Page 23 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)
Rowena awoke on the fourth full day of their captivity with a steady, dull ache in the small of her back. She stretched against it, then once again fought the turning of her stomach. As much as she wanted this child, she was already deadly tired of the sickness pregnancy brought with it. To make matters worse what had once been an occasional sharp pain in her womb was now a far too frequent visitor.
Slowly, as the minutes passed, all her aches and pains, even the queasiness, disappeared. There was an odd finality in the feeling that followed, as though it would never again plague her. Aye, and that wouldn’t be too soon. Sighing in relief, she turned toward Rannulf.
He still slept, his back turned toward her. Purple bruises yet marked his skin, but the marks were rapidly fading to a pale yellow-green. She arose and did as she’d done the other mornings. But once her prayers were said, her hair combed, the washing and dressing completed, there was nothing left for her to do save to stare outside and wonder how much more confinement she could tolerate.
This morning’s view was no less quiet and peaceful than any of the others. She slipped her hand into the window’s opening as far as it would go and felt the fresh breeze against her skin. It would be another fine day, and she’d be trapped inside again.
Behind her Rannulf stirred, stretching and groaning as he awakened. She turned to greet him with a swift smile. He offered an easy grin in return.
"So, how goes it with your stomach this morn, my sweet?" he asked, then began to rise.
Rowena immediately turned back to face the window. She dared not watch him, at least not without wanting to help. She couldn’t bear to see him struggle while he couldn’t bear for her to aid him. He was very prickly about it. Never mind that it took him twenty minutes to do what she could have done for him in just moments. Then again, what else did they have but time?
At last, he came to stand behind her, dressed and washed. "You look pale this morn. Is there pain again?" He kissed the top of her head, then her brow when she looked up at him.
"Nay. In fact, I feel better than I have for days. All that troubles me is our confinement. I’m bored beyond all thought." As she spoke, she shifted to lean against his chest, savoring the feel of his strength against her back.
"You could come back to bed, and we could sleep again," he said, rubbing his chin against her uncovered hair. "That is, unless you prefer to drive yourself mad with ennui." His arm came around her. She shivered when his fingers slipped beneath her breast, not touching that sensitive flesh but near enough to taunt her with the memory of his caresses.
"Sleep, indeed." She laughed, not at all displeased by his interest. But she stepped slightly forward to dissuade him from continuing. Denial would serve him right for all the times he'd snapped at her these last days. He pushed aside her braid and kissed the nape of her neck. She ignored him the best she could.
"Enough of that. I know full well what you intend, and it isn’t sleep." There was a new tremble in her voice.
"Ah, but think how it will help time to pass," he murmured against the curve of her throat, his voice warm with desire. When his mouth touched her ear, Rowena’s eyes closed. A thrill of pleasure shot through her. She leaned back to rest her head against his shoulder, exposing more of her neck to him.
"You aren’t strong enough for this yet," she protested, albeit weakly.
"Yesterday, I wasn’t strong enough. Today, I am." His fingers slid ever so slightly upward to cup her breast. Her breath caught in her chest.
"You’ll only hurt yourself anew if you lie atop me." Despite her words, she stayed where she stood.
His laugh was low and rich with amusement. He turned her slightly so he could once again kiss her nape. Rowena shivered.
"And I thought it inconvenient to wed a virgin," he breathed against the sensitive spot. "I can see I’ve neglected your education when there’s so much left that you don’t know. Why, the very thought of what you don’t know sends chills down my spine."
"Pay them no heed," Rowena sighed, her eyes closing against the pleasure he was already giving her, "it’s only your wounds healing."
She cried out in protest when he ceased his sweet torment a moment later. Rannulf caught her by the hand. His harsh features were soft with desire for her, his gray eyes almost blue in anticipation of their lovemaking. He turned toward their pallet, the corners of his mouth lifting. "Now, wife, pay strict attention. If you’re careful you’ll master this art. "
Screams and shouts exploded in the distance, shattering the morning's peace. Rannulf whirled back toward the window, half-dragging Rowena with him. She frowned, listening to the frightened bellow of animals. Footsteps, more than three men by the sound of it, rushed past their door, climbing onward until they reached the roof above this chamber. Still folk screamed, the sound faint enough to suggest it came from the village across the river.
