by Ann Lawrence
“Mistress Emma.” Lord Gilles stood before her. His hair and black mantle made him one with the night.
Emma quickly forced her features under control. She could not let him see her anguish. She dropped a deep curtsey. “Lord Gilles. Forgive me. I did not see you.”
Gilles realized he had almost touched the weaver. He glanced about, but only the sentries on the wall stirred. The wind whipped Emma’s hair. One of her braids had come loose. A break in the clouds sent a sudden gleam of moonlight into the bailey. Molten gold, he thought. Molten gold flowing over her shoulder. Then he saw the silver gleam of a tear run down her cheek. “What ails you?” he asked, stepping closer to her. Her face was ravaged from weeping. Her hair no longer looked windblown, but disheveled.
“Nothing, my lord. Please. ‘Tis cold.” She took a step away from him, a step closer to the shadows.
He followed her, unable to ignore the hitch in her voice. “Something has happened. Tell me.”
A sudden, overwhelming need to lay her cares on him made her open her mouth. But fear stopped her. William’s words echoed in her mind. Whore. Whore. Whore. Lord Gilles would only believe as William did.
“‘Tis nothing. Nothing.” She fled past him.
Gilles stared after her. Her hair streamed, unbound, down one side of her back. In a moment she had disappeared into the spill of light from the weaver’s building. He stood rooted to the spot. Anger burned through him. He did not know how he knew it—but he knew someone or something had hurt her badly. The light of the moon disappeared behind a bank of scudding cloud. In a swift turn, he too disappeared into the shadows.
* * * * *
Emma spent the night tossing on her pallet. When she took the next meal, it was suddenly apparent to her that some of the men were watching her. She looked long about the company and saw that most were battle-hardened men. What was in their minds was obvious now.
How had she been so blind? These men had no need of the many knives and daggers that graced their belts if they wished to handle her. They had only to exert their superior male strength and they would have her. She realized that the one-eyed knight would never have approached her if she’d had a man’s good name to protect her.
No good man would have her.
There was no Widow Cooper here to defend her. In the long night she had also convinced herself that Lord Gilles would not protect her either. What were her wishes in comparison to that of his men and their needs?
Men took what they wished. Some, like William, might use pretty smiles and false vows to woo a female. Others would do as the one-eyed knight had—use a fist to stun. But when the moment arrived, false words or cruel fists, there’d be naught from the man but rough, hard hands and pain.
Chapter Six
“I seen ye speakin’ wiv Sir William.” Beatrice, a serving maid, stood by Emma’s side at the table and offered her a platter of boiled eggs.
Emma looked up, then hastily captured her daughter’s hands that were taking as many eggs as her fists could hold. “You little swine,” she murmured in Angelique’s ear. “Aye. I was talking to Sir William.”
Beatrice set her heavy platter on the edge of the table. Her simple woolen tunic was taut over full breasts. Her blonde hair curled in fine wisps about the edges of her headcloth. “Are ye wantin’ ‘im?” Her work-roughened hands selected an egg and rolled it to Angelique who squealed with delight. No longer just something to eat, the egg became a source of amusement.
“Ball,” she squealed and quickly rolled it back to Beatrice.
Emma smiled up at the young woman, her cares momentarily forgotten. “I have no interest in Sir William.”
With a nod, Beatrice plucked up another egg, peeled it, and offered it to Angelique. “She’s a fetchin’ mite, ain’t she?”
With a possessive stroke over Angelique’s brow, Emma nodded. “Aye. She is everything to me.”
Beatrice hefted her platter to move to another table. As if remembering something, she turned back. “Mistress Sarah’ll stripe yer hide if ye dally wiv them’s is above ye. Took a birch rod to May fer layin’ wiv Sir William just last week.”
Emma said nothing. She had no wish to imply that William held any of her interest. May and any other maid of the keep were welcome to the knave, but a part of her wished someone would take a birch rod to him.
