Prologue
England, Early October, 1215
"Tell me. What news of Ellis of Westerbrook?"
The imperious command came from John, king of England, the
youngest of the Devil's brood, as Henry II's rebellious
sons had come to be known, for they had been ever and
always at odds with their father . . . and with each other.
Gilbert of Lincoln crushed his cap in his hands and stared
up into the black-bearded face of his king. Like so many of
England's people, he, too, was weary of the king's greed;
the grumble of discontent was heard throughout the land.
Many of John's barons were outraged by his ceaseless
demands to replenish his treasury--that and the call to
arms that John might continue his fight to regain his lands
across the Channel in Normandy and the Angevin provinces.
The Great Charter had failed. Indeed, several were so
incensed--and so intent upon his demise--that they had
hatched a plot to kill him.
'Twas a plot gone sorely awry.
For the arrow loosed upon King John, who had been lured
away from his hunting party, had missed its mark, when, at
the last instant, the king's mount had reared. Instead the
arrow hit one of the king's guards who had given chase to
seek his errant king. The perpetrator had escaped into the
woods, for the forest had been especially dense. It was
several weeks later before he was eventually caught and
imprisoned . . . .
It was Ellis, lord of Westerbrook.
But there was another, too . . . the wounded guard, afore
he breathed his last, had gasped that there were two
assailants. . .
The king's men had immediately taken John far, far away
lest there be another attempt. And so 'twas because of this
attempted slaying of the king--that Gilbert of Lincoln had
taken to horse and ridden madcap through the forest and the
mud and the dark for nearly two days to reach his king. He
was sodden to the skin by the never-ending drizzle,
drenched to the very center of his being! His cloak dripped
puddles on the rushes strewn beneath his booted feet.
Gilbert did not relish the news he was about to impart, for
he very much feared the king's mood would soon be as foul
as the weather without.
"Aye, sire. I bring news of Ellis."
John leaned forward. Ellis, the rogue, had been caught near
the Scottish border; John had ordered him taken to
Rockwell, his castle nearby. But he had grown impatient
with Ellis's refusal to divulge the identity of the other
man responsible for the attempt on his life, though Ellis
had freely admitted his own guilt.
It had posed a dilemma . . . but not for long. 'Twas plain
to see that Ellis was a proud, honorable man, a man of
principle. But every man had his weakness, John had
reasoned, and even the stoutest back would break before the
right persuasion. He'd heard how deeply Ellis loved his
children--for that very reason he'd dispatched his men to
Westerbrook to seize Ellis's daughter Gillian and his young
son Clifton. The king had surmised Ellis would sing like
the veriest nightingale when his daughter and son were
brought before him with a blade at their throats.
"Well, out with it then! Tell me, for I would know, and I
would know now! Ellis has confessed the name of the rogue
with whom he conspired to kill me, hasn't he? Who is it
then? Who is the other blackguard?"
Gilbert had gone pale. He stole a glance at the other
occupants of the room, the king's men Geoffrey Covington
and Roger Seymour. Also present was the lord of
Sommerfield, for it was at his castle that John had decided
to take shelter for the night.
Gilbert locked his knees to still their quavering. If he
feared for his life, he could not help it. It was well
known indeed that John possessed a vindictive streak. If
the king so pleased, he might order his eyes burned out or
his nose slit . . . or worse. Many a soul had no doubt that
John had done away with his own nephew, Arthur of Brittany,
who had disputed John's right to the English throne. Ah,
little wonder that Gilbert had not been eager to be the
bearer of such news that he would give this night.
The king's questioning left Gilbert damp of palm and
sweating at the brow. "I-I do not know, sire," he
stammered. "Ellis . . . he confessed nothing of the other
man."
John's smile vanished. Thick, bejeweled fingers drummed
against the tabletop, for the king was fond of excess and
indulged in many. He scowled his impatience. "By God's
teeth! Have I naught but imbeciles to serve me? Why the
devil do you come to me then? Has he escaped?"
"Nay, sire."
"What then?"