"What is it," Rowena asked in worry.
"I see smoke," her husband replied. "The village burns."
"Burns?" Rowena’s worry gave way to a new and very personal concern. The dwellings in the village were flimsy, with naught but reed roofing to cap them. They burnt with the utmost of ease. "What if the fire spreads here? Ashby’s hall is only wood."
Her husband put his arm about her shoulder to draw her into the shelter of his body. "Aye, but our prison is stone, not wood."
"Aye, so it is,” Rowena agreed, her worry growing with every word. "All the worse for us. With the hall at this tower’s side, the fire will draw up through here like an oven, and we are locked in." Her hand dropped to rest atop her belly. "Poor child. We haven’t given you much chance, have we?"
Rannulf caught her chin and turned her head until she met his gaze. "Hush, sweetling. You worry over what has yet to happen. This building is protected by water and stone. No fire can leap so far."
They listened, straining their ears for some clue as to what happened below them. Slowly, the screaming ceased even if the smoke continued to billow. Indeed, the writhing cloud grew darker by the moment.
Rannulf frowned. "They don’t seem to have tried to fight the fire at all."
"John of Ashby!" Gilliam’s deep, bass voice rang out into the newborn quiet, more than audible even though Rowena knew he could only be standing outside the manor’s closed gateway. "Give my brother to me, or I vow I’ll do more than burn your village. Only God can save you if you've harmed a hair on his head."
"Gilliam," Rannulf breathed in wonder.
He turned to her as his brother chanted out a string of obscene promises of what would happen to Ashby's owner if his noble captives weren’t freed. Her husband's eyes took light in amazement and joy. "It’s Gilliam. He fired the village. My God, he sets siege."
With his words, the prospect of rescue rose in Rowena. She relaxed in satisfaction and new hope. "Thank God. Walter heard me. I was so sure he hadn't."
"Heard you?" Rannulf’s brows drew down in confusion.
She shrugged. "Walter came calling at Ashby’s gate after you fell and John’s attack was finished, wondering what was afoot within. Maeve told John's man to finish our remaining four even if he had to follow them all the way to Graistan. So I shouted that Walter should go to Gilliam. Maeve didn’t know your brother was no longer at Graistan. I really didn’t believe my voice would ever carry over the walls." She touched a finger to her temple as she frowned in consideration. "Mayhap he didn’t hear me, but thought of it himself?"
Rannulf laughed, the sound of his amusement wild and free. "My clever girl! And he came for me. My brother is out there, working to free me." Wrapping his arms around his wife, he lifted her feet from the floor and whirled her around in his joy.
"Rannulf," she cried, "let me go before you hurt one of us."
"Never, I would rather die than let you go," he said, even as he stopped and set her feet on the floor once more. He caught her face in his hands and leaned to kiss her. His mouth touched her cheek, her nose, her brow, then her lips. His kiss deepened until this simple meeting of their mouths became a wild mating.
Rowena was dizzy with his need, his joy. She clung to him, her hands joining behind his neck so she could pull herself closer still. He cupped her head in his palm, his fingers burying into the wealth of her hair. His mouth raked across hers, slashing, demanding her response. She melted against him. It didn’t matter that he was hurt or that Nicola might throw open the door at any moment. It only mattered that she wanted him, that her love for him made her feel whole and complete.
It was he who tore away, catching his breath in great gasps. "It’s truly for me. You only do that for me. Oh God, Wren, you won’t die! I can’t allow it. You are mine and only mine."
This time when he kissed her it was with a tenderness that shot through Rowena’s heart. "And you have given back to me my brother," he breathed against her lips.
Rowena no longer cared that there were men outside the walls or that the village burned. Pressing herself against him, she trapped his mouth with hers, wanting every bit of the promise his kisses made to her. Instead, he pulled away from her. She cried out in disappointment, her eyes opening, then caught her breath.
