The Hidden Heart

Steffan and his men rode out from the trees between the village and the castle and trotted up the last rise at a decorous pace, casting her thoughts of the past to the back of her mind where they belonged.

She’d trouble enough to face in the here and now. Gillian squared her shoulders and moved into the opening of an embrasure where she’d be visible from the area across the moat.

Steffan and his party—eight men-at-arms and a standard-bearer—halted on the bank of the moat. He slipped off his helm and placed it on the high pommel of his saddle.

Still atop his mount, he bowed with all the finesse of a French courtier, his handsome face alight with pleasure from the look of it. Straightening, he scanned her face with a piercing look. “My dearest cousin.”

“Milord,” she called down to him, her voice cold as death. ’Twould take more than that display to impress her! “What brings you here, so far from home?”

“Once I heard your sad news, I had to come at once to offer my condolences—and my support. You and I have much to discuss. May we enter I’Eau Clair and take our ease?” he asked, including his men with a sweep of his hand.

Take his ease? He’d want more than that, of that she had no doubt. “I thank you for your sympathy, milord. ’Tis much appreciated. But I fear we cannot permit you—or anyone,” she added lest he question her choices, “to come within.”

Steffan drew in a deep breath and his face went still and cold—a remarkable transformation, but one that did not surprise Gillian in the least. He concealed his true self behind the veil of elaborate manners and fine clothes, but she’d been in Steffan’s presence often enough over the years to know him for a sly weakling. He was all talk and little action.

She’d no desire to waste her time listening to the likes of Steffan ap Rhys jabber on about nothing.

Especially not now.

Before she could draw breath to speak, Steffan’s expression had regained its usual urbanity. He tossed his helm to the man beside him and slipped from the saddle, bowing once more.

Did he truly believe his airs would change her mind?

“Cousin, I must speak with you.” Another motion of his hand and a sharp nod sent his men riding a short distance down the trail toward the village. He headed toward the door beside the gate with a confident stride.

“Hold, milord,” Gillian called.

Steffan stopped and stared up at her, the expression on his handsome face still pleasant, but his dark eyes glowing with some other, fiercer emotion.

At the sound of firm footsteps on the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder. Sir Henry, the captain of the guard, crossed the guardroom and joined her and Will. “I wondered how long ’twould be before yon popinjay dared show his face here again,” Sir Henry muttered, scorn etched deep upon his bearded visage. “Especially now that your father’s not here to send him on his way yet again—”

Gillian cut him off with a hand on his mail-clad arm. “Fear not—he’ll find no welcome here,” she assured the grizzled warrior. She smiled. “I know just what to do to send him on his way,” she added, low-voiced. She clasped her fingers tight about Sir Henry’s arm for a moment, taking comfort from the strength tensed beneath her grip before she released him and turned her attention back to Steffan.

“Milord, we’ve sickness within the keep. Surely you noticed the graves outside the wall.” ’Twas no effort to imbue her voice with sorrow for those words, but to strengthen her tone for the next... aye, that was a chore. “I would not have you risk your health—perhaps even your life—merely to speak with me,” she said, eyes downcast. “Nothing could be that important.”

Sir Henry snorted, turning the sound into a cough when Steffan eyed him suspiciously.

A look of distaste—nay, fear—crossed Steffan’s face, so fleeting she could almost believe she’d imagined it.

Almost. She fought back a smile.

“I must speak with you, cousin,” Steffan demanded. “Is there not some way we can talk privately?”

Will gestured for Gillian to move back from the wall. “A moment, milord,” she said, then stepped behind the cloaking mass of a merlon.

“He’ll not leave until he gets his way, milady. You know it as well as I.” Will glanced down at Steffan. “Look at him. The fool’s nigh hopping with impatience.”

“Aye, the lad’s right,” Sir Henry added with disgust. “Lord Steffan’s got something stuck in his craw. The sooner you meet with him, find out what he wants, the quicker you can send him on his way.”

Gillian nodded. “All right. Best to take care of this now.” Her mood brightened. “Mayhap after this, I’ll never need to see Steffan again.”

She returned to the embrasure. “I’ll speak with you, but you cannot come within. Wait for me by the door,” she said, then turned away.