Gilbert swallowed. He knew full well that torture had not
compelled Ellis to confess. In truth, he shuddered to think
what Ellis had endured, for never would he have been so
steadfast and unwavering. If all accounts were to be
believed, Ellis of Westerbrook had not cried out, not even
once . . .
"He is dead, sire. Ellis is dead."
For one awful moment John said nothing. Then he leaped to
his feet, his eyes ablaze.
"Dead? How can that be?"
The king gave Gilbert no chance to respond. "I gave orders
that he was to be kept alive," John roared, "alive until
his daughter and son were brought to Rockwell and I had
returned! By God, who did this? What fool dared disobey me?
I vow I will have his head--"
Gilbert spoke up before he lost his own. "You
misunderstand, sire. Ellis was not killed, by your men or
any other. He died by his own hand. He hung himself in his
cell."
The king had gone white about the mouth. "What of his son
and daughter?" he demanded.
Gilbert's knees had begun to shake anew, for he was aware
of John's reputation of cruelty and
ruthlessness. "Westerbrook was deserted, sire. Ellis's
daughter and son were gone. It seems they fled in the
middle of the night . . . along with many of his men."
For the space of a heartbeat the king stared at Gilbert
with frightening intensity. He made not a move, nary a
sound. Yet his countenance was such that Gilbert felt every
drop of blood drain from his face. It spun through his mind
that the king in a rage was not a pretty sight. Nay, there
was nothing majestic about this man who called himself king
of England. His lips drew back over his teeth in a snarl.
His dark features were contorted with rage. Although John
did not possess the Plantagenet coloring, the fair
handsomeness of his brother Richard, Coeur de lion, upon
whose death Henry's last remaining son had come the throne
of England, 'twould seem that he did indeed possess the
famed Plantagenet temper of his forebearers . . . .
Gilbert's mouth opened in a soundless scream. He was
convinced that at any moment the king's fiery gaze would
surely bore through him, burning him to cinders in the very
spot where he stood.
Then all at once John whirled. He stalked from one end of
to the hearth, back to the other. Broad, leather-shod feet
kicked about the remains of his meal, for about his chair
bones were strewn, along with the heads of fish and crusts
of bread. All the while black curses spewed from his mouth.
The blaze of his anger seemed to vibrate and leap from the
lofty rafters that spanned the width of the great hall of
Sommerfield.
"By God, who does he think he is? No, I'll not be duped by
him, by that traitor Ellis!"
The king's men, Lord Geoffrey Covington and Lord Roger
Seymour, exchanged troubled glances. It was Geoffrey
Covington who slipped from his chair and laid a hand on
Gilbert's shoulder. Nodding toward the door, Covington
spoke in a low tone. Gilbert was wise enough to bow to
Covington's request; quickly he took to his heels, anxious
to escape the hall . . . and the king's fury.
Geoffrey Covington remained where he was, one slim leg
angled away from the other. The broad sweep of his brow
furrowed, as if in consideration. The elder of the king's
confidantes, Roger Seymour, brushed a hand across his
balding pate, then placed his hands on the broad plane of
his knees, his expression one of decided consternation. He
lowered his gaze, clearly reluctant to interrupt the king's
fit of petulance. Covington's gaze had turned keenly
observant, his eyes the same rich brown as his hair. Though
he was a man of slender proportions, he was nonetheless a
man fashioned with wiry strength and fluid, agile movement.
As he looped his hands behind his back, the sword strapped
to his side caught the light from the fire. He was a man of
quiet demeanor, as evidenced by his words to Gilbert and
the way he waited patiently for his king's wrath to expire.
At length he cleared his throat. "Sire," he said.
John paid no heed, but continued his pacing. "By God, that
wretch, Ellis! He thought to best me, to rob me of my
satisfaction. I should have slit his nose. Burned out his
eyes. Carved off his ear and sent it to his daughter. Then
he would have talked!"
"Sire," Covington said more loudly.
"By God's teeth, he shall not deprive me of my revenge! Do
you hear, he shall not!"
"Sire, you must calm yourself."
"Calm myself! How the devil can I?" John stormed. "I want
it burned. I want Westerbrook burned to the ground.
Seymour, see to it."