Never had she seen his eyes so soft, not for Jordan or his brothers. Even as she studied him, her husband lifted her beyond them in his heart and made her more dear to him than they would ever be. In that moment, Rannulf folded her within his being, binding her with chains to make her his prisoner for all his life. And that was good.
"I love you," she told him, touching his cheek with gentle fingers, happily overwhelmed by the feeling that filled her.
He leaned against her caress, his eyes closing. Her fingers moved to the fine strands of hair along his cheek. She pushed them back, curling them around the curve of his ear. He sighed and once again opened his eyes. This time, their gray depths were filled with the unmistakable lights of his passion for her.
"Besieging is a slow and tedious process. We have nothing but time to waste," he murmured as he once again placed his mouth on hers. Her need was a fire that consumed her. And when he finally let it consume him, he saw to it that he was not hurt in the slightest.
Rannulf leaned back against the wall and watched his wife again try to peer out the window. She wore only her undergown, and that thin bit of material clung to the pretty curve of her back. His desire for her awoke anew, completely oblivious to its previous satisfaction. Never had a woman excited him more, nor made him more content. He smiled, feeling for all the world like some lovesick pup.
Oh, she had her faults. She was independent, even self-contained, and to a greater extent than he'd ever thought he could accept. But somehow, that seemed to make her all the more dear to him; it made her the woman he loved.
Loved. Within Rannulf lay a core of resistance to the very idea of giving her his heart. The memory of his father's pain returned. He frowned. Surely, there was a way to have one without the other. For the time being, he put the puzzle back in a corner of his mind. It would wait until they were home again. With his brother at the gates, that moment was now within reach, a moment he’d despaired of happening for at least another week.
"Wren, come sit down. It’s likely to be days before anything happens. Gilliam only arrived two hours ago. Even if he’s managed to bring some siege engine with him, rather than arriving ahead of it, he's not yet had time to construct it." Coudray, Geoff's holdings, were much farther from Ashby than Graistan. To bring a heavy siege engine here with any speed would mean marching through at least one night, more likely two.
On the heels of Rannulf's words came a series of rhythmic sounds. So great was his surprise that he nearly rocked back on his seat. Impossible. It just couldn’t be.
Sound exploded in the bailey, the thundering noise ricocheting into their tiny chamber. His wife leapt back from the window in fright.
"And then, I could be wrong," Rannulf said to himself.
"What was that?" she gasped.
"A ballista," he replied, only to have a second explosion of noise drown out his words.
He frowned in the direction of the sound. Gilliam was firing at the south wall. What in God's name was his brother doing using such a machine against a wall, and why that wall, one of the two protected by water? A ballista was for all intents and purposes a giant crossbow, and as such, better suited to raining terror down on the stronghold within, rather than at the walls themselves.
If Gilliam meant to soften Ashby’s defenses, he’d be days doing it. After that, he’d need to get men across the moat to take the manor, and that would be a very tricky business indeed. A wooden bridge could span the distance, but Ashby's men would hardly sit idly by while soldiers swarmed into their home. Nay, all sorts of missiles would rain down on Gilliam’s force as they picked their way through the fallen wall.
All in all, it seemed a hare-brained scheme at best. Then again, who was Rannulf to judge? It was his own hare-brained thinking that trapped them here in the first place.
A third explosion crashed over the bailey. Rannulf frowned, wondering now what fodder Gilliam was using in the machine, stones or the ballista’s giant bolts.
"I don’t like this," Rowena cried, retreating to sit beside him. He put his arm around her. There were three more explosions, and then silence.
Footsteps shifted and tapped on the rooftop above them. From across the yard a man called that he saw no damage as of yet. Another answered from the rooftop, reporting that he, also, saw no damage.
Rowena straightened in his embrace. "If Gilliam is here, then all is lost for Maeve and for Sir John. Why don’t they surrender and open their gates?"
"You’re not thinking like a warrior, sweet," Rannulf replied, shifting his hand along her arm. The sensation only added to his new contentment. He was alive, his wife was with child and his brother had come to save him.
