Bebo

Hoofdstukken lezen

	Chapter 1 & Chapter 2
	CHAPTER 1 Calum MacKenna sat astride the black warhorse, unnoticed by the woman picking herbs in the glen below. A breeze moved the grass around her feet. She worked diligently, unaware that Scot warriors watched from a few yards away. This woman posed no threat to him, even if she warned the village of their presence. Every Englishman within a day’s ride feared The Wolf and his reivers. Curiosity kept him watching as she worked – and her beauty. Long dark braids hung to the ground. The few strands spun in the breeze. By the length of her hair and her height, he guessed she had lived enough summers to be wed with bairns to feed. She walked a few steps, her gaze on the ground. Moments passed before she found the herb she sought. He paused. He'd never sat this close to an English woman, or man, without terror draining the color from her face. Just the mention of the name, The Wolf, stirred fear in most people. He took pride in his reputation, while it robbed him of sleep and peace. Her movements caught his attention. A woman, even an English one, should have caught their scent by now. Sweat and foam dried in dark lines down the horse’s sides. They reeked, hot and dank. The men fared no better. When they returned home, several bairns would recognize their father’s scent before he crossed the meadow. “Laird?” Calum didn’t respond to the warning. He would move when ready, not when goaded into action. The smell of danger tainted the wind. Everyone within a league worried, except this woman. The odour of blood and smoke tainted the wind. The Winston Holdings lay wasted, but the Baron's enemy had vanished. Something did not feel right. He turned to watch the Englishwoman. He caught the scent of sheep sorrel as she trampled the herbs. A brief smile played at the corner of his mouth. He liked this. It felt good to find one person who did not fear him. At one time, it would have angered him. But, time dulled the hunger for revenge. Only the restless void remained to haunt his soul. His horse whickered. The woman turned at the sound. Calum held his breath. His heart beat as he waited for the last person in England to turn and learn to fear him. His stomach tightened. His own self-loathing soured his mouth. As if bidden, their eyes locked. Neither moved. Suddenly he knew she would not die today. His horse danced sideways under the unfamiliar movements of its master. Calum narrowed his eyes he turned on his men. No one dared to meet his stare. “Nay harm, Wolf.” Calum ignored Olen. The woman stared as if they were merely shepherds. Olen rode forward to wait beside Calum’s horse. Calum respected Olen. They matched each other in strength and skill. But today, his anger strained. “The woman is daft,” Calum explained. “Aye, Laird?” Olen sighed. “The woman,” Calum nodded, “is not right in the head.” Olen glanced at the woman and raised a brow. “I see she is not afraid of you.” A few nods and whispers of agreement echoed from the other men. Calum cursed. He acted foolish in front of his men, like an old woman caught in a lie. He turned the stallion. He should kill her. The men expected it. “Am I mad?” “Protecting the clan does not make you mad. We’ve rode two weeks and proved you right. There is trouble. The Butcher and his sons are dead, and not by your hand. A man is not mad when proven right.” Olen leaned forward. “Whether the maid is or is not mad, she is bonny. But, I remind my Laird that we sit on a hill, in the light of day.” Calum bit back his retort. He would not insult Olen in front of the men. Except for treason, Olen would be Laird of his own clan. It was his right by birth. “She is bonny.” Olen grinned. Calum pulled the stallion around sharp. The large black reared and hit the ground in a full gallop. No power on earth would return his bonny wife, nor alter his destiny. Not the lass in the meadow. Not retribution. Not God's mercy. His knees demanded more speed from his mount, leaving the woman far behind, with the rest of his memories. The Wolf and his reivers needed to cover more ground before night fell. **** “I saw them.” Gillian Winston raced through the chapel doors, gasping for breath. She stumbled. Her legs throbbed from running. “Lady Gillian!” Mother snapped without interrupting her prayer. Gillian stopped. What did she do wrong this time? Mother Abbess only called her Lady Gillian when she broke something. “I apologize Abbot Mother.” Gillian slowed and drew in two breaths, forcing her to gain control. “I saw them, painted blue, and half naked, on horses...” Mother raised a hand and tilted her head without looking over her shoulder. The