This Is All I Ask Read online

  She looked quickly at her father, wondering if he had realized his error. His expression gave nothing away, but the tic under his eye twitched with renewed vigor.

  “Hrumph,” Warewick grunted. “Even so, I’ll not have Blackmour insult me by not coming himself.”

  Colin’s smile grew chillier and Gillian pressed herself harder against the wall, ready to duck should a fight ensue.

  “I’m of the understanding that you can find no other mate for the child,” Colin said. “As she is far past the age when she should have been wed, I should think you would be anxious to rid yourself of her. My lord has accepted your rather ordinary and unimaginative dowry and done it willingly. Perhaps you would be better served by keeping your pride on a tighter leash. There are other maidens with more attractive holdings than hers.”

  Colin’s words sank into Gillian’s mind like sharp daggers, painful upon entry and excruciating as they remained. She wanted to draw air into her lungs, but her shock was too great. She stood still, listening to her father and Colin of Berkhamshire discuss her marriage.

  To Christopher of Blackmour.

  “Nay,” she whispered, pushing herself away from the wall. “Father, nay!” She crossed the chamber and flung herself down at his feet. Her terror of Blackmour overcame all the fear she felt for her father. Anyone but Blackmour, anyone at all. He had horns, he drank children’s blood, he danced under the moon as he worshipped the darkness. “Father, I beg you—”

  “Silence, wench,” he thundered, backhanding her.

  Gillian went sprawling. She rolled herself into a tight ball, preparing for the inevitable blow to follow. She cried out when she felt hands haul her to her feet.

  But the chest she was gathered against and the arm that pinned her against that chest were not her father’s.

  “Hush,” a deep voice commanded. “I’ve neither the time nor the patience for tears.”

  Gillian had never been so close to a man other than her brother or father and she found she didn’t care much for the sensation. Not only was Colin of Berkhamshire only slightly less evil than the Devil himself, he smelled.

  “The child comes with us. Now. The ceremony will be a se’nnight hence. The banns have already been read.”

  Gillian closed her eyes and began to pray. Oh, God, not to Blackmour!

  “The bold whoreson! I might have changed my mind.”

  “Indeed?” Colin drawled. “You rid yourself of your daughter and gain a powerful son-in-law with the same deed. I suspect that changing your mind was the last thing you intended to do.”

  “Begone,” Bernard snapped, but there was no fury behind his word. “And take that sniveling wench with you. The sight of her sickens me.”

  Gillian was too terrified to argue. She squeezed her eyes shut as Colin swung her up into his arms and carried her from the solar.

  “Your chamber, my lady?” he barked.

  Gillian couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even find her tongue to ask Colin to pick up her training sword—not that wood would have served her where she was going. Steel was the only thing of use against warlocks, or so she’d heard.

  She listened to her father’s steward give Colin directions, respectfully spoken of course, then felt herself being carried up the steep, narrow steps to the tower chamber, a pitifully small place where she had passed all of her days.

  “Pack only what can be carried easily,” Colin said curtly as he set her down on her feet. “Your husband will provide you with whatever else you may need.”

  Husband? The Devil’s own spawn? Despoiler of maidens, scourge of England, ravager of Blackmour? Aye, she knew much of Christopher of Blackmour and the tales were grim ones indeed.

  He had driven his wife mad, killed her and then buried her unshriven. He was known to take the shape of a wolf, loping over his land with long, lanky strides, ripping the throats from sheep and unwary travelers alike. It was rumored he practiced his dark arts by candlelight in his tower chamber, for ever the shadows could be seen dancing wickedly therein in the deepest of nights.

  She had no doubt that all of what she’d heard was true. She believed in witches, and magic, and in men changing their shapes when the moon hid his face. And she could readily believe the rumors of Blackmour’s harshness, of the beatings he dealt his servants, of the cruelty he showed to every soul who crossed him. And now she was to be his. Exchanging one prison for another, with like jailors.

