it seemed wilder, more untamed. The peasants at her father’s hall lived in terror of attracting
the lord’s gaze. These souls either didn’t care or were of much bolder stock, for they didn’t cower.
In the lists mailed knights jousted, men fought with swords; still others wrestled with their mates or trained their mounts.
Gillian looked for Christopher but couldn’t mark him. From what Jason had said, she should have been able to hear him shouting at Colin from where she stood.
Jason took her hand and led her to the north wall.
“ Scotland is to your left, though many leagues away. My home is also north, on the edge of the sea as is Blackmour, though Artane is not perched up on a bit of rock as we are now.”
“Do you miss your family?” she asked, looking into his pale gray eyes.
He smiled. “Aye, I do. But I see them now and then. My father comes two or three times a year to assure himself that I
haven’t driven Lord Christopher daft. I am sent home each summer to present myself to my mother and prove that I am behaving as I should. But I return to Blackmour willingly. I am the youngest son and have no title, though my father has
vowed to be most generous with his lands. In truth, I don’t know if I want them. My lord has need of me yet and he will
see that I lack for nothing.” He smiled again and shrugged. “I am content.”
With a beast like Blackmour? Gillian couldn’t believe it. Perhaps the lad was more innocent than she thought.
“And now for the east. This is what I come to look at when I make the climb. You’ve never seen the sea truly, have you?”
She shook her head.
“Then close your eyes and let me lead you. Never fear, I am quite adept at this.”
Gillian clutched his arm and followed him, stealing looks down at her feet as they went. Her trust only went so far.
Jason stopped and placed her hands on the wall.
“Now look.”
She lifted her head and gasped in surprise, then backed away from the wall. Jason grabbed her arm and jerked her
back from the edge of the parapet.
“Careful,” he exclaimed. “Hold onto the wall, my lady. My lord would have me flogged if aught happened to you.”
Gillian peeked over the wall and flinched as a wave crashed against the cliff below her. The sea surged and billowed,
throwing itself against Blackmour’s foundations. The white spray erupted below her with a fierceness that frightened her.
How puny and weak a mere mortal woman was when compared to the savage forces of nature. She clutched the cold stone wall in an effort to reassure herself that she wouldn’t tumble forward and become swept away by the violence of the waves.
And slowly, in spite of her unease, she fell under the sea’s spell. The ebb and return of the waves was hypnotic, teasing her
into a strange, fragile sense of peace. At that moment she knew, beyond all reason, that her entire life had been naught but waiting for this, for the sea and for this place, this gloomy keep perched atop its steep cliff, pounded by the elements until it
was weathered and beaten. Blackmour took that pounding and survived it. Gillian doubted that anything could ever tear
down the keep beneath her. And in that strength was power. She felt it as surely as if it reached up through the rocks and grasped her in its embrace. Aye, nothing would ever shatter this keep. If anything, a man would break himself against it in
the attempt.
And now this bleak, weathered place was to be her home for the rest of her life. She tightened her grip on the stone wall.
The fierce beauty of the sea below her was almost enough to convince her to stay. To be allowed to look on that sight
each day would be a great pleasure and she had had so few pleasures in her life. Perhaps the sea would be recompense
for being wed to Christopher of Blackmour.
Devil’s spawn.
Fear slithered down her spine. How could the sea possibly soothe her if it were viewed from Blackmour’s tower chamber,
the hellish place where he worked his dark arts? Would she see the waves one last time before he raised his knife and—
“South is next,” Jason said softly, interrupting her thoughts. “The view is less fine, just the sea and a bit of land. I prefer the ruggedness of the north myself so I don’t often look south.”
Gillian took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart.
“ London is south,” she said, looking at Jason. “Isn’t it?”
“Aye, London is south.”
Gillian nodded, swallowing with difficulty. At least she knew in which direction she should flee.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” she managed. “Would you take me back now?”
“Wouldn’t you care to see the rest of the keep?” Jason asked.
She shook her head, praying she could keep her tremors at bay until she was safely locked behind her chamber door.
There was no sense in letting Blackmour hear how terrified she was. It would only give him pleasure.
“As you wish, then, my lady,” Jason said, with a bow.
He led her back to her chamber, built up the blaze in her hearth and left only after she assured him she truly wished to rest
after her journey. Once she had bolted the door, she changed her clothes and dug in her trunk for her sword. Practicing her skills against imaginary opponents was a twofold blessing. It would take her mind off her fear and also sap her strength
enough that she would sleep soundly. She knew she would be wise to sleep while she had the chance. It would be only
during the dead of night that she would be able to escape Blackmour and she wanted no weariness to hinder her when the opportunity to flee arose.
The feel of cold steel in her hand caught and held her attention. She sized up her unseen opponent and began to work,
watching for the inevitable false move that would give his weakness away.
* * *
Gillian turned over onto her side, seeking a comfortable position. After a few moments, she gave up and rose from the bed, shivering. She looked in trunks, under the bed, behind tapestries. Fruitless. What fool had decided that leaving her without
a chamber pot would be fine sport? She drew her cloak around her and contemplated the heavy wooden door. It was
either leave her chamber and seek out a garderobe or remain bolted inside and suffer.
Another cramp in her belly told her that suffering wasn’t an alternative. She took her courage in hand and unbolted her door as softly as she could, which was very softly indeed. The door made no sound as she opened it and slipped out into the passageway.