gesture annoyed Gillian. She slowly drew in a long breath and held it, and stood straighter. She sent a quick prayer to the ceiling, offering several promises to God before she tried again to give Mother the important message. “Ten men.” She interrupted Mother’s prayer again, keeping her voice demure, and controlled. “I have important news you must hear -” “The men are of no concern,” Mother cut in. “They must wait.” “They are Scots, Scottish men.” Gillian blurted out, hardly believing her ears. Mother didn’t understand the danger. “Hush and listen.” Mother’s voice rose, indicating she intended to be heard “The reivers have been coming for as long as I remember. Raiders and soldiers will certainly come long after I am dead and gone.” “What if they attack?” “They have.” Gillian dropped to a pew as if struck. The image of the Scot raiders and their mountain horses flashed before her eyes. No saddles or bridles, they looked so wild. She closed her eyes and envisioned the large black horse take off like it knew how to fly. His master has sat there watching her. Her skin shivered. “They attacked yesterday. They return home now, thank God above. God spared your life - perhaps a worse fate. How many times have I told you to stay within the Abbey walls?” Mother crossed to a bench and patted the spot beside her. Whom did they attack? Gillian turned away from mother. “I ran straight here. How could they already attack?” “They attacked yesterday.” “Yesterday?” Gillian’s shoulders sagged. She rubbed her thumb between her fingers. The Abbess sat quietly beside her, eyes fixed on the cross hanging on the wall. “You need to return to your father, Gillian.” “To my father?” Gillian asked stupidly. Father. The word held no meaning for her. Two years had passed since the last time he summoned her, only to present her to an old man who wore too much lace. A cold child filled the pit of her stomach at the memory of him inspecting her as if considering the purchase of a horse. Gillian feared her father found a man willing to satisfy his insatiable greed, but the betrothal contract never came. She never heard from either of them again. Home? Abbot Mother scolded every time Gillian’s tongue slipped and she called the Abbey home, but she knew no other. “Your father is not at the hall.” Mother sat motionlessly, her gaze fixed on the gilded cross. Shadows hid her face and eyes, “Nor are your brothers.” “Where did they go?” Gillian’s words echoed through the empty hall. Mother’s head drooped lower. “Where are my brothers?” When Mother didn’t answer, Gillian tried to speak, and choked. Her strength drained as they sat in silence. Her arms and legs grew numb. She repeated familiar texts trying to block the truth from her mind. “Are my family alive?” How would she survive with no family? She would need to live at the abbey her whole life. The Queen might demand she marry to suit her purposes. Her father tried to force the issue to increase his own power and wealth. “... a raid on your father’s home.” Mother’s voice penetrated her stupor. “The messenger said the entire household is dead. Your father’s men either died or fled to the forest.” Mother turned and waited. “The Baron is dead along with his sons. You must go home now and get ready.” “Ready ...?” Gillian repeated, her voice sounded distant and calm. “For your wedding.” “Why must I wed? The Queen’s not married.” The chill grasped her heart, bloodless, it continued to offer her body sustenance, though the life drained from her soul. The color faded from the room, as if washed by the hand of fate. “The Queen is a law unto God - and a heretic.” Mother replied. “The Queen will order the marriage so another Baron will hold your land.” “I don’t want to,” Gillian snapped, swallowing a welling surge of hysteria. Her family dead. Only she lived. But, for a moment. Her death would linger for years. Her body imprisoned within a gold ring. Her heart buried beneath the dreams of a young woman. “I will pay the tax.” Gillian said hopefully. “The tax will not prevent your marriage, only delay it. You must accept your duty. No woman can keep the reivers out of her estates. There must be a Baron in the Holdings. It is time you built a home for yourself. You should have been married five years ago.” None of it made any sense. She could not leave and return to the Winston Holdings - the sheep sorrel needed to go to the kitchen. The garden needed to be thinned. The chores must be finished. Everything floated; this must be a nightmare. Morning will come and the nightmare will end. The swirling mass in her head ebbed, and her wits returned. Long dark shadows touched the altar in front of