by Ann Lawrence
Emma slipped her heavy pack from her shoulder and settled herself on the hard ground. Painstakingly, she examined her finds.
“May I help?” William rose from concealment.
“William! You startled me.” Emma scrambled to her feet, thrusting her gatherings into the pack.
“Did I? Startled is not the reaction I used to get when we met here.”
Emma shouldered her pack and stepping back, widened the space between them, her eyes going to the silent mill.
“Surely, you aren’t leaving, Emma. You just arrived.” He caught her arm as she turned to go.
“Why aren’t you at Selsey?” she retorted. She snatched her arm away, watched him warily. He was resplendent in the morning sun, blond hair gleaming, fur-lined mantle folded back over his broadly muscled shoulders. It was the ripple of those muscles that frightened her when she remembered their power.
Suddenly, the brilliance of the sunlight was concealed by the dark foreboding of William’s contemptuous smile. “I know my duties,” he said. “‘Tis none of your concern how I choose to perform them.”
Emma edged along the frost-hard bank of the pond, trying to distance herself from him.
“Were you waiting for me? Is this not where I first had you? Mayhap you have improved your skills under Lord Gilles’ tutelage. Of course, he is not so young as to be a very demanding lover…or are you here to ply your trade? Exchanging favors for a reduction in millage costs for the keep?” he asked with a quick laugh.
His words were softly spoken. Their import was ugly. William stalked her, step for step along the bank. He swept out an arm and encircled her waist. Quick as a snake striking a mouse, he grasped her breast and squeezed.
“Leave off!” Emma struggled in his grasp. “You wretched knave,” she gasped as he pushed her to the ground and straddled her body.
“I want to see your soft, white thighs.” He shoved her flat with a hand spread on her chest and dragged up her skirts.
Emma went wild. She thrashed beneath him and pummeled him with her fists, to no avail. She only succeeded in making him laugh.
“Aye, fight me. Fight me, you haughty lord’s whore.” He bent his head and took her nipple in his teeth and, as if swatting a fly, flung her hands away.
When his teeth closed on her tender nipple, she knew he meant her harm, for this was no caress, but a vicious bite. He stretched himself atop her, effectively ending her struggles. His tremendous weight stole her air. With little way to defend herself, she tried words, scraping strands of his hair from her lips to beg him.
“William, stop, please. Gilles will never forgive you. Please.” Emma’s last words were barely audible amidst her sobs, for William had pushed her skirts to her waist.
He thrust his thigh hard between her legs.
Emma’s terror was complete. She struggled as William lifted his hips to free himself.
“Did he fill you as I did, sweet Emma?” he jeered, crushing his lips to hers, groping to find his way.
Emma flung her arms out to her sides, seeking with her hands for dirt to fling in his eyes. Her fingers dug, but the cold earth, impervious, yielded nothing. Then her fingertips met, encircled, and hefted a stone. Unthinking, she slammed it to William’s shoulder. It was like hitting a boulder with a pebble.
The air filled with her sobs of anguish and his grunts of erotic anger as her struggles prevented him from seating himself. With a brutal push of his hands and hips, he laid her open. Emma smashed the stone to his brow.
Precious air gusted into her lungs as he rolled off her. Gasping, weeping, she struggled to gather her torn skirts about her.
“God curse you, William.” Emma scrambled away on her hands and knees as William staggered to his feet, his brow dripping blood onto his tunic.
“You bitch.” William’s anger was very personal as he lunged for her, but she twisted away, raised her skirts, and ran for her life.
He swore as she ran into the woods. “I’ll have you soon, I promise,” he shouted. “You think you’ve won, well think again. Next time I’ll have you in his bed. Aye,” he muttered to himself, straightening and wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. “Aye, I’ll make you beg for it.”
She disappeared into the trees. He stared after her, then shrugged. Carefully, he fastened his clothing, pulling his tunic down, muttering at the smear of blood on his hand when he smoothed back his hair.
He tore a strip from an old shirt in his saddle pack, then knelt and dipped it in the icy pond. He dabbed at the cut on his brow and vented his ire in a stream of colorful words.