Finding a garderobe at her father’s house had never been difficult. Even if she hadn’t known where they were, she could
have found them by following her nose. Her father never emptied the cesspit unless it was nigh to backing back up the
shaft and spilling out into his passageways.
Blackmour was, as in all other things, completely different from her home. Gillian walked until she was weak, seeking
nothing but relief. It was only by sheer luck that she opened a door and saw the moonlight coming in the window slit.
She saw to her needs, then stepped out into the passageway. She’d become so turned about that she had to stop and
give serious thought as to where she had come from. She looked to her left, then looked to her right.
That was when she saw the shadows dancing along the wall.
It was as if her eyes were possessed by a contrary spirit. The very saints in heaven knew she didn’t want to look up,
but she was powerless to stop herself. There, to her right, was a stairwell. There was obviously someone in the chamber
at the top, for the light was coming from above.
But it was a tower chamber.
Christopher of Blackmour’s tower chamber.
She wanted to flee back to her chamber, but her feet seemed to have something else in mind. Before she could stop them,
they were carrying her toward the steps. Then she found herself climbing those steep steps. Her breath came in harsh gasps, her body trembled. She had no desire to see what the tower contained, no matter what her feet seemed to think about the matter. She already knew what awaited her above. It was Lord Christopher, practicing his dark arts.
She clapped her hand over her mouth as she climbed up to the landing. The tower door was ajar. Faint light spilled out,
sending shadows flickering along the stone.
Her heart beat in her throat. She trembled at the sound of heavy breathing and grunting coming from within the chamber.
She could have sworn she heard the ring of steel. Merciful saints above, was he hacking a sacrifice to bits, preparing to
drink its blood?
A movement startled her and she froze as the biggest, blackest dog she had ever seen raised itself up and looked her square
in the eye. Nay, it wasn’t a dog, it was a wolf. His eyes gleamed in the faint light, his bared teeth flashed white. Gillian was
too terrified to scream. Lord Christopher’s familiar, his devilish protector was before her, ready to rip out her throat!
The wolf moved closer but Gillian didn’t dare move back. She closed her eyes and prayed that death would come quickly
and painlessly. She felt a cold nose against her palm and sucked in her breath so hard that she almost choked. The Hound
from Hell snuffled her hand, likely trying to decide if biting her there first would be worth his time.
Then Gillian felt a tug at her sleeve. She opened her eyes and looked at the great black beast. He had the hem of her sleeve
in his mouth and was pulling her toward the bottom of the stairs. Gillian was surprised enough to let him do it. Once the
hound had led her down the steps, he loped back up them and disappeared into the darkness.
Gillian didn’t wait to see if Christopher would come out and converse with his familiar about who their next victim should be. She fled down the passageway as fast as her shaking legs would carry her, tried several doors before she found hers, then bolted herself inside her chamber. She dove under the bedclothes, cloak and all, and jerked the blankets up over her head.
It was worse than she had thought. She might have discounted the rumors, if she’d had but a shred of proof they were untrue. But she had seen the flickering candlelight and the shadows that twisted and spun madly along the wall. She had heard the mutterings of a warlock spinning his dark magic. She had heard the ring of steel signaling the sacrificial knife doing its foul work. Aye, she knew the truth for herself.
Christopher of Blackmour was evil incarnate.
And in four days she would be his.
Five
Christopher walked into his bedchamber from yet another long evening spent trying to distract himself from his troublesome thoughts. His mood was worse than it had been four days ago and he knew exactly at whose delicate feet to lay that blame.
“Shall I see to your gear, my lord?” Jason asked.
Christopher shoved his sword at his squire, then stripped off his sweat-soaked tunic and mopped his face with it. He sat
down on the stool before the hearth and heaved a sigh of pure relief. At least now he would be too weary to think of aught besides a cold cup of ale and a soft bed beneath his back.
“I wasn’t able to lure the lady Gillian from her chamber again today, my lord.”
Christopher scowled. Jason had been dropping little daggers such as that off and on for days, as if he were bent on
bludgeoning Christopher with tidings.
“She’d never seen the sea before, you know.”
Christopher let loose a snort of irritation Jason couldn’t have helped but notice. So Gillian had never seen the sea. Why
would she, when Warewick was nowhere near the shore Christopher grasped the cup of wine Jason gave him and
ignored his squire with renewed vigor.
“I thought she had enjoyed seeing the keep that first day, but perhaps it overwhelmed her. Warewick is rather small.
And from what I understand, her father never let her past the inner bailey. I wonder why not.”
Christopher took another long draught of wine, determined to let the pounding in his ears drown out Jason’s babbling.
‘ ‘She smiled, though, that first day. ‘Twas a most pleasing sight indeed—”
“Jason!” Christopher exclaimed.
“Aye, my lord?”
Christopher could almost see the innocent look on Jason’s face, as it had been one the lad had mastered by the age of eight.
“Your father was too lenient in your youth. He should have taught you how to hold your tongue.”
“Forgive me, my lord.”
Ah, blessed silence. Christopher enjoyed it thoroughly for perhaps a quarter of an hour before he stopped enjoying it and started to find it annoying. No doubt Jason had a great deal more to tell, and, despite his own desire to know as little as possible about his future wife’s habits. Christopher knew he would be wise to listen to it. Forewarned was forearmed, as Jason’s father always said.