her. Hours had passed as the two women sat in silence. Gillian shifted toward Mother. The Abbess’s eyes were not alarmed. She remained calm and reserved, whether they studied medicine over a corpse on cold winter evenings, or she taught the young nuns the importance of bathing. “When do I go?” Gillian's hand brushed her damp face. She had been crying. “Tomorrow.” The Abbess’s voice shook. Gillian lifted her head and looked deep into her eyes. Tears streaked the deeply wrinkled cheeks and dark rings circled her eyes. Age-stained brown spots marred the skin of the thin gnarled hands which lay limp and folded in her lap. Gillian knew those hands would not give the comfort she needed. She knew that Mother had no power to protect her. The Abbess was only a tolerated old woman. The Queen would show neither of them mercy. A young baroness with no money and no husband became nothing more than a pawn to be sold. Gillian didn’t hold out any hope that the Queen would forget the fact that she, Lady Gillian, a lowly baroness in England, had also inherited, through her mother, the title of Countess and vineyards in France. The title held no value in England, but the vineyards did. Land, Gillian sighed. The one thing coveted by all men. The land would make her attractive to a Lord, even if her father had stripped and ravaged the estates to satisfy his carnal lusts. The land would remain. “I’m sorry,” Mother whispered. “I tried to protect you. I knew your father. He never mastered his greed. He’d never arranged a marriage, or shared his wealth and power with another. The Elizabeth, the Queen is another matter.” “Whom will I marry?” “The Queen will decide.” “I wish to stay here.” “This place is not for you.” Mother shook her head. “No, child. There is no place to escape. Not for you. You must marry whom Queen Elizabeth chooses. If the charge of treason against Queen Mary of Scot is proven to be true there will be bloodshed. Elizabeth needs nobles in the north who are loyal to her crown, especially now when so many of the barons are charged with treason. Mark my words, child. If you do not obey, you will be charged and locked in the tower. The affairs of state will direct your life. A powerful baron, loyal to The Queen will take your father’s place. Another warlord, maybe worse than your father...” Gillian gasped. “My father was a butcher.” “Do not worry what kind of man your father was.” Mother brushed the words away with her hand and closed her eyes. “It is of no consequence, now. War will come, the Scots will embrace it, and you will be caught in the middle. Remember what I taught you and survive. You may have the body of a woman, but you have the courage and strength of a man.” “I could disguise myself as a peasant and live here. Let everyone think I died with my family.” “No.” “Why not?” “You cannot live a lie. Regret is a heavy burden to carry when you are old. Trust what I taught you. Search for the truth. Know the truth and your family will survive war and strife.” “Me? I thought it is a Lord’s duty to protect his wife.” “The lies and deception of the royal court destroy the best men and women. You’ve never been to court. You will soon. Keep an eye open for those who would destroy your husband, especially if you do not like him. Do not let his enemies use you to destroy him. It will destroy you as well.” Mother rested a cold hand on Gillian’s. “I promise,” Gillian mouthed the words. The cold night air settled into the room. She shifted uncomfortably, dreading that Mother intended to start one of her long lectures. Mother continued talking about the life she could expect when she left, the duties of a baroness, and the duties of a wife. Her heart turned cold as she listened. Mother never talked of life beyond the Abbey walls. None of the women in the abbey talked about Gillian’s future. She tried to remember the few men she knew. How would a man expect her to act? Her cousins were married. They gave birth to children. But, her father kept her sequestered, hidden until someone would satisfy his greed. Her bridal gift, the Winston estates, passed to her through her Scottish family. The Baron stole the wealth from the fertile fields and loyal serfs and left everything in ruins. Gillian wondered if she resembled her mother. The Queen Mary held no reservations when arranging her mother's marriage to the Baron of Winston. She remembered her father ranting for hours as he berated Queen Mary. The Abbess pulled back, almost frightened. “One last thing, I swore an oath to your mother, not to breathe a word to you until needed. You must trust me. You must pray God sends Gabriel to protect you.” “Who is