  For a brief moment, she toyed with the idea of taking her own life. She could pull the sword from her trunk and fall upon it before Colin could stop her.

  A firm hand grasped her by the chin and forced her face up. She looked into Colin’s grim expression and quailed. It was no wonder he was so feared. There was no mercy to be found in his gaze.

  “The cut on your cheek is not deep,” he said. “I should kill Warewick for having marked you, but my lord will be displeased if I rob him of future sport. Gather your belongings and let us be off. We’ve a long ride before us and I’ll start it before more of the sun is spent on this ill-fated day.”

  She was surprised enough at his words to hesitate. Had he come near to offering to defend her? He wasn’t going to simply ignore Warewick’s treatment, as did all the rest in the keep?

  “I’ve no time to coddle you, girl,” he said, releasing her face abruptly. “Don’t stand there gawking. Your father has sold you to the only bidder and you’ve no say in the matter. Pack your things and let us be away, while my mood is still sweet.”

  The saints preserve her if she ever saw him when his mood was sour. As for the other, she readily recognized the truth of it. Her father could have sold her to a lecherous dotard or a five-year-old child and she wouldn’t have had a say in either. That he had sold her to Christopher of Blackmour only proved how little he cared for her. Aye, her fate was sealed indeed.

  Unless she somehow managed to escape Colin between Warewick and Blackmour.

  She turned the thought over in her mind. Escape was something she had never considered before, knowing it would have been impossible to get past her father’s guards. Now things were different. She might manage it.

  She turned to her trunk, her mind working furiously. Aye, she would escape, and she would need clothing that wouldn’t hamper her as she did so.

  She reached for her two gowns, ones she had worn to please her father, to make him look on her with favor—gowns that had tears in the back, reminders of just how futile her efforts to please him had been. Nay, those garments wouldn’t serve her while she fled. And, should she by some malevolent bit of misfortune arrive at Blackmour, she had no intention of anyone knowing how her clothing had been ripped so she might be beaten more easily.

  She pulled tunics and hose out instead, things of William’s she had cut down to fit her frame. No matter that they were patched and mended a score of times. Indeed, such mending would perhaps make others think she was merely a poor lad in search of supper. She would beg a few meals, sleep a night or two under the stars, then find herself in London where she would seek aid from the king.

  Assuming, of course, that London could be reached in a day or two. How large was England, anyway? A pity her father had been too ashamed of her to let her outside the inner bailey. It would have helped to know where she was going. No matter. She would watch the position of the sun, as William had taught her, and go south. London was south. She would reach it eventually and find the king. He wouldn’t refuse to aid her. After all, she was the only child left Warewick, flawed and unworthy though she was.

  Clothing decided upon, she dug into the bottom of her trunk and came up with her sword, wrapped in a tunic.

  It was torn from her hands and Colin barked out a laugh. “What is this?”

  Panic overcame her. Nay, not her true sword. Not the sword William had gifted her . . .

  “’Tis naught of yours,” she said, making a desperate lunge for it. Her sword was the one thing in the world she could trust to protect her and she would never relinquish it.<
br />
  Colin held it above his head, far out of her reach. “You’ll have no need of this, lady. My paltry skills will assure your safety.”

  “That is mine, you . . . you swine,” she blurted out, using William’s favorite slur.

  Colin’s expression changed and she knew her cheek would cost her. In an instant, her choices paraded before her, showing themselves in their fullest glory. She could defend herself, or she could die. She might have survived a beating at her father’s hands, but she knew she wouldn’t survive the like at Colin’s. She grasped for the last shreds of her courage and brought her knee up sharply into Colin’s groin.

  He dropped her sword with a curse and doubled over, choking. Gillian dove for her sword, then lurched to her feet, fumbling with the wrappings. She jerked it free of its scabbard and brandished it.

  “I know h-how to use this,” she warned Colin’s doubled-over form, “and I wouldn’t think t-twice about g-gelding you if need be.”

  “Pox rot you, wench,” Colin gasped. He lurched toward her, still hunched over.