“Jason,” he barked.
“Aye, my lord?”
“Come sit you here and cease with your incessant straightening. Pour me another cup of wine and have one yourself.
Your days spent tending the wench have likely driven you daft.”
Christopher waited until Jason was seated on the floor, waited until both cups were filled, then waited some more as
Jason had a drink and a hearty belch. Then he suppressed the urge to strangle his squire.
“Well?” he demanded. “Did she make you daft, or not? By St. George’s throat, lad, you’re closemouthed tonight!”
“But, my lord, you said you wished to know nothing more about her.”
Christopher mentally reminded himself of all the reasons that throttling his squire would be unwise. The only decent one
he could come up with was if he did so, Jason wouldn’t be able to provide him with the tidings he wanted.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Christopher muttered. “Speak freely while you may.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Jason gulped more wine. “I found her to be a charming maid, though a most timid one. She seemed quite undone by the fineness of the hall and especially the view from the battlements. After I showed her the sea, she wished
to retreat to her chamber and she’s been there ever since. When I told her today that her sire had arrived, she refused to
unbolt her door. She pled illness.”
“Why didn’t you fetch the leech?”
“Because she was perfectly sound. I daresay she was afeared to meet her father. She bears a mark on her cheek, the mark
of a cane or perhaps a small whip—”
“ St. George’s bones!”
“Newly made it looked to me when she first arrived,” Jason continued quickly. “Sir Colin told me that her father had given
the mark to her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Christopher bellowed. He hurled his empty cup at the wall to his left; it slammed against the stone with a hearty ring.
“My lord, you seemed to want as little to do with the girl as possible—”
“Not when she’s been beaten,” Christopher growled. “Put a guard in front of her door and see that no one enters her
chamber without my express permission.”
“I’ll see to it immediately.”
Christopher gritted his teeth and wished desperately for someone to strike, preferably Gillian’s sire. The man was beneath contempt. There had been times over the years that Christopher had been provoked mightily by a piece of Jason’s mischief,
but he had never laid a hand on the boy. He’d shouted at him as loudly and fiercely as the deed merited, but to strike him?
Not even when he’d been tempted had he done it. The memory of beatings at his own father’s hand had kept him from it.
And to beat a woman? A child who couldn’t possibly defend herself against a man superior to her in size and strength? Christopher remembered very well just how large Bernard of Warewick was and how formidable his temper. He could
well imagine the hell Gillian had suffered, for he remembered vividly having seen her after just such a beating.
He had been a serious youth of a score-and-four with spurs on his heels and hard-won gold in his purse. He and William
had just returned from the continent where Christopher had gone to try to regain the fortune his father had heedlessly squandered. Only pure weariness had convinced him to spend a night or two at William’s home, as he certainly hadn’t
had the time or the heart for play.
Gillian had been waiting on the front steps, obviously overjoyed to see her brother. Christopher had watched as William dismounted and scooped Gillian up in his arms. She had cried out and he had set her down instantly. It hadn’t taken any
effort to note that her back was tender. When she’d turned to lead them into the hall, Christopher had seen the remains of blood on the back of her gown.
He had blanched. William had turned to him and given him a look that had needed no words, though Christopher heard
them as clearly as if William had said them aloud.
If I cannot aid her, you must. Now you see why.
It had taken William almost a sennight to coax Gillian out from behind her defenses completely. Even so, Christopher
honestly could not remember having met Gillian’s eyes even a single time. She had been a skittish, terrified child who
trusted no one but her brother.
And now he could blame himself for adding to her terror by having left her at Warewick’s mercy for half a year longer than he should have. He ground his teeth at the guilt that washed over him. Saints, how he hated having any part of this affair!
Jason’s lithe step sounded and Christopher whirled toward the sound.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Sir Colin himself will stand guard, my lord, along with Captain Ranulf. I assured the lady Gillian that she was perfectly safe,
but I don’t think she believed me.”
Christopher forced his breath out through clenched teeth. “Take your rest, Jason,” he said. “I’ll wish to rise before dawn
and see that Warewick stirs up no mischief before the ceremony.”
“You mean to wed her, my lord? In truth?”
Marriage. The very idea made the noose tighten about Christopher’s neck. He’d felt the first touch of the rope when he’d
finally sent off his offer to Warewick. As the weeks passed, the constriction had increased until he wondered if he would
ever again succeed in taking a normal breath.
Now it was all he could do to keep his hands down by his side, not clawing at his throat in an effort to loosen the pressure, however imaginary it might have been.
If he could have, he would have bolted. Anywhere. Away from his responsibility, away from a marriage that could only
bring him grief, away from having to care for anyone but himself. Saints, he wanted none of it!
He found his fingers at the neck of his tunic, tugging. This time, he didn’t bother to fight the impulse.
“My lord?”
“Aye,” Christopher rasped, “I’ll wed her. I gave my word.”
And what a heavy word it was.
* * *
Gillian shivered at the touch of cold hands against the back of her neck.
“Forgive me, milady,” the serving maid whispered. “Shall I stir up the fire?”
Gillian nodded, relieved to have the girl’s icy hands out of her hair. She stepped closer to the fire and held her hands to
the blaze. The day was doomed, if the state of her locks was any indication. Why couldn’t she have had smooth hair, hair
that was tucked easily under a veil?
“You look beautiful, milady,” the servant said, touching the sleeve of Gillian’s dress.
