by Ann Lawrence
“Stop before you are found. Please, I beg of you.”
He could not grant her wish. Each new fact he learned of William made him more angry, not just with his bastard son, but with himself that he’d not cared more, taken his son more to task. Had he taken on the true responsibility for his son, acknowledged him, he would not need to hunt his killer now. To distract her from her pain and his rejection of her wish, he drew her into his arms and spoke another truth instead. “Warm me, I am so cold.”
She immediately looped her arms about him and pressed her body to his. “Oh, Gilles. Shall I bring you blankets?”
“Nay,” he said against her ear. “A beggar has only what he stands up in.”
“I fear for you. And what if you sicken?”
He let his mouth drift to her throat. “Do not fear for me—I am dead already.”
Emma gave him a sad smile. “What a bitter punishment for my sins! To have the man I love be within my grasp, then cruelly snatched by death.”
Gilles tried to speak, but she violently shook her head and he held silent.
“And now—resurrected, but still lost to me. And for what? A disagreement of philosophy? You are a man, you must have your vengeance, spill blood to feel complete. I care only for peace. Choose Gilles. Choose now. Bloodshed or peace. William or me.”
“Emma—” Gilles began, one hand lifted; then he let it drop to his side. The low whisper of his voice made his words somehow more potent, more final. “It is not one choice over the other. I am compelled to do this. My honor demands it. He was my son and I denied him. Do not ask me again to choose.”
She pulled from his arms and knelt before him. “I am asking. I am begging.”
He shook his head.
In the long silence that followed her words, she looked him over, barely able to see him, save for the pale gleam of his throat and shoulder where she’d bared his skin. Her heart could not believe he would not give up his search. Her disappointment was a hollow pain in her breast. With shaking fingers she touched the chain of her mother’s cross. “Go then. Go with God.”
He heard but the rustle of her skirts to mark her departure. The stable was doubly cold without her.
With an oath he rushed after her, shoving aside the other beggars to stand at the stable door. He almost called out. But he was too late. There was naught to be seen of her. Clouds blanketed the moon, mist shrouded the lanes.
* * * * *
Emma’s anger only sustained her for a day or two. How much longer could she hide from Roland and the others that she knew Gilles lived? Mayhap he was right. She could not prevent her eyes from roaming the faces of the keep. She concocted errands to take her into the village. She did not see him.
Then fear took anger’s place. If she recognized him, others might, too. One moment she wished Gilles to the devil for his stubbornness and the next she found herself on her knees offering prayers for his safety.
“There is only one way to bring him home to me. I must learn who killed William myself. Then nothing will stand between us!” Once she had determined on her course, she no longer felt lost.
She watched everyone. William’s women most especially.
May talked little of William, but was heard to sing a song or two of his when rocking Angelique or another babe to sleep. Beatrice burst into tears as forceful as the water gushing from Gilles’ spigot whenever William’s name was mentioned. But Emma felt no secret guilt in either.
On her way from her spinning school, she detoured to the smith. There was one who knew the villagers from a different viewpoint—the thieving child. He was running to and fro for the armorer, handing him tools. They both nodded to her as she entered their domain. She sat beside the child on a bale of hay and watched Big Robbie hammer out a lance point.
‘Twas said children did not lie. Emma crossed her fingers. “Were you here the day Sir William was killed?”
The boy eyed her, then darted forward to work the bellows of Big Robbie’s forge. When he returned, he wiped sweat from his brow. “I seen him dead. Proper bashed he was.”
She swallowed hard. She, too, remembered how William had looked the day of his death. “Do you know who did it?”
“Me? Why would I be knowing anything?” The boy shrugged. His dark eyes were shrewd, old beyond his years.
“I’ve a sweet bun for anything you can tell me of that day, of who might have killed him.”
The boy grinned.
“I seen him, Sir William, earlier that day. In the village. Riding the alehouse keeper’s wife, he were.”
