by Ann Lawrence
“We must tell Gilles of our plan,” Roland said.
“Nay,” Nicholas said. “He would not allow it.”
“For once we agree,” Emma said to him. “For we would endanger all he holds dear. You, me, his child.”
Sarah slipped into the room with Angelique in her arms. When she saw Emma she gasped. “Emma! What are you doing in those clothes?” She looked about at their faces. “I sense a plot. What are you planning? I’ll not be left out.”
Roland sighed, then gave Sarah the rough outline of their plan.
She pursed her lips and considered the ceiling. “You will only need a similar mantle to the one William wore that day,” she said. “It is the illusion of the thing you want.”
Catherine agreed. “With the armor beneath, of course. I can concoct a mixture that will look like blood and gore and spread it over his features—”
“Please,” Emma begged, her stomach protesting. “Say no more of it. Just do it. Tonight.”
* * * * *
Gilles felt at home in the night. He needed to guard his face less, could lift his head and not fear so greatly that he would be recognized. The layers of clothing he wore to protect him from the cold flapped about his legs as he headed for the castle.
All day he had examined his motives, wandering about, half listening to gossip, half reliving the precious times with Emma.
She was right. He had been enjoying the hunt. It gave him a sense of usefulness as the summing of accounts could never do. But Emma was also right that he might be giving up some greater good. As he had looked about him during the day, he saw families—fathers, mothers, children—going about their hard lives, and yet, they seemed at peace with one another and themselves.
As lord he could see to righting some of the problems in his village—the noisome alleys, the disputes over allotments.
But if he had not loved a hunt, would he have agreed to Catherine and Roland’s plan for a false hanging in the first place? He faced the muddy waters of his motives.
Emma had forced him to examine his heart. Only a need for justice held him at Hawkwatch. Or was it vengeance as Emma suggested? And vengeance was a cold bed partner. The loss of Emma raised an ache in his heart that could not be assuaged. If she had already gone to Lincoln, he would follow her there. Is she had not yet left, he would take her. Suddenly, he no longer cared if his name was cleared. He cared only that he had Emma and the children. He wanted to end his days with her by his side.
With a frown, he noted the drawbridge had not been raised, then shrugged. ‘Twas no longer his manor. He was soon to be but a common man from Lincoln. If his son wished the gates open at night, ‘twas his business.
In the inner bailey, he resumed more of his beggar aspect, moving with halting steps among the few folk who had not yet sought their beds. He crouched by the stable and watched the armory, looking for Little Robbie, who might carry a message to Emma.
No one stirred. He plucked up a twig and began to draw it over the ground, tracing impatient patterns.
A gasp made him toss the stick aside and rise. Sarah stood near his shoulder. She gripped his arm. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
Gilles could not conceal a grin. “Am I so easily known?”
Sarah glanced about. “Nay, but I’ve seen you draw like that a thousand times. How many others will remember you did so?”
With a shrug, Gilles went down on his haunches again. “I was waiting for Little Robbie to carry a message to Emma, but now that you are here, you may serve as well.”
She edged deeper into the stable’s shadows when the moon burst through a bank of clouds and bathed her in light as bright as day. “A message?”
Gilles peered up at her. “Aye. Tell her to come here.”
“Why?” She twisted her hands in her skirts. “I mean, she is most likely sleeping. Why bother her?”
“I must see her.”
“Can it not wait until the morn?”
“What is wrong?” Gilles rose, a crawling sensation in his belly. “You are being evasive. Why?”
“No reason. Emma needs her sleep.”
Gilles searched her face. “I command you, as the man who is still your lord, to bring her to me. Now.”
The moonlight fled, plunging them into darkness. The wind rose, whistling about the bailey. “I cannot. She is not here.”
The sensation in his middle flared into flame. Emma was gone. He was too late. His need to find William’s killer had driven her away. “Did she go to Lincoln?” He would seek her there, prove his love for her.
“Lincoln?” Sarah said. “Oh, aye. Lincoln.”