Seymour inclined his head. "As you wish, sire."
"He will pay. By God, Ellis will pay. By the robes of
Christ, he thought to cheat me, the king of England, of his
death--of discovering the identity of the other man who
would see me dead! He will not. I tell you, he will not.
Ellis of Westerbrook will not cheat me! His treason must be
punished."
Covington frowned. "But how, sire? He is already dead. Is
that not punishment enough?"
"Nay, not for him!" John ground to a halt. "His children,"
he pronounced flatly. "They must die."
Covington and Seymour exchanged glances. "But, sire,"
Seymour said slowly, "the eldest is but a woman, scarcely
out of girlhood. The other is but a boy of twelve. Surely
they can do you no further harm--"
"It matters not. Ellis's seed will be wiped out. I will do
what must be done. She cannot be allowed to bring forth her
father's blood. Neither can her brother. Aye, Ellis's seed
must be wiped from this earth . . . forever. Only then will
I be avenged."
Seymour had gone pale. Even Covington appeared discomfited.
It was Seymour who spoke. "Sire," he ventured faintly. "You
cannot mean to murder them."
"And why not? Did you not hear, Seymour? I want them dead,
both of them!"
Seymour placed his hands on the table. He glanced at
Covington, then back to John. This time it was Covington
who raised a hand.
"Sire, I pray you do not misunderstand me. I . . . we . . .
do not question your judgment." Carefully he chose his
words. "There are those who still believe you may be
responsible for the death of your nephew Arthur, which was
deplored by the world. I know--we know," he hastened to
add, "that you have no knowledge of Arthur's disappearance.
But to do away with Ellis's daughter and son would be to
risk further condemnation."
By now John had lowered himself into his chair. "Then none
will know but those present in this room," John declared.
Seymour broke out in a cold sweat. "But, sire," he ventured
tentatively, "I must ask who . . . who would you have carry
out such an onerous task?"
For the longest time John said nothing. His gaze alighted
on the dark-haired man at the far end of the table, a man
whose watchful green eyes surveyed all but said nothing--
the man in whose castle he'd chanced to reside for the
night.
He stroked his beard, thinking on all Covington and Seymour
had said, for in truth, John was well aware of his faults.
He was not a trusting man--nor was he a man to be trusted.
The question of who would kill a maid and a boy was a very
good question indeed, he mused . . .
'Twas not a task for one of his mercenaries. Nor could it
be given to a man who might lie or cheat or betray him. But
it was rumored that the man opposite him had grown harsh
and bitter by the death of his beloved wife late in the
spring. Immersed in grief, to John's knowledge, this man
had not been among the army of barons at Running-Mead,
those wretches who had forced him to sign the Great
Charter. Oh, how he'd chortled when he learned that Pope
Innocent had ruled in his favor. The Pontiff had cast aside
that foolish document and ordered the barons to lay down
their arms or risk excommunication.
The threat had done little to dispell the barons'
rumblings. But John was still king, and this time he was
determined to crush them. His spies told him how they had
gone back to their old ways and quarreled among themselves
as bitterly as ever. No matter. They had joined together
once, and John would not allow it to happen again. Nay, he
would not be brought to his knees yet again.
But this man . . . this man had not been held in any
particular favor by the Crown, yet neither was he in
disfavor. Better yet, he was not a man given to failure;
his prowess and success in tournaments was exceeded only by
the likes of William Marshall--it had gained him many
ransoms and prizes. Besides, John reasoned quickly, if this
fellow were thus engaged in finding Ellis's daughter and
son, he could not join the ranks of the other barons in
plotting against him.
Ah, but lands and riches would not persuade this man to do
such a foul deed as murder to a maid and boy, for he was
already well endowed. Yet if he were to hold this man's
young son as hostage to completion of the deed . . . that
was another matter entirely.
By turn, the eyes of Covington and Seymour came to follow
those of the king, fixing on the man at the far end of the
table--the man whose handsome visage had taken on a cast of
dark grimness.