“How old are you?” she asked.
He shrugged and held up both hands with four fingers spread on each. “So young,” she murmured. “When was this?”
“Missed me midday meal, I did, watchin’“
“What the boy says is truth.” The armorer rested his hammer for a moment. “I fetched him here. He’d no business being at the alehouse, scrounging for scraps to sell. I swatted him good for watching Sir William at his pleasure, begging your pardon, my lady.”
Emma felt her face flush at Big Robbie’s solicitous tone. “Fear not to offend me.”
“We were all surprised to learn Sir William were his lordship’s bastard. And I won’t believe his lordship killed his son. ‘Tis against nature.”
“Who do you think did it?” she asked the man.
“Not you, my lady.”
She went to where he stood, tall, massive as an oak. “Thank you, Big Robbie. I want to find out who did it. I have to clear Lord Gilles’ name.”
He nodded and returned to his work. The muscles rippled on his arms as the hammer rose and fell in an ancient rhythm. “Look for a man. A powerful, angry man. Strong.” He lifted an old wooden cask whose iron strapping had rusted. With a swift twist of his wrist, he smashed his hammer to the chest, splintering it into a dozen pieces. “Worse were done to Sir William than this hammer did to this chest, and with naught but a rock.”
Emma swayed.
“Now easy. Forgive me,” he cried and rushed to where she stood, her eyes locked to the smashed pieces of wood. “I weren’t thinking. Should I have the boy fetch someone for you?”
Emma shook her head. Big Robbie was right. It must have been a man. No woman could have wielded such strength. She could no longer keep her thoughts to herself.
She tapped lightly on the door to Gilles’ chamber. When Catherine opened it, she slipped in. It pained her to see Nicholas sitting in Gilles’ chair, his feet stretched to the fire in a posture so like his father’s.
“He is cold,” she said to him.
Nicholas shot to his feet. “Who?” His incredulous tone made her smile ruefully.
“Gilles. I know it all. How dare you keep this from me?”
“Fetch Roland and Sarah,” he ordered his wife. She dashed to do his bidding.
With a shake of her head, Emma went to stand before him. “You have your father’s imperious nature, but he tempers it with courtesy. He ordered me but once, and that in anger, so I must forgive him.”
Color flooded Nicholas’ cheeks. “You think to instruct me on how to treat my wife?”
Emma sat on a low stool by Gilles’ chair. She stroked her hand along its arm. “Nay. Forgive me, my lord, I’ve not the right. I overstepped myself. Did I not steal your father’s life and deprive you of his presence?”
“As to that—” He broke off as Catherine entered with Roland and Sarah.
“I have found him.” Emma stated it simply.
“I am somehow not surprised,” Roland said. He came to her side and touched her shoulder. “How is he?”
“He is cold. He is dressed as a beggar, his beard is gone, he has made a futile attempt to appear far older than he is—”
“Enough!” Nicholas cut her off. “It is now your duty to keep his secret as we have. He has a task, and intends to perish if necessary to accomplish it.”
“You are an angry man.” Emma stepped before him and fisted her hands on her hips. “Wh
y, I ask myself. Is it me? Do I offend you?”
“Aye. You offend me. If Father had not become enamored of you, he would not have needed to defend you. Had you merely bargained some price for your services, he would not have paid for you with his honor!”
Sarah and Roland gasped. Nicholas wheeled on them. “Well. Did he not? What honor has he now? When the king is freed and finds me in my father’s stead, he’ll ask the circumstances. What will be said of my father? He is a murderer—of his son!”
Whatever she might think of Nicholas’ angry words, Emma knew she must remember that he, too, must fear for Gilles’ safety. “If you are so concerned for him, then help me solve William’s murder. Can we not determine who is at fault if we put our heads together?”
“Excellent idea.” Catherine clapped her hands. “We could each question William’s men as to their whereabouts that day.”
