by Ann Lawrence
Gilles resumed his pacing before the fire. “Others?”
“Mayhap,” Roland continued, “if the wench were assured of your ‘protection’? Or you could wed the wench.” The words hung in the air between them.
Both knew what protection Roland implied. The other Gilles dismissed with a sharp slash of his hand. “Barons do not marry their weavers.”
“Aye, tongues would wag if you were to wed Robert of Lincoln, despite his skillful hands and fine cloth.”
Gilles grinned, then frowned. “Barons wed for land and power—not to satisfy some basic urge. We jest, but mayhap a leman would not be such an ill-conceived notion.”
Roland leered and propped his boots on the table. “I thought you had no use for a leman.”
With an answering leer, Gilles shoved Roland’s boots to the floor. “A man may have a change of heart.”
He paced in a turmoil of agitation. For all his outward show of humor, his insides seethed. To have Emma near to him! His footsteps paused at the bedside. He stared at the luxurious furs and linen draperies. His imagination placed her there on the furs, draperies drawn, the scarlet linen aglow around them, lit from the hearth as if on fire, whilst she warmed the inner space with the heat of her body. And she would be very warm. He would see to it. He would warm her with the conflagration of his passion.
A cold thought quenched the embers of his desires. What hope had he of enticing such a young woman when men such as William roamed the hall?
Roland interrupted his thoughts. “If I may suggest, Sarah believes Emma will need to return to her usual method of feeding herself and her babe. She will need to barter her handwork at the market. If you were to seek her there, you would not need to go to her in the village. Sarah thinks it would shame her, should you go there.”
Shame. Aye, if he was seen alone with her, word would spread like seed scattered on the wind. It would harm her. But in the marketplace all could mingle and speak without censure.
Roland continued, “Once you have her inside the keep, ‘twill be child’s play to have her in your bed.”
Gilles nodded and dismissed Roland with a vague wave of his hand. The marketplace. How simple. Emma could be back within two days’ time.
Gilles stripped off his clothes. He slid between the cool covers and vainly sought the relief of sleep. His fevered mind and fevered body did not relent until the wee hours before dawn.
* * * * *
As if by magic, the morning’s cold winds fled. Warm ones replaced them with just enough of a hint of the autumn past to bring the crowds to market. She found a spot where she could set out her work, next to a butcher’s stall. Swarms of flies raised by the stink of blood nearly made Emma return home. More time was spent flapping at flies buzzing about Angelique who nestled in her lap than entertaining offers on her work.
Sarah had left a bundle on Emma’s stoop—the belt she’d left behind. With shaking hands and prayers of thanksgiving, Emma had held it to her chest. There had been little to eat since the day she’d left—naught but bread and fresh water. Soon she would need to spend the last of her pennies. Emma’s stomach felt squeezed back against her spine. Her breasts felt drained dry. Mayhap from the tension of her life, or mayhap from Angelique’s growing diet of other foodstuffs, Emma found her milk supply almost gone. Now that the bountiful food of the keep was gone, she had not the milk to take its place.
She’d soon need to seek Widow Cooper’s help to aid Angelique. Her mind shied from thoughts of Widow Cooper’s son. To go to the widow would be to admit defeat and seek charity, begging. Emma was not yet ready to beg or wed—or pretend her vows to William did not exist.
If not for Sarah’s kindness, Emma would have had nothing to barter at the market. Now she would be able to earn a few coins to keep them in food and warm clothes for the winter. The belt was made of the finest of thread, the best of dyes. She’d chosen them with Lord Gilles in mind; it should fetch a high price. But should she fail to sell it, she would lodge Angelique with Widow Cooper and walk to the nearby port of Lynn. There, heart-rending as it might be, she would sell her mother’s cross or her father’s spurs. Pride truly could not abide in the same house as starvation.
Two women approached—Ivo’s wife and another woman she did not know. They fingered Emma’s work while gossiping. Neither acknowledged her. They did not buy. Ivo’s wife spat near Emma’s feet. The other lifted the belt, slipped it through her fingers, and then let it drop into the dust. An inauspicious beginning to the market day. With unsteady hands, Emma brushed off the belt and arranged it again to catch the light and show the surface sheen. Two more hours passed.
