She would leave.
To murder her father.
She stayed well behind Jason. It was an easy thing to remain unmarked. She’d done it so often at Warewick that the skill was perfected. She followed Jason down the passageway, waited in the shadows of an alcove while he went into Christopher’s bedchamber and came back out again with a basin of water and cloths. It was no mean feat to follow him up the steps to the tower chamber, but she managed that, too.
She stood outside the threshold in the shadows, drinking in the sight of her husband, her heart breaking more fully with each moment that passed.
He sat with his back against the wall, his hands resting limply in his lap. Jason stood nearby, the basin still in his hands.
“My lord, should I not tend your wounds?”
Christopher lifted his head slowly, as if it were a very great effort.
“It matters not, Jason.”
Gillian bit her lip to keep from weeping out loud. Never before had she seen her husband look so completely defeated, as if he no longer had any will to go on.
And the blame rested squarely with her.
“Should I call for the lady Gillian?” Jason asked.
Christopher shook his head. Gillian could have sworn she saw dampness on his cheeks. Perhaps it was from the exertion of the thrashing he had just taken. Or perhaps he wept because of the pain she had caused him.
“Nay,” Christopher said, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “That is the last thing I would have you do.”
Gillian turned away. She crept down the steps, leaving her heart in pieces behind her. She had heard it from his own mouth. There was no doubt about it now. Christopher wanted nothing further to do with her. In truth, she couldn’t blame him. She could hardly bear to live with the grief she’d caused him. How could she expect him to feel any differently?
She walked to Christopher’s bedchamber and bolted the door behind her. She laid her sword on the bed and walked to her trunk. It wasn’t as if she owned a great deal, but she did have a small bag of gold hidden beneath her most patched pair of hose. Christopher had given her coins now and then to spend at market, instructing her to purchase nothing with them but things for herself. She’d hoarded the gold, certain that someday she would have enough to buy him something fine and beautiful.
She pulled the bag out and fingered it thoughtfully. This would pay for aid in slaying her father. She couldn’t think of a better use for the gold.
She retrieved the finely tooled scabbard Christopher had given her, then sheathed her sword in it. Her sword, gold and her cloak were burdens enough to carry with her. Perhaps a small stop at the kitchen would be wise. She would merely put her hand to her sword hilt and Cook would give her exactly what she wanted—and remain silent about the giving of it.
Slowly, she closed the lid to her trunk; then she ran her fingers over the smooth wood. ’Twas certain she would never see it, or this chamber again. Kill her father she would, or die in the attempt. If she survived, she would seek out another place to live. Whatever the outcome of her meeting with her sire, she knew she would never return to Blackmour. How could she, when she would only grieve Christopher by her very presence? Aye, leaving him be was the only thing besides her father’s well-deserved demise she could give him.
She left the chamber before thoughts of her husband overcame her. Tears were something she could ill afford now. She would weep later, after the deed was done. Perhaps then she would think on what she had lost this day.
A short while later, she left the kitchens, her sword and her gold in one hand and a small bag of foodstuffs in the other. Cook had looked mightily puzzled when she’d bidden him a final farewell, but she hadn’t given him any explanation. To be sure, he hadn’t demanded one. If she could have managed a smile, she would have. The Dragon’s cook had been tamed indeed.
She crept through the great hall, ignoring the blood still on the rushes and the stench of death. Aye, this was her fault. She had no one else to blame for her father’s arrival today and the subsequent war that had ensued.
And Christopher’s humiliation.
Her throat tightened again at the memory of her father toying with him, taunting him with mocking laughter and little pricks of his sword. If Captain Ranulf hadn’t had her in such a death grip, she would have finished her father herself.
This time she would, once she’d had a chance to think of the most painful way to do it to him. She would need some sort of aid, too. Brave though she might be, she was no fool. Even with the number of her father’s guardsmen Colin and his lads had sent to meet their Maker, there would still be knights aplenty at Warewick. Perhaps a few mercenaries could be purchased with her coin. Aye, that was wise. She would find men to get her inside the gates, then she would finish the deed herself.
