Richard shook his head, but he could not find it in his heart to blame him. Geoffrey had scarcely known his cousin—how could he be expected to mourn him?
Halfway to the door, Geoffrey turned. ‘Shall I fetch a scribe, too, my lord?’
‘No, this is one letter I shall write myself.’ Sir Jean was in the right; until they reached Normandy, the fewer people who knew about his cousin’s death, the better.
‘Very well, sir.’
Richard fixed a smile on his face and turned back to Sir Jean and the knights who had travelled from Beaumont to bring him this news. ‘It is time, I think, for some introductions,’ he said, indicating a fellow with a crest of fiery hair who stood at Sir Jean’s elbow.
The following day, Richard was back in the castle stables rubbing Roland down after an early gallop through the water meadows and around the city defences.
Richard was uncomfortably aware that tending to a destrier clad only in one’s chausses and boots was perhaps not an undertaking for a count. However, at the moment the company of animals was preferable to the company of people. Neither Roland nor the hounds minded how much exercise he took, nor did they think any the less of him if he took time to think and plan. Besides, Richard was damned if he was going to break the habit of a lifetime, caring for his animals himself, simply because poor Martin had died. And in any case, only a handful of trusted men knew of his elevated status.
His letter to King William had been despatched, but no reply had been forthcoming. Yet. He was impatient to be back in Normandy.
The regular tock, tock, tock of chisel on stone told Richard that the masons’ work on the gatehouse was not yet completed. He heard the occasional shout from the overseer and the creak of their hoist.
In the orchard just outside the city, a cuckoo was calling, its voice floating clearly over the castle walls. Spring, thank God. It had been a hard winter. Perhaps this year he would be celebrating Easter in Beaumont….
A shadow fell across the stable floor. ‘There are two women to see you, sir.’
Richard glanced up with a grin. He was expecting one woman, Frida from the Staple. ‘Two? Geoffrey, you flatter me.’
Despite the exercise Richard had been taking, sleep remained elusive. Which was why he had decided to add another, more pleasant, form of exercise to his regime. It had been too long since he had had a woman, perhaps that was what he needed; it certainly could do no harm. And the entire garrison knew that the best women available locally were to be found at the Staple, the inn past Market Street. With the news from Normandy added to Richard’s daily responsibilities, Richard had not had time to visit the Staple himself to pick one. He had sent Geoffrey along in his stead, with orders to look out for a suitable girl.
But two women? Lord. If that didn’t do the trick, nothing would.
Of late, Richard’s dreams had been filled with disturbing images, bloody images that centred on a Saxon child whose death he had been unable to prevent. Richard hoped the girls were pleasing—another wakeful night would drive him insane.
Geoffrey cleared his throat. ‘No, sir, you misunderstand. These women are not from the Staple.’
‘Oh?’
Richard heard footsteps. More shadows darkened the doorway as a young woman and a small boy stepped forwards, both with that fair Saxon colouring. An older woman stood close behind. Richard’s eyes narrowed; they were familiar, but he could not at first place them. The woman who had come forwards was comely, with large blue eyes and honey-blonde hair that she had twisted back beneath a threadbare veil. Her clothes were unremarkable, a faded green gown, a thin leather belt with a worn purse hanging from it.
The boy clung to her skirts and eyed the great wolfhounds warily. Richard’s other dog, the mongrel, was not around. Slowly, the boy stuck his thumb in his mouth. And then Richard had it—this was the bare-legged laundry maid he had seen by the river. With her veil on and her clothes set to rights, he had not known her. Her face was shadowed with tiredness, but she had lost that scowl she had been wearing by the river. And, yes, she was all the prettier for it.
His chainse over his shoulder, Richard came towards them. He was irritated not to see Frida, and no question but the laundry maid was about to disturb his morning with a petition.
The fear in the boy’s eyes as he stared at Richard’s wolfhounds made him set his irritation aside. ‘They will not hurt you,’ he said softly, in English. Richard’s command of the tongue was weak, but when pushed he could generally make himself understood. ‘They like children, just do not startle them. They have been asleep, you see.’