Gillian looked down at herself. Though she had no such illusions about her person, the gown of heavy emerald silk was
indeed lovely. It was only one of the many gowns that had been provided for her soon after her arrival, and it had been
the one to appeal to her the most.
When she had asked her maid about who had seen the gowns fashioned, the girl had confessed to knowing nothing about
them. Indeed, the girl knew nothing at all, if her responses told aught. When Gillian ventured questions about Lord Blackmour, the girl would only shiver and refuse to answer. She had looked near tears more than once.
As if she had heard Gillian’s thoughts, the maid clutched Gillian’s cold hands in her own and started to weep.
“I’m so sorry, milady. So desperately sorry.”
“But…”
“Oh, for you,” the girl wept. “I’m so sorry for you.”
With that, she dropped Gillian’s hands and fled from the chamber. Gillian stared at the heavy wooden door and felt her
trembles begin again in earnest. She had managed to reduce them to small shivers over the past three days, but that had
likely been because she had been training. Concentrating on her swordplay had left her with little room for thoughts of her black-hearted betrothed.
But now she had no choice but to think of him. What, by the names of all the holy saints above, was she doing binding
herself to the Devil’s spawn? She had heard him in his tower chamber. She had seen his wolf-hound. The only things she
hadn’t seen were his horns and his red eyes, but she would no doubt have a fine view of those too, just as soon as he had bolted her into his tower chamber, where he could torture her in peace.
Was there any hope of escape? She looked around frantically but saw no exit but the door. She started toward it, hesitated, then gathered her courage and strode forward. She would flee while the others were busy with preparations for the ceremony.
Her fingers were but a hand’s breadth away from the door when the wood came flying toward her face. She jerked back,
the brush of air against her cheek telling her how close she’d come to being the portal’s unwitting victim.
Her father stood in the doorway, his eyes glinting, his lips drawn into a disdainful frown.
“Even on your wedding day, you’re no beauty. Saints, child, couldn’t you do something with those locks?”
Gillian shrank back. Her apprehension about wedding the Dragon of Blackmour was quickly forgotten in her fear over being alone with her sire. She could but imagine what Christopher might do to her; with her father, she already knew.
Warewick folded his arms over his chest and smiled coldly. “Well, aren’t you going to beg me not to leave you with him?
Plead with me to take you away from this accursed place?”
“How much worse can it be here than it was there?” she blurted out, panicked at the thought of returning to Warewick.
“Hold your tongue!” he bellowed, his fist raised. He stepped toward her. “I’ll do Blackmour a favor by beating you one
last time to silence you. It will save him the effort.”
Gillian backed up. Not in her new gown. Oh, not in her wedding gown!
“My lord Warewick, I would respectfully suggest that you lower your hand.”
Jason stood behind her father. Gillian let out a half-sob of relief.
“You insolent pup! How dare you speak to me in such tones?”
Two burly knights stepped into the chamber behind Jason. They were men easily as large as her father and wore looks
that equaled her father’s fiercest frowns.
“Lady Gillian belongs to my lord,” Jason continued, “and he doesn’t take kindly to the beating of women, especially when
that woman is his. Now, if you’ll make your way to the chapel, I’ll see your daughter escorted down with the utmost care.”
“She isn’t his yet,” Warewick growled.
The hiss of swords coming from scabbards made Warewick’s expression darken even more. Gillian had the insane desire
to laugh. During the whole of her life, she had always dreamed of a rescuer who was enormously skilled, yet gentle and
kind. Here she was being rescued by men even more fierce than her father!
Her father uttered a black oath and strode from the room, shoving Jason out of his way. Gillian looked at the boy as he straightened his clothes, rearranged his hair and came to her, making her a low bow.
“I have come to see you to the chapel, my lady. Now, if I might offer you my arm?”
Her relief at the rescue disappeared abruptly at the reminder of what her immediate future held in store for her. She tried
to swallow past the fear that leaped to her throat, but failed. Merciful saints above, time was running out!
“Ah, I think I need a moment to see to my hair,” she said, forcing a smile to her stiff lips.
“Why?” Jason asked. “It looks well enough to me.” He smiled. “Come, lady, before my lord wears a trench in the chapel
with his pacing.”
“But…”
Jason took her gently by the elbow and tugged. ‘ ‘Trust me,” he said, “all will be well. You’ll see.”
What she would see was Hellfire burning brightly in her husband’s eyes; aye, she was sure enough of that.
“You’re chilled,” Jason announced. “I can well understand the feeling. You know, I first came to Blackmour when I was
a wee lad of six summers and I vow my lips were blue until I was eight. You will accustom yourself to it in time, my lady,
but until then you’ll have to take care that you are always wearing a cloak. Already ’tis almost spring. We’ll likely have
warmer weather in a month or two. There is nothing quite like an afternoon of sunshine after the fog has melted away. I
daresay you’ll enjoy passing those afternoon hours in the garden. My lord doesn’t care for it exactly, but I think it would
do him good to be outside more often, spending his time in pleasure.”
By the time Gillian had digested most of that, she found she was wearing a heavy fur cloak and she had descended to
the great hall. Before she could dig in her heels, Jason had whisked her out the door.
It was dark outside, dark as twilight, though Gillian knew it was but
. It looked as though even the elements were celebrating their dark prince’s nuptials.