Before Nicholas could open his mouth to protest, Emma threw open the shutters and let the icy fog creep into the room. “He is cold. He will grow colder.”
“Aye,” Roland said, coming to her side, looking out over the mist-enshrouded land. “His back pains him when he sleeps too long on the ground.”
Catherine lifted a skin from a hook on the mantelpiece. “I sent these oils with Nicholas for Lord Gilles’ ease. Take them to him.”
“Nay,” Nicholas said. “She must not look for him. None of us must.”
“I think Gilles should have someone to keep an eye on him. In case he needs anything,” Catherine said.
She offered the skin to Emma whose face heated as she remembered the night Gilles had hung it by the fire, the night Nicholas had found her kneeling between his father’s thighs.
“Thank you.” She clasped the warm skin to her chest. “But though this may ease his discomfort, it will not clear his name and restore him to honor. That will take all our efforts. I spoke to Big Robbie today. He showed me that ‘tis most likely a man who killed William. Let us draw up a list of William’s companions—”
“Few of them could have killed him,” Roland said. “A goodly number remained at Selsey whilst William shirked his duties and returned here. More were with Gilles—”
“We must look into those who remained. And what of his women? Had they not fathers, brother’s, lovers who might object to his trespass?” Sarah interrupted, coming to Emma’s side.
“Aye,” Nicholas said. “I would kill any man who stole what was mine. I would slice off his jewels and feed them to him for supper.”
Roland sat in Gilles’ chair. He unrolled a parchment and studied it. “This is a useless document. Gilles’ betrothal contract with Michelle d’Ambray. We can conceal the list of names among the words so no one learns of what we are doing. Who will make the list?”
“I write a fair hand.” Sarah drew the parchment to her. “Let me. You men will better know who belongs on the list than I.”
An hour later, they had exhausted their ideas. The formidable list was divided equally among them. An uneasy truce stood between Emma and Nicholas, forged with delicate links by the common goal of bringing Gilles home.
Roland escorted Emma to supper that night and sat at her side. “Separate him from his companions.” He had no need to explain who he was. “You cannot talk to him in their presence, and he must be apprised of what we are doing. ‘Twould be a waste for him to cover the same ground. Mayhap you can force him to set a limit on his folly, too, have him decide on a day to call a halt to this quest.”
Beatrice placed a platter of boiled eels before them. Roland served her. Emma’s stomach lurched. She waved off the generous portion he extended to her and took a slow sip of her wine. “I know just the argument to persuade him to end his quest. I shall simply ask him if he wishes to see his babe grow to manhood.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Emma marched directly to the well and began to harangue the beggars for sitting idly by whilst others cleared the lanes and helped rebuild the village. Those with their wits about them hung their heads and shuffled off. Two who dwelled in their imaginations muttered and gestured wildly; Emma paid them no heed. One stayed where he was, leaning on his stick, a twisted smile on his grimy face.
“Well. Can you not help?” She fisted her hands on her hips.
He shrugged and lifted his stick to indicate his status as a cripple.
“Humpf. You use your infirmity to support idleness. Come.”
She heard the stump of his stick following her as she strode east along the castle wall. Despite the lack of good housing, her hut stood empty. “This place looks in need of cleaning. Sweep it out. Gather fresh straw. Make it habitable.”
“Why? No one will dwell here. ‘Tis a haunted place,” he said and spit in the dirt.
“Haunted!” she scoffed. “Who put about such nonsense?”
A few men who were replacing a nearby thatched roof paused to listen. They eyed Emma in a way that made her skin crawl. She recognized them as alehouse companions of Ivo.
She could tell Gilles had to strain his voice to make sure his words reached the workmen. “‘Tis said some murdered man’s ghost haunts this place. He has no face they say.”
“Why here? The man you speak of was a knight. This is no knight’s dwelling.”
“His whore lived here.”
Emma slapped his face. He reeled back and staggered, falling to one knee.