Emma knew when he entered the row of stalls.
She had no need to actually see him. A tingling in her spine, some change in the air, alerted her. When his shadow fell over her lap, she raised her eyes.
He was resplendent in black and scarlet. His richly embroidered tunic and black mantle suited him well. He wore his mantle thrown back over his shoulders, held in place by a gold pin inset with blue enamel. The hand that caressed the belt she was selling had a vivid scar across four fingers. She wondered if he’d suffered when he received it.
As if reading her mind, he spoke to her, “‘Twas nothing.”
Angelique stirred against Emma’s breast. She attempted to still her wildly beating heart by stroking the nimbus of curls that rose about her child’s head.
Gilles watched Emma’s hands, and for a moment, it was him she stroked. He could almost feel the warmth of her palm and the press of her fingers on his body. Desire hammered him unmercifully so his words sounded harsh and complaining.
“How may I persuade you to return to your duties?”
“Meaning no disrespect, my lord, but I cannot return.”
“Ah, you prefer this,” he said with a gesture encompassing the area. His mantle slid over one shoulder. Impatiently, he flung it back.
“To fear and pain, aye, I prefer it.” Emma shot to her feet and clasped Angelique tightly to her chest.
“Mistress Sarah told me of your fears. You should have confided in me that night, Emma. I demand total obedience from each person under my care. If you were being accosted by some unworthy, then it was to me you should have come. Why did you run from me, from telling me your troubles?”
She met his eyes. “I am sorry, my lord, but I did not want to make you choose between one of your knights and…a weaver. Surely, you would think ill of me.” Emma could not say that to accuse a knight might bring the lash. She’d not lived in a cloister. William Belfour, too, was unlikely to earn censure for his behavior toward a mere weaver, so well-favored was he, sitting as he so often did at the high table.
“A cur is a cur. I don’t allow the forcing of any woman, no matter how humble her station.”
Her voice almost a whisper, Emma tried to make him understand. “There are those who would be most subtle in their pursuit.”
“I offer you my protection.” He couldn’t banter words with her. He had to say what he wanted. She would say aye or nay, but it must be brought to that point—now.
“Protection?” Her eyes searched his face. Just the night before he had appeared vividly in her dreams, a dark image jumbled together with hawks soaring into the heavens. She had jolted awake aching with desire. Her thoughts painted a rosy blush on her cheeks.
“Aye, you do understand protection, don’t you?”
His implacable demeanor and his fierce scowl made Emma feel slightly faint. A nervous sound escaped her throat. His scowl melted into a smile.
“Nay, my lord. I don’t think I do.”
His smile deepened the lines radiating from his ebony eyes, and she thought of smoothing those lines of care with her fingertips. Then she realized she’d never be in a position to touch this man. Only a light-skirt could touch a lord, and then only at his behest, not hers.
“Then I will explain it to you.” Gilles clasped the length of cloth in his hands and sighed. If she refused him, he knew the pa
in of it would be like that of a suppurating lance wound, unlikely to heal, always weeping. “My protection would mean no man will dare accost you, speak to you with impropriety, touch your hand even, without your permission.”
“That is a formidable statement, Lord Gilles.”
Her voice was a caress of his name. Desire was a tangible web being woven around them. He offered her safety in his lofty world.
“I am a formidable man,” he said.
Chapter Seven
The desire to touch him was overwhelming. Emma reached for the belt that lay between them and took it from his hands, brushing against his knuckles. A shiver coursed through her.
“Again, Emma. Do you understand protection?”
“I must think first of Angelique,” she began.
“The child will be protected as well.”
Emma searched his face for guile, for some telltale sign to guide her. He held her gaze and did not look away, nor did he begin to babble reassurances to persuade her—or spout pretty words. He waited in silence. She took a deep breath.
“Mama?” Angelique raised her head. “Hungry!” Her little hands tugged at the front of Emma’s mantle.