A drizzle began the moment her foot touched the dirt of the courtyard and she took that as a sign. Either those black, thunderous clouds were preparing to welcome her pitiful soul later that night, or the weather disapproved of Christopher’s choice. Either way, Gillian knew she was doomed.
She looked around desperately for an avenue of escape but saw nothing but two rows of seasoned warriors flanking the
path to the chapel. She looked back quickly over her shoulder to see the ranks closing in behind her. Her only choice
was to move forward.
Jason pulled her up the steps to the chapel, then steered her off into the priest’s private chamber. The priest himself was
there, as were her father, Colin and another man or two she didn’t recognize. But she did recognize the tall man standing
before the priest with his broad back to her.
Gillian felt Jason urge her forward and she went, only because he was pushing her. She stopped alongside Christopher and looked up at the man who would become her husband in a matter of moments.
He was dark. Not only was his hair dark, his very soul seemed dark and brooding. She had to admit that he was handsome,
as handsome as only the Devil incarnate could be. His jaw was stern and his nose finely chiseled enough, but that was where devilish handsomeness ended and harshness began.
His lips were compressed in a tight line, as if he were mightily displeased or on the verge of letting fly a fit of rage. His jaw
was clenched, his brows drawn together, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed. Even his long hair was tousled, as
if he had sought to rip it out by the roots. No doubt he’d done it in his anguish at setting foot inside a holy place, a place obviously at odds with his black soul.
He turned his head toward her and she lost her breath with a gasp of terror. Stern and rugged he was, and completely
wrong for her husband. Despite all his other devilish flaws, he was cruel and unyielding. She could see that easily in the
depths of his dark blue eyes. Saints above, she would never have a kind word from this man. What she needed was
patience, compassion, mercy.
Christopher of Blackmour surely possessed none of those qualities.
As if to confirm that, he thrust out his hand, half a foot in front of her.
“You’re late, wench.”
She would have turned and fled if Jason hadn’t had the flat of his hand in her back. She had no choice but to remain
where she was. She put her hand in the Scourge of England’s massive paw and prayed he wouldn’t break her fingers.
Her father stepped up on her other side and she cringed.
“Don’t stand so close to her, Warewick,” her future husband growled, not sparing her father a glance. Gillian jumped when Christopher put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.
She looked up at him, but his eyes were focused on the priest. She dropped her gaze and tried to accustom herself to the
feel of Blackmour’s heavy arm draped around her in a semblance of protectiveness. Then she almost laughed. As if such
a thing would ever happen again! Nay, he would wed her and be done with her, or, worse yet, drag her up to his tower chamber and sacrifice her to his master.
Before she could even decide if she had enough courage to blurt out that she wanted to seek asylum with the king rather
than wed with the Devil’s spawn, the priest was asking for a recounting of her dowry.
She listened to her father name her portion and forced her shoulders to remain back, not slump as they so desperately
wanted to do. Naught but Braedhalle, her father’s poorest bit of land, and a paltry sum in knight’s fees. He would have
been kinder not to dower her at all.
Then Colin began a listing of what Blackmour would bring to the marriage and Gillian knew the full meaning of shame. His holdings were nothing short of princely! ‘Twas no wonder his hall was so fine. Gillian felt her knees give way in humiliation.
Her betrothed’s arm immediately tightened around her shoulders.
“Steady,” he whispered under his breath, his voice a rough sound against her ear.
She jerked herself upright and struggled to ignore the smug look on her father’s face and the overwhelming fear she felt
at being so close to Christopher and knowing what he was capable of.
The contract was laid on a flat stand before them and a clerk proffered a quill. Jason took it before she could reach for it.
“Allow me,” he said, making her a small bow. He put the quill in her hand and gestured toward the document. “You see the place for your signature, my lady, at the bottom on the left, not far from the edge of the parchment.” His voice was soft, so
soft she barely heard it. “You’ll have to sign without any flourishes, I fear. There isn’t much room for it.”
Gillian looked at him, wondering if the chill had suddenly seeped into his brain. “I can see that perfectly well, t hank you.”
Jason only gave her a grave smile. “Of course, my lady. I was only trying to be of service.”
Gillian signed her name, then looked down at it in surprise. She had just put herself into the Dragon’s talons, without
hesitation, without pause. Merciful saints above, she was almost his!
Unless he chose not to sign the agreement.
She watched Jason dip the quill into the pot of ink and put it into Christopher’s hand, in much the same way he had done
with her.
“There isn’t much space for you either, my lord,” Jason murmured, “as you can well see. Go carefully.”
Christopher didn’t hesitate. Gillian watched with a sinking feeling in her belly as Christopher felt for the edges of the
parchment, then settled the quill over it.
Over the last few words of the document, rather. She looked up at him quickly. Couldn’t he see he was about to sign his
name where it couldn’t be read?
“My lord, surely not,” Jason whispered quickly. “Do you intend to blot out some of your holdings? A bit lower, perhaps.”
Christopher’s expression couldn’t have been any more strained as he signed his name with careful strokes. Perhaps he
couldn’t read or write. Aye, that would be likely enough. The man was a warrior, and few warriors could even sign their
own names. But he could certainly see what he was doing and he was coming perilously close to traveling completely off the parchment. She opened her mouth to warn him, but before she could say aught, the quill was back in Jason’s possession and Christopher’s heavy hands were on her shoulders, turning her toward him.
