by Shari Anton
Gar and the master mason stood near the wall, overseeing the men who hauled up finished stones with a series of ropes and pulleys. Darian foreswore Gar’s company, preferring to watch the stonemasons carve the rough stone that the hewers had sent in from the nearby quarry.
With hammer and mallet, chisel and file, they smoothed the blocks to precise measurements. In some the masons carved out notches. When put together with a similar grouping of stones, the notches formed arrow slits.
The men looked like ghosts, gray from the ever-present dust. A couple had tied rags over their lower faces to keep most of the grit out of their noses and mouths.
A bit farther off others shoveled sand and lime into a trough, then added water to make the mortar. Everywhere laborers scurried about, hauling stones or the wood for framing, or carrying buckets of mortar. Hard work. Demanding work. Something to keep them busy and earn their coin. At day’s end they could point to the wall with pride in their accomplishment.
His own achievements weren’t so solid and visible. When he did his job well, no one was the wiser. He garnered no accolades, expected no praise.
Darian took a long breath, wishing he were back in London doing his duty—ferreting out who had stolen his dagger yester morn and perhaps killed de Salis with it.
“Darian!”
He looked at where the shout had come from. The wall. Gar, as usual, didn’t look happy.
“What?”
“If you have naught better to do than pamper that hound, take a ride out to the quarry and inform them we run low on stone.”
Playing lackey for Gar didn’t sit well. Unfortunately, Darian had naught better to do.
“Oh, gracious me,” Emma commented as she beheld the kitchen.
Maura chuckled. “William of Ypres withheld not a pence in its building. He knew we must feed an army’s worth of workers, so provided the means.”
Emma didn’t doubt Maura’s word. Two hearths dominated the room, and she would swear the larger one big enough to hold a whole beef. Right now, a spitted sheep roasted in the smaller hearth, a young girl in charge of turning the crank.
Sinks lined one wall, with drains on the floor beneath them, a wondrous improvement over hauling around splashing buckets.
At large, heavy tables, girls chopped turnips and wild onions destined for the ever-bubbling soup kettle. Bunches of pungent herbs hung from the rafters. Pots of all sizes and utensils of all shapes decorated the walls.
“If William went to this much expense on the kitchen, why did he not build a covered walkway from here to the keep? If the servants did not have to carry the platters across an open bailey, the food would arrive at table warm!”
“Father says that is in the building plan, but must wait until after the wall is finished.”
The wistfulness in Maura’s voice made Emma smile. “Aye, I suppose the castle’s defense must come first. I must say, I am impressed with Hadone, even unfinished. How long has it been in the building?”
“Nigh on four years now. When my father and I came here, there was naught but a small, timber manor house and a few huts. I thought then that four years sounded a horrifically long time to build a castle. But now?” She shrugged. “Hard to believe all will be done in a few months. By summer, Father says, if spring is not too wet.”
All might be wonderfully wrought, but Emma felt uneasy in this new castle. Everything seemed too clean, too cold. Hadone might be well built, but it lacked... character and history. Like Camelen.
A pang of longing brought her up short. She might see her old home again, but not for a long while, and longing for the comfort of Camelen wouldn’t make the time go faster. Work would.
“So what task did you wish me to do?”
“First I want you to meet Cook.”
Cook turned out to be a small, thin woman with a no-nonsense way with the servants and a magic touch with food, if one judged from the pastry offered for Maura and Emma to sample.
Emma wasn’t hungry, but the apple and almond filling, tucked into a warm biscuit, was simply too tempting to refuse. She gave thanks that her stomach didn’t protest. But then, how could it when gifted with such a delicacy?
She washed it down with the remains of the headache potion, handed the mug over to a scullery maid, then followed Maura out of the kitchen.
Despite her intention not to, she glanced around for Darian, only to see him riding out the gate, Rose running by his side.
Near panic urged her to call out his name, order him to halt. Thankfully, common sense held her tongue. Darian might be riding out the gate, but he wouldn’t be gone long. Were he leaving, his satchel would be sitting behind the saddle, and he wouldn’t allow the wolfhound to accompany him.
Maura’s keys jingled as she selected one on the large ring she wore at her waist. “If you are willing, I should like you to check our food supplies. As you might imagine, we consume more food in a season than I once thought existed in the entire kingdom.”
Insuring adequate supplies was a steward’s responsibility. “Does your father not keep accounts?”
“Aye, but my father’s time is heavily occupied by the building, so some of the accounts have fallen to me these past two years. I am rather confident of my numbers; however, with harvest and slaughtering soon to begin, and winter not far behind, knowing precisely what we have on hand will allow me to better decide necessary purchases.”
Neither had William spared his coin on the storage rooms in the keep’s undercroft. One contained an armory of spears and lances, bows and shields, maces and swords. In another were stacked barrels of salted fish. Yet a third and fourth were stocked with huge rounds of cheese; sacks of wheat, oats, and barley; waist-high jars of oil and smaller jars of honey. A huge cask contained wine; smaller barrels held ale.
“Some of the wheat and rye is stored nearer to the baker’s ovens,” Maura commented. “I am aware we need salt before butchering takes place.”