“Ye can ‘ave them’s as is sitting’ o’er there.” Beatrice thrust her chin in the direction of two stable grooms who were staring at them. “They’s poor sport though. Naught but babes if’n ye ast me, but Mistress Sarah won’t begrudge ye the likes o’ them.”
A shiver coursed Emma’s spine. The grooms had only eating daggers, yet there was no mistaking the same lascivious looks on their faces as she’d noticed on the knights and men-at-arms. Cheeks still downy and bodies unformed into manhood, and yet, she could read the bent of their thoughts as if they’d called across the table and offered her coin for her favors.
A man, Mark Trevalin, came to stand at their side. He was of middling height, barrel-chested, and plain of face. His best feature was his thick brown hair, streaked with gold. “You have duties?” The words, though mildly spoken, were orders. Beatrice rushed off. Mark Trevalin gave Emma a curt nod, then joined a group of men by the hall entrance.
Emma studied Beatrice’s retreating figure as she moved down the long, crowded tables. Why would Beatrice give her such advice? Could it be that Beatrice thought her of easy virtue, just as William had implied?
That afternoon, Emma sought out Sarah.
“Mistress Sarah, I need to speak with you.”
“How may I be of service?” Sarah asked. “You’re pale, child. Are you ailing?”
Emma shook her head. “I have need to gather some bark for dyeing. May I have your permission to leave the keep for a time?”
Sarah nodded agreement. “The walk will do you good, put some color in your cheeks. Take the boy, Ralph, with you. He’ll tend Angelique for you whilst you’re gathering.”
“Aye, I will take the boy.” In fact, she would agree to anything to be away, though lying sat ill with her. Sarah summoned Ralph from the kitchens, and Emma followed him across the hall after she removed her pack from the weavers’ building. If anyone inquired, she would say she was gathering. In her pack was her leather purse of treasures and the worn hand loom.
Dark eyes tracked her progress across the vast chamber and noted the eyes of many that also were drawn as a moths are to a flame. Dark brows drew together in displeasure.
Another set of eyes, the blue of the summer sky, noted her progress and smiled.
Ralph, a gangly youth of two and ten, fell into step with Emma and prattled about the day. Emma knew the boy liked going outside the castle walls and so would not question their destination. He ran in circles about Emma making faces at Angelique and causing her to giggle and hide her face in her mother’s neck.
They made their way down the steep hill to the base of the castle wall. Turning east, they walked until they came to Emma’s hovel. She halted and looked the boy square in the eyes. “Ralph. You are to return to the keep. I’ll be staying here from now on and if Mistress Sarah asks why, you may tell her it is none of her concern.”
Mouth open, showing the gaps in his teeth, Ralph stared at her. He was a simple-minded boy. He shrugged and left Emma alone.
Emma laid Angelique on her pallet and surveyed her surroundings. From humble to shabby they had gone. Someone had stolen the stool she had left behind, so Emma had only her pallet left to her name. She must be thankful, she supposed, that the thief had not moved in instead. With a sigh, she sank to the covered bed of straw, and after several moments, allowed her shoulders to slump in despair. To have come so close to comfort and have it snatched away was crushing. But in her heart, Emma knew each day would become a challenge for her virtue, if not from William, then from some other man.
“I said vows! He said vows! I am virtuous!” she said into the silence of her home. “I gave myself for what I
thought was love, and I will not be shamed by the outcome. ‘Tis William who should hang his head in shame!” Tears rolled down her cheek. Angelique touched her face and frowned. Her little fingers rubbed at the tears. “Nay, child. Do not fret.”
But the tears would not abate. They ran in rivulets to stain her mantle and finally, she dropped her head to Angelique’s shoulder and sobbed. “I gave my virtue to a liar.” Poor luck it was that she’d so misjudged the recipient of her gift.
Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as
the moon, clear as the sun…
The words of the song William had composed for her ran through her troubled mind. How his words had touched and beguiled her, drawn her to him.
Her mouth is most sweet:
yea, she is altogether lovely. This is my beloved.
How his words had remained with her, taunting her after his cold, scornful rejection. She could not shake them off. False words, false heart. Other words also taunted her, for another reason. The words of her dinner companions: William composed a song for each new lover. What a fool she’d been.