She slipped out of the hall and down the steps. Once her feet hit the dirt, she walked forward with an arrogant swagger, as if she were nothing more than an errant knight, off to do deeds worthy of song.
The portcullis was open but guards were clustered about it thickly. Gillian kept her head down and continued through. If she could but reach the outer bailey, she would be halfway to freedom. She strode forward as best she could, elbowing men out of her way in what she hoped was a manly fashion.
She had almost reached the far end of the tunnel when she felt her feet leave the ground. She flailed about, but there was no escaping whomever had taken her by the back of her cloak and held her suspended a goodly ways up off the ground.
“And just where do you think you’re off to?”
“Oh, Colin,” Gillian groaned, “put me down.”
“I don’t think so—”
She elbowed him in the belly, but instead of leaping aside as the others she had dealt blows to had done, Colin only grunted and held her higher.
“I’d head right back inside the gates, were I you.”
“You aren’t me, so don’t tell me what to do.”
Colin set her down and turned her around, his heavy hands firmly grasping her cloak.
“Dragoness, I have no fear of your talons, so don’t be talking as if I did. You’ve more courage than to run away, haven’t you?”
She met his gaze squarely. “I’m not running away; I’m going to kill my father.”
Colin blinked. “I see.”
“Aye,” she said, nodding, “I think you do. I’m off to buy myself a few mercenaries; then I’ll go to Warewick and slay the bastard in his bed. Or in some other painful fashion.” She looked up at him and frowned. “I haven’t decided how, as yet.”
Colin sighed.
“Think you I cannot?”
His expression was suddenly quite grave. “Warewick is a warrior with many years behind him, Gillian.”
She stuck out her chin. “Then my youth will serve me well.”
“I meant that he has been warring for most of his life,” Colin said slowly. “To be sure, you have the courage to take him—”
“And so I will.”
“—but even I would be hard-pressed to best him with the sword,” Colin finished.
Gillian opened her mouth to speak, then realized there was nothing she could say to that. Colin was a fierce warrior. If he thought it would be difficult to fight her father, what did that say of her skills?
She felt some of her bluster leave.
“Indeed,” Colin continued, “’twould take most all my strength to see the deed done.”
The rest of her courage deserted her with a rush.
She bowed her head, defeated.
“I wanted to avenge Christopher,” she said quietly.
“Aye,” Colin said gruffly.
“You know why.”
“Aye, I know why.”
She looked up at him. “Did you throw my sire over the wall as you said you would?”
He shook his head. “Mussed his clothes quite a bit and let my fists tell of my displeasure, but I only threw him out of the gates. I didn’t want him dead before I could
find him later and kill him.”
Gillian felt her spine stiffen of its own accord.
“I’m going to do it.”
Colin only grunted. “We’ll see. Now, come along back to the hall with me. Time will tell who will have the privilege of finishing the wretch.”
“I’m not going back,” she said, pulling away. “Perhaps I don’t have the skill to kill my sire myself, but I’ll find someone who does.” She paused and a name came immediately to mind. Why she hadn’t thought of him before, she surely didn’t know. “I’m going to Artane,” she announced. “I’ll pay Lord Robin to do the deed in my stead.”
Colin’s mouth fell open. “Artane?”
“Aye,” she said, feeling heartened at the very thought. And then another thought occurred to her. “I’ll pay Lord Robin to train me! Then I’ll have the skill to see the deed done myself.” She smiled up at him. “What think you?”
Colin’s eyes were open very wide and his mouth seemed to be working quite hard, though no words were forthcoming.
“Aye,” she agreed, “’tis a most sensible plan.”
“By the saints!” Colin spluttered finally.
Gillian pulled her cloak out of his fists, then leaned up and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Many thanks, Colin, for your kindnesses. I will never forget you. I will send word when my sire is dead.” She turned around and faced the end of the tunnel. “Now, Artane is north. I think that is on my right hand when I leave the outer barbican.”