She stared up into his eyes in terror, expecting him to use her as roughly as she’d seen her father’s knights do to the kitchen maids.
Instead, he gently eased a ring onto her finger, then kissed her very quickly and very chastely on the forehead.
It was over. Colin slung his arm around Christopher’s shoulders and led him off to the chapel. Gillian followed with Jason, dazed. She was so surprised at Christopher’s lack of brutality, she could do no more than sit where Jason placed her, next
to her husband on a long bench at the front of the chapel.
Mass was long, far longer than she had ever remembered it being. Perhaps it seemed long because everything was so
different. A signature on a scrap of parchment, a chaste kiss from the Scourge of England and suddenly her life was
completely and irrevocably changed. The heavy gold band on her finger felt more like a manacle, shackling her to the
huge man who sat next to her, squirming.
She stole a glance at him. He was shifting uncomfortably, much like a lad being forced to attend Mass when he would have rather been out stirring up mischief. No doubt Christopher was being needled by remembrances of all the poor souls he’d sacrificed over the years. Gillian couldn’t help but take a tiny bit of pleasure in his discomfort. After all, he did surely merit it.
They were called forward to take communion and she rose. She was very surprised when Christopher rose right along
with her. Didn’t he realize he would damn his soul with his unworthiness? Perhaps his soul was already so black he no
longer cared.
He took her hand without hesitation and started toward the front of the chapel, completely ignoring the woman kneeling
directly before him.
“My lord,” she whispered urgently, “you will step on her if you do not attend better.”
He froze and remained motionless, but his jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth. Ah, so he was suffering pangs of guilt.
Gillian looked up at him and, to her surprise, felt her terror recede at the small stirring of pity inside her. How could
Christopher admit to his folk what he truly was by refusing the priest’s ministrations? His soul was damned, but that was
no reason to upset his household. Devil though he might have been, he at least had that much care for his people.
The ones he wasn’t leading up to his tower chamber, that is.
Gillian tugged the slightest bit on his hand, urging him to the left. He obeyed instantly, probing the floor in front of him
gingerly with his foot, like a blind man in a strange place. He knelt down with her before the priest and she could have
sworn she heard him sigh lightly in relief.
Relief over what, she couldn’t tell. Didn’t the thought of even receiving the holy communion trouble his black soul? Or
was he completely past feeling?
He accepted the priest’s ministrations just as she did, without a hint of reticence. Gillian found herself past being surprised
at his actions. Demon spawn were obviously much more complex beings than she had originally thought.
She made to rise, but he kept her kneeling with him with gentle pressure on her hand.
“I would pray yet a while,” he said tightly.
Pray? She sank back down next to him, her hand still captured in his. By the saints, the man was a confusing tangle of contradictions. Surely he couldn’t mean to truly pray, yet he knelt with his eyes closed and a very earnest look on his
brutally handsome face. Either he prayed in truth, or he was a very convincing liar.
But what need had he to lie? Colin certainly hadn’t remained at the front of the chapel for more time than necessary. Her
father hadn’t even come forward. Yet Christopher gave every indication of a man who was begging his Lord for some
great boon.
He had even ceased to squirm, which she didn’t know how to take at all. The most surprising thing, though, was that his
hand around hers was warm. It wasn’t the hand of a warlock.
Wizards and warlocks being cold-handed, of course.
At that realization, other troubling thoughts came to her. William had loved Christopher well. They had squired together,
then spent a number of years on the continent, tourneying together. She even remembered when Christopher had come
home with William several years ago. Though she had been terrified of the large, silent knight, William had shown no fear. Surely William would have known if something were amiss. Her brother was no fool.
A terrible suspicion began to bloom in her mind. Had she been the fool?
The longer she knelt in the chapel, the more she began to suspect that was the case. Had she ever known a serving wench
to tell the truth? Nay, she had not. And where had she heard all the tales she knew about Christopher of Blackmour?
From the kitchen wenches.
It was true that her new husband was a most imposing man, but did that make him a devil in the flesh? Colin of
Berkhamshire had a most ferocious reputation, but hadn’t she found him to have rather a soft underbelly? Even dragons
were rumored to have chinks in their scaly armor. Perhaps Christopher was tenderhearted and only frowned to hide that.
Christopher pulling her to her feet alerted her to the finish of Mass.
She looked up at her husband and stiffened at the sight
of his face. Nay, tenderhearted wasn’t a possibility with a frown like that. It was entirely possible that Christopher of
Blackmour was a mere man and not a demon, but he was anything but gentle and kind. His expression was thunderous.
She shrank back in fear, bumping into Jason.
Fortunately her husband seemed to have forgotten her. He was staring out over the chapel, no doubt looking at her sire
who had started complaining already about the chill and the lack of creature comforts. Gillian winced at the volume of
her father’s charges.
Jason pushed her up to Christopher’s side. “The feast is prepared, my lord, and none too soon. Lady Gillian looks nigh
onto fainting from hunger, don’t you think?”
Christopher agreed readily with his squire. Gillian knew she looked nothing of the kind, but didn’t argue. The less notice
she garnered, the safer she would be.
“My lord,” Jason said, propelling Gillian forward with a hand under her elbow, “I daresay the last of these benches needs
to be repaired. See you how badly ’tis worn? Aye, and the doors need to be cleaned. You can see the filth from five
paces, can you not?”