Immediately, Gilles knew she was lying. Would Emma have proposed Lincoln and then gone elsewhere? And why? To be done with him and all the heartache he’d caused her? “I know you are lying. If she didn’t go to Lincoln, then where is she? I must know. I cannot live without her.”
Sarah stepped away from his emotion. “Please, I cannot tell you.”
He followed her into the shadows. “Aye. You will. I command it.”
But Sarah was no longer looking at him. Her gaze shifted past him, her eyes wide, in the direction of the armory. He turned to see what was more important than his need for Emma.
Mark Trevalin stood in deep conversation with Little Robbie, hands clasped behind his back. Whatever the boy said produced an immediate result. Trevalin broke into a run. He dashed past where Gilles and Sarah stood and into the stable.
Little Robbie also ran, straight for them.
“Nay,” Sarah cried, hands up, palms out. “Later, boy. Not now!”
The boy’s teeth gleamed in the meager moonlight. “I’s delivered the message. Jest as ye wanted. Where’s my penny?” Robbie held out a grubby hand to her.
“Later, boy. Later.”
“Ye said a penny, and a penny I’m wanting.”
Gilles looked from the boy’s determined face to Sarah’s. “I’ll give ye tuppence to tell me the message ye delivered just now,” he said.
“Nay!” Sarah grabbed the boy by the arm and pushed him away.
“Sixpence,” Gilles whispered. Little Robbie jerked from Sarah’s grip.
“‘Meet me at the millpond. Beatrice,’” the boy said in a sing-song voice. “‘Tis all I said. He were proper happy wiv it.”
Suddenly, Gilles knew where Emma was, knew why she was not on the road to Lincoln. “Damn you all!” he swore at Sarah.
Trevalin appeared at the stable doors with his horse. He mounted and rode toward the inner gate, which was just being closed. He harangued the keeper for a moment until it was swung wide for him.
“Pay him, Sarah. Now.” Gilles ran into the stables. He noted the missing horses. Nicholas’ and Roland’s. With shaking hands he slipped a bridle over a fast mare’s head.
With a practiced vault, he leapt onto the horse’s broad back, his stick in his hand. When a pair of grooms came hurrying down a ladder to see who dared steal a horse from the Hawkwatch stable, Gilles brandished the stick like a sword, fending off one man who lunged for the reins.
Sarah burst into the stable.
“Stay where you are or I’ll have your thumbs!” she cried, pointing a finger at the grooms. They cowered back at the threat. This woman they knew—and obeyed.
“Don’t go,” Sarah begged, reaching for Gilles’ hand.
Gilles dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and sent the mount racing from the stable.
In a thunder of hooves, he flew over the cobbles. The keeper was just swinging the gate closed again. With a hoarse warning, Gilles made straight for him. The man shouted and leapt aside. In a moment, Gilles was through the narrow opening, into the lower bailey, across the drawbridge, and careening down the beaten roadbed.
The wind snatched at his rags. Moonlight painted a wash of white on surfaces, plunged shadows into black.
Sarah’s entreaty had told him all he needed to know. For whatever reason, Emma was luring Trevalin to the mill. He remembered his words to
her. They had no bait to snare Trevalin. His blood ran cold. Emma had found bait. Herself.
As he neared the grove of trees that sheltered the millpond, he slowed, bringing his horse to a walk. He dismounted and tethered the horse. With cautious steps to avoid the crackle of brush underfoot, he crept to the edge of the copse. A lone horse drank from the waters of the millpond.
He glanced about. Trevalin stood but yards away on the bank of the millpond, opposite where William had bled out his life. The mill loomed dark and silent behind him. Gilles gripped his stick, wanting to smash something in an impotent rage that he had no part in the planning of whatever might occur here tonight.
The clouds parted. He gasped. Emma stood on the bank atop a discarded millstone. She was as still as a statue, head bowed. Her pose was reverential, almost goddess-like. The moon gleamed across her white headcovering. He could not see her face.
Gilles held his breath; Trevalin had moved. The man walked slowly toward her, stumbling several times along the perimeter of the pond. Moonlight glinted off the hilt of his sword.
Sword! Gilles would wager Trevalin had not brought a sword to the mill when he’d killed William. A lover needs no weapon.