A shadow fell across his. He half turned. Pain exploded in the side of his head. He fell to his back in a tangled sprawl of limbs.
The jagged rock came down on his face again and again and again. He didn’t struggle; he didn’t protest. As the stone obliterated his features, he felt nothing, for the first blow had killed him.
Chapter Nineteen
Emma blocked the memory of William’s curses as she ran. She was too intent on escape, running as swiftly as she could, stumbling over insignificant stones. She tripped on a root and fell headlong into a rotted pile of muddy leaves. Her headcovering came off, and her braids tumbled over her shoulders.
Frantic, she snatched up the muddy cloth, looked over her shoulder just once, then forced herself to run even harder. Her legs wobbled as she made her way through the winding alleys that separated the dwellings at the castle wall.
She could barely stand when she reached the gate, and needed to sit and gather her wits. Her skirt was torn and there was mud splashed across her bodice. Shame painted her cheeks red. Shame that she’d given herself to William Belfour so willingly without first seeking to know the man inside his godlike face and body.
“Mistress, are ye ill?” the gatekeeper shouted down to Emma from his high perch.
Emma couldn’t answer, she just gathered her ripped skirts and ran through the gate, swept up the keep’s steps and, avoiding all eyes, stumbled up the stone stair to Gilles’ chamber.
She shot the bolt and tore off her gown. Shivering and naked, she took up one of Gilles’ daggers and shredded the gown, reduced the ugliness of the day to tiny tattered scraps of wool that she flung into the fire. She searched out Gilles’ robe and wrapped it tightly about her.
As she watched the gown turn to ash, she became aware that her right breast throbbed. Shaking off her fear, she rose and bathed William’s touch from her body, and then curled in Gilles’ bed, wrapped in his scent, surrounded by her memories for comfort, praying he would soon come home.
She bit the cuff of the sleeve to keep from weeping.
* * * * *
“Hungry.” Angelique tugged at Emma’s hair, waking her. “Hungry! Angelique hungry!”
“Oh, my child. I’m sorry.” Emma roused herself, rose and dressed, muttering to herself. “Hiding will gain us naught. I must face him, for surely he is below awaiting us.” She dug in a coffer and sheathed one of Gilles’ daggers beneath her gown. “If I hide here, he’ll have won. He’ll know he has frightened me.”
Why didn’t I take someone with me to gather my plants?
Emma clutched Angelique to her breast as she paced the rush-strewn floor of Gilles’ chamber. She resisted the urge to climb onto the high bed and hide in its soothing depths. “I will be strong. I’ll not let him take my peace from me.”
“Peas, Mama. Angelique wants peas.”
Emma looked at her daughter. How could William have scorned such beauty and innocence? She pressed her face into Angelique’s neck, and her throat worked as she stemmed her anger and grief. “I can’t hide until Gilles returns. I must face William now.”
Shifting Angelique to her left hip, Emma groped in her skirt for the knife she’d strapped to her leg. Then, squaring her shoulders, Emma put her hand to the iron latch.
With but a moment’s hesitation, she lifted it. She nodded to the sentry who stood guard at the base of the stair. When she rounded the last spir
al of the stairs, she paused, then forced herself to enter the hall. She searched the many tables crowded with retainers, but did not see the one she sought. Heaving a sigh of relief, Emma made her way to an empty seat by Sarah.
“May I take her, Emma?” May asked, stopping at Emma’s side. Emma handed a hungry Angelique to May, and then helped herself to a partridge from a long wooden platter of birds.
“How quickly I’ve become accustomed to such bounty.” Emma tore a piece of bread from a loaf at her place and slathered it with drippings from the partridge platter. Chewing rapidly, she kept her eyes on the various doorways, anticipating William’s arrival at any moment.
“You seem ill at ease this evening. Are you feeling well?” Sarah asked, selecting a plump bird for herself.
Emma avoided Sarah’s eyes. “I don’t feel quite myself.” What a lie, she thought.
She felt frightened and anxious.