She passed through the guardroom, Will and Sir Henry on her heels, and came to a halt at the head of the stairs. “My shadows,” she muttered. “You need not accompany me. He cannot harm me if I stay within, and he remains outside.”

“Who’s to say he’ll obey you?” Will growled. “He’s ne’er shown any inclination to listen to anyone but himself, so far’s I’ve seen. You need one of us there to make certain he behaves himself.”

Though she didn’t believe Steffan meant her any harm—and she knew the threat of sickness would keep him from entering I’Eau Clair—Will could be right. Steffan seemed more determined than she’d ever seen him.

But she’d no desire to prolong the agony of holding a conversation with him, either. “Sir Henry, come with me. If it looks as though Steffan plans anything too dangerous, I’m sure a glare from you will put him in his place.” She chuckled. “Your presence alone, especially once he sees the scowl on your face, should be spur enough to speed him on his way.”

As Gillian and Sir Henry made their way through the now-silent bailey, Gillian kept her expression relaxed, nodding to the group of villagers milling about near the stairs to the keep. Steffan was no threat to any of them—to anyone, most like. No sense adding more fuel to the already smoldering tension tearing at her people.

Sir Henry dismissed the man guarding the doorway and unbolted the heavy portal himself. He swung it open just far enough to reveal Steffan standing nigh upon the doorsill, one hand resting against the frame.

He straightened and reached for Gillian’s hand as she stepped into the narrow opening.

“None of that, milord,” Sir Henry growled, making as if to move in front of Gillian.

She stood her ground. “Nay, Sir Henry. I’m sure Lord Steffan knows I’ve been caring for the sick. If he wishes to risk illness himself, ’tis his affair.”

’Twas almost beyond her to stifle a laugh at Steffan’s swift retreat. Once he stood several paces away from the doorway, he bowed once more.

Face composed, she curtsied. “What did you wish to speak with me about?” she asked with more haste than grace.

He took one step closer to her, then glared past her at Sir Henry. “I wished to be private, cousin,” he hissed.

She permitted herself a faint smile. “We are private, milord.”

“As private as you’ll get,” Sir Henry muttered.

Gillian silenced the knight with a glance over her shoulder. “Sir Henry is privy to all my business, milord, for ‘tis his business to protect I’Eau Clair and all who dwell here.” She gathered her skirts in her hands, prepared to leave. “Speak or remain silent, it matters naught to me. But you’ll say your piece before us both, or not at all.”

She could practically hear Steffan’s teeth grinding, though his frustration showed only in his eyes, not upon his face. “I’ve come to offer my hand and heart, Gillian, to claim you as my bride.” He swept a hand through his dark curls, sighed heavily, then held both hands out to her in supplication. “You must see, ‘tis a perfect match. With the two of us ruling I’Eau Clair as one, our blood—the blood of Welsh princes—joined together in our sons, our dynasty will be a force to be reckoned with in the Marches. Welsh and Norman both will cede to us the power we deserve.”

She could scarce draw breath after his outrageous words, could barely restrain herself from grabbing for the glossy hair swinging to his shoulders and wrenching his throat back for her blade.

Instead she used her body to block the doorway and hold back a cursing Sir Henry, though her fingers closed tight around the hilt of the dainty jeweled eating knife at her waist. “Sir Henry!” she snapped when the knight clamped his hand about her arm and tugged her from the doorway. He released her at once. “One madman is all I can deal with for the moment.”

She stepped back into the doorway just as Steffan whipped a dagger from the sheath on his sword belt and held it toward Sir Henry. “You dare lay hands upon your lady?” Steffan snarled. Gillian drew her own blade and raised it threateningly when he would have lunged past her at her man. The unmistakable sound of Sir Henry’s sword slipping free behind her sent a chill through her.

“Enough, both of you!” She glanced from the naked steel glinting in the sunlight to the fire raging in Steffan’s eyes, then sighed. “We’ve all gone mad, it seems.” She lowered her knife. “Have done, both of you. I’m no piece of meat for you to fight over.”

Steffan rammed his dagger home, scowling his displeasure. Gillian feared ’twould take little to push him past reason.

“Sir Henry?” She peered back at him and saw that he’d sheathed his sword, but hadn’t bothered to hide his temper. Hot color tinted his cheeks, and he looked ready to burst.