John smiled. He spoke softly--those who knew him well knew
this was a sign that he was at his most dangerous. "Who
better than one already at hand?" he said smoothly. "And I
shall be generous, sir, for I promise I shall safeguard
your son until your return . . . ."
'Twas a threat implicit . . . a threat unspoken. Perchance
he knew, the king of England, that this man even now
despaired the fates which had brought the king to his
castle for the night; that now turned him onto a path he
had no choice but to follow. Oh, but he'd thought himself
so clever not to ally himself rashly with the other nobles,
to steer clear of the king. For though he had championed
many a battle, he was not a man without mercy or
compassion. But even he could not fight the king, not when
his son's life was at stake . . .
"Ah, yes," John said slyly. "Who better than Gareth, Lord
of Sommerfield . . . "
CHAPTER 1
There was no sleep for Lady Gillian of Westerbrook this
night.
Her heart thundered, as loudly as the thunder that boomed
without. 'Twas said to be the most savage coast in all the
land, here where the fist of Cornwall thrust into the
treacherous waters of the sea. Indeed, Gillian could well
believe it.
The wind howled through the crevices, an eerie sound
strangely like a keening wail. The cottage was stout and
sturdily built of stone; tucked into a fold of the hillside
that squatted above, it was shielded from the full force of
the gale and thus kept her safe. Yet the fear that the very
walls about her would be lifted and flung verily into the
raging tempest without was a fear that refused to be
banished, try though she might. 'Twas as if a mighty hand
from aloft vented his wrath upon sea and shore. As if the
gale roared down from the heavens to every corner of the
earth . . .
A shiver shook Gillian's form. Indeed, the very walls
seemed to shiver and shake with the force of the wind. Yea,
but this was a harsh, unforgiving place, this far-flung
corner of Britain. It would show no mercy to those who had
not the strength to withstand its rigors.
For it was in the midst of just such a raging storm that
her father, Ellis of Westerbrook, had come to her chamber.
Aye, the storm reminded her piercingly of that night--the
night she'd been wrenched from her home, from all she'd
ever known. Her brother. Her sweet, younger brother
Clifton. Nay, but it was not the first such storm that she
had endured in the weeks since she had come here . . . if
only it would be the last!
A wave of bleakness swept over her, as endless as the dark
gray seas that stretched beyond the shore. Her heart cried
out, for each day was an eternity. November had drawn to a
close, and she was still here . . . How long must she
remain here? Forever, she feared. How was she to bear it?
How?
Refuge. She reminded herself it was that which Brother
Baldric had sought by bringing her here to the place where
he had been born. He'd said that to continue to move about
was to risk discovery. That they must hide here until the
king's fury died out. Ah, but would there ever come a time
when she felt safe again?
Nay, she thought with a sinking flutter of dread. Not as
long as King John was alive. How could she feel safe when
she felt like an outcast? Tainted.
This was not the life she'd dreamed of, not the life she
had ever thought to find. Memories of the past rose up to
mingle with a wistful yearning. Papa had always been one to
keep his children close to him. Papa had chosen not to have
Clifton foster with another family, but to begin his
training at Westerbrook. The winter that her mother had
died from a stomach ailment had been a difficult one for
all of them. Gillian had been sixteen, and Clifton but ten.
Perhaps, after her mother's death, Papa had wanted to keep
his children close to him. Papa teased her occasionally
that he must find a husband for her, but in truth there had
been no haste. Gillian never doubted that someday she would
marry, but she knew Papa would never foist a husband on her
that she did not love, a husband who did not return her
love in the very same measure.
Someday, she trusted, that man would come for her. A man
she would love above all others . . .
Sometimes she dreamed of him, of a man strong and valiant,
and ever so dashingly handsome! And oh, his kiss--that very
first kiss! He'd steal her very breath and make her tingle
to the tips of her toes, with arms both tender and strong,
and warm, compelling lips. Her life would be one of
laughter and love and joy. She would watch in wonder and
contentment while her babes toddled about, for she had
already decided there would be many. A girl she could rock
and tell tales of days gone by. A boy as sturdy and
handsome as his father, who would teach him of honor and
truth.
But now a shadow had been cast over all her hopes and
dreams. A shadow that might well last a lifetime.