Gillian was sure Christopher could, and she wanted desperately to tell Jason to be silent. Pointing out to the Dragon of Blackmour that his chapel was a sty was certainly not the way to endear oneself to him.
“And these steps,” Jason continued, heedless of his precarious situation. “Aye, the priest needs to better watch over his
lads. The chapel could be much cleaner, even here outside. Here, let me kick this straw out of your way. I’ll have it seen to immediately. At least the courtyard is smooth, is it not? Lady Gillian, the path from the chapel to the hall used to be quite treacherous. I have a fine scar on my arm from where I tripped in this precise place, only a few paces from safety in the
great hall. You, there, move out of our way. Why do these peasants insist on sitting upon the steps here? There are only
four steps up to the hall, surely they could choose a more likely place to rest.”
Gillian could see perfectly well what was before her without Jason’s constant description of it. If he were seeking to put
her at ease, he was failing miserably. She was certain it was doing nothing but angering her new lord.
Despite her attempts at warning the boy with her eyes alone, he kept up a steady stream of drivel right until the moment
she was seated next to Christopher on the dais and the food began to come from the kitchen.
Supper was a long, unpleasant affair. Her father downed wine as if he were dying of thirst. His temper didn’t improve
because of it.
Christopher was silent and mannerless. He came close to knocking over his goblet half a dozen times. Jason rescued it the
first time, then Gillian took over the task. Christopher knocked meat off the board, fingered the length of a loaf of bread
before breaking off a piece, then dipped his hand in a cup of sauce before he realized what he was doing. The more
clumsy he became, the more angry he became, which made him just that much more bumbling.
Gillian felt her patience begin to thin. The longer she sat next to her husband, the more she was sure the rumors about him couldn’t possibly be true. Even the Devil couldn’t have spawned something this inept.
At least Jason had stopped hovering. He had been sent to the kitchens on some errand and Gillian was left to see to her husband. He seemed not to notice her at all, which couldn’t have pleased her more. The last thing she wanted was for him
to remember she was there, for the saints only knew what he would decide to do with her now that she was his.
One of her father’s men came to stand before the high table. Christopher didn’t bother to acknowledge him either. The
man remained silent, waiting. Moments continued to pass and still Christopher made no sign of even having seen the man standing before him.
“My lord, surely you should speak to him,” Gillian whispered.
“Who?”
“My father’s man who stands before you.”
Had Christopher stiffened any more, he would have been less likely to bend than a sword.
“What is it, man?” Christopher demanded.
“My lord Warewick has complaints about the fare, Your Lordship, and I was sent to—”
“If he doesn’t care for the meal, let him seek a place at someone else’s table.”
“And his bedchamber—”
“Let him bed down in the stables!” Christopher shouted, rising. He slapped his hands on the table and glared at her
father’s man. “Nay, he’s likely to make off with my horseflesh. Let him sleep outside the walls. Indeed, take yourself
and your men and begone!”
Gillian gaped up at her husband in shock. How brave he was to insult her father so thoroughly! Perhaps he had no idea
what Warewick was capable of.
Her eyes fell to his shoulders, to the muscular arms his clothing didn’t manage to hide. Then again, perhaps Christopher was aware of her father’s prowess in battle and he just didn’t find it intimidating. She looked at his face again. Nay, he wouldn’t
find Warewick intimidating, because he was so much so himself. Indeed, should it come to blows, she had the feeling her
father wouldn’t come out the victor.
“I’ll not be insulted this way,” Christopher bellowed. “Warewick!”
Gillian looked at her father, who had left his place further down the table and come to stand next to his man. Christopher continued to bellow for her father, as if he couldn’t see who was standing right in front of him.
“Too much wine,” Warewick slurred, “has clouded your vision, Blackmour.”
Christopher started, as if he had just realized his father-in-law was before him. “Out of my hall,” he snarled.
Warewick shook his head drunkenly. “I’ll take the wench with me.”
“When I’m dead,” Christopher said, his voice cold. Gillian found herself snagged by Christopher’s heavy hand and
pulled up behind him.
She was shocked enough at making contact with his broad back to not protest his action. He held her pinned there,
his long fingers a vise around her wrist.
Somehow, though, the sensation was not unpleasant. He certainly smelled better than Colin. His fingers curled around
her wrist were tight, but not painful. His muscles were rigid with anger, but his words certainly indicated that his anger was directed at her sire, not at her.
And, best of all, his back made a handy shield between her and her father. She found she could tuck herself completely
behind him, likely without even a hint of her gown showing. She pressed her forehead timidly against his back and closed
her eyes, pretending that not a soul could see her to harm her.
“Begone,” Christopher warned, his deep voice rumbling in his chest, “while my temper is still cool.”
“You’re drunk,” Bernard snarled. “Too drunk to see aught but the bottom of your cup. Beware, Blackmour. That kind of blindness will be your undoing.”
The hall erupted into a small war. Gillian felt Christopher shift, heard the hiss of his sword as it came from the scabbard,
felt his hand tighten around her wrist. But she didn’t move. She clutched the back of his tunic and kept her eyes closed.
The battle was, mercifully, very short-lived. Only a handful of moments had passed before her father and his escort were
aided in finding the gates. Once the hall door was closed, Jason put his hand on Christopher’s shoulder.
“The hall is cleared, my lord,” Jason said softly, so softly Gillian almost missed his words, and she was standing close
enough to feel his breath on her hair.