Trevalin had not come to this meeting as a lover.
Gilles lifted his stick and almost called a warning to Emma, but a moan rent the air. An unearthly ululation of agony. The hair on his nape rose.
“William,” she called from across the pond. “William, my love. Come to me.” Her words were breathy, not loud, and yet they carried to where Gilles stood in the trees.
Come to me. How the words tore at him. He wanted no other man to hear those words from her lips.
Although he knew it was a role she played, hearing her call out to William as one calls a lover nearly undid him.
“Beatrice!” Trevalin shouted. He halted, hands outstretched, not fifty feet from Emma on the reed-choked bank.
Gilles crept forward. He could not defend her hidden in the tangle of brush among the trees. Just as he stepped from the copse, a figure glided from behind the mill toward Emma. Spangles of silver glittered on the mail coif on the figure’s head. His mantle, a luminescent blue in the moonlight, lifted and swirled about the powerful body. When he turned to face Trevalin, Gilles swallowed hard. The figure had no face.
Trevalin cried out. He stumbled to where Emma stood, but she ignored him. “Come to me. Love me once again,” she called in her soft voice, and lifted her arms to the faceless horror.
The words pierced Gilles to the marrow. Trevalin shrieked an unholy cry.
The specter opened his arms to Emma.
Nicholas.
“Beatrice!” Trevalin called. But instead of going to her as Gilles expected, Trevalin ran at the ghastly apparition, drawing his sword, slashing as he moved.
Gilles charged after him. As the blade descended on his son, Gilles swung his stick.
The sword hewed the wood in half, but deflected the blow. Trevalin whirled away from the ghost. He panted open-mouthed, eyes so wide the whites gleamed.
Gilles stood empty-handed before him. Trevalin swung his blade in an arc.
Gilles leapt to the side. The blade sliced his shoulder, ripping through the rags like a knife through butter.
“Nay,” Gilles cried as Nicholas charged toward Trevalin. His son froze in his tracks. “‘Tis my battle,” he gasped, sidestepping again from Trevalin’s thrust.
Slowly, Trevalin moved forward. Stalking. His face twisted into a feral sneer. “Beatrice,” he ordered. “Get behind me.”
Gilles mirrored him, hands outstretched, defenseless.
“Gilles. My sword,” a voice said behind him. Roland. Metal slapped his palm. The hilt felt wonderful, the weight of the blade a blessing. Old instincts rose.
Trevalin closed on him with a shout. Their blades met in a clash of metal on metal. Trevalin was shorter, heavier, but younger. In but a few moments, Gilles’ body was covered in sweat. His rags hampered the free movement of his arm. His shoulder ached. His arm felt heavy and hot with blood.
He parried more than attacked. The moon hid, plunging the land into blackness, shadows melding water and sky.
Trevalin backed him toward the pond. Gilles played a defensive game, dodging, slipping away each time Trevalin’s sword came dangerously close. Then he saw his chance. He danced left, turning slightly, shifting Trevalin’s position. If only he could hold him but a few moments more. The moon burst from behind a cloud. Emma stood there in a shaft of light, the ghost of a faceless William beside her.
“Beatrice plays you for a fool,” Gilles shouted. He took a blow on his sword, the blades sliding on each other until they were engaged nearly hand to hand. Gilles jerked away. “Beatrice plays you for a fool,” he taunted, just out of reach.
Trevalin howled, his eyes darting to where Emma stood in a wash of moonlight. When his gaze shifted, Gilles lunged forward, smashed his blade down in a sweeping motion. Trevalin’s sword flew from his hand, skidding on the frozen, packed earth. Gilles spun and kicked Trevalin in the leg. With a moan, he fell on his back.
In an instant, Gilles stood over him, blade pressed to his throat. “Come, Beatrice,” Gilles called. “Choose a lover from among us. Will it be the living or the dead? Will it be William or Trevalin? Or mayhap you would prefer me—yet another dead man.”
Trevalin snarled beneath the sword point. “Kill me. Be done with it.”