But what was this? Pulling the soft wool coverlet more
tightly about her shoulders, she scolded herself soundly.
She was foolish to feel sorry for herself, for what of her
brother Clifton? She was a woman full grown, she reminded
herself. And for all that Clifton staunchly proclaimed that
he was a man, he was but a boy of twelve.
Not until dawn's pale light crept along the misty hills to
the east was Gillian able to drift away in slumber.
Yet despite the wildness of the gale that night, when
Gillian tugged open the door the next morning, sunlight
poured down from the sky, as pure and golden as any she'd
seen in the northern shires of Westerbrook. Such was the
way of it here along the coast of Cornwall. No sweet,
fragrant fields and rolling hillsides here, not like
Westerbrook. Tall grasses fringed the stretch of beach
beyond the cottage. To the north and west, white-gray
cliffs towered over the tiny inlet. She stood for a moment,
gazing out. In truth, Gillian could not deny there was a
raw, stark beauty to this land . . .
Her throat closed painfully. She didn't mind fending for
herself. She wouldn't have minded living in this tiny,
derelict cottage at all, if not for the ever-present
fear . . . and the storms.
Oh, it wasn't for herself that she feared. She worried
about Clifton, so young, deprived of his family. She
worried about Brother Baldric, whose age made the journey
here a difficult one, though he never complained.
He had come to Westerbrook as a young man; he'd once been a
tenant on Westerbrook lands, even when her grandfather had
been lord. But it was when her father Ellis was a youth
that tragedy struck. Early one morn, Baldric's cottage had
caught fire after he'd left for the fields.
His wife and four children had perished.
In time, Baldric had decided to dedicate his life to the
Church. Perhaps it was despair that had brought him to the
Church, but it was surely faith that kept him there. Of
that, Gillian had no doubt. Sometimes, though, she had
wondered it was if the memory of his wife and children that
had kept him from taking Holy Orders.
Aye, she'd known him since she was a child. There was not a
time that she could not remember him.
But she missed Westerbrook, she thought yearningly. Most of
all, she missed her father and Clifton.
Darkness bled through her. One she would never see
again . . . as for the other, she could only pray the day
would come soon.
It was then she spied the slight figure of a man coming
toward her, weaving down the path. Scarcely taller than
she, he was spare and thin, his pate shaved and exposed to
the wind; the set of his shoulders between his robe was
bony and frail. At times she marveled that he had been able
to make the journey here to the place where he had been
born--that he had revealed much of his character and
determination.
"'Twas quite a storm we had last night."
The breath she drew was faintly unsteady, but somehow she
managed a faltering smile. "It was," she agreed.
Brother Baldric peered at her. "I am sorry I did not come
yesterday."
Gillian gave an admonishing shake of her head. "You need
not be sorry, Brother Baldric." She couldn't help but feel
guilty. The walk from the sparsely populated village was a
long one, yet Brother Baldric made it as often as he
could. "Indeed, 'tis most kind of you to help with food and
fuel. I know that it takes away from your work with Father
Aidan." Father Aidan was nearly blind; since returning
here, Brother Baldric had become Father Aidan's eyes. They
sometimes walked for days to minister to those in the area,
for the villages were few and far between.
She smiled faintly. "I am in your debt, as you well know."
"Debt?" Brother Baldric scoffed. "My first duty is to God.
My second to your father, and he entrusted me with your
safety. Speak no more of debt." He frowned suddenly. "You
look fatigued, Lady Gillian. Are you ill?"
"Nay. 'Tis just that I did not sleep well."
"The storm?" he guessed.
"Aye."
"And other things as well, I vow."
"That, too," she admitted. "I worry about Clifton. He is so
young. And he's been deprived of his family--"
"I understand your concern, but it was for your own good
that your father sent the two of you away."
Her eyes shadowed, Gillian regarded the dark-robed man who
had brought her here. "I know. But it pains me to think of
Clifton alone."
"Not alone," he reminded her. "He is with Alwin, your
father's chief retainer, and we both know that Alwin will
protect Clifton with his life."