They were in a world of their own. Time and sound receded to a gentle buzz. Who watched, who spoke, she wouldn’t later be able to say. It was as if time stood still for her reply. After Angelique’s words, there could be but one answer.
Emma nodded agreement. Her eyes filled with tears. They fell unheeded down her cheeks and dripped on the soft wool of her mantle. Gilles reached out and caught one silver droplet on the edge of his finger. He brought it to his lips, tasted the salt, savored the moment. He had no doubt the tears were from an excess of emotion. He hoped the emotion was joy.
“Forgive me. We are hungry and tired.” Emma dashed the tears away with the back of her hand.
Gilles snapped his fingers and his squire appeared as if by magic. “Hubert, escort this woman and her child to the keep. See that Mistress Sarah feeds them both.” He swept up the belt and strode away.
* * * * *
Roland looked about the hall to see what had turned his wife’s mood sour as poorly made wine. She was stiff and abrupt. He supposed it was the weather. Gloomy and dark, the hall had taken on the dank, wet scent of the rain-swept outdoors.
She shook off his soothing hand. “‘Twas only a matter of time,” Sarah muttered to her husband and nodded in the direction of the lower tables.
He saw William Belfour teasing the new weaver. The weaver, whose name he’d forgotten, was not smiling or enjoying whatever jest so amused Belfour.
“Be she blind or simple?” Roland asked, draining his tankard and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Humpf. More like the brightest of them all or the clearest of eye—to give that one the cold shoulder.”
“No other wench here would agree with you.”
Sarah turned on the bench and contemplated her husband. He, too, was gray now. He was a fine man, firm of limb, strong of wit and a generous lover. He’d given her three fine sons, sons off fighting with King Richard. She tempered her black mood with a smile and touched his thigh. “There are many women here who see through that one. They wish to warm his bed anyway.” With a sigh, she rose. “I will see to Emma. Lord Gilles would not want her annoyed.”
Roland d’Vare watched his wife cross the hall. She went directly to the young people, intent on her task. She did not, therefore, note that Gilles had entered the hall, come from the bailey. He noted Gilles’ scowl, noted that the hem of his mantle was thick with mud and stained with wet. Roland rose and headed in his wife’s direction. Should there be trouble, he wanted to be there to smooth the rough edges.
“Sir,” Sarah said to Belfour. “You take advantage of your position.”
“How so, Mistress?” William rested his forearm on his thigh and looked Sarah up and down.
“‘Tis obvious Mistress Emma wishes you to leave her alone.”
“Emma?” William turned from Sarah to Emma.
Emma felt the warmth drain from her body. Her hands were icy, her throat dry. Over William’s shoulder she saw Lord Gilles approach. William had been describing to her what she must do to get back into his good graces—meet him behind the granary or the dovecote.
She swallowed her fear of him. Lord Gilles had promised her protection, but to need it so soon made her sick with apprehension. Courage, she bid herself, courage.
William moved his leg an imperceptible inch toward her arm and pressed against her. ‘Twas time to put Lord Gilles’ promise to the test, when few could hear her words. If William persisted, the time might come when she would need to speak before a larger company. “Aye, William, Mistress Sarah has it aright. I wish that you would be gone.”
Gilles wore a fierce scowl. As he passed through the crowded hall, the men and women fell silent. Many had heard the rumors of Lord Gilles’ protection of the new weaver, though none were privy to any actual time they spent together. But here was William Belfour with the weaver, a man notorious for taking what he wished. Surely, sparks would fly.
Emma’s hands were cold and her throat tight. She had angered William, could see it was so in the tight line of his jaw and the hand he fisted on his bent knee. What if William shamed her before Lord Gilles? What if Lord Gilles did not come to her aid?
“Problems, Mistress Sarah?” Gilles stripped off his gauntlets. There was a pain residing in his belly. It had flamed there when he’d seen William, one powerful thigh so near Emma’s face, his boot propped up at her side on the bench. He trusted himself to speak only to Roland’s wife.