  Gillian leaped backward in terror. She caught her foot in her gown and went down heavily, dropping her sword along the way. It skittered out of her reach. Gillian cried out in fear, for she had lost her one advantage. She knew it would be impossible to retrieve the blade before Colin reached her. So she did the only thing she knew to do: she bent her head and cowered, waiting for the first blow to fall.

  “Pick up your sword, girl,” Colin said, panting. “I’ve no stomach for beating women. And I remember telling you I wanted to be gone before the morn was wasted. Your father’s house feels more unfriendly than a camp full of infidels. I’m certain you’re as eager to leave as I am.”

  Gillian froze, hardly able to believe her ears. When she felt no blow come, she lifted her head to see what Colin was doing. He was staring down at her, but his hands were clutching his thighs. They were not clenched and held high, which, to her way of thinking, boded well.

  “I said, wrap up your blade, wench.” Colin straightened, then limped over to her trunk and looked inside. “What of these gowns? None to suit your finicky tastes?”

  Gillian couldn’t manage an answer. Colin hadn’t struck her. Indeed, he seemed to have forgotten her insults. She watched him in shock and not just a bit of suspicion. She had wounded more than just his pride and he wasn’t going to repay her for it? It took nothing more than the thought of such an act of defiance crossing her face for her father to punish her. What manner of man was this Colin of Berkhamshire?

  Colin picked up a gown and looked at it closely. Gillian wasn’t a skilled seamstress and the gown showed clearly how oft it had been torn. There was even blood on the garment he held, a mark she had scrubbed repeatedly, and unsuccessfully.

  Colin flung the garment into the trunk and slammed the lid shut. “Christopher will have other gowns made for you. You’ll not wear those in his hall. Saints, but I’d pay for the pleasure of meeting Warewick in the lists,” he muttered.

  He turned, strode over to her and drew her to her feet. He retrieved her sword, scabbard and dropped clothing, then shoved it all into her hands. He took hold of her arm and kept hold of it as he pulled her from the chamber, down the circular stairs and across the great hall.

  Her father stood at the door to the hall, his mouth open and likely full of more words that certainly wouldn’t please Colin. Colin shoved him out of the way, then herded Gillian and the rest of his men to the waiting horses.

  “You can ride?”

  “A bit,” she managed the moment before he tossed her up into a saddle.

  They were through the inner gates before Gillian had the chance to find her seat astride her horse. The outer gates had been reached and breached before she could catch her breath or find her wits to marvel at the dumbfounded look on her father’s face. Whatever Colin of Berkhamshire’s other flaws might be, he certainly had a way about him that annoyed her father. The memory of her sire’s spluttering was almost enough to make her smile.

  Colin set a brisk pace and by the time Gillian thought to look over her shoulder, her father’s hall was small and becoming smaller by the hoofbeat. She clutched the hilt of her sword and stared back at her prison in fascination. Odd how a place that had held her captive for the past one-and-twenty years seemed so puny and insignificant when viewed from a safe distance.

  “Watch your mount,” Colin barked, snagging her reins. “I’ve no time for coddling your tears.”

  “Oh, but I’ve no tears to shed,” she assured him quickly.

  “I shouldn’t think you would have,” Colin said, tossing her reins back at her. “Look sharp, lady, and don’t force me to halt for you. I haven’t the patience.”

  Gillian nodded and took hold of her reins, contenting herself with that tiny bit of control. It was, like her freedom, not destined to last more than the time it took them to travel from Warewick to Blackmour.

  Unless she could truly wrench destiny to her own pleasure.

  She looked about her at the score of grim-faced warriors and her heart sank. How could she elude them? Or escape them once they took up her trail? There wasn’t any hope. She was doomed to be carried off to another prison likely as terrifying and stifling as the one she had just left.

  Courage, Gill. You’ll not live forever at Warewick. Someday a handsome lord will take you away and make you his, and then think on how happy you’ll be. I know it will be so.