Though Gillian knew Brother Baldric meant only to comfort,
there was no such comfort to be found for the endless,
dragging heaviness within her . . . for what if it should
come to that? What would happen to Clifton then?
Her eyes darkened. "If only we could have remained
together!"
"It could not be. Your father was convinced his children
stood a far better chance apart than together--and he was
right, methinks. He dared not take the chance that King
John would find you--you or Clifton." Brother Baldric did
not speak aloud what they both knew--at least this way, if
one were caught, the other might live.
"I should have stayed with him. I should have stayed with
Papa!"
"He would not have allowed it."
He was right. Her father could be so stubborn. Yet still
the memory speared her heart, her very soul. From the
moment she'd left her father so many weeks ago, she had
prayed for the best . . . all the while fearing the worst.
Alas, it had come to pass.
Events of the outside world were slow to reach this remote
corner of the land, but earlier in the month Baldric had
come with news. There was discontent among the barons; that
they had ever come together at Running-Mead seemed a
miracle. But there was more. . . with obvious reluctance
he'd delivered the heartrending news that her father had
been caught . . . and was now dead.
Gillian could not help it. A hot ache filled her throat.
She choked back a sob.
"Painful though it is--small comfort that it is--try to
remember, it was God's will."
"God's will that my father take his own life? God's will
that he was buried in unconsecrated ground?" Her tone laid
bare the bitterness etched deep in her breast.
"I can see why your faith would be tested. But I pray, do
not do this, Lady Gillian."
"My father did not take his life because he was weak--
because he was afraid. He took it rather than give up
another to the king's wrath. Nay, he was not weak--it is
I!"
"Nay, child, nay! I am proud of you, for not many could
live as you do--here, alone with only an old man for
companionship. You are strong, Lady Gillian. Strong enough
to face the future."
Alone? That single word unspoken seemed to hover between
them. For alas, she did not feel strong. Though she was a
woman full grown, she felt weak as a mewling child. This
austere existence was a far different life than she had
lived at Westerbrook . . . Fleetingly she wondered how King
Henry's wife Eleanor had lived in exile for sixteen long
years. Yet it was not what Brother Baldric thought. Nay, in
truth it was not the loneliness that Gillian minded . . .
but the storms.
"I leave with Father Aidan to accompany him to the east,
Lady Gillian. But before I leave, walk with me a while. It
will do you good."
Brother Baldric was right. She must not give in to despair.
Nor would she cause him worry--indeed, it almost seemed as
if the myriad lines in his forehead were etched even deeper
as he gazed at her imploringly. In truth, she decided,
surely she fretted enough for both of them!
"Ah, Brother Baldric. What would I do without you to guide
me?" She reached out and gave his thin shoulders a quick,
fond hug. He was a humble man; he'd grown to manhood poor
and remained poor by choice.
Together they set out along the trail that cut along the
edge of the beach. As they walked, she glanced over at
him. "Is there news of the kingdom?"
Brother Baldric sighed. "All is unchanged, I fear. The
barons rumble, yet King John remains unchallenged."
The soft line of Gillian's lips tightened. She was
convinced there was naught but vile blackness in the king's
soul--naught but darkness in the heart of John of
England . . . or John Softsword as he was referred to in
snide snickers by some of his subjects.
"John is a fiend." Her tears vanished and her eyes flashed
as she voiced her opinion of the king aloud. "He promised
his mother Eleanor when he captured Arthur of Brittany that
no harm would befall the prince. No doubt he thought he was
so clever, for he showed those who had been captured with
Arthur no violence. Yet they were given no food, and what
is that if not cruelty? Arthur was never seen again once he
was imprisoned in Rouen. How can there be any doubt that he
was killed and his body thrown into the Seine? How can the
people not know that John is a monster? He is a dangerous
man. Ah, that we, his loyal subjects, should be subject to
his whimsy. He cares not about his people--the people of
England," she went on fervently, "but only of his own
greed!"
"That is something the world may never know, Lady Gillian,
and you must guard your tongue--even here, for it is said
there are spies everywhere."
"How such a man commands loyalty, I know not."