Colin made a strangled sound from behind her, but Gillian didn’t turn around to look. No doubt he was trying to wish her well but simply couldn’t find the words.
Gillian was halfway down the path to the outer gates when Colin suddenly appeared at her side. Gillian looked up at him with a faint smile.
“You needn’t see me to the gates,” she said. “Those I can find by myself.”
“You are not traipsing off to Artane,” Colin managed, still very red in the face.
She reached out and patted his arm. “Don’t fret, Colin. I’ll find it.”
“You can’t tell bloody north from south!” Colin exclaimed. He strode ahead, then turned and planted himself before her. “You aren’t going alone.”
Gillian felt her heart warm at the thought of Colin’s loyalty to her. But it wouldn’t do to take him from Christopher.
“You must stay,” she said, with a smile. “Though I do appreciate the offer of aid—”
“You are not going alone,” Colin repeated stubbornly. “And you aren’t going all the way to Artane. ’Tis a hard ride and you have no horse.” He looked at her rather triumphantly.
“Then I’ll walk.”
“Then think on this, my lady. Your sire is not far outside the gates.” He smiled and his smile was anything but warm. “With the send-off I gave him, I doubt he’ll be moving much in the next few days. Nevertheless, we will not wish to be wandering the same roads as he will be.”
“I could take him,” Gillian said, but even as she said it, she wondered if it might be more difficult than she thought.
“After you train with Artane for a few weeks, aye, you likely could. But now, I think not.” He folded his arms over his chest and looked down at her. He was silent for a moment or two, then his look brightened. “Perhaps a few more herbs would serve you. Let us hie ourselves down to those witches and see what they can offer.”
Gillian opened her mouth to say him nay, then thought better of it. Her courage was returning, ’Twas true, but a few more herbs couldn’t hurt. She nodded slowly.
“Aye, that might be wise.”
“Then let us be off,” Colin said, taking her by the arm and tugging her down the path.
As she trotted alongside him, Gillian wondered at his change of heart but refrained from commenting on it. At least he was for her. She wasn’t about to discount his aid. Perhaps when the deed was done, he would return and tell Christopher that she had been the one to avenge him. Though it would never atone for the hurt that had been done him, at least he would know she’d done her best.
She clutched her sword, her gold and her small bag of food and wondered if there were perhaps an herb that would improve her swordplay.
• • •
BERENGARIA STOOD AT THE THRESHOLD OF HER MODEST hut, breathing deeply. She’d been standing there most of the morning, trying to catch her breath—and it wasn’t Magda’s most recent recipe to drive her outside. She’d been privy to the sight of what had transpired in Blackmour’s great hall. Why her Sight had failed to alert her to Warewick’s arrival, she couldn’t say. Christopher had indeed paid a heavy price for her lack of foreseeing.
She looked to her right only to see Gillian running to keep up with Colin of Berkhamshire’s long strides, strides that were currently eating up great stretches of ground as Colin came toward her. Gillian’s mood was difficult to determine; she was obviously merely trying to catch her breath.
Colin, on the other hand, seemed to be about some specific business. Berengaria found herself only mildly surprised at Colin’s reappearance. He’d come to fetch a few herbs for Gillian a fortnight past but had fled almost immediately. Perhaps the sight of Nemain grinding up bone into a cup had been what had done it.
Colin came to an abrupt halt before her. Gillian was panting too much for speech, so Berengaria looked up at her keeper.
“She’s off to kill her sire and needs herbs,” Colin announced.
Berengaria felt her eyebrows go up in spite of her desire to look calm. Colin, who moved to stand directly behind Gillian, wore a distinctly pointed look, as if he strove to tell her aught merely with his eyes.
