and let him pull her up to sit. When she reached for the ropes that bound her legs together and to the other spike, he stopped her.
‘Leave them,’ he said gruffly, the deep voice and accented words affecting her more than she wished they would. She pulled the edges of her gown as far over her feet as she could and tugged the laces at her neckline tighter, too.
He reached over and dipped a linen square in a bucket by the tent’s entrance and then handed it to her to use. Wiping it over her face and neck, she removed the dirt from her struggles and the tears that she’d shed against all of her attempts not to cry. Then, she cleaned her hands and held the cloth out to him. ‘Merci,’ she whispered, using one of the few words in his tongue she knew.
He started as she said it, and she realised her error. A poor English maid would not know his French. A poor English woman would know only her English words … or Saxon or Danish ones, but not French. When he replied in his own language, she blinked and shook her head as though she knew none of it. Truly, she could follow most of it when he spoke slowly, but she did not want him or his men to know that. Better to gain what information she could while here and share it with her brother when she got back to Thaxted Keep.
If she returned to her brother.
Gillian shivered then as she realised she might not survive the coming night. After all, these men did not believe her story and thought her a prostitute. If made to … service them … against her will, she might not even be alive in the morn to try to escape once more. Her body shuddered then, from her head down to her now shoeless feet.
The knight reacted quickly but in an unexpected way, for he called out to the other one, Stephen, and demanded something. Robe? Cloak? Soon, her missing cloak and shoes were handed into the tent. He shook out her cloak and draped it over her shoulders. She grabbed it and pulled it tight around her, taking what protection it could offer her. Soon, after hours spent on the cold ground with little protection from it, her body began to warm under the thick layer of wool. Then, his gentle touch in placing her shoes back on her feet surprised her again. His men had taken them the last time she’d got past them, knowing that she could not go far on the cold ground without them.
When he held the plate in front of her, her stomach growled loudly, giving her no chance to refuse his offer. She took the food—some cooked fowl, a chunk of cheese and another of bread—and ate it. No matter what challenges faced her, she needed to be at her strongest and she continued to tear apart the roasted hen and break apart the cheese and bread until every bit of it was gone. Gillian looked up to find him watching her every move. When he filled a cup for her, she drank it down.
Knowing that this was simply a respite before whatever else he’d planned for her, she knew she should have slowed down and taken her time, but an empty stomach and all the exertions of the day proved her match.
She had barely finished the food and drink when she heard movement outside the tent and the sound of many voices growing closer. Had her brother discovered her missing and followed? Did he now attack to recover her? When the soldier took the plate from her, she gave up all pretence and began to work the ropes around her ankles. Either he ignored her or did not think she could do it, for he left the tent then and she increased her efforts.
If only she had a dagger or her small knife, or something sharp to loosen the knot or cut the ropes! Gillian continued until she heard the words spoken by Stephen to her captor.
‘The men are ready.’
Her mind emptied of all thought then and the only thing she could do was struggle against the ropes. Pulling on one, then another, she shook as the thought of what lay ahead pierced her. They would take their pleasure of her now. All of them? Saints in heaven, protect her!
Fighting off the panic that assailed her, Gillian knew she must be in control and seek out a moment when she could escape. To do that, she must be alive. Taking several deep breaths and trying to let out the terror that threatened to control her, she knew what she must do. When the leader entered the tent and approached her, she knew the only way to live through this was through him.
He’d removed his chainmail hauberk and wore only a thick, quilted tunic in its place. His leather gloves were gone, as well. Instead of easing her fears, for she knew that men could tup women in armour or out of it, it increased them for he looked no less the dangerous warrior than before in his battle dress. He crouched near her once more and used his deadly dagger on the ropes until they gave way. Helping her to her feet, he wrapped an arm around her waist when she began to stumble.
‘My lord,’ she whispered, turning to face him. He did not release her; nay, if truth be told he held her more closely than before. ‘I would … see to your needs willingly if you promised not to share me with the others.’
Shocked that she could speak such damning words aloud, she knew she must seem honest in her intentions or all was lost. Gillian reached up and clutched the neckline of his tunic as she promised anything to keep herself alive. ‘I wish to warm your bed only, my lord.’
The warrior released her so quickly she nearly fell to the ground. She’d angered him in some way, not pacified him with her promise of pleasure. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to the entrance of the tent.
‘Nay, my lord,’ she cried out, both in pain from his tight grasp and in fear of being given to the others. ‘I beg you not to share me with your men!’
In but a few moments, she stood outside the tent, in front of what seemed to be hundreds of men. Though night-time, the full moon’s light alone would have made it possible to see their numbers, but the burning torches spread around the camp made it seem like day. He held her wrist in his iron grasp and pulled her to face him.
‘Oui, my Lady Gillian, you will warm my bed this night,’ he growled through clenched teeth. He knew! He knew who she was! Before she could explain, he tugged her closer until only she could hear his words. ‘And I will share my wife with no other man.’
Chapter Three
Gillian searched his face for answers she did not find. He was angry, aye, for it poured off him in waves. She understood now that he’d known her identity the whole while, even as she dissembled and lied. How?
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
Her brother had told her of the usurper’s nobleman on his way to claim their lands as well as herself, but this man who stood before her swore he was not noble. She’d heard his common cursing and seen the way the others called him by name—Brice—and not with the respect due a lord of the realm, even that of the Norman pigs who now infested their lands.
‘Brice Fitzwilliam, newly named Lord of Thaxted and baron to his Highness Duke William of Normandy and King of England,’ he said loud enough for all his men to hear. ‘And your husband,’ he said as he offered a slight bow to her.
Their answering cheers shook the night and terrified her. This was the man who would tear her world apart, kill her brother, take her lands and people and conquer her as surely as his bastard duke had ravaged the south of England already.
Fitzwilliam? He was a bastard himself. Now she understood his anger, for her earlier words about noblemen were an insult to his new honour.
‘You are not my husband,’ she said, refusing to believe that such a thing could be accomplished without her participation or consent.
He