Gabriel?” Gillian felt a surge of hope. “Gabriel.” Mother paused. “He is sworn to protect you. He is the only one who can give you the answers you will need. He knows the truth.” "He is a man? A relative? Or, do you refer to the Arch Angel?” "That is all I can say.” "Abbess?” “I cannot say any more without endangering your life.” Too exhausted to push the issue, Gillian sank to the stone floor, folded her knees under her, and lowered her head. Her eyes lifted to the gilded statue of the Savior on the cross. She wished the night did not shroud the room in darkness. She needed to see him to feel protected. Raw cold crept from the stone floor under her robe. It felt oddly comforting. Her physical discomfort eclipsed the pain in her heart. She prayed, obedient to Mother’s wishes. She prayed for her life. She prayed for her family. She prayed tomorrow would never come. PAGE BREAK CHAPTER 2 Gillian rode across her father's land. One last copse of willow trees hid the Winston Holdings. Her eyes froze on the nightmare unfolding before her. Her hands gripped the reins. She spent most of the last two days trying to imagine what remained after the battle, but nothing prepared her for this nightmare. Gillian's mind refused to accept what her eyes saw. Piles of rubble lay where walls once stood, walls so thick she ran along the tops as a child and felt perfectly safe. Her mare stepped over a mound of rock that had once been the outer bailey wall. Boulders from trebuchets had driven broken bits of stone into the packed dirt of the courtyard, gouging twenty-foot long scars through the cobble. A large black hole marred the front of the house. It glared like an eye torn from a skull. It hung deep and dark with a steady stream of smoke blackening the walls above. Gillian turned away to regain her composure. She pulled the nervous mare to a stop and surveyed the inner courtyard. Blackened pools of dried blood stained the dirt where soldiers once trained under her brother's watchful eye. Did the bloodstains belong to her brothers? She turned quickly. How many died here? A small body still lay under the rubble. What sort of monster would kill a child? Gillian thought the Scots warriors sitting placidly on the hill, watching her. A tremor ran through her body. Did they burn the rest of the bodies? She remembered rumors about the barbarians and what they did to their enemies. Gillian spun the mare around. Most of the bodies were gone, but the blood and gore that remained drove her to the open fields. She gasped for breath, trying to force back her retching stomach. Broken trebuchets littered the field or lay in smoldering heaps between the ruins and the edge of the field. Huge beams had burned to blackened stubs rising above the summer hay. Swords and broken arrows covered the ground. Everywhere she looked lay black blood covered broken weapons, and soiled the summer hay. Her gaze stopped on a cooking pot, overturned on the outer court, bits of food soaked into the grass around it. It looked so out of place, absurd to imagine a woman carrying supper while the men fought for their lives around her. How could they think of eating? Suddenly she looked at the world from a woman’s eyes, not a child’s. Is this what they meant when they called her father The Butcher? Did all these people die in penance for his crimes? “Milady?” Gillian paused, startled. “Milady,” the voice wailed. Gillian turned around twice before she spotted a woman crawling from among the rubble. The timid mare fought the bit as it stared wide-eyed at the bloody form approaching them. Gillian managed to slide from the saddle safely before the horse bolted. Gillian grabbed the skirts of her peasant dress and ran to meet the woman. Relief flooded her tired emotions; someone lived. “What happened?” she demanded. The woman was mad with fear. Nothing she did drew a coherent reply. She ignored the serf’s babbling, and tried to ascertain the events of the battle for herself. More people crawled from under buildings and emerged from the woods. They came by ones and twos, covered in dirt and blood, each uncertain, drawn by the sight of a noblewoman - hoping for salvation. Gillian raised her hands helplessly as they crowded her, begging for help, the old, women and children. “Please. I can't help you.” What did they expect her to do? The crowd tightened. They pressed the breath from her body. Gillian gasped for breath and hung on lest they trample her. She pushed hard, desperate to unsheathe her dagger and break free. Her only hope was to grab the mare and flee back to the abbey. There was no way The Abbess would have sent Gillian home if she knew how bad the situation