"Were I Ashby's man Richard, I’d do just as he is: I'd sit quietly behind these walls and offer no resistance, thus giving insult to no man. Nicola said her father opened his eyes yesterday and spoke a few words. No doubt Richard knows this, and thus will he stand fast to John, the man who holds his oath, wagering that his lord will live, the walls will stand, and he'll not be held responsible for what happened."
His wife only shook her head in confusion. "But he doesn’t have to give up Ashby to give us to Gilliam."
"On the contrary," Rannulf replied. "To open the door is to cede ownership of this place to me. That he won’t do, for that decision belongs only to his master. This Richard has been ordered to preserve us, and so he shall, even if he must keep his lady and Gilliam at bay to do it. Now, all that is good for us, because we know what’s happened in here and that we’re still alive. Not so Gilliam. Not one of Ashby’s men has offered him that information."
Another explosion reverberated into the chamber, the noise loud enough that it should have shaken the stones from the walls. His wife cried out again, clutching him tightly and burying her face against his chest.
He laughed and held her close. "Don’t fret my sweet. It’s but the sound of freedom you hear."
Four times in an hour's passing the ballista sent its missile against the wall. But when the sound of the last one died off into silence, there was no man on the rooftop above them to call out. Ashby’s soldiers had foregone their perch with the ballista’s previous firing. Now the only noise he heard was shouting at the south corner of the bailey.
Rannulf listened carefully, gathering more from the tone of the distant voices than anything else that Gilliam had put some sort of bridge in place. No doubt, his brother meant to cross the water and check on his handiwork. Ashby's men would be on the wall above, if not attacking their besiegers, at least keeping their eyes on them.
Rowena looked up at him, and he caught his breath anew at her magnificence. Her ebony hair was so rich, its color a wondrous contrast to her creamy skin and dark-blue eyes. He stroked her cheek with a gentle finger, then pulled her closer still. She laid her head against his chest. That she should do so spoke to his soul.
But what if this babe of theirs killed her? The very thought of her death, of the great rending absence she’d leave with her passing, not just in him but in his family and folk as well, made him cold. Then, again, what if the babe didn’t take her? It might well be that he faced a full and happy life with her. She was so much younger than he that it was entirely possible he’d precede her into death, leaving her a wealthy widow who’d all too quickly be remarried.
That thought rankled. Better that she went first, for he wouldn’t tolerate the idea of another man holding her. Would she burst into life with desire for her next husband as she did for him? That he should think this way made him laugh.
"What is so amusing?" Rowena asked, lifting her head to look at him. But before he could tell her the progression of his thoughts, she sniffed and frowned. "Do I smell burning again?"
Rannulf tested the air. "Aye, and closer this time." He grimaced as he realized what it must be. "I suspect Gilliam put a bridge across the moat to see the damage he’s wrought. Ashby's men aren’t sitting as still as I expected. They must have set his bridge afire."
"Oh, sweet Mary," she whispered, swiftly crossing herself. "Poor Gilliam."
"Now, who was the one who told me that my brother was no child to be fretted over?" Rannulf chided, surprising himself with his easiness. There was no longer any threat in her affection for his brother, not when he had to recognize friendship for what it was.
"Aye, shame on me," his wife said, then straightened, her expression suddenly so business-like that Rannulf choked back another laugh. "So," she said briskly, her tone the one he suspected she used with Graistan’s merchants, "what was it that made you laugh?"
Remembering his ridiculous thoughts only made him smile. "I was thinking it would be better if you died first, for I would surely be a vengeful ghost who would haunt you once you remarried."
"Rannulf," she cried, pushing away from him. "That’s morbid. Don’t think like that."
"Morbid? Well, maybe a little, but it’s only me imagining. Ah, I have the solution for it. Why don’t we both live forever, then neither one of us will ever have to be alone."
She stared at him as if he’d spoken to her in a foreign tongue. "Rannulf, no man lives forever."
"Come Wren, play this game with me," he teased, enjoying tweaking her this way. There were times when she was entirely too serious. "If you could, would you live with me forever?"
Slowly her perplexity drained from her face to be replaced by such softness that Rannulf caught his breath in appreciation. Her mouth curved into a smile of quiet joy. "Aye, my love, I would live with you for all time."