But Emma’s thoughts were not of William as she rose and set aside her daughter, ignoring the child’s mewling protests. She pressed her cheek to the rough stone wall of the hut. Blinking back tears, she placed her palm flat on the stone as if pressing her hand to feel a heartbeat. Lord Gilles was in there and she would likely never see him again.
What was the uncanny pull she felt when near him? How could she explain the attraction she felt? Simple. The oldest one in the world. Then she shook her head. Nay. That attraction she had known with William. This was as different as moonlight to madness, a stunning blast of something for which she had no name.
Emma forced herself to change the direction of her thoughts. What mattered was the loss of a steady diet of nourishing food. Naught else should matter.
But she lost the battle with herself as cold crept under the door. She forgot her hunger and mourned the loss of him, for his nearness had nourished her dreams—childish dreams. She would never again trust in a physical longing. This flutter in her belly, this ache in her loins would not lead her into fancies that had not a chance of fulfillment.
“I have no notion of Lord Gilles’ character,” she said softly, pushing thoughts of him away. “I know naught of the man. Mayhap he, too, composes false songs and poems for his lovers. I know only that he is not of my world and foolish fancies will only make life more difficult. ‘Tis better not to dream.” She wiped her face on her mantle and dropped to her knees. She dug a hole in the corner and buried her father’s spurs and her mother’s cross. With them, she buried her dreams.
* * * * *
“Ralph,” Sarah gestured the boy to her. She slid over to allow him to sit by her side at the table. “Where’s Mistress Emma? I haven’t seen her since she left the keep.”
“Mistress Emma told me to tell ye she were stoppin’ there…in that place…by the wall.” Ralph stuffed his mouth with a bun topped with sticky honey.
“Stopping? Whatever do you mean?” Sarah cuffed Ralph when he reached for another bun. It was several moments before he was able to speak. His cheeks bulged with dough.
Gulping, he eyed the next bun but decided ‘twould be folly to try to reach past Mistress Sarah. “She said ‘twas naught of yer concern.”
“Not my concern?” Sarah rose and excused herself to those she bumped in her hurry to exit the keep. She drew her shawl about her shoulders to fight the winter chill in the air as she hurried across the middle and lower baileys. At the gate she waited for a team of bullocks to enter before she hurried across. She stood indecisively at the edge of the village. Against the castle wall was all Sarah could remember about Emma’s story of her home. It took an hour, but Sarah found Emma.
“Explain yourself.” Sarah blocked the doorway, stealing away the meager sunlight.
“There is naught to explain.” Emma rose from her loom and clasped her hands calmly before her. She had been prepared for this, was just surprised it was Mistress Sarah herself who had sought her out.
“Since I will surely have to explain to him, I suggest you explain to me. I’ll not be going until you do.” Sarah stomped to the pallet and sat, her hands clamped on her knees, determination on her face.
Emma sighed. “‘Twas only a matter of time until I would have been ravished by one of the men in the keep.” Emma’s knuckles turned white as she tightened her fists to calm herself.
“Ravished? Were the men after you already?” Sarah did not sound surprised.
“Aye. What am I to do? I’ll not become what they think of me.” She wiped at the corner of her eye with the hem of her gown. “I fought off a man, a one-eyed knight, but ‘twas only a matter of time. I was…afraid.”
“One-eyed? Aye, I know him—a careless brute. I understand, dearie.” Sarah slapped her knees and rose. “There will be hell to pay.” She swept past Emma.
Frantic, Emma flew after the older woman and snatched at the flapping tail of her shawl. “Wait. What do you mean—hell to pay?”
Sarah turned and considered Emma. A cry made both women lift their eyes. A hawk coursed the sky. They watched it float on an eddy of air before it disappeared over the keep’s high tower. Sarah broke their contemplation. “Lord Gilles, is what I mean. The man is not to be thwarted.” Sarah turned and began the long walk back to the keep.
Emma stared at the castle wall so high overhead.
Thwarted.