really was. The Queen must be told. Her strength ebbed as she fought the crowd. She screamed. The sound caught in her throat, gagging her. “Milady, Milady Gillian.” A voice rose above the horde. A stout gray-haired woman swung a short stick against the mob. A neat braid of gray hair hung down her back. Her clean cloths looked as out of place. “Move or taste steel. God be my witness. Move!” “Help me!” Gillian cried. “Back away,” the woman snarled and poked a large dagger at the people closest to her. “What da’ya’ think you’re doing?” She grabbed one boy by the collar, dragging him off his feet. “Come Milady, it is time to go inside. This is no place for a lady like you.” Gillian meekly allowed the woman to lead her through the remains of the great hall. The inside of the house lay in ruin, as distressed as the yards. Broken furniture and weapons littered the beleaguered hall and stairs. Large rocks, broken from the front of the house were strewn across the blood stained floor. Gillian shivered. A smooth rock blocked their way, obviously the one trebuchet launched into the front of the house. The hall and chambers lay in a crumbled pile of polished wood gargoyles amid broken rock and marble. They passed broken furniture, torn tapestries, and burned out rooms. The women made their way through to a smaller set of rooms in the back. A servant had already cleaned this section of the house, probably the gray haired woman who saved her from the mob. “Thank you for coming to my aid.” “No need to thank me, Milady. It’s good to see you alive.” “Do I know you?” “I’m Elspeth, Milady. Your mother’s maid. Your nurse... until the Baron sent you away.” “I’m sorry.” Gillian tried to find something courteous to say, but failed. “I don’t remember.” “You were but a wee child. Now you’ve return. Things will be better.” Elspeth’s tone belayed her true sentiments. Gillian believed the woman sounded more annoyed than reassured by her mistress’s sudden appearance. The servant kept busy with work as Gillian waited. Gillian rested her head on her hands. The rough wooden table made a poor pillow but she relaxed, grateful for the peace. She whispered a short prayer, thankful for a moment’s silence to gather her thoughts. “I don’t know what to do,” Gillian said as Elspeth pushed a wooden bowl of stew across the table. “I can’t help these people. I need to return to the abbey and wait for the Queen's orders.” “Excuse my mind, Milady, but it’s your station to take care of your serfs. You must do your duty by them.” “How?” Gillian thought of the rock in the main hall and the broken wall. How could she fulfill the obligations of her station and do her duty? “I do not know how to fix this.” Gillian wondered how to solicit aid as she sipped the thin broth Elspeth called stew. “I must send an emissary to petition for aid. Who of the neighbouring barons were in alliance with my father?” “Alliance?” “His friends.” Elspeth just shook her head. “Who was my father’s Leigh Lord?” “I’m naught but a bond servant.” Elspeth’s stood, rocking on her heels. “Do we have enough food?” Gillian asked. Elspeth shrugged, and returned to her work. “Where is the steward?” “Dead, Milady.” “Where is the shepherd?” “Dead" Gillian watched the woman putter around the stove. “Where is your husband?” Elspeth turned slightly, then went back to her work. “Pigs might have run into the wood. Maybe the older boys can find the cows. The gardens lay in waste. Too late to plant more. Enough old people live to bring in the hay. If we have livestock to feed.” Elspeth paused. “There is food in the woods if we are granted permission to hunt.” Gillian pushed the broth away. “Who will grant permission?” “Why, you, your ladyship.” Gillian thought of the people outside. Something had to be done. Gillian wondered how Mother Abbess managed. She threw her hands up in despair. “Hunt then. It is no concern of mine.” A thin girl stood in the doorway for a moment and then wandered down the hall. Gillian wondered how Mother Abbess managed almost fifty women. She suddenly realized the wisdom in keeping everyone busy. She wanted nothing more than a day’s rest, but that would give the pigs time to wander away and thieves would steal the cattle. She pushed back the bowl and stood. “I guess it is time I took stock of the Holdings.” Elspeth, despite her lack of faith in ability, proved to be a great help. Not only did she offer good ideas, she possessed the ability to make the serfs obey Gillian’s orders. They brought a large section of the house into order within a few days. Once Gillian convinced people to do their tasks properly, she went outside to supervise the children’s