“You must take care of—”
A cacophony of sounds in the bailey cut Sarah’s remarks short. The two women rose and, with the rest of the gathered company that surged to the great doors opening into the bailey, they sought the source of the tremendous wailing and screaming they could hear from without.
‘Twas a scene of turmoil that met their eyes. The miller had drawn his cart close against the steps that led to the great doors of the keep. He was instantly thronged with people. Men were pushed aside by wives and women servants as the form stretched out in the cart was glimpsed.
Women tore their hair and sobbed. Men were struck silent at the macabre scene. One old man with poor vision raised his voice above the noise of the crowd.
“What is it? What has happened?” he quavered, frightened and bewildered.
“Murder. William Belfour has been murdered!” cried the miller. He stood on his cart seat and addressed the crowd. As he spoke, the people fell silent, though weeping continued unabated. “I found him by my pond, his face bashed in, his blood staining the earth. Great evil this is!”
Emma pushed forward, shocked and dismayed. She’d seen William but a few hours ago in that exact spot. She reached the side of the cart. Placing her hands on the rough wooden edges, she looked over, then reeled back, choking down the vomit that threatened to spew from her lips.
‘Twas beyond ghastly, the sight of him. If not for his blue mantle and well-known form, it could have been any fair-haired man. There was nothing of William Belfour’s beauty left. He was a pulpy mass of broken bone, smashed teeth, and blackened gouts of blood.
The miller jumped into the back of his cart and lifted a brown leather pack from William’s side. “Who recognizes this?”
Emma spoke before prudence could stop her. “‘Tis mine.”
“Were you at the mill today?” He spoke in an accusatory tone and the crowd fell quiet around them, all eyes turning to Emma and the miller.
“Aye. I was. I was gathering plants for my dyes.” Emma looked cautiously about her. The crowd was silent, not a listening silence, a malevolent silence.
“I saw that one run in the gate today. She had blood on her gown. Her gown were torn.”
Emma stared at the man who spoke. She recognized the gatekeeper, didn’t miss the excitement that lit his eyes as he swiftly became the center of attention, people parting to let him through to the cart’s side.
“‘Twas not—” Emma began.
“Murderess!” screamed a frantic woman’s voice. “Murderess!”
The crowd closed on Emma, and she stepped back against the cart’s side to avoid them.
“Nay, I would never hurt anyone.” Hands reached for her arms, clasped her and held her against the cart. Two women snatched at her hair. Emma tried to raise her hands to protect her face, for the women in the crowd had whipped themselves into a frenzy.
“Stone her as she stoned him,” a voice screamed above the crowd. The men stood by in silence while the women sought stones and dirt, flinging them in Emma’s face, pelting her breasts and stomach. She screamed and bent to try to protect herself, but hands held her upright, tearing and stripping her gown and shift, turning her to face the bloody mess that was William.
Gasping with pain and blinded by the blood that dripped from her own brow, Emma began to grow weak, too weak to fight them. Held against the cart, her now naked body was pummeled with stones while hands clawed at her arms, dirty nails digging furrows from her elbows to her wrists. Like a wounded animal, Emma began to slide down the rough side of the cart.
Sarah ran into the keep and up the winding stair, gathering the sentries she could find on her way. She had only to invoke Lord Gilles’ name and future wrath to gain their instant support. Accompanied by three stalwart soldiers, Sarah forged a path to Emma, shoving men, women, and children aside as she moved. The sentries shouted for order and used the flat of their swords and the heavy edges of their shields to bash a path to the two men who held a now unconscious Emma against the cart. Intimidated by drawn blades, the men let Emma fall to the ground.
“Emma, Emma,” Sarah crooned to her friend, who lay in her own blood at the wheel of the cart. “Please don’t die,” she sobbed. “Help me with her,” she demanded of a nearby man. The armorer, ashamed of the behavior of the crowd and most shocked at the women’s frenzy, welcomed the opportunity to atone for his silent fascination as the crowd lost itself in bloody sport, so he stepped up to help when summoned. He hoisted Emma into his arms and ignored the screams of a crowd deprived of their vengeance. He stepped into the protective circle of the three soldiers. As a body, Sarah leading the way, they made their way to the keep.