“Nay, my lord.” Sarah met Gilles’ eye and smiled a smile that let him know she was capable of handling any problems between these two.
“Excellent. William, Roland, come. Gather the men.” Gilles strode away.
William stretched out his fingers, gave Emma a baleful stare, and hastened after Gilles, who had returned to the bailey. William had no wish to anger Gilles. He, too, had heard the rumors. As one of Gilles’ knights, he had power here at Hawkwatch Keep. He would have less at some other. A dispute over a wench was foolish if it meant being sent to some hellhole, like Seaswept Keep on the Godforsaken coast, with its weeping stone walls and unknown steward—Gilles’ son, Nicholas d’Argent.
Emma allowed the tension to ooze from her body. Her neck ached. She rubbed it with the tips of her strong weaver’s fingers. Lord Gilles had but to raise a brow and all acceded to his wishes. His power was as tangible as a scent in the air. Emma lifted a brow and practiced Lord Gilles’ stare on a potboy. The child scurried away. She giggled.
“What amuses you so?” Sarah used the edge of her apron to wipe where William had planted his boot before seating herself.
“‘Tis naught.” She watched as men hastened from the hall after Lord Gilles. “What has happened to rouse so many men from the hearth in this beastly storm?” She stood and shook out her skirts she’d been sitting on lest they’d touched William Belfour’s muddy boot. She wore a woolen overgown of russet wool. A linen kirtle to match could be seen at hem and neck. They were her first new clothes in three years.
Sarah followed Emma’s gaze. “The rain caused a slide. Part of the north wall collapsed. I will see if we may make ourselves useful.”
Emma could only stare after Sarah. The north wall. Widow Cooper lived at the north wall. The five grandchildren, too. Emma ran from the hall, heedless of the rain, sweeping up her mantle. She jumped puddles on her way to the weaving building where the spinners slept.
“May! Thank God. Please, could you see to Angelique until I return? ‘Tis said the north wall is collapsing. I’ve a friend there. She might need me.”
“Aye. I’ll be pleased to see to yer babe.” May nodded. Wisps of fine brown hair had escaped from her cap. Her gentle doe eyes made her seem as guileless as a child, but Emma knew May was as quick as a fox. Emma bussed her child’s cheek and dashed off.
The cobblestones in the forecourt wer
e slick with wet and mud. She held her skirts aloft of the mire. Disaster filled the air. Men ran through the gate, pushing her to the side. She became just another person pulled along in a tide of people heading to the north wall.
The sight that met her eyes chilled her bones. Rubble, mud, and water took the place of homes and businesses. She stood in stark fear for her friend, her hands clutched in her skirts, the effort to protect her new garments forgotten.
A shout drew her attention and she saw Lord Gilles, mounted on a black horse, calling orders to other mounted men who circled the rubble. The sight of him made her freeze. He looked magnificent atop a horse that must stand at least seventeen hands. His harsh features somehow reassured her. He was not a romantic courtier. He was a man to whom the milling people turned for succor. The very breath in her lungs heated.
In the next moment, he leapt from his horse to stay the hand of his squire, Hubert, who shifted stone with a long wooden rake. From out of the pile Gilles lifted a muddy bundle. In one smooth motion, he mounted his horse, the bundle close against his chest. The huge horse high-stepped amongst the people to the edge of the crowd. A keening cry rent the air. A woman burst from the mist. She tore at her hair, shrieked, then threw herself on the stones.
The horses shied and pawed at the commotion. Lord Gilles rode straight at her, controlling his horse’s agitation. When he reached the woman’s side, he spoke sharply and to Emma’s amazement, the woman clutched at his mantle and kissed his hem. Two men-at-arms rushed forward, but Lord Gilles waved them off. Carefully, he leaned down and offered the woman the bundle in his arms.
Emma gasped, for the woman tore open the wrapping and a babe’s flailing arms beat the air. The weeping mother clutched again at Lord Gilles’ mantle and babbled words of gratitude for the saving of her child. With a brusque wave, Lord Gilles wheeled his mount and edged his way back to the men frantically casting stones aside.