"I fear gold can make many a man beholden to the sway of
the king's wishes. And no doubt there are other ways as
well."
'Twas the hand of fear that Baldric referred to--they both
knew it. "And no doubt King John has employed such ways,"
said Gillian, "and of a certainty will yet again!"
Brother Baldric glanced at her sharply. "I pray you, Lady
Gillian, let us speak no more--"
Gillian heard no more, for just then a fierce gust of wind
ripped away his voice and stole it high aloft; snatching at
the voluminous folds of her mantle, it sent her hair
rippling behind her like a streaming pennon, even as it
pushed her back a step. The fingers of one hand clutched at
the fastenings of her mantle, to keep it from being torn
from her shoulders. It was plain, of woven wool, as was her
gown; there had been little time to gather her belongings
that night at Westerbrook, and Papa had directed that she
take warm clothing. With the other, she tugged a sable
skein of hair from across her eyes and fought to regain her
balance and her breath.
Still gasping at the icy sting of the wind, she felt
Brother Baldric stop short as well. But it was not the wind
that brought his step to a halt, and a stricken cry of
horror to her own lips . . .
The storm had left its legacy.
They had just rounded the massive boulder that guarded the
cove. Splinters of wood littered the beach beyond. Here and
there, ragged swatches of sail clung to the rocks,
fluttering in the breeze.
And the bodies of several men.
"Last night's gale," Brother Baldric's tone echoed her own
shock. "It must have carried the ship too close to shore."
Before she knew it she was standing beside first one body,
then another, and another.
Shocked, she stared down into faces robbed of the vigor of
life, white and pallid and bloated, their lifeless eyes
turned to the sunbleached sky. Her stomach churned, as
surely as the waves had churned throughout the gale. It was
only too easy to envision the helpless frailty of their
ship against the momentous forces of the sea--perched
dizzily atop the crest of a wave, hurtling through the air,
battered against the rocks that rose like jagged teeth just
off the headland. Any craft, no matter how sturdily built,
would have been as fragile as dried tinder.
"Do you know them, Brother Baldric?"
Baldric shook his head. "Nay. They are not from this area,
I'm certain of it."
Refuge. The word played anew through Gillian's mind. Was it
refuge these men sought as they sailed around the point?
Yet there was no refuge for these men. Or perchance their
families even now were patiently awaiting their
return . . .
But they knew not that they were dead. Gillian felt sick at
heart, sick to the very depths of her soul.
Something of her feelings must have been displayed. Brother
Baldric shook his head.
"My lady," he said gently. "Do not look like that. You must
remember, it is--"
"I know. God's will."
"Aye," he said heavily.
"Forgive me, Brother Baldric, but I cannot help but wonder
at God's ways!"
Even now, she could almost hear the vengeful pounding of
the waves surging against the rocks. A guilt like no other
shot through her. She had cowered in her bed, fearing for
her safety, while these men had perished so very near! Had
they been alive, any of them, as the perilous waves carried
them to this place upon the sand? Ah, but they were so very
close!
If only she could have warned them of the danger of the
rocks. If only she could have saved them. But alas, if they
had been alive, the wind had masked their cries. And so,
she hadn't heard them. Could she have saved them, if she
had?
Her gaze rested upon the last man. Unlike the others, his
eyes were closed. Heedless of the wet sand that soaked her
mantle and gown, she slipped to her knees. Reaching out,
she brushed the gritty sand from one lean cheek. The
grayish pallor of death was upon his skin, yet it struck
her that he was not so cold as she'd thought he would be.
Was it merely the warmth of her own hand? Or but a wish so
fervent it might have been true?
"A pity all of them died," Baldric lamented sadly. "I shall
see to it that they are buried in the churchyard."
Gillian heard, but only distantly. Her attention was
captured solely by the man next to whom she knelt.
Nay, she thought vaguely. It could not be. Shock stole her
breath, the very beat of her heart. She could have sworn
there was the veriest movement beneath her fingertips. But
she did not snatch her hand back as every instinct
compelled that she do.
"This man is not dead," she said faintly. "He is
alive . . . Brother Baldric, he is alive!"