Christopher didn’t relax as he guided Gillian toward her chair. He was looking at it, but obviously too angry to see it for he almost sent her sprawling to the floor with his gentle push. Only Jason’s quick hands saved her from a tumble. Christopher groped for his own chair and lowered himself into it carefully, feeling for the arms as if he weren’t sure where they were.
Gillian sat back and watched her husband. He fumbled for a piece of bread, tipped over a goblet of wine and poked himself sharply on the tip of the knife he’d left lying on the table, all as if he couldn’t see what he were doing. She looked quickly at
his face and noted that his eyes were not following the motion of his hands. She began to wonder if he truly were drunk.
Except she knew he hadn’t touched his wine.
She froze. Christopher was merely clumsy, wasn’t he?
“My lord, Warewick’s men are through the gates,” Jason said quietly.
“Are there any left in the hall?”
“Nay, my lord.”
“How long had he been standing there while I bellowed for him, lad?”
“Long enough, my lord.”
Christopher cursed fluently, but softly.
Gillian met Jason’s eyes and felt herself blanch. Jason only smiled grimly, then clapped his hand on his lord’s shoulder before
he turned and walked away.
The merrymaking began again, despite the conspicuous absence of Christopher’s guardsmen. Minstrels sang, pipers piped, food and wine continued to appear far into the evening. Gillian watched it all without seeing any of it.
Just as her husband did.
She clutched the arms of her chair, finding it to be the only thing stable in a world that had just become full of things she had never expected.
She had expected to have Christopher beat her. She had expected to have him ignore her. She had even expected to see
horns pop out from atop his head and watch his eyes burn as red as Hellfire as he suggested a visit to his tower chamber.
But she hadn’t, not in the deepest recesses of her soul, expected him to not be able to see her.
Merciful saints above, her husband was blind.
Six
Christopher sucked on the wound his knife had left in his finger. Normally such things never happened. Perhaps he could
be forgiven for forgetting where he had laid his eating dagger, given the circumstances.
A heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder, almost pushing him out of his chair. A body sat down on his right, belching loudly.
“Bloody hell, Colin,” Christopher growled. “Leave me in peace.”
“Time for the beddin’,” Colin said. “Give me some aid, lads—”
At least Christopher’s sense of direction hadn’t been disturbed, for he managed to grab hold of Colin’s throat easily enough.
“Silence,” Christopher whispered sharply.
Colin gurgled his response, then knocked Christopher’s hand away, laughing.
“Saints, Chris, don’t seem so eager! Jason, go up and warm the blankets for your master’s delicate toes—”
“Enough of this,” Christopher hissed.
“And wine for the man. He’ll need a goodly amount to strengthen him for his labors—”
Christopher almost missed the sound, it was so soft. But his ears at least hadn’t failed him and he realized the muffled
squeak of terror he had heard had come from his bride. And to be sure, he couldn’t blame her a bit for it. Well, the
sooner he got her away from the drunken idiots about him, the less miserable she would be. He could give her that much.
“Enough,” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. He reached down for Gillian and managed to grasp some cloth-covered appendage. He pulled her to her feet and put her behind him. “There will be no standing up tonight, so—”
“We’ll see it done,” Colin said, “won’t we, lads?”
Christopher turned Gillian toward what he hoped were the stairs.
“If you’ve a grain of sense in your head, run!” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She was rigid with terror, but Christopher could do nothing for that. He gave her a push.
“Go, child, unless you’d have me do worse than bed you.”
Her sharp intake of breath was audible even over Colin’s drunken babbling. Christopher released her wrist and heard her
light footsteps stumble away. He followed her immediately, drawing his sword. Gillian cried out softly and he heard what sounded distinctly like wife and chair crashing to the floor. He groped for her but found nothing until he heard her shriek.
Her terror ate at him, but he could do nothing but use it to his advantage. He followed the harsh sound of her breathing until he’d caught her and pulled her up to her feet. He kept hold of her with one hand while he grasped his sword with the other.
Blind though he might have been, his sword was nonetheless brutally sharp and not even Colin was fool enough to step in
the path of its arc. Christopher pushed Gillian up the steps as he backed up them himself, waving his sword meaningfully
at his former brother-in-law and personal guardsmen.
Guardsmen he would, of course, have flogged at his first opportunity in repayment of their sport.
Once they reached the landing, Christopher swiftly dragged Gillian toward his chamber. She was silent, fright-eningly so.
He would have thought she had fainted if she hadn’t been moving with him.
Aye, that and her trembles. Christopher gritted his teeth at the remorse that washed over him, but he had no time to ease
her fear. She would have to be terrified until he’d finished what he intended to do, which was provide his bloody mates
proof that he’d bedded her well and truly.
He’d barely bolted the door before heavy fists began pounding and voices called encouragement.
“Silence!” Christopher bellowed.
Colin’s hearty laughter came through the door. “Best heed him, lads. Wouldn’t want to divert his attention to things of lesser importance.”
Christopher dragged Gillian to the bed. Actually, Gillian dragged rather easily, for she was stiff as a post. He left her
shuddering next to the bed while he felt for the blankets and quilts and flung them back. Gillian’s breath caught in her
throat, but Christopher paid her no heed.
He jerked his knife free from his belt and Gillian cried out.
‘ ‘Good,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Scream again.”