Only then did Rannulf realize what he'd said and why she smiled so. There was no escaping it, no holding back. Even his own tongue betrayed him. This love of theirs was right and good, the way it was supposed to be between a man and his wife.
"Many women don’t die in childbirth," she said, touching gentle fingers to his lips. Rannulf kissed her fingertips and watched her smile again at his caress.
"Think on it," she went on. "My mother lives on, as does Temric's. Aye, and what of our dowager Queen Eleanor? She had many children, yet remains strong and healthy despite her age."
Rannulf sighed, then caught her hand to place a kiss into her palm. "Of course you’re right, but I’d rather have you with me than trade you for the sake of a legitimate heir."
"But I want our child," she cried in soft protest. "He will be my gift to you, proof of my love."
"And what proof would you ask of me? Jewels, clothing, lands?" Rannulf kept his tone teasing, but there was no answering easiness in his heart. She wanted final proof of his feelings for her, to hear him speak the words. Although he now accepted his love for her as real, he wasn’t certain he could give her what she needed .
She shook her head, her gaze filled with more understanding than he wanted to see. "There’s nothing more I want from you that you haven’t already given me."
Rannulf breathed, uncertain whether it was in relief or disappointment. She wouldn’t make him say it. If he said the words, it would be because he chose to do so. And would he? Acceptance welled within him, shredding the last of his fears.
"Wren," he started, the words forming. He discarded them as not pretty enough, then tried again.
Across the room, the key scraped in the lock. Both he and his wife started, instinctively pulling apart as they straightened. The door flew wide and crashed against the wall behind it. Nicola stood in the doorway, her hair in disarray and dirty charcoal streaks across her face. It was his sword Rannulf saw in her hands. He jerked to his feet, startling Rowena.
"Maeve set the house afire and runs," she said as he came toward her. "Your brother has breached our walls and is storming across the bailey killing everyone he sees. Even his own men cannot stop him. Hurry, he’s sworn to kill my father. Here," she handed him his sword. "Now do as you vowed and protect Papa."
With that, she whirled and raced down the stairs. Rannulf turned and nigh on leapt across the room to drag Rowena up to her feet. His wife reached for her overgown, but he caught her hand. "Nay, only your shoes. There’s time for no more," he commanded her brusquely, jamming his own feet into his footwear as she spoke. If the house burned they weren’t going to get far walking barefooted on the embers. He straightened, savoring the feel of his familiar weapon in his hand. " Damn, but I have no shield."
Bundling her overgown under her arm, Rowena had her shoes on in an instant. "You’re too sore to use one anyway," she shot back, then her face creased in fear. From the hall beneath them, folk screamed and shouted. "Hurry!"
Rannulf grabbed her hand and led the way down the stairs ahead of her, sword at the ready. Only after he’d seen Rowena to safety would he lend John what help he could. With each downward step, the smoke thickened while rumble of the fire’s voice grew. He stopped at the stair’s foot. Orange flames leapt along the ceiling, nibbling at the rafters. Worry lifted a notch. The thatching would burn like what it was, dry old reeds. The time to be out of this place was now.
The panicked screams of Ashby’s folk said they were already at the hall door to escape. Coughing, Rannulf turned toward the sound and peered with watering eyes toward the only exit from this dwelling. Rather than race from the hall, the servants massed at the backs of Ashby's men, pushing and shoving. The clang of steel rose above the fire’s voice. Ashby’s soldiers had met Gilliam’s force as they tried to leave. As they fought to leave, those outside fought to hold them within and doom them to a fiery death.
Rannulf ground his teeth in frustration. There were so many between them and the door that he knew they’d die within sight of safety. He slewed around, seeking some other egress. Across the room, a small group of serving men were hewing themselves a new doorway, using swords to cut through the hall’s wattle and daub walls. As he stepped toward this potential exit, the soldiers completed their task. The chunk of severed wall dropped to the bailey far below them, then the building drew a roaring breath, sucking in cool air through this new opening.
Fire exploded in the thatch, flamelets appearing across the length and breadth of the roof, even down the walls, faster than Rannulf could watch. At the hall door, the portal became a ring of fire. From the roof, bits of burning reed drifted down to find new fodder in the rushes covering the floor.