The laundry maid’s companion stepped closer and held out her hand to the child. Of course, this was the child’s mother, the woman who had been in the river when they had ridden in. ‘Henri, come here.’ The boy went to her slowly, eyes on the hounds, and the two of them backed out into the bailey.
The pretty laundry maid remained. Her smile was nervous; yes, she was definitely about to ask a favour of him. Best get this over with, and then he could see if Frida might suit. From Geoffrey’s description Frida had much to offer. It would have to be a temporary liaison, of course, since he hoped to be leaving for Normandy soon. ‘Your name?’
‘Emma…Emma of Fulford.’
Merde, this was Cecily’s sister? Lady Cecily of Fulford had married his comrade Sir Adam Wymark, and Richard counted her among his dearest friends. He took a closer look. Yes, the resemblance was there if you searched for it. So this was Lady Emma of Fulford—a lady washerwoman! Her father had been a Saxon thane, her mother a Norman noblewoman. Richard had met Lady Emma before, albeit briefly, but he knew her by repute.
It was not lost on him that she had not used her title, nor that she had chosen to ignore him yesterday by the river. As he recalled, despite her Norman mother, Emma of Fulford had been singularly unhelpful in the days immediately following the Conquest. For that reason alone Richard was disinclined to like her, never mind that she had obviously divined that he had an assignation in the stables, and was currently trying to look down her little nose at him. He bit back a laugh. Since the woman only reached his shoulder, looking down her nose at him was, of course, impossible.
But, by St Denis, the years had changed her. Emma of Fulford’s clothes were little better than a beggar’s. Gone was the finery she had once worn to flounce around her father’s mead-hall. Gone were the thane’s arm-rings she had called her own. Briefly, Richard wondered what she had done with them. They had been jingling on her wrists the day he had met her, barbaric Saxon bangles with the soft gleam of gold. When had that been—three years ago, more? He couldn’t recall. Had she lost the arm-rings, or sold them?
She always had been a stupid wench. Why else would she have run off with that Saxon hothead? The whole of Wessex knew they had been lovers, and for her, a noblewoman, to have taken a man out of wedlock—it was almost unheard of. She was lucky not to have had a child.
As Richard looked at her, his gut tightened and for a moment he thought he saw pleading in those large, dark-lashed eyes. But, no, he must have been mistaken. Her nose lifted, her lips firmed.
‘Sir Richard.’ She inclined her head, eyes flickering briefly, haughtily, to his naked chest. He could almost see her thoughts—why was he, a knight, grooming his horse? What would she say, Richard wondered, if she knew he was soon to be Count of Beaumont?
More was coming back to him. In the winter of 1066, hadn’t Emma of Fulford been persuaded to abandon her rebel lover on Beacon Hill? Richard hadn’t liked her haughtiness then and he didn’t like it today. Striding past her, he went to the water trough, sluiced himself down and dragged on his shirt. Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself that this was Cecily’s sister, and that she had been brought up as a thane’s daughter. A laundry maid! He wouldn’t mind betting that her status as a fallen woman meant she was shunned by half the town. What was that Saxon word for nothing—nithing? Did the people consider her nithing? Whatever her past mistakes, this woman deserved better. There wa
s breeding and beauty there, and, of course, she spoke fluent French.
‘You need my help?’ he asked, reverting with relief to that language.
‘I…Yes, please. My sister, Cecily—she married your friend Sir Adam—’
‘I know who your sister is.’ The woman before him was perhaps an inch or so taller than Lady Cecily, but she was not tall. Richard seemed to remember that her figure had been fuller when he had met her, but it was hard to judge it today, hidden as it was beneath that hideous gown. Her waist seemed slim. He found himself recalling the daintiness of her feet and the exact curve of her calves. He hoped Frida was half as attractive.