“In good time.” Gilles twisted the blade. Blood ran from the nick in Trevalin’s throat. “But first I wish to know whom the fair Beatrice wishes as a lover.”
Emma seemed to float toward them. “William.” She whispered the name.
Beneath Gilles’ blade, Trevalin fell still. His sneer twisted into a weeping mask. He arched his back and howled at the moon.
“William,” she said again.
“You bitch,” Trevalin screamed. “You mock me. I defended you. I saved you from rape!”
Gilles held him pinned to the earth with the blade. The temptation to slit Trevalin’s throat, a temptation almost impossible to resist, came over him. Then Emma lifted her eyes from the pathetic man at Gilles’ feet and locked her gaze on his as if she’d read his thoughts. She stared at him, eyes luminous. All her hopes were in her gaze.
She spoke to Trevalin, but watched Gilles. “I am Emma, not Beatrice. William was not raping Beatrice that day; he attacked me.”
“Nay,” Trevalin choked out. “‘Twas you. You. He tried to force you. I killed him for you. I smashed in his bloody face! I killed the raping bastard!” He began to weep.
Gilles lifted his blade. But Trevalin made no more move to rise. He lay back, palms outstretched to the heavens. Emma knelt by his head. She touched his forehead. “I am Emma,” she said. “Beatrice is not here.”
She looked up at Gilles. “He was the one who sent me to the royal court. He asked only what suited his purpose. He shifted the blame to save himself. God have mercy on his soul.”
Roland hooked his hand beneath Trevalin’s arm and jerked him to his feet.
With a snarling oath, Trevalin tore from Roland’s grasp. A savage shriek of anger filled the air as he snatched Emma to his chest. He groped in his boot and drew a knife. “Back off.” His blade gleamed in the moonlight, the point pressed to her stomach. “I’ll gut her here if you come any closer. Drop the sword!”
The agony of seeing her in Trevalin’s arms made Gilles spread his arms wide. But he held onto the sword.
Trevalin slit Emma’s gown near the waist. She cried with pain. Gilles dropped the sword with a clang to the hard earth. Trevalin picked it up and flung it into the pond. He picked up his own and sheathed it, gripping Emma about the neck with the arm that held the knife.
Emma’s cry had maddened Gilles, but he could not move. The blade now hovered at her breast.
To his left, Gilles felt rather than saw his son, a faceless horror, move in Trevalin’s direction. “Hold,” he rasped out. “Hold.”
Trevalin dragged Emma to w
here his horse stood at the edge of the pond, reins dangling. Blade to her belly, Trevalin ordered her to mount. In moments, he’d swung up in the saddle behind her and was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gilles swore. He sheathed the longest portion of his shattered stick down the back of his rags and ran into the copse of trees. He grabbed his horse’s reins, tangling them a moment in his agitation, then leapt onto the horse’s back.
Using only instinct and the uncanny connection he had to Emma, he rode blindly in the direction in which they’d gone.
Once out of the pines, the land gave way to marsh. He could barely see as the wind tore at his tattered clothing.
They rode the ancient paths, ones from Roman times, through the marshes, to the bay. To the sea.
Then he saw them, in the distance, a dark patch against a rising mist.
Why did she not take her chances and fall off? The babe. She would not endanger the babe.
A sweat born of fear broke on his skin, his shoulder burned, warm blood matted his rags.
Trevalin rode his horse at reckless speed through the marshes. Gilles followed. He drove his horse mercilessly along the narrow paths through the wetlands, parallel to the beaches of Hawkwatch Bay. They appeared and disappeared in the swirling mists. A light flickered at the water’s edge.
The light became a fire; a small group of men clustered about it. Help. Then all thoughts of aid from that direction flew from Gilles’ mind. Trevalin had veered away. Not toward solid land and help—toward the sands and the concealing fog.
“Jesu,” Gilles cried.
The tides had turned. Low waves foamed across his horse’s path. “Trevalin! You fool.”
With a whispered prayer, Gilles kicked his mount’s flanks and charged after them.
Gilles saw Trevalin glance over his shoulder and urge the horse to a faster pace. The horse stumbled, went down on a foreleg, screamed, and threw them into the water.