Driven back by the fire at the door, Ashby's folk turned as one and surged in the direction of their hall’s new door. As Ashby’s soldiery retreated only a few of Gilliam’s force was fool enough to follow them into the burning building. Oblivious to the danger, Gilliam chopped his way through the back of the frantic and retreating crowd, felling men and women alike.
"Gilliam," Rannulf called to his brother, only to have his words disappear under a peculiar squealing sound, one of the rafter timbers groaning in agony.
As Rannulf turned toward his brother, his wife released his hand and started toward the now unguarded doorway. "Wren, nay," Rannulf bellowed, snatching her back to him as a whole section of flaming roof dropped to the floor before her feet. Flames shot up, reaching out for whatever it could find. The doorway wall crumpled, leaving the door standing alone.
"Come," Rannulf commanded, pulling her as quickly as he could limp back to the stairs they’d just left. There he followed the tower wall, knowing that around two of its corners lay the master's chamber. That room had a window in its wall. It would be quite a leap, but better broken bones than a fiery death .
His breath seared in his lungs, and he had to cough to expel it. As he rounded the first corner Nicola appeared out of the smoke, her destination the same as his. She dragged a coil of rope with her. Almost on the girl’s heels came Gilliam. Rannulf tried to call out, but could only cough.
With a swirl of smoke, his brother was gone, rounding the corner ahead of them. Rannulf stumbled after them, Rowena’s hand still in his. He caught a welcome breath almost clear of smoke. It wasn’t as dense here in this corner of the hall. Aye, but that wouldn’t last for long. Ahead of him the bedchamber door stood ajar. A single clang, the clash of steel to steel, brought him to sharp attention.
"Stay behind me," he barked hoarsely to Rowena. She coughed her answer. He pushed open the door in time to see John, swathed in bandages and barely able to stand much less to firmly close his hand around his sword hilt, fall on Gilliam's blade.
"Traitor," his brother ground out, his words colder than ice, as he stared down at the dying man. "You've died like the scum you are."
"Nay," Nicola screeched, and launched herself at her father, not to kneel beside him in mourning but to grab the man's sword. She threw herself in bold attack against the tall knight. "Murderer," she screamed as she came. Gilliam raised his sword to deliver a killing blow.
"Gilliam," Rannulf bellowed.
A startled Gilliam whirled to face the doorway, leaving his unguarded back toward the girl.
"Drop that sword, you little fool," Rannulf snapped at Nicola, his own blade flicking out in a maneuver that should have sent her weapon flying from her fingers.
Instead, she met his movement with a well-honed turn that nearly cracked his wrist. "By God’s cock!" he cried out more in surprise than pain. Outside the room, the fire’s voice took on a deeper tenor as it started on the floor.
"You live!" Gilliam shouted in joy, ready to drop his sword and embrace his elder sibling.
"Behind you!" Rannulf yelled in warning as the tall girl swung her father’s long and well-balanced weapon with a precision beyond all comprehension. Smoke now billowed into the room from the hall beyond it. "I want that girl. Disarm her, now."
Whirling with a speed that belied his size, Gilliam met his attacker's blade, pushing her back. She recovered with ease and came at him again, displaying skill and considerable training in her smooth movements. As his brother loosed an unholy roar of laughter and met the girl's blade once again, Rannulf turned to his wife, unwilling to leave his brother’s back unguarded.
"Wren, get yon rope," he commanded. She leapt to do his bidding almost before his words were out. "Tie it to both handles of that chest.” John’s armor chest sat beneath the window, doubling as a bench for visitors. If the piece wasn’t heavy enough to bear their weight, it was long enough that it wouldn’t pass through the window after them. "Nay, loop it to the left through the other handle and then back again. If it makes the rope too short, we’ll fall the rest of the way. Quickly now, or we’ll all roast."
As Rowena prepared their escape, Gilliam once more met Nicola’s blade, and this time gave his sword a careless twist. He tapped its tip against his opponent's bare wrist. She screamed in pain and rage, and her grip loosened. Another small movement of his hand, and her father's blade flew across the room. Before she could leap for it, Gilliam’s hand snapped shut about the girl’s arm.