‘Yes, of course. Well, I do remember Cecily mentioning you were a good friend—’
To Richard’s horror, her voice broke. Abruptly she turned her head. ‘I…That is…Oh, Lord…’ She blinked rapidly, but not before Richard had seen her eyes glaze with the swift shine of tears. When she looked up a moment later, she had herself in hand. ‘I would like to work here in the castle. I thought—since you know my family—you might be able to put me in touch with the castle steward, and perhaps…perhaps a recommendation…’ Her voice trailed off.
Richard could tell by the set of her lips that she loathed asking this favour of him. Emma of Fulford might have been stripped of her finery, she might have lost her reputation, but she had kept her pride. ‘Work? You mean washing linen?’
The nose inched up. ‘Yes, I…I have experience. I have been working at the wash-house. But I would prefer to work in the castle. Clothes, household linens, fine silks…anything. I know how to handle the most delicate imported fabrics. Nothing will be damaged. I am also a competent seamstress.’
How the mighty had fallen. It was hard not to smile, but Richard managed it. Something in her proud posture touched him. Let her keep what dignity she had left. ‘There are competent seamstresses aplenty here.’ He rubbed his chin while he thought. Lady Emma might have been foolish in the past, but this was Adam’s sister-by-marriage, and he wanted to help.
‘I see.’ Emma of Fulford’s shoulders slumped; she began to turn away. ‘I…I thank you for your time, sir.’
Richard took her arm gently. ‘Don’t be so hasty, I have not said I will not help you, merely that we have no need of seamstresses.’
The arm beneath the cloth was slighter than he had expected, fine-boned. It crossed his mind that she might not be eating enough. Releasing her, Richard knew a moment’s confusion. Sir Adam Wymark had married this woman’s sister. Adam was the best of comrades and amenable to Cecily’s every wish, so why had Emma not been given houseroom at Fulford?
He opened his mouth to ask before it occurred to him that the less involvement he had with this woman, the better. He would be leaving soon. And while he did not know much about her, what he did know told him that she was—complicated. Richard already had more complexities than he could cope with. But there was something in her manner and person than held his admiration. Add to that the loyalty he felt for Adam and Cecily and he had to help her.
‘Geoffrey will make an appointment for you to meet our steward. Geoffrey?’
‘Sir?’
‘See to it.’
‘Is she to work in the laundry here?’
Richard shook his head. ‘I think not. Lady Emma needs something more suitable to her station, you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well, take her to the steward, and if he has nothing for her, let her make enquiries in the ladies’ solar. In the meantime, pass me my tunic, would you?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Emma of Fulford said, bowing her head. Geoffrey handed Richard his tunic and he dragged it on. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said, curtsying gracefully.
Richard was buckling on his belt when a movement across the yard caught his eye. A smiling woman waved and started making her way slowly towards them, hips swaying as she walked. This must be Frida from the Staple.
Frida was wearing a tight-laced yellow gown that emphasised her generous curves. The deep slash in the front revealed more than a hint of bosom, and the full skirts frothed about her ankles. Yellow suited her and that undulating walk was calculated to draw the gaze of every man in the bailey. Frida’s walk had the power to halt the tocking of the masons’ chisels. It even reached the cookhouse—through the open door came a clang as someone dropped a pot.
Richard grinned and wished that he had shaved. This was the sort of woman for him. His relationship with Frida would be uncomplicated, a brief business affair unencumbered by guilt or messy emotion.
Emma of Fulford had seen Frida and with a slight tinge to her cheeks was edging away. ‘Your…lady…is here, I see.’
Face flushing for no reason that Richard could point to, he cleared his throat. Frida was a whore as everyone knew, but she was said to be a faithful whore who kept to one lover at a time. If they suited, she would be his and his alone—for as long as he was in England, and for as long as he kept supplying her with the trinkets and coin that she would doubtless require.
Nevertheless, as Richard watched Frida slowly make her way towards him, he found that the graceful, slight figure of Lady Emma of Fulford had a tendency to linger at the back of his mind.
Chapter Three
‘More fitting?’ Emma stormed out of the bailey with Henri in her arms. Aediva was no longer with her, having gone back to the wash-house immediately after Emma’s interview with Count Richard. Earlier, when Aediva had heard where Emma had been going that morning, she had insisted in coming along—bless her—to give Emma moral support. Emma had good friends, and for that she was grateful, but this morning it seemed to Emma that what she needed were powerful friends.
