Authors: Blackheart
All was provided for—or so Gabriel prayed, for no man could erect a defense another could not pull down. Which was true for Bernart as well. Beginning this night, Gabriel would lead a sortie out of the castle through the dusting of snow to destroy those siege weapons Bernart was building, the ultimate goal being to reverse roles so that the besiegers found no respite from harassing attacks.
Gabriel sighed, turned from his billow of breath, and strode to the steps. He ascended quickly, then slowed to weave a broken path through the displaced villagers who huddled against the cold. He stopped several times to speak to those whose eyes sought his, to reassure them, to thank them for their forbearance. The conditions were much the same in the inner bailey. As for the great hall, a mass of bodies fouled the air so that no amount of herb- strewn rushes could disguise the stench. And it would get no better. Henceforth, water was as gold, not to be wasted upon baths.
Finally he reached the stairs. He was halfway ascended when a hand curled around his upper arm. He knew the touch.
Though Juliana's smile was tentative, the chill of his unease warmed before it. "All is well?" she asked. "All is quiet." He could report no better. "The weather?" " 'Tis clearing."
Concern washed across her face.
Gabriel wiped a smudge from beneath her bottom lip. "For a lady and a woman who gave birth not three weeks past, you work too hard."
She glanced behind. "They must all be fed."
"Aye, though not by your hand."
She mounted the step beside him, the added inches permitting her to drop her chin from its strained tilt. "Gabrien is asleep and Lissant with him. I ought to be here."
He would not argue with her as he had done on the day past, when she'd insisted upon going among the people and tending their needs. She was too determined and too much in need of diversion from that which waited without the walls.
"At least they are warm," he said, sweeping his gaze to the hall. Some good would come of the rank press of bodies. But tomorrow these people would know cold again when they exchanged places with those in the outer bailey.
"Aye." Juliana pushed a damp tress off her brow. "There is that." Gabriel stared at her and was reminded of the third night at Tremoral, when they had come together and, for the first time, he'd seen her beneath him. She had looked much the same—dampened hair about her face, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. Feeling a rise between his thighs, he yanked his longing in. "I must make ready for the sortie."
Silence followed him to the top of the stairs, then her footsteps. She ran the length of corridor to overtake him before the lord's solar. "Must you, Gabriel?" Pleading and fear met in her eyes.
He stopped his hand on the door. "Better a battle beyond the walls than at the walls."
"But if you are captured—"
"I will not be. We will lay fire to whatever siege engines Bernart raises and return forthwith."
She took a step nearer and touched a hand to his jaw. "There is naught I can say to turn you?"
He nearly closed his eyes on the feel of her hand upon him. Three weeks since he had been so near her, three weeks of longing, three weeks of denying himself more than the fleeting contact when she passed Gabrien into his arms. But it was better this way. After the threat of Bernart was past—were it ever, a dissenting voice reminded him of his tenuous hold on Juliana—they could look to a future together.
"Naught you can say," he uttered, and drew her hand from him. He pushed the door open to the warm fire the chambermaid had kept stoked. If not for the heat of the hall that had chased all chill from him, it would have been welcome. He pushed his mantle back from his shoulders and stepped inside. Though he had not intended for Juliana to follow, she came behind him.
"Juliana, you should not—"
"I will help you ready for the sortie." She crossed to the chest and knelt before it.
He ought to send her away. It was not good to be in a place that held both bed and her.
"What shall you wear?" she asked, lifting the chest lid.
He stepped farther into the room. "White, that we shall not be seen against the snow." As Mergot was built upon raised ground, the snow would be at their backs. And all would be lit by a generous half-moon.
As she searched the chest's contents, Gabriel crossed to the bed. He freed the brooch that secured his mantle, swept the woolen garment to the mattress, and became aware of silence. Realization struck a moment before he set his gaze upon Juliana.
She sank back upon her heels, her eyes fixed on the fistful of white trailing from her hand.
Juliana's heart gripped as memories rolled across the months and put her back to that morn when she had tried to remove the chemise from beneath Gabriel's sleeping form, then later when she had gone to retrieve it. He had kept it. In spite of what he'd believed of her, he had taken it with him from Tremoral.