"Murderer," Nicola raged against Gilliam's hold, her free hand scratching and clawing at his mailed glove. When she realized the futility of it, she dropped to the floor, making herself a dead weight. "Nay, I will not leave. Let me die with him. Murderer! He could barely rise and yet you killed him. Oh, Papa," she cried, her free hand clutching at her father's fingers. "Let me stay."
"Don’t let her go, Gilliam," Rannulf shouted as from the hall came another creaking groan, this one more ominous.
Gilliam nodded, then grabbed the tall girl up by her waist and threw her over his shoulder. She kicked and writhed, her fists beating against his steel-clad back as he carried her toward the window and escape.
Rannulf joined his wife, who already stood atop the trunk, ready to make her climb down the wall. "Go," he commanded her, more words waiting to ease her into doing what she must. To his surprise, she nodded once and stepped out of the window, slipping down the rope with amazing agility. Above him, the bedchamber’s roof exploded in flame. A burning bit floated down to rest atop the tangled bedclothes. They smoldered just an instant, then a tongue of flame appeared.
"Go," he said to Gilliam, "bearing her as you do."
His brother shot him a broad grin. "I can manage, old man, now that I know you’re alive." And then he was gone .
Rannulf stepped up onto the trunk and felt the blood trickle from his thigh as he tore his wound afresh. He grabbed the rope and stepped onto the window’s ledge. His wife and brother stood on the turf below him, watching. Holding out his sword, he dropped the weapon toward Gilliam, then turned to lower himself out of the window.
Pain burst into life in his bruised shoulder, making it that much harder to close his hand as he eased his way down the rope. His head had only just cleared the open window when sound exploded around him. Blazing daggers of flame shot out of the window above him, then tore through the low-hanging roof. As if he were some child’s toy, the force of the blast swung him away from the building. The fiery wall loomed as the rope circled back toward the structure. Rannulf released his grip on the rope. If he had to hit something he'd rather it be the turf below him. Stars blinked into life at the impact. His breath stuck in his chest.
"Jesus God," he heard Gilliam say. "What was that?"
Rannulf gingerly turned his head. Gilliam no longer stood. Instead, he sat with his legs wide and Nicola sprawled next to him. The girl sobbed face down in the grass. His wife had fallen onto her back.
"Rannulf," she cried, rolling over to scramble to him. "Sweet Mary, you bleed again." She touched his thigh.
"Aye, but I still live," he gasped out, grateful for her concern, "and nothing is broken, although I think I now have bruises atop my bruises. Let me lie here just a moment and catch my breath." He sighed, took an experimental deep breath and was pleased that nothing clutched or hurt, then shifted to better look at the incredible woman he’d married. "Where did you learn to climb like that?"
His Wren shot him a look both shamed and proud in the same instant. "When I was young and still at Benfield, I enjoyed climbing trees. I especially liked hanging upside down from the branches."
Rannulf laughed out loud. "With your gown hanging down over your face as well?"
She sent him a disparaging look. "Hah. It doesn’t do that if you wad it up between your knees." Her grin was smug.
This time he laughed until he coughed up all the smoke he’d taken in. "Wren, I cannot even envision you doing something so frivolous." He grabbed her to him, holding her atop him in an embrace that was amusement, love, thanksgiving, and joy in one. "By all that’s Holy, I’m glad I lived long enough to discover this about you."
Gilliam came to stand over them, his helmet tucked under his arm and a pleased smile on his face. "So, things have changed since I left Graistan, have they?" A piercing whistle made him look up and wave. "We’re here and well. Is all in hand? Good."
Rannulf freed his wife, who came lithely to her feet. He held out his hand to his youngest brother. "Help this old man up, will you?" His sibling easily lifted him to his feet, only to receive a light cuff for his efforts.
"Idiot!" Rannulf chided. "Why in God's name did you run full tilt into a burning building? If you wanted to kill them, you only had to wait outside as they came to you."