Crossing the drawbridge, Emma stalked into what was left of Golde Street after King William—with typical Norman arrogance—had had half the street pulled down to build his castle.
‘More fitting?’ Her steps were brisk and jerky and Emma was unaware that she was still muttering to herself until Henri patted her cheek and tried to make her look into his eyes.
‘Mama? Mama angry?’
‘Yes, sweetheart. Mama is very angry.’
Henri’s face fell, his hand dropped.
‘Oh, not with you, sweet, not with you.’ Emma made her voice light. ‘It is that man I am angry with, that boneheaded, patronising man.’
‘Sir Rich?’
Emma gave a humourless laugh. ‘You are not daft, are you, my lad?’ Saints, she must guard her tongue with Henri; he might not have seen three summers, but he understood far too much of what went on about him. ‘Sir Rich about sums him up.’
‘Mama? Smile?’
Sir Rich, indeed. But as far as she was concerned he was singularly unhelpful. Forcing a smile, Emma marched down the street. What next? Where next? Panic was churning inside her.
‘We need work,’ she said. ‘Somewhere to live.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Sir Richard must have known his steward would not have any work for her, he must have known she would be turned away. He had humiliated her. Clearly, Sir Richard disapproved of her working as a laundry maid. Not fitting for a lady, oh, he had never stated it quite so baldly, but he thought it. She had read it in those cold grey eyes. Not fitting, indeed. And here she was leaving the castle with nothing, because the count’s boy, Geoffrey, had left her with the steward, who couldn’t be bothered to find her ‘suitable’ work. What was suitable? she fumed, reaching Westgate and turning towards Market Street. What did the man expect her to do?
‘Henri, you are growing so fast, I swear, you are heavier than one of Gytha’s grain sacks.’ Setting her son on his feet, she took his hand and swept on.
‘Suitable work? Hah!’ What was suitable for someone of her station? Neither lady nor peasant due to her—she glanced at the top of her son’s head—supposed mistake. A mistake, Emma gritted her teeth, that she would never regret as long as she lived.
At the corner of Staple Street a woman with eggs in a basket caught her eye. Egg
s. Emma’s mouth watered; she had not eaten an egg in an age. But, of course, the days were growing longer and with the longer days, the hens would be coming into lay. In her other life, when she had been a thane’s daughter at Fulford, Emma had loved hunting out the first eggs of the season. A wave of longing took her and she missed a step.
‘Fresh eggs, mistress?’
She cleared her throat. ‘Later, perhaps.’
The Staple lay in front of her, a wattle-and-daub building that was almost as large as her father’s mead-hall. Its thatch was dark with age, and smoke gusted from louvres in the roof ridge. The Staple was the most popular tavern in the town, and this morning the door and shutters had been flung wide to admit the air, the spring sunlight and, of course, the customers. Emma had friends inside. Not powerful ones, but friends none the less. Perhaps they could help her.
Emma stepped over the threshold, holding fast to Henri.
A huddle of merchants were haggling over the finer points of a deal around the central fire, a band of off-duty troopers were drinking at one of the trestles. Other than the tavern girls, there were few women present. Hélène and Marie were in the shadows at the far end of the room, filling clay jugs with wine from a barrel. Behind the women stood the wooden screen that concealed the doorway to the adjacent cookhouse. To one side, against the further wall, a stairway led to the communal bedchamber that—following a design brought in by the Norman invaders—had been built under the eaves.
Several heads turned as Emma made her way towards Hélène and Marie. There certainly were plenty of pests from the garrison here today. Emma found herself swishing her skirts out of the way of more than one grasping hand. Reaching the trestle under the loft-chamber, Emma took a place on a bench and let out a sigh of relief.
‘How goes it, Hélène?’
Hélène stuck a stopper in one of the jugs and smiled. ‘Fine.’
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord Page 3