attempts to catch the pigs, to escape the ghosts of her family that lingered in the broken halls and sullied gardens. She filled the days with work, labouring at the serf's side. Busy hands made it easier to forget tomorrow's problems. Her mind never stopped asking who would feed these people through the winter or where to find enough money to fix the bailey? Gillian tossed on her bed at night. Sleep eluded her as women wept for lost husbands and sons. She did not weep. She tried, but could not force any tears for her father or brothers. Each night more men slipped back into the Holdings. In the day, they quietly rebuilt the walls, while avoiding the women’s accusing glares. Gillian ignored them, unable to face men who fled during their family’s time of need. Anger burned in her heart. She ached to drive them away. She resented sharing the food the children and woman scavenged from the woods and brooks. Pragmatism forced her to bite back her angry words. Her place as mistress demanded that she accept responsibility for her people, all of them. If she expected to live through the winter they needed every strong man to stay. “Milady?” Gillian turned, a forced smile on her face. She tried to recall the man's name - James. He stood in the hall, tall and prim as a steward and pushed a lanky boy forward. James, gossip said, worked as a smith. Shamed and demoted by the Baron for helping a woman the Baron was beating for the sin of breaking an egg. Her father forced James into menial labor. Gillian stood straight and impersonated a Lady of the Manor as she faced the old serf. It took little imagination to see the family resemblance between the young boy and old man. They shared the same wide green eyes and sandy tousled hair. Thin skin stretched across heavy bones. The old man outworked most of the men half his age. Gillian hoped to receive the same dedication from the boy. “Milady. My nephew, Horace.” “I am pleased to meet you. Your uncle James has proven his worth over the last weeks.” Gillian said honestly, affirming her approval of James. “I am a good man,” the boy replied. “Not like those.” He nodded toward a group who spent most of their time avoiding work. “I haven’t met your family yet...” Gillian ignored the insult. She knew that the serfs would work or leave. She had more important things to fret over. “I will drive them off if you would like me to,” James offered. “No,” Gillian replied with a smile. “I thank God for every man who is strong enough to lift a rock.” She looked down at her broken and bleeding hands, then smiled. “If you wish, Milady, but you’ll get little work out of a coward.” James looked at his feet as he spoke. She dismissed them with respect. They smiled before disappearing down the hall. She watched them head outside. “Are you going to stop that?” Elspeth asked Gillian as they crossed the yard. James strapped a sword on his belt. “James does no harm, and a lot of good.” “It is folly to give old man praise while you despise many younger men.” “You mean stronger men.” “I just want to remind you that James cannot cut enough wood to last the winter.” “Then we abandon the hall and live in huts.” Both women stopped to watch as James supervised the assembly of the rig some men had finished constructing. Gillian gasped as the brilliant contraption of poles and chains quickly moved two beams, each longer than a house. The men unhooked chains and adjusted the pulleys. Two horses strained the counter weights and another beam slid out of the hall and into the courtyard. “Men do not argue with a sword.” Elspeth’s tone was dry. “At least he wears a sword....” Gillian reflected on her maid’s tone. “Did the men fight loyally at my father’s side?” Elspeth guffawed, her answer obvious in the look of distain. James yelled for everyone to stand back. An eight-inch thick, solid oak beam slid across the bailey so easily that Gillian clapped her hands. “Well done,” Gillian praised. “Well done.” James bowed, his face red with pleasure. They watched the next beam readied while James explained how the beams would be strengthened and then used to brace the main hall and protect the integrity of the walls and the catwalks. He spoke slowly. “It is strange. You cannot see the damage the trebuchets did. It is inside the stone. If they remain unsupported, they will crumble under their own weight.” “Thank you.” She smiled and dismissed James. It felt good to possess the serf’s loyalty. It was the only treasure she owned. Nothing prepared her to manage a fiefdom. Already, many slipped into the night. She could not blame them. They chose to trust their fate to a strange Landlord than to starve with the