Berengaria didn’t need to hear what he meant to tell her, for she knew what Gillian was about. She’d seen the outcome of the small war in the keep and knew what Christopher had suffered. Even without her art, she would have known where Gillian’s thoughts would have led her. And now to think the child had gathered the remains of her faltering courage and put her foot on a path that would lead to Warewick . . . Berengaria looked at Gillian and smiled gently.
“I daresay you’ve the courage for it,” she said.
Gillian nodded.
“But now you seek aught to improve your swordplay?”
Gillian’s mouth fell open. “Aye,” she breathed. “How did you know?”
Berengaria only smiled.
“She’s off to Artane,” Colin added. “To have Lord Robin train her.” He shook his head violently and wriggled his eyebrows a time or two.
“Ah,” Berengaria said, nodding. “A wise choice, Gillian, for I hear his swordplay is as flawless as his features. And he did train your lord.”
“Aye,” Gillian said, “my thoughts as well.”
“Artane is a long journey,” Colin said.
“Indeed,” Berengaria agreed. “And I fear my cache of skill herbs is quite depleted. It would take me a few days to gather more. You would likely wish to remain here until that time.”
Colin nodded vigorously.
Gillian hesitated. Berengaria watched her struggle with herself, as if she weighed the delay against the benefit of the herbs.
“A se’nnight,” Berengaria offered “No longer.”
An expression of pain crossed Gillian’s features. “But where will I go until then?”
“You’ll return to the keep,” Colin stated.
Gillian shook her head. “Nay, I could not do that. It would only grieve Christopher.”
Berengaria looked at her gently. “I have to agree with Lord Berkhamshire,” she said. “It would surely be safer if you waited at the keep. Then you could send for Lord Artane. Travel in these times is quite dangerous.”
Colin positively beamed his approval.
Gillian shook her head. “I cannot stay at Blackmour, my lady.”
“Oh, Gillian” Berengaria said softly. She reached and put her hand on Gillian’s arm. Gillian’s sword was clutched in her hand, and Berengaria’s heart wrenched at the sight. How courageous this child had bec
ome, to take steel in her hand and face her greatest fear, all out of a desire to ease her husband’s pain.
“Artane is much too far away, my child,” she said. “I think you would do better to remain close to your lord.”
Gillian’s eyes began to fill with tears. “But ’twill only grieve him. I must go—”
“—to Blackmour’s Folly,” Colin announced suddenly. “Your sire will never manage the climb. Artane likely couldn’t either, but we’ll solve that later. ’Tis certainly close enough for the delivery of important herbs.”
Berengaria watched as Gillian considered this new plan. She gave the girl’s arm a gentle squeeze.
“This is a wise choice, my dear,” she said, with an encouraging smile. “You’ll be quite safe there. I’ll send what you need with one of Lord Berkhamshire’s men.”
“In truth?” Gillian asked.
Berengaria nodded. “Of course. I daresay ’twill be a most comfortable place to wait for Lord Robin to come to you.”
Gillian was still for a moment or two, then nodded. “Perhaps ’tis for the best.”
“Well done,” Colin said, grasping Gillian by her sword arm. He bowed to Berengaria. “Our gratitude, lady.” He started back up the path, Gillian in tow. “I’ll fetch the men; then we’ll make our way to the cliff. ’Tis a most treacherous climb, so we must needs . . .”
His voice trailed off. Soon Berengaria could see them no more. She nodded thoughtfully. At least Gillian would be well protected, what with the fierce lord of Berkhamshire watching over her. And in truth Blackmour’s Folly was as unassailable a refuge as Gillian could have wished for.
And it was close enough that Christopher could send for her.
Assuming he came to his senses in time.
The door behind her was yanked open and Nemain came stumbling out into the sunshine, coughing. A black cloud followed her.
Nemain gasped, clutching the doorframe. When she could breathe again, she fixed Berengaria with a steely look.
“I told you she couldn’t cook!”
Nemain stumbled off, cursing under her breath. Berengaria cast a glance heavenward, took a deep breath and turned toward the doorway. At least this problem was simply solved.