"My brains were addled with the certainty that you were dead," Gilliam replied, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "That you might have died without hearing my apology was more than I could bear."
As he spoke, he laid his hands on Rannulf’s shoulders, as if he wished to embrace his brother but feared the gesture would be rejected. Rannulf threw his arms around his bigger and younger brother and drew him close. "Fool!" he chided again.
"Stop," Gilliam told him, his voice thick with emotion. "My mail will cut you to ribbons, and you’re already hurt."
Rannulf shook his head, but stepped back, for the metal tunic Gilliam wore had indeed bitten into his skin. "What little healing that remains for me will go quickly now that I’m free. And now that I once again have you at my side. You will stay?"
"You would want me back?" This was a hushed and disbelieving question.
"Temric said it was good we finally lanced the boil between us. As always, he’s right." Emotions crowded into Rannulf’s throat. "You came for me when I had no cause to expect it."
Gilliam's eyes reflected what Rannulf felt. He only shrugged as if it were nothing. Seeking to shield himself from what troubled him, he turned to his sister-by-marriage.
"My lady," he said, smiling at her, "need I tell you that I’m thrilled to find you yet in one piece?"
Rannulf watched his wife smile at his brother and felt nothing but joy at being in their company. "I’m so glad you came," she replied.
Gilliam managed a quick bow. "Shall we retire to the south wall? My tent should have been raised by now across the moat. Rannulf, what would you have me do with her?" A jerk of his head indicated Nicola, who yet cried her heart out at his feet. "Do you want her bound or guarded, or both?"
Rannulf's heart went out to Nicola of Ashby. For all her odd ways, she looked like just what she was: a child who had just witnessed her father killed and her home destroyed in a very bloody fashion. He knelt at her side. "Nicola," he said quietly.
She started, then turned her head a little in his direction. "You promised," she managed to gasp out, "you swore."
"I’m so sorry," he said, stroking her hair. "I was too late to stop my brother, but perhaps that was for the best. We couldn’t have carried him down the rope, and he couldn’t have climbed on his own. Nay, that blow of mine killed him, and for that I grieve with you. Better that he died a quick death than to burn."
"Nay, I could have saved him," the little girl in her cried out, but he hushed her, then drew her into a sitting position until Nicola leaned her head against his broad shoulder, her tears now trickling down her face.
"Child, he weighed more than twenty stone. You couldn’t have done it, nor would he have allowed it. He would have commanded you to leave him. He had lived his life, while yours is just beginning. Hush, and be easy, remembering that you aren’t alone. I vowed to care for you, and so I shall."
When he tried to draw her to her feet, she resisted. "Stay here until you are ready, then. We won’t leave without you." Rannulf rose and stepped away from her, joining Gilliam and his wife a few feet away.
"You do this for a traitor's daughter?" Gilliam demanded .
"She saved our lives," he returned, "and if I’d been a moment earlier I would have spared John's as well." Rannulf lifted a hand to forestall his brother angry complaint. "It’s a long story. Let her lie here and grieve. Where will she go? Now come." He gathered his wife close, and together they walked with Gilliam toward the wall. "Now, Gilliam, tell me how you so quickly broke down yon wall?"
His brother's response was matter-of-fact. "When I was here in March at your lady's behest, I noticed the mortar in that corner of the south wall was soft with moisture. I told—him,” he stumbled over this reference to John, “about it as he left Graistan after his wedding. When Walter came to me with his tale, I knew he wouldn’t have had time to fix it." Gilliam’s handsome face twisted in grim satisfaction. "I used the ballista to drive a hole right through the already soft foundation, and a whole section came tumbling down. After that I laid a bit of planking across the moat, and we walked right in."
Rannulf stared at the young man in amazement. "God's blood, but you’ll tell me what you've seen in all my other keeps. This was far too simple for you. We'd better have something stronger here when it’s rebuilt."
At his side, Rowena stopped with a start and gasped, releasing him to hold herself tightly. She whitened in pain. "Sweet Mary, I think I will be sick."
Fear tore through Rannulf. He grabbed her up in his arms. It was with his wife in his arms that he stepped through the breached wall and outside to freedom once again.