To preserve the meat. No castle in the kingdom could survive winter without a goodly supply of salted pork and fish. At Camelen, Gwendolyn would be making similar preparations to feed many people over the course of months.
Earl William’s castle must have cost him a pretty pence, and she had to wonder how much of his coin came from the rents and fees granted him with the earldom and how much from his mercenary activities—from looting and plunder.
Not that it was any of her concern or affair, but it made her wonder if Darian, too, earned a pretty pence as Maura had hinted. And if he did, what did he spend it on if not personal possessions?
Could he have a home somewhere, perhaps relatives to support that Maura wasn’t aware of? Was that where he spent winter, when fighting in the kingdom generally ceased because of the weather, with parents or siblings?
With a hitch in her heart, Emma wondered where she would spend the winter. Here at Hadone? Back at Westminster Palace? Home at Camelen? Or at some as yet unknown place?
Her future wasn’t entirely hers to decide. Would she still be married and subject to Darian’s decisions, or would they have obtained an annulment, which would place her back under King Stephen’s wardship?
And worrying about it now would be a useless waste. Emma suspected Maura knew the whereabouts of every sack of oats and jar of honey. Making a listing of the supplies likely wasn’t necessary. However, to sit around and do nothing with her hands would drive her witless.
Perhaps, when done with the meaningless task, she would ask Maura about any stitching that needed doing. Embroidery had always been one of her favorite cold-weather pastimes.
She had to keep busy until she and Darian were more settled. Problem was, she had a feeling Darian wouldn’t settle easily. Especially with de Salis’s murderer still on the loose.
Chapter Eight
Acry of “Riders!” drew Darian up to the wall walk. Though ’twas nigh on supper, the light fading fast, he had no trouble identifying the group of four men thundering toward the castle.
“
The earl!” Darian called to the gatekeepers, who immediately set chains and winches to motion to allow their lord’s entry.
As they neared, Darian more clearly saw William of Ypres in the lead. With him were Armand and Marc— who, Darian imagined, might still be angry over the heated words they’d exchanged in the barracks the other morning—and Thomas, the eldest of the mercenaries, both in years and time in William’s service.
King Stephen was supposed to have left for Walling-ford this morn. Earl William should have accompanied the king. Either there’d been a delay, or William bore news he wanted to deliver himself.
Good or bad?
Darian dashed for the stable and arrived as William dismounted. “What news?”
“None of it good. What in the devil’s name did you do to vex Bishop Henry?”
As far as Darian knew, the bishop didn’t need a reason for vexation at a Flemish mercenary. He disliked the whole lot of them, and loathed William in particular for rising so high in King Stephen’s esteem and court. “Naught that I know of.”
The other mercenaries gathered around, all looking grim.
William huffed. “Well, the bishop is so vexed with you the mere mention of your name disturbs the king’s peace. And mine. How does Lady Emma?”
To his chagrin, Darian realized he knew precisely the state of the lady’s health.
Despite her aching head, she’d insisted on being of use to Maura instead of lying about as might be expected of a noblewoman. Too often he’d admired the gentle sway of her hips as she’d flitted between the kitchen and hall and undercroft, smiling at everyone from Maura down to the scullery maids. And each time she’d come into view, he’d checked her eyes for their degree of shine—almost gone now.
“Lady Emma suffered an aching head last eve, but is mostly recovered. She is in the hall, helping Maura ready for supper. Why do you ask?”
“I will discuss that with Lady Emma. You have more important things to worry over. Your neck is still far from safe.” William dusted the road grime from his tunic and glanced around at the swarm of stable boys holding horse’s reins and servants waiting to unload the men’s belongings. “I need an ale. We will speak of the matter later, when not so many ears are able to overhear.”
Gar, who’d been at the work site all day, must have seen the earl’s arrival, too. The steward and the master craftsmen joined the group of mercenaries as they reached the outer stairway to the keep.
Knowing he would get no more answers until William considered himself settled, Darian had no choice but to follow along behind the earl and steward and wait, likely until after supper.
In the hall Emma and Maura came forward to greet the earl and, after noting the clarity of Emma’s doe-brown eyes and suffering a moment of unwarranted relief at her recovery, Darian deliberately focused on the earl. He crossed his arms and called on his patience as a host of pleasantries passed between William and the women.
From beside him Armand nudged his arm and whispered, “How goes married life?”
A natural question, but Armand’s teasing tone made Darian uneasy. “We are married in name only.”
Armand’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Name only? Then you have not consummated . . .” He glanced at Emma. “She may not be the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, but Lady Emma is far from repulsive. I should think bedding her might be pleasant enough.”
Darian took immediate umbrage on Emma’s behalf, but held his tongue. Armand’s preference in bed partners leaned toward short, bird-boned women, where Darian liked a woman he didn’t fear breaking or crushing. A woman of substance, like Emma.
That Darian thought Emma one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom made no difference. Bedding her wasn’t permissible.
“We intend to seek an annulment, so no bed sport.” “Not even once, out of curiosity?”
Not that he wasn’t curious. Not that he hadn’t been tempted!