This had been a bad idea from the start; she’d best end it now, before the next flash of steel—and she’d no doubt they’d come to that point again, should she attempt to converse with that lunatic Steffan.

Gillian raised her chin and looked Steffan in the eye. “I’m honored by your offer, milord.” How she forced those words past her lips, she’d no notion. “But ’tis not for me to say who I must wed,” she murmured. “My hand and inheritance are King John’s to give.” She lowered her gaze, then glanced up at him through her lashes. “You are welcome to apply to my liege, if you truly wish to marry me.”

Steffan’s expression didn’t appear so pleasant now, she noted with a secret smile. And his bow was so abrupt as to be insulting. “What of your father’s wishes in the matter? When last we met, but a few months ago, he led me to believe he thought us well matched.”

The hint of amusement she’d felt at taunting Steffan fled as swiftly as it had arrived. “Indeed?” she asked, her curt tone matching his. “Since my father’s death I’ve looked through all his papers. I’ve found nothing to indicate he ever thought of you at all.”

She couldn’t be certain whether ’twas her words, or Sir Henry’s muffled snort that overset Steffan’s fine manners. Whatever the reason, she could only offer up silent thanks.

“You’ve not heard the last of this, Gillian,” he sneered, all trace of the handsome courtier gone. He stared long and hard at her, then shifted his gaze to Sir Henry. “I’ll go to your king, if need be.” He reached for her arm, then evidently thought better of such a foolhardy act and let his hand drop just short of her. “You will be mine.” He turned on his heel and headed for his mount, pausing a few paces from the showy beast. “And once you are, I swear you’ll never mock me again.”

Chapter Three

The look Steffan gave her just before he spurred his horse into a gallop haunted Gillian through the rest of the day. She’d never cared for him in the slightest; indeed, she’d felt nothing but scorn for him for as long as she could remember. Her other Welsh kin—her distant cousins Ian and Catrin, especially—were dear to her. She welcomed their rare visits to I’Eau Clair. Her father had respected them, had encouraged her to nurture these ties to her mother’s family.

Now that she was seated at the table in her solar to tally the accounts, she could hold back her thoughts no longer.

She tossed aside the quill she’d been using and settled back in her chair, tugging off her veil and unplaiting her tightly braided hair. The thought of taking Steffan as her husband disgusted her. Had Rannulf FitzClifford spoiled her taste for all other men? When she thought back to his last visit, to the closeness they’d shared...

How could she ever hope to have that with another?

And to abandon her as he had—without warning, without reason. Had he gained all he wanted from her, and desired her no more? Or had he found her lacking?

The answer was beyond her ability to understand. She’d never have an opportunity to learn the answers from him, that much had been clear from the message he’d penned upon the betrothal contract.

She fought the urge to draw the crumpled parchment from the box where she’d locked it away. In the week since she’d found the missive, her mind refused to set her free of it. Her thoughts circled, distracting her as she sought some way to protect her people, her home.

Was she doomed to mourn his loss yet again?

Rannulf FitzClifford did not deserve her attention or the time she’d wasted upon the lost cause he represented.

Matters of far greater import weighed heavy on her. How to provide for her people, to protect them, to uncover the miscreants who seemed set upon destroying all her father had established. She raked her hands through the trailing mass of her hair and pressed her fingers against the throbbing ache at her temples.

The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs to her solar provided a welcome distraction. She rose and opened the door.

Will reached the top of the spiral stair and hurried to her. “Riders approach, milady,” he said, his urgent tone matching his expression.

Gillian drew the door closed behind her and sighed. “Not Steffan again?” she asked, already racking her brain for another way to keep him outside the gates.

“Nay, milady. ‘Tis far worse.” Will motioned for her to precede him down the stairs. “’Tis a war party, Lady Gillian, nigh a hundred strong. They’re armed to the teeth and provisioned for siege, to judge from the size of their baggage train.”

Her heartbeat raced, increasing the sense of urgency flying through her veins. Was this the attack she’d feared since the raids began? She’d known ‘twas but a matter of time before I’Eau Clair itself became the target!

Her boots clattered on the stone risers as she hastened down them, snatching up her hem and running once she reached the great hall. “Muster anyone who can fight in the bailey at once,” she told Will, who followed hot on her heels. “And send the older women and the children to wait in here.” Her maid met them near the door. ”Ella, you’d best prepare to care for the wounded in here as well,” she said.