Whatever did Sarah mean?
* * * * *
Sarah approached Lord Gilles when his page stepped away to fetch a new pitcher of ale. The two knights on his left were engaged in a heated discussion of the afternoon’s hunt. Her husband, on Lord Gilles’ right, was sound asleep. She spared Roland an indulgent smile before speaking. “My lord, may I have a word with you?”
Gilles raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Speak.” He raised his tankard and took a long swallow of the cold ale.
“For your ears, my lord.” Sarah eyed the men at Gilles’ side, and then jerked her head to the crowd behind her and met his steady gaze.
“Hmm.” Gilles rose. After finishing what remained of his ale, he set the tankard on the table and strode from the hall, through the stone arch leading to the chapel. He turned and crossed his arms on his chest and waited.
“My lord, your new weaver is gone.” Sarah cringed as she waited for the explosion.
“Gone?” He spoke mildly, deceptively so. In truth, he could only say one word. He didn’t know what emotion he felt, only knew it was stark and painful.
“Aye. I went to see her because she failed to return from an errand outside the walls. I questioned her, as she seemed determined to settle herself in the village.” He felt Sarah’s scrutiny, but could do naught but stare. “Emma said she was threatened here. Feared ravishment.”
“Ravishment?” Gilles whirled about, turning from Sarah to face the dimly torchlit altar at the fore of the chapel. In truth, ravishment was so close to what he wanted to do that Gilles thought Emma must have read his mind.
“Aye, my lord.” Sarah spoke to his back. “From one of the duke’s men—the one-eyed brute. The cur trapped her in a storeroom below stairs.”
“Thank you.” Gilles dismissed Sarah with a sweep of his hand. How he wished he’d trusted his instincts when he’d seen Emma in the bailey. Her hair, half unbound, her tears, they should have alerted him to her fear. Instead, he’d allowed himself to focus on his lust, the sensual gleam of her hair. Had the one-eyed knight hurt her?
His thoughts sent him to the bailey where he scanned the crowd. He did not see the knight among the Duke’s men who were loitering at ease. He called Hubert and told him to find the man.
When the one-eyed man stood before Gilles, he felt satisfaction at the man’s trembling voice and evasive eye.
“My lord? Y-y-you wanted to see me?” he stammered.
“Aye. I have heard you were bothering one of my weavers.”
“Her.” The man’s posture eased. He spit in the rushes.
Gilles stepped forward and grasped the man by the throat, striking with the swiftness of the hawk carved on his chair. “You knave.” Gurgling sounds of protest issued from the man as he hung from Gilles’ steely grip. “I do not want any woman in my keep to be cornered and pawed by the likes of you, be she serf or highborn. Never do I want a member of my household to walk in fear. Never. You have overstepped the bounds of propriety, and you will take yourself back to the Duke’s from whence you came—now.”
Gilles thrust the man away as if he weighed no more than a sack of feathers. The man bounced off the far stone wall and fell to his knees, clutching at his throat and gasping for life-giving air. With legs spread and fists on hips, Gilles watched the man recover himself. Scrambling to his feet, the knight fled.
That night Gilles paced his chamber, considering the many ways he might somehow entice Emma back to his keep. In truth, he had never been at ease with the seduction of a woman. Crooking a finger usually sufficed. The courting of his wife, a score and more years before, had been done by his father and the king’s men with little care for his wishes or needs—or hers. He combed his fingers through his black hair and summoned his friend Roland.
Roland sat himself down at the table and propped his feet on a stool. Watching him pace, Roland waited patiently to hear whatever Gilles had on his mind.
Gilles halted before his friend. “Since the knight who accosted Emma is gone, think you she might return?”
“Emma? Knight?” Roland peered at Gilles, eyes wide in innocent wonder.
“Do not pretend to ignorance. I’m sure Sarah has told you all about the new weaver.”
“Aye.” Roland placed the tips of his fingers together. “I’m sorry, my friend, Sarah doubts your weaver will return. She seemed sure others would be similarly inclined as the duke’s man.”