She looked up and found his gaze. " 'Twas more than the babe that returned you to Tremoral."
He breathed deeply. "It was."
Her insides fluttered as if they might fly. "And had you not been given rumor that Bernart intended to set me aside did I not bear an heir?"
His gaze went to the chemise. "I was searching you out that I might ask you to leave with me"—his eyes came back to hers—"when that wench, Nesta, caught me aside and told the lie."
Nesta, ever a bane.
Determinedly, Juliana put the woman from her. Gabriel had felt for her even then— more than lust, perhaps the beginnings of love. Tears slid to her eyes. "I could not have gone with you. Alaiz—"
"I know."
She lowered the chemise. Where was Alaiz? Had Sir Randal's kin apprehended her? Had she been dragged before the sheriff? Did she yet live? She sent up a prayer that Sir Erec would find Alaiz soon.
"Juliana?"
She looked around and found Gabriel hunkered beside her. "I fear for her," she said.
"You shall see her again."
Such certainty with which he spoke! "Will I?"
He brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek, then turned them around her jaw. "All that I can do I shall."
She closed her eyes. "I know." But if Alaiz was found and brought to Mergot, still there would be Bernart.
Dear God, send King Richard. Not a sennight hence, not a day. This moment.
Gabriel's breath came against the side of her face, sweeping her ear. "All will soon be decided, and when 'tis, you shall be at my side."
She raised her lids.
They beheld one another, searched, let grow an awareness of their need to be near. When Gabriel bent his head, she welcomed the urgent press of his mouth, drew his tongue inside, gasped as he swept the sensitive tissue within. Then it was her turn. She drank from him, explored his hidden recesses, thrilled when his tongue came again to hers. How she needed him—to know that they would attain the age of the old together.
She turned into him and slid her arms around his neck.
Suddenly he pulled away. "We cannot."
Feeling light of head, Juliana put hands to the floor to steady herself, steeling herself against the pain of his rejection. "Why?"
He gained his feet and turned. It took only a few moments of searching the chest for him to find what he looked for. "Because of this we cannot." He held her wedding ring, which he had taken along with her girdle when she'd tried to escape him en route to Mergot. She stared at it, hating what it represented of the past four years of her life.
"I want you, Juliana," Gabriel said. "I ache for it, but first I must finish with Bernart. This"—he turned the gold band in his fingers—"can no more be between us." His eyes swept back to her and he reached out a hand.
She looked to the long, tapered fingers that had touched her as she had never been touched. Would she know their touch again? She dragged her thoughts from that place. She pressed her shoulders back and put her hand in his.
He drew her to her feet. "When we come together again," he said, "it shall be as husband and wife."
Husband.
Juliana turned herself around the word.
Wife. Let it not be a dream....
"Aye, Gabriel De Vere, I will be your wife and you my husband. There is naught I want more."
His hand tightened on hers.
She looked to his other hand and lifted the ring from it. She stepped past Gabriel and hurled the band into the fire.
They stared at the covetous flames. A short while later, dressed all in white, he left her.
She stood before the empty doorway, listened to his retreating footsteps, and prayed he would return. A thought came to her a moment later. She bent, grasped the hem of her amber gown, and tore it.
She overtook Gabriel near the base of the stairs.
"Juliana?" Concern furrowed his face.
She pushed up his tunic sleeve and tied the material around his bare upper arm so that it would not be seen against the snow. "I am with you always," she said.
He touched the frayed favor, then laid a hand to his chest in a gesture meant to mirror her words.
As if spoken, they inscribed themselves upon her heart. She stepped back. "Godspeed, my love."
Gabriel turned at the postern gate, letting a grim smile bend his mouth as flames burned the night sky. In the light of those flames, Bernart's men rushed to douse the fire, shouting orders. The trebuchet would not be soon in coming to the castle walls. Just as heartening was that its destruction and the loosing of a score of the knights' destriers had been accomplished without a death on either side. It was good for the conscience, if naught else. None ought to die for Bernart's rapacious quest, though many would if the sorties proved unsuccessful. Tomorrow eve Gabriel would lead another, and again the following night. And each would become more dangerous. This night was a gift not likely to be given again.