* * * * *
At the first touch of a cold cloth to her bruised face, Emma moaned and stirred, and threw up her hands to shield her face.
She shuddered and shook in reaction to the horror of what had transpired. A shadow fell over her. Mark Trevalin bowed slightly at the waist. She clung to Sarah.
“Mistress,” he spoke to Sarah rather than her, “I know this is difficult for you, this woman being your friend, but I must hear her story. The crowd is calling for her to be brought out, brought out to answer for murder. I must speak to her if she’s able.”
“Lord Gilles will have you stripped of your rank, should you hurt her!” Sarah spat. She bathed the blood and dirt from Emma’s face. “You’re safe here, Emma. No one will harm you.”
Mark Trevalin’s face paled. “Tend her, then I must speak to her, though you may remain while I question her. I will see to the dispersal of the crowd.” He turned and left, and Emma could hear him shouting orders. She heard the march of boots, she heard what sounded like a small skirmish in the bailey, then silence fell.
* * * * *
Emma sat on a bench in Gilles’ chamber. Arrayed before her were Mark Trevalin and three other men-at-arms.
“Aye, I saw him today,” Emma said. Her face was puffed and bruised. Her eyes stung with unshed tears as she faced the men at the table. Sarah patted her shoulder to reassure her, but nothing really helped. Life was a nightmare. She prayed for Gilles to return and help her; she prayed to God to send Gilles swiftly home.
Swallowing audibly, she continued. “I was gathering plants when I met Sir William at the pond. We spoke a moment and then he tried to kiss me. I tried to get away but he is…was very strong. He tried to force himself on me.” With a trembling hand Emma reached for a cup of water on the table. When she looked up she saw skeptical frowns on the men.
Mark Trevalin spoke in the silence. “Belfour had little need to force his attentions on any maid.” His contempt for her words was barely concealed.
“Yet he did!” Emma loathed the panic and fear that cloaked her voice. “He did.” She fell silent.
“Continue your tale.” Trevalin waited for Emma to again drink from her cup.
“He tried to force me.” This time she met Trevalin’s eyes, defying him to sneer. “I found a small, small stone.” Emma cupped her hand to demonstrate the size. “I hit him on the shoulder. When that did naught, I hit him on the br
ow. He let me go and I ran. When I looked back he was standing and shouting at me. I heard some of it. He was shouting that he would have me yet. I was so frightened—”
“So you admit hitting him with a rock,” Trevalin interrupted.
“Nay. I admit hitting him with a very small stone, but I swear in God’s holy name, he was alive when I left him! He cursed me.”
“The gatekeeper says your gown was torn.”
“Is that not proof that William was forcing himself on her?” Sarah interjected.
“Please, mistress, if you cannot hold your tongue, you must leave.” Trevalin spoke sternly to Sarah.
“William tore my skirts, aye.” Emma’s face flamed red.
“And the blood the gatekeeper claims was on your gown?”
“There was no blood. It was mud. I fell on my face while running in the woods.”
“May I see your gown, please?”
Silence reigned for a moment, and Emma felt her flush become a heat that surely could be felt like a flame across the room. “I can’t show you the gown. I burned it.”
Sarah’s gasp was the only sound in the room for several moments.
“I see. Why did you do such a thing?” Trevalin spoke harshly and with disbelief.
“I hated the sight of it. It would have always reminded me that William tried to rape me. Even mended, it would have reminded me. I would have had to tell Lord Gilles. I could not face that…telling him what William had done.”
“You hated William Belfour, did you not?”
“Nay. I did not like him, but I did not hate him.”
“One of the weavers says he overheard you telling Mistress Sarah that you could kill Belfour. Did you say that?”
“‘Twas not what it seems. It is an expression, spoken by many who have no wish to harm. It is just an expression.”
“Yet, William Belfour is dead.”
Emma did not respond. She was suddenly lethargic and her head pounded with pain.