“Aye, milady,” Ella said, then snatched at Gillian’s arm as she made to pass through the door Will held open. “Here now, where are you going?”

Gillian drew a deep breath. “To the walls.”

“Nay, child, ’tis no place for you.”

Gillian reached down and took Ella’s hand in hers and lifted it, freeing herself. She gave Ella’s fingers a quick squeeze before releasing her. “Where else should I be? I command I‘Eau Clair now. ’Tis my place to lead my people.” She pressed a kiss to Ella’s wrinkled cheek and gathered up her skirts again. “I’ll be fine,” she said before she turned and left the hall.

“Where is my sword?” she asked Will as they hastened through the crowd already gathering in the bailey.

Will stopped in his tracks. “You’ve no need for that,” he said, his voice more stern than she’d ever heard it. “Do you think to lead us in battle? By Christ’s blood, Gil—”

“Bring me a sword, Will. Now.” Not waiting to see if he’d heed her command, she continued on and raced up the gatehouse stairs.

A lad dashed after them, calling for Will, and entered the gatehouse in their wake. “A moment, milady,” Will called as Gillian headed for the wall walk.

He took her sword from the boy and handed it to her, his lips twisted into a rueful smile.

“You know me too well,” she said as she slid free the blade and set aside the scabbard. Fingers clenched tight about the hilt, Gillian drew a deep breath to settle herself and stepped out onto the walk. Still not ready, she moved past the first merlon, catching a glimpse of what awaited them below.

She paused for a moment, scarce able to breathe, then forced herself to turn and look over the wall.

“Holy Mary save us,” she whispered. She leaned into the crenel, her free hand braced on the low stone wall as she gazed, transfixed, at the army spread out across the crest of the hill.

They were doomed.

Rannulf sat atop his stallion before the familiar gray walls of I’Eau Clair Keep and fought back the wave of memories threatening to flood his mind. He could not permit his heart to reign over his head, no matter the provocation.

He would not allow himself close to Gillian again.

A flash of red—Gillian’s hair, no mistaking it—moved swiftly past the crenels of the gatehouse tower, making his heartbeat trip and falter for a moment.

He doubted the battle between heart and mind would ever cease. The moment he’d dreaded since the night he met Talbot had arrived, and he felt no more in command of himself now than he had the last time he’d seen Gillian.

He took a deep breath and reached up to tug his helm lower over his brow—a more comfortable position, true, but also a way to hide his identity from Gillian’s keen eyes for a little while longer.

By the rood, his reaction to her this time was stronger than ever before, and he’d yet to face her.

’Twas all he could do to stay put, and not spur his mount far away from the one woman he’d prayed he would never have to face again.

Nicholas nudged his mount closer to Rannulf’s. “How long do they expect us to sit here before someone comes to answer our summons?” Nicholas asked, low-voiced.

“There’s some movement on the wall,” Rannulf said, just as Gillian came fully into view between two tall crenels.

The sight of her traveled from his eyes to his brain, and then to land like a blow from a mailed fist to his chest.

How could he have forgotten how lovely she was? Her unbound hair framed the pale alabaster glow of her face, the wavy mass hanging past her waist to disappear behind the wall.

“By the Virgin,” Talbot declared, his expression as awestruck as his tone. “Please let that be my ward.” He urged his horse forward and whipped off his helm. “Milady,” he called. He bowed so low, Rannulf noted with disgust, ’twas a wonder he didn’t fall from the saddle.

Gillian straightened and moved nearer the edge of the wall, revealing the sword she held in her left hand—and the full beauty of her form, outlined against the deep blue sky. Rannulf bit back a smile of admiration at the sight of her courage. His heart sank at Talbot’s obvious appreciation, although Talbot had yet to notice the blade of Gillian’s weapon gleaming in the sunlight, he’d wager. He doubted armed women were Talbot’s style.

However, ’twas Rannulf’s misfortune that Gillian, armed or no, was all the woman he could ever desire.

If she’d changed since he’d last seen her, ’twas only to become more beautiful.

And more stubborn? a voice in the back of his mind mocked. Her sweet temper turned bitter by your betrayal?

