shrewdly measuring survey by the other.
“I wish you a swift recovery,” Baldric said with a stilted smile. “Without doubt you must be eager to be well—and perhaps you will have remembered the rest of your past as well. I’m certain you’ll then be anxious to return to your home, wherever that may be.” With a bow he retreated toward the door.
Gillian followed him outside. Before she could say a word, Brother Baldric held up a hand. “I know what you will say, child. You think I am wrong. In truth, I know not what to believe about this man who calls himself Gareth.”
“And I do not know why, but somehow I think he is a man of honor.”
“And he may well be a man of honor. But there is something in the tilt of his head, his manner of speech, that leads me to believe this man Gareth is a bold man. A daring man. A knight in service of some powerful lord … mayhap even a knight in service of the king—”
Gillian protested. “He did not even know John was king!”
“So he said. But he remembered King Henry and King Richard. Therefore, you cannot tell him who you are, nor the true circumstances that brought you here. Your father was sharply critical of the king, and the less you tell Gareth, the better.”
It was true. Her father had harsh words for the king, from the day he ascended the throne. His petty wars, his ceaseless demand for taxes from the people of England.
“We cannot be careless, Lady Gillian. You cannot trust blindly. There is too much at stake.”
A fierce gust of wind swirl whipped her skirts about her legs. Her gaze was drawn unwittingly to the sky. Alas, even now, the sky was seething. Black, threatening storm clouds hovered just above the choppy seas, a bittersweet reminder …
Ah, but if only Papa had been unjustly accused.
Perhaps he might have lived Then she would not be here near the blustery shore where rain and wind and storms abounded.
The world seemed to blacken. Bleakness seeped through her. Her dreams had once been fanciful and full of the exuberance of youth, full of eager energy for what the future might bring. But now such thoughts of the future wrought only heartache and fear. Brother Baldric insisted that she was strong, yet Gillian felt as if the pain of a thousand fetters weighted her down.
Never would she forget the last time she’d seen her father, that bleak September night that thunder raged and sheets of rain thrashed the walls of Westerbrook—the night he’d swept into her chamber in the dead of night.
Never would she forget his last words.
“I’ve failed you, daughter,” he had said with tears in his eyes. “I’ve failed you and Clifton. And I pray that you will forgive me, for I will never forgive myself for what I have done to you and your brother—for leaving you in such peril.”
Gillian had known immediately that something was horribly, horribly wrong.
“Papa,” she cried, “what is it?”
“The king visited William de Vries these last few days,” he said heavily.
“Yes, I’d heard.” William de Vries was a baron whose lands bordered Westerbrook’s to the east. His wife Isabella had been godmother to their eldest son.
“There was an attempt on King John’s life today in the forest,” he said.
As the words passed his lips, he did not look her in the eye. Gillian knew then… knew her father was the man responsible. A man of bluntness and bold action, Ellis of Westerbrook was ever a man to speak his mind—and he had been outspoken in his contempt of King John almost from the moment he came to power.
He had taken matters into his own hands.
A choking dread assailed her. “Papa,” she whispered in horror. “Papa, no! Oh, dear God, it was you, wasn’t it?”
Slowly he raised his head. There was a world of pain in his eyes, the eyes so like hers. “Aye, Gillian. It was I who loosed the arrow, but it missed its mark and struck the king’s guard instead. Ah, what a fool I have been! I know it now, now when it is too late.
“I wish you a swift recovery,” Baldric said with a stilted smile. “Without doubt you must be eager to be well—and perhaps you will have remembered the rest of your past as well. I’m certain you’ll then be anxious to return to your home, wherever that may be.” With a bow he retreated toward the door.
Gillian followed him outside. Before she could say a word, Brother Baldric held up a hand. “I know what you will say, child. You think I am wrong. In truth, I know not what to believe about this man who calls himself Gareth.”
“And I do not know why, but somehow I think he is a man of honor.”
“And he may well be a man of honor. But there is something in the tilt of his head, his manner of speech, that leads me to believe this man Gareth is a bold man. A daring man. A knight in service of some powerful lord … mayhap even a knight in service of the king—”
Gillian protested. “He did not even know John was king!”
“So he said. But he remembered King Henry and King Richard. Therefore, you cannot tell him who you are, nor the true circumstances that brought you here. Your father was sharply critical of the king, and the less you tell Gareth, the better.”
It was true. Her father had harsh words for the king, from the day he ascended the throne. His petty wars, his ceaseless demand for taxes from the people of England.
“We cannot be careless, Lady Gillian. You cannot trust blindly. There is too much at stake.”
A fierce gust of wind swirl whipped her skirts about her legs. Her gaze was drawn unwittingly to the sky. Alas, even now, the sky was seething. Black, threatening storm clouds hovered just above the choppy seas, a bittersweet reminder …
Ah, but if only Papa had been unjustly accused.
Perhaps he might have lived Then she would not be here near the blustery shore where rain and wind and storms abounded.
The world seemed to blacken. Bleakness seeped through her. Her dreams had once been fanciful and full of the exuberance of youth, full of eager energy for what the future might bring. But now such thoughts of the future wrought only heartache and fear. Brother Baldric insisted that she was strong, yet Gillian felt as if the pain of a thousand fetters weighted her down.
Never would she forget the last time she’d seen her father, that bleak September night that thunder raged and sheets of rain thrashed the walls of Westerbrook—the night he’d swept into her chamber in the dead of night.
Never would she forget his last words.
“I’ve failed you, daughter,” he had said with tears in his eyes. “I’ve failed you and Clifton. And I pray that you will forgive me, for I will never forgive myself for what I have done to you and your brother—for leaving you in such peril.”
Gillian had known immediately that something was horribly, horribly wrong.
“Papa,” she cried, “what is it?”
“The king visited William de Vries these last few days,” he said heavily.
“Yes, I’d heard.” William de Vries was a baron whose lands bordered Westerbrook’s to the east. His wife Isabella had been godmother to their eldest son.
“There was an attempt on King John’s life today in the forest,” he said.
As the words passed his lips, he did not look her in the eye. Gillian knew then… knew her father was the man responsible. A man of bluntness and bold action, Ellis of Westerbrook was ever a man to speak his mind—and he had been outspoken in his contempt of King John almost from the moment he came to power.
He had taken matters into his own hands.
A choking dread assailed her. “Papa,” she whispered in horror. “Papa, no! Oh, dear God, it was you, wasn’t it?”
Slowly he raised his head. There was a world of pain in his eyes, the eyes so like hers. “Aye, Gillian. It was I who loosed the arrow, but it missed its mark and struck the king’s guard instead. Ah, what a fool I have been! I know it now, now when it is too late.
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