  William’s dying words came back to her, making her want to weep with despair. What William couldn’t have known, what even the most fiendish of village witches couldn’t have imagined, was that she wasn’t going to a man who loved her, who had offered for her out of affection, or even lust.

  She was going to the Dragon of Blackmour.

  two

  THE DRAGON OF BLACKMOUR SAT IN A CHAIR IN HIS BEDCHAMBER with his feet up on a stool and cursed the fool who had invented ale. Saints, it was poison! His head throbbed. The fingers he put to his head throbbed. He could have sworn the soles of his feet throbbed, but he wasn’t truly sure as he couldn’t feel anything past his knees.

  He fingered the rolled parchment he held, then cast it aside, not caring where it came to rest. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t remember every bloody word written there. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair, allowing the words to swim before his mind’s eye.

  I, William of Warewick, send greetings to Christopher of Blackmour. Time is short, my friend, for I know I am approaching my end. I adjure you to remember your vow, the one I begged you to make in the event of my death. You are the only one I trust with such a deed, Christopher, and I implore you not to fail me. Upon your honor, hold fast to your oath and see to what I cannot. God will bless you for your goodness.

  I write this by my own hand, this fourth day of April, the Year of Our Lord, 1248.

  William had penned those words a year ago. At the time, Christopher had thought William had slipped too far into his cups and was imagining his coming demise. With his own head currently paining him nigh unto death, Christopher could well understand the feeling.

  But now he knew William had been in earnest.

  And it was all because of the vow. By the saints, he had been daft to ever make such a promise. The very last thing he needed was a bloody wife!

  He rose with a hearty curse and left his bedchamber, making his way with care down to the great hall. Too much ale had made him clumsy and he had no intentions of misjudging his step and tumbling down the stairs.

  Chris, I’m trusting you to see to Gillian if anything ever happens to me. Do whatever you have to do to take her from my sire. You know as well as I what her fate will be otherwise. I know she’s not beautiful, but there are qualities more desirable than beauty.

  Christopher smiled bitterly at the thought. Aye, qualities such as loyalty, something he knew firsthand.

  “My lord, I brought you something to eat.”

  Bile rose in Christopher’s throat at the mere smell. �
��Take it away, Jason!”

  He listened to his squire scurry away, then sighed as he made his way to his chair at the high table. Jason of Artane should have had a better master, one who could have given him the training he needed. Christopher had tried to send him away three years ago, after the wounding, but neither Jason nor his father would accept it. Christopher had been left with no choice but to allow the boy of ten-and-six to remain, to become indispensable to him. A pity, really. Jason deserved better.

  “My lord, here is herbed wine. If you’ll hold your nose and drink it, your stomach will be settled.”

  A cold cup was pressed into Christopher’s hand. He held his breath and downed the contents, then waited for the nausea to come. He leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes, remaining still until he was certain his stomach wouldn’t reject Jason’s brew, then he nodded and handed the cup back to his squire. A calm belly was no blessing, though, for it gave him nothing to think on but his own black thoughts. Saints above, what had ever possessed him to promise William anything at all?

  He hadn’t given much thought to the vow he’d made his friend, though he remembered well enough the giving of it. It had been during the time he and William had been squiring together at Artane. Christopher had been watching Lord Robin, a man he worshipped to the depths of his soul, pick up his young daughter and carry her back to the house, giving her gentle words all along the way. He had followed, then run bodily into William, who had been staring at their lord with a grief-stricken expression.

  Christopher had never forgotten the look on William’s face. He had never known his friend to be anything but merry, but that day William had turned to him in obvious torment.

  “Promise me,” he had said, his face ashen. “Promise me that if anything happens to me, you’ll take my sister away from my sire. Vow it by the Holy Rood, Chris. Vow it now.”

  Christopher had been too unsettled to do anything else. Once he had given his word that he would see to William’s sister, his friend had slowly returned to his normal, cheery self. But from then on Christopher had marked the way William studied their lord with his daughter.