“Milord.” She responded to Talbot’s greeting with a curt nod—the perfect accompaniment to the sharpness of her voice—and no smile of welcome brightened her face. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

Talbot’s shoulders stiffened. “I am Lord Nicholas Talbot of Ashby, sent by King John to protect Lady Gillian and her lands. Have I the honor of speaking to my ward? Pray open the gates at once, that I might meet you.”

“To any preening fool who rides up to the door? I think not.” She leaned forward. “What proof have you of your claim?”

“The king’s writ, signed and sealed by our liege himself,” Talbot replied, his tone as cold as hers.

He turned to Rannulf and motioned him forward.

Rannulf rode up to join him, careful to center his attention on the man beside him, not the siren poised above him. Would she be able to feel his presence, as he was all too aware of hers?

“Milord?” he asked, pitching his voice low.

Talbot reached into a leather pouch on his saddle and drew forth a rolled parchment. He held it out toward Rannulf. “Will you permit my vassal to carry the writ within?”

Gillian stared down at Lord Nicholas Talbot. He appeared far too self-assured and handsome—and arrogantly aware of the fact, ’twas easy to see—for her to trust him any more than she’d trusted Steffan that very morn.

She eyed the vassal, who had yet to take the scroll from Talbot. Did the fellow await her permission? Somehow she couldn’t imagine that was the case, but who knew what his hesitation might mean? She could not judge him by his expression, with his face hidden by his helm, but that he was a warrior she could readily see by his strong build and well-worn armor.

She tugged Will aside. “What think you?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“Aye, why allow a fox amongst the chickens?” A few more whispered words sent Will on his way.

She stepped back toward the crenel. “Your vassal may remain where he belongs, milord—by your side,” she called to Talbot. “Have one of your lackeys bring the writ to my man who awaits him below.” She pointed to the door in the wall beneath her. “He will bring it to me.”

Talbot frowned, then called to a man in servant’s livery from among the mounted men ranged behind him. “As you command, milady,” he replied with ill grace. He handed off the scroll to the manservant who approached him on foot and settled back in the saddle to stare up at her.

Gillian fought the urge to glare back as she waited while Talbot’s man gave the parchment to Will and Will hurried to her side, Sir Henry following hard on his heels.

“I was watchin’ from the other tower, but I figured you’d want me over here,” Sir Henry said.

“Aye. I’d appreciate your counsel.” She set aside her sword and reached for the message Will held out to her.

She stood behind the bulk of a merlon to read the scroll, out of sight of Talbot and his men, for she’d no desire to provide a show for their enjoyment, depending upon her reaction to what the parchment revealed.

Her hands remained steady as she unrolled the writ, examined the seal—King John’s, that much at least was true—and began to scan the words scrawled boldly across the page.

She finished reading, then closed her eyes for a moment before handing the king’s writ to Sir Henry. “He has the right of it,” she murmured. “We’re to welcome Lord Nicholas Talbot, such vassals as he’s brought along and all their men, to ‘aid in the defense and protection of the keep of I’Eau Clair, and specifically the person of its heir and lady—’” She drew in a deep breath. “Me.”

Scowling, Sir Henry looked up from perusing the document. “We’ve no choice but to let them in.” He gave back the parchment. “Though I must admit, all those men’ll come in handy, should we be attacked again.”

Will glanced over the wall. “That they will. Most of them look as though they know how to fight.” He nodded. “And I’d rather fight with ‘em than against ’em.”

Both of them were right. And wasn’t this what she’d hoped for? Help for her people, protection for I’Eau Clair—it seemed her prayers had been answered after all.

How could she regret giving up command of the keep, when it would benefit them all?

“Tell them to lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis,” she ordered. Once Will left to relay her command, she took up her sword once more. The scroll clasped tight in her right hand, her sword in her left, Gillian left the merlon’s protection and composed herself to be hospitable. “My lord Talbot.” She curtsied. “You and your men may enter l’Eau Clair and be welcome.”

Gillian used the brief time it took for Talbot and his party to enter I’Eau Clair to twist her unruly hair back into a rough braid and cover it with a piece of veiling. Emma had just settled a copper circlet upon the finely woven linen when the pounding of booted feet on the stairs heralded Talbot’s arrival.