Butcher’s daughter. Gillian sighed. She had no right to judge them. The law demanded that a Lord protect them. Propriety demanded she behave more prudently and seek a husband. Modesty demanded she seek sanctuary in London. Not that she expected royal assistance. Her two distant cousins behaved both prudently and modestly, only to lose their heads in London’s Tower. Gillian brushed the smooth hollow of her throat. She did not fancy that her prospects fared better. She failed to possess any skill for flattery or talent at gossip mongering. Without those skills she would find more danger than aid in the royal court. And yet ... Gillian lived too many years among the serfs near the Abbey to resign herself to a life of slavery under the law of a Lord, only because he held a title and lands. Gillian scanned the serfs in the yard. She only wanted what they took for granted, a home, a warm hearth, and love. She stood on the wall and watched the sun set. Torches dotted the courtyard. Cooking fires burned along the edge of the wall where men still worked. Gillian waited until they stopped for the night then retired to her bedchamber. “I’ll do your hair,” Elspeth offered. “No need.” Gillian sagged in a chair, ignoring the fact that Elspeth forgot to address her as Milady. Gillian’s bones ached. Her sensibilities felt bruised. A huge fire crackled in the hearth. The heat soaked her body. Gillian feigned sleep. She let her eyelids lower. Her head bobbed several times before Elspeth finished braiding the thick mass of brown curls into a long rope. Gillian pulled the braid around front, startled to see a red ribbon plaited into the braid. She sighed, too exhausted to chastise her maid from using the talisman against witchcraft, or admonish her to put her faith in God. “I’m not accustomed to being treated like a pet,” Gillian moaned, using the term she’d heard the villagers use behind a noblewoman’s back. “You didn’t work like a pet today.” “It is my station to help these people” She frowned at Elspeth’s laughter. “I did work well, didn’t I?” “You worked long hours.” Elspeth said. “But consider your hands. If I may be bold, no Lord wants a field hand for a bride.” “No Lord spares a thought for a woman beyond her dowry.” Elspeth petted her shoulder, “Field work is not for you ... Milady.” “I worked hard at the Abbey. My Lord will be disappointed that fate did not bequeath him a lovelier bride, but that is not my concern. I doubt he will remember my name after he spends the dowry.” Elspeth laughed. “Lords are men like any other. They look to a woman’s graces in marriage.” “Not if Queen Elizabeth decrees the marriage.” “Be that as it may, men are not governed by a Queen the way they are by a King.” “Elizabeth! A titled Lord swears allegiance to their Liege.” “A vow sworn with one hand and a dagger in the other. None feared the Queen when they attacked here.” “Elspeth, that is treason. You should not talk about Lords in that manner. Shame on you.” “Treason be what treason be. It was not a band of ghosts who raided this keep.” “Scots do not swear allegiance to Elizabeth.” “Be ye sure, Milady?” “Elspeth, what do you know?” “Nothing more than gossip, Milady. If they be reivers, they are the first who drag trebuchets with them.” Gillian sank into her chair. That was a fact. The Scots who crossed the border did not drag trebuchets behind them. Had a local baron attacked the keep? It explained why the bodies and trebuchets were burned. Gillian wearied. Barons warring barons. Queens plotting against Queens. Murder and treachery. A surge of defiance stirred like a small flame. Anger fuelled her determination. “I will settle this without aid of another baron. I will not marry.” “Why not?” “Why should I?” Gillian continued boldly. “To marry and curry a man’s favor like a hound seeking its master’s attentions. To be paraded around when needed and hidden in a dark corner when it is not My Lord’s pleasure. To suffer gossip mongering and currying favor.” Gillian stopped. “Tell me Elspeth, what differs a Lady from a brood mare?” “Lords ride their mares more often.” “Elspeth! Shame.” “Tis true, Milady. But, women who marry for love fare no better,” Elspeth answered. “Tis best to expect nothing from a man. To expect love is to taste disappointment.” “Then I do not marry.” Gillian laughed. Elspeth turned down the bedding. “Then you lose your land and title,” Elspeth said sadly. “Your head, too.” Gillian slipped into a linen nightdress. The soft fabric dragged the floor as she crossed to the bed. “We shall see.” “Sleep now, Lady Gillian, tomorrow everything will look brighter.”
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