Her voice shook as she stood over him. “Watch your tongue, you vile man, else I’ll see it removed. Do you not know who I am?”
He bowed and scraped before her. “Nay, I am new here. I came with a party of pilgrims but a sennight ago.”
“‘Tis a weak excuse. I am the late lord’s widow. Lord Gilles’ widow. Now clean this place—ghost or not—and do a fine job of it, you lazy man, or I’ll see the reeve sets you on the road from whence you came.”
He touched his forelock to her, an obeisance he’d received so many times in the past from peasants and never thought to deliver to anyone himself.
She concealed her smile as she walked away. Her step felt light. She had separated him from his companions and found a place to meet him.
* * * * *
In the darkness of her hut, he pulled off his clothing. She’d been here first. A brazier glowed red and the air was filled with some spice he couldn’t name. He drew back the blankets and found heated rocks between the layers. Setting them to the side of the pallet, he slipped into the warm bedding. He drifted in and out of sleep, anticipating her arrival. The scrape of the brazier being refilled startled him awake. He propped himself up on one elbow. “I feared I had misunderstood you and that you might not come.”
“How is your jaw?” Emma asked.
“Sore. You are strong for a woman.”
She laughed softly and checked the rags that blocked light from escaping the chinks in the walls and door and then knelt at his side. “Roland sent me. But first, lie on your belly. I’ve brought an oil to ease your back.”
“Why would my back need ease?” he asked, but did as she bid and pillowed his head on his arms.
“According to Roland, you do not do well on a cold, hard bed.”
“Without you, any bed is cold and hard.”
She kissed his shoulder, then drew down the blanket to his waist. He frowned when the chilly air slipped over his skin, but forgot it when she dribbled warm oil along the furrow of his spine. An immediate jolt of arousal swept through him. His breath caught.
Gently, she spread the oil out from his spine in slow sweeping glides of her hands. Her hands floated over him, gilding him in a sheen of warm oil. He buried his face deeper in the blankets and held his breath. Heat flooded through him.
The cadence of her motions changed. Her strong weaver’s hands kneaded the knots from his muscles, starting at his nape, moving with infinite slowness down each bone of his spine, along each rib, to the center of his back. Then she stopped. He felt more drops of the potion. The air filled with its scent. Musk. The scent of lovemaking. Her hands st
arted anew, spreading the oil first, then working it in, one muscle at a time, from neck to…lower. A hand’s breadth further along. He groaned.
“Am I hurting you?” She snatched her hands away.
“Nay,” he said, his words muffled in his folded arms. “Nay, ‘tis so…good, I cannot bear it.”
A subtle change occurred in her ministrations after his words. Her fingers still stroked and eased his muscles, but the sweeps of his spine were more caress than healing. He reveled in the myriad textures of her skin on his, from smooth to calloused. He no longer noticed the cool air. His body was on fire.
She lingered over his shoulders. Every knot, every bit of fatigue disappeared. He arched off the blanket, a mute begging for her hands to return to his back. A dribble of oil again slipped down his spine, some running warm over his sides. His breath grew short; his heart thudded in his chest.
Her fingers swept up and down, in longer and longer sweeps. Cold air kissed his skin as she drew the blanket completely off him.
His body shuddered when her hands ran from his back over his buttocks to his thighs. The essence of him gathered hot and ready.
“Emma,” Gilles gasped and whipped over onto his side. He clasped her into his arms and pulled her down against him. “‘Tis not the oil that heals, but your touch.”
The taste of her mouth on his chased all thought from his mind. The scent of the seductive oils, the feel of her hands as she spread them on his chest and down, cupping his warmth, brought another moan from his throat.
“Come to me,” she whispered. “Come to me as you were wont to do.”
He claimed her in a whirlwind of motion, possessed her with the fierce intensity of his need and desire.
When their passions had cooled, she drew the blanket close about their shoulders again and snuggled against his body, now hot and shiny with sweat in the small brazier’s glow.