He gave silent thanks, then stepped through the gate. It closed behind him and was secured by a man-at-arms.
Gabriel looked to the half dozen who'd accompanied him outside the walls. Also clothed in white, they were as ghosts in the dark of the bailey, but he caught the paleness of their smiles in their shadowed faces.
"Fine work," he commended. "Now get you to the hall and take your rest." He watched them go, then stretched his gaze to the donjon beyond the inner wall. From her chamber window Juliana would be watching. Waiting. He closed his eyes, pressed a hand to his opposite arm, and squeezed the knot of material she had tied beneath his sleeve. With him always. He lifted his lids and stared into the night. Always. Whatever the price.
Chapter Twenty-four
Now came Faison. One hundred strong.
A darkening in the middle of him, Gabriel put a hand to the embrasure and leaned forward to better see beyond the battlements to the morning mist before the wood. In the death of winter was the birth of spring, Faison brought siege engines—mangonels, trebuchets, ballistas, a battering ram—all of which the dark lord must have had ready for such an occasion. Revenge for his brother's loss and his own.
Gabriel thrust a hand through his hair and clawed at his aching scalp. For nearly a sennight, he and his men had night and again struck at Bernart's camp. Siege engines were destroyed, horses loosed, food supplies seized, tents brought down upon sleeping occupants. Then there were the injuries done to those of Bernart's men who had put themselves between Gabriel and his targets. Necessary, but not without a price. Fortunately, it did not yet go so high as to take the lives of any of Gabriel's men. But there would be no more sorties. This day Bernart had found his advantage. Ere the sun pushed the clouds overhead, siege would be at Mergot's walls.
" 'Tis the day?" A voice squeezed among the din.
Gabriel swept around and saw that Juliana stood on the step down from the wall walk. "What do you here?" he demanded too harshly.
Though her brow creased, she ascended the final step. "The hall is frantic with word that siege engines have come. They are of Baron Faison?"
Her scent teased the air between them. "Aye, the baron thinks to finally test his revenge."
She tried to hide her fear, but he saw it in her eyes, felt it, ached for it. He laid hands to her shoulders. "My vow is good, Juliana."
She nodded. "I do not doubt it."
"Then return to the donjon and keep with our son until I come to you."
She searched his face, glanced between the battlements. "At least he does not make pretense of bearing gifts." Her attempt at levity found no match in her voice.
Gabriel's grimness lifted enough to let slip a smile. "For that I am most grateful, my sweet Helen." He nudged her toward the stairs. "Now go."
Her hesitation was palpable. Thus he was not surprised when she thrust herself into his arms. She said naught, simply pressed herself to him as if it might be the last time.
Uncaring who might see, he slid his arms around her and put his lips to her hair. "You are mine," he murmured, "have always been mine."
She eased against him.
He made a memory of her body against his, set it deep within that it might never pale. "And shall ever be mine." She dropped her head back. "Ever," she whispered. "Ever."
Her mouth tilted, but before it could reach a full smile, a cry swept across the walls.
"My lord," a man-at-arms called, "they move!"
His announcement stirred the villagers in the outer bailey to gasps, whimpers, and frenzied speech.
Gabriel loosed Juliana and swung back to the embrasure.
The mist about their heads and shoulders, Bernart's army tramped the ground—numerous on foot, many astride, some upon siege engines pulled by horses and pushed by men. And there, at the fore, was the thick figure of the man Gabriel had once called friend. As for the one who rode alongside Bernart, there was no mistaking Dominic Faison, whose sword arm had been lost during the Crusade. A bitter man. An angry man. But this day he thought to smile again.
He would not, Gabriel silently vowed, and stepped from the embrasure. For a moment he met Juliana's gaze and was struck by the fear and pain she swept beneath her lashes. What he would not do to spare her this.