Lady Emma’s softly rounded curves invited a man’s hands to stroke and caress. Her lush mouth begged for kisses. Temptation reared up and seized him nearly every time he saw her. He’d fought her allure all damn day, including now as she smiled at the earl. The woman truly possessed a lovely smile, which she rarely turned his way.
“Nay, not even once.”
Armand’s smile turned wry. “ ’Tis little wonder you are so surly. What say you to an ale or two before we must take our seats?”
Normally, he would have matched Armand mug for mug, but Darian decided he needed a clear head, and didn’t want to get too far away from William in case the man deigned to reveal his news.
“Perhaps later.”
“Now I know you are not yourself.” Armand nodded toward Marc and Thomas. “Should you decide to join us, we will attempt to tolerate your company.”
The three mercenaries moved as one toward the ale keg at the back of the hall, enjoying a chuckle—likely at his expense. He didn’t want to think about what ribald remarks his fellow mercenaries bandied about over Darian’s ill-fated, sexless marriage.
Naturally, Maura seated everyone according to rank, with the earl at the head of the table, Emma at his left hand, and Gar on his right. Only because Darian was married to Emma was he allowed to sit at the high table, when he truly should be seated with the other mercenaries. Where he belonged. Where he would be seated on his next visit to Hadone because by then, ’twas to be hoped, he would no longer be a noblewoman’s husband.
He eased onto the bench beside Emma, too aware of her rank for comfort, too drawn by her scent to excuse himself from what was sure to be an unsettling next hour.
Wine was poured, and as was the custom at Hadone, supper consisted of a bowl of stew, chunks of brown bread, and slices of mellow cheese. Through most of the meal, William spoke with Gar and the master craftsmen about the building project’s progress.
Darian held his peace, unable to contribute anything of import to the conversation, fighting the urge to lean closer to Emma and ask her to confirm that she’d fully recovered.
He’d almost given in to the impulse when the earl turned his attention to Emma.
“Have you been treated well?” William asked.
“I have no cause for complaint, my lord. Your hospitality is excellent.”
William grinned. “What think you of my new castle?” Darian rolled his eyes; Emma merely smiled at the bid for compliments.
“I am impressed at how much has been accomplished in so short a time. I spent part of the morn in your kitchen and in the undercroft, and I most admire your modern thinking. Having sinks so close at hand must make Cook’s tasks much more bearable.”
Sinks. They were talking about sinks! And because of those silly sinks, William so puffed up with pride he strained his tunic’s seams. Ye gods.
Darian stopped listening, concentrating on the delicious little apple pastries, doing his best to ignore the tantalizing scent of the woman next to him, determined to take little notice of how her creamy white hands delicately tore chunks of near-white bread from the loaf, or the grace with which she scooped up chunks of stew and spooned them past her lush lips.
Then the earl asked Emma a question about the great hall at Camelen, her birthplace.
She answered, “My father chose to decorate Camelen’s hall with weapons, but my sister has removed several. In her last message to me, Gwendolyn said one of the tapestries she had commissioned from a weaver in Shrewsbury was almost finished. By now, it should occupy the space where a group of lances once hung.” She glanced around. “I see several places where a tapestry might be placed to warm your hall.”
William gave Emma an apologetic smile. “Your mention of your sister reminds me of a task I should have taken care of earlier. Forgive me, my lady, for not immediately handing over your letters—one from Lady Julia, and another received at court from your sister. They are in my packs upstairs. I shall send a servant to fetch them.”
Smiling hugely, Emma put her hand on the arm William had raised to summon a se
rvant. “No need, my lord. I would not be so discourteous as to read them during supper. They can wait. Do you know from which sister?”
“Gwendolyn, I believe. Your other sister, Nicole, is the one you wish to speak to the king about, is she not?”
Emma nodded. “Nicole resides at Bledloe Abbey by king’s order. I had hoped to have her freed of the place and back home at Camelen by now.”
Darian heard how much she loved and missed her sisters. Did she also still mourn her dead father and brother? No mention had been made of her mother, so he assumed the woman no longer lived. Did she miss all of her family as much as he missed his?
He swallowed the lump that swelled in his throat, chiding himself for allowing an unexpected attack of grief. A long swig of ale eased his throat but a little.
He’d tucked away memories of his family long ago, unable to bear recalling the day his parents and siblings perished, of the blood and fire and horrific carnage. His hand shook as he put down the mug and again took refuge in his vow to avenge the deaths he hadn’t been able to prevent.
The man responsible for burning a small village in Flanders had died before Darian could seek direct revenge, so he did the next best thing—in the name of justice, he rid the world of men who murdered innocents for sport.
Men like Edward de Salis.
Except someone had already slain de Salis and sought to put a noose around Darian’s neck in the process.
William patted Emma’s hand. “I realize helping your sister is important to you, but first we must free you and Darian from this unfortunate turn of events.”
“Of course,” she said, but he heard her impatience at the delay. Emma would rather attend to her sister’s problem than her own, put her own well-being behind that of someone she loved. A noble and unselfish sentiment.
A foolish sentiment.
One must always take care of one’s own neck first before someone took advantage of said exposed neck.