not those things, but the hardened expression of pure rage that filled the Breton warrior’s face as he beheld her standing there.
He’d not taken time to don his mail or even his helm, and indeed she could see blood streaming down the side of his face along the line of his hair and down his neck from the wound on his head. She swallowed deeply and offered up a quick plea for the forgiveness of her sins to the Almighty, for Gillian did not doubt that her death was imminent. It took every bit of courage and strength she had not to back away when he leapt down from the horse and approached her in slow, measured steps. She wiped her shaking, sweaty palms against her cloak and waited to meet her fate.
He stopped a few paces from her and seemed to realise then that he still threatened her with the sword in his hand. Without taking his eyes from hers, he slid the deadly steel blade back into its scabbard. She startled at his first step nearer.
‘Give me the dagger,’ he whispered harshly, holding his hand out to her.
She’d forgotten she held it, still frightened by the rage in his eyes, and, for a moment, she thought of the possibility of using it against him. But what would it gain her other than a swift death and the damnation of her eternal soul? Even now gazing into his angry face, Gillian knew that his death would help nothing … and it was not something she wished for even at her weakest moments.
Letting out the breath she’d held in for all those moments, Gillian turned the dagger and handed it, hilt first, to the Breton. So quickly that she nearly missed it, a flash of relief brightened the stark, masculine angles of his face, softening it for one fleeting moment. Then, the anger was back as he slipped the dagger back from where she’d stolen it.
Borrowed it.
One of the warriors called out something from behind her and she tried to translate his words, but he spoke too quickly. The Breton answered him in the same tongue, but whether he did it a-purpose or because of fear clouding her mind, she did not understand him, either. Finally, after an exchange of words that lasted several minutes, he looked back at her and shook his head.
Gillian searched her thoughts for something to say. Something that could explain or at least mitigate what she’d done to him. But, truly, how did one explain away knocking another person out? She knew what she’d done; he knew it, as well. All that was left was for him to apply whatever punishment he’d decided upon. Since she knew he wanted her alive, Gillian prepared herself. She’d already survived beatings and whippings by her half-brother, so she believed she could survive whatever this man would deal out to her.
So when, with a nod at his men behind her, he mounted his horse, ordered them to bring her with them and then rode off towards his camp, she could do nothing but stare. That was until a horse’s nose butted her on the shoulder from behind and she stumbled.
‘Go, lady,’ the knight on the horse ordered.
At first, she did not understand and she looked around to see the knights still on their horses, some closer to her, some still nearer to the convent walls.
‘Go,’ he said, nodding at the forest, ‘follow the same path back to camp.’
It was not that she could not understand his words then, she just could not comprehend his orders. She was to walk back to the camp? Alone? Where had their leader gone?
‘Lord Brice said to walk back to the camp and think on your sins as you do so,’ the one named Stephen said. The other men laughed then, apparently knowing more about her sins than she’d have liked. ‘He awaits you there.’
Her stomach gripped then as she realised that this was not his punishment, this was but the prelude to whatever he planned. And she must walk back to face it. She shook her head until the knight called out to her once more.
‘Now, lady,’ he said. ‘Or he ordered me to tie you to my horse and drag you back.’ His voice lowered then and Gillian thought she recognised a touch of regret in his tone. ‘It is not that far and I am certain you would rather arrive there on your feet and not trussed up like some slave.’
He was offering her dignity. Outmanned and outmanoeuvred, certainly for the moment, Gillian decided to acquiesce. She nodded at him and began walking. It would give her time to think of another plan.
The cold air quickly seeped through her cloak as she traced her path back to the river’s edge and then along it. Four knights, two before and two behind, escorted her. Though their pace was slow for men on horseback, it was fast enough that she struggled after only a few minutes. Most likely, two days of walking and the events of the night so far were the cause of her growing exhaustion. And the recent run from the camp here added to the pain in her legs and the weariness that spread through her.
Tugging her cloak closer and pulling the hood of it forwards to cover her head, she focused her thoughts on placing one foot in front of the other. After some time, more than Gillian remembered it taking to cover the distance, they reached the turn in the path that took them towards the road, and a while later the camp. More than once, a horse nudged her along. More than once, she waved them off to stop and catch her breath. And more than once, she wished she could think of a way to evade them and their lord.
But all she could do was walk and think.
And worry.
Oh, not over any sins she might have committed as their lord had ordered, but about the rest of the coming night. And the coming day which would see his forces pitted against her half-brother and his allies. When the fires of the camp came into view, Gillian found that most everything disappeared from her list of things to worry over, except the one about the coming night. The knights led her back to his tent, which was now surrounded by guards, and called out to their lord. At his word, Stephen motioned her forwards.
After a deep breath, Gillian walked up to the tent and lifted the flap to enter.
Brice sat waiting for her arrival and pondered all the mistakes he’d made in dealing with Lady Gillian of Thaxted. Once his anger cooled, even he could see the resemblance to the wedding-night farce experienced by his friend Giles, now Lord of Taerford. And that did not please him at all, for it only served to remind him of his own boast that he would not have those kinds of problems when he claimed his bride.
Now, with his head still pounding from being hit with his own sword and with his runaway bride standing outside his tent, he hoped word of this debacle would not reach Giles or his lady Fayth for some time. And hopefully he could recover from the disastrous start and get his marriage, and the invasion of his keep, underway in a more successful manner. Taking a mouthful of the ale from his cup, he touched the egg-sized lump on his head to see if it had stopped bleeding yet. Bringing away nothing on his fingers, he drank again, hoping the ale would ease the anger and the pain.
He heard Stephen’s call from outside and waited for her to enter. Brice had chosen to get away from her when his fury about her attack and her disobedience nearly overwhelmed his better judgement, for he was not a man to take his anger out on others and he did not wish to do so now. Well, he might wish to do it, but he would not.
Gillian stepped into the tent, and it suddenly felt much smaller than it had. He watched as she moved a few paces in and let the flap drop back into place. From the corner where he sat on a stool he waited for her to see him. Her reaction, when she did, was not a good one, for she gasped and backed up towards the entrance. He looked in the direction of her gaze and realised that the bloodied rags he’d used in cleaning the gash on his head lay on the ground at his feet.
‘I … I …’ she began to stutter.
‘Do
