Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord

by Carol Townend

  Richard’s nails were gouging into his palms. He flexed his hands. He had been an idiot as far as Emma was concerned—he had allowed himself to feel affection for her. And what was the result? Emma had run away, exactly as his mother had done. It was—he should have learned this lesson in boyhood—what women did.

  They ran away.

  In his mother’s case he had come to understand it. His mother had been driven away by his father’s repeated infidelities. But what had driven Emma away? She knew he was to have married Lady Aude, but from the beginning he had made it clear he felt nothing for Aude. He had grown fond of Emma; she must realise he wanted no other lover. Had he mentioned that sense of connection he felt with her? He had thought so, but last night he had been so damned tired. And now, Lord, this must not be permitted to delay him. He had a county to secure.

  Richard stared blindly at an iron stud in the door, caught by a lowering suspicion. Last night, Emma had talked about his insomnia, she had mentioned that she had discussed him with Geoffrey. Last night he had accepted comfort from her. Had that been his mistake?

  Had Emma fled because he had weakened himself in her eyes? Was he, in her view, no longer the strong protector she craved?

  Mon Dieu, of all the days for her to take to her heels, she could not have picked a worse one.

  Another bellow from Sir Hugh broke into Richard’s thoughts. He squared his shoulders, set his hand to the door and ejected Emma from his mind. He had a battle to win, and win it he would.

  Emma was heading for the village inn, on the chance of catching Judhael before he left for Apulia. As she hurried across the grass in front of it, the sun was sitting low on the horizon above a stand of trees in the west. The shadows were lengthening.

  Pushing past a burly foot soldier in a leather gambeson and baggy chausses, Emma stepped over the worn threshold and led Henri inside. Almost immediately she regretted it. The inn was as thick with men as the great hall had been. Overspill from the castle, she supposed. Half the male population of the Duchy must have come to Beaumont.

  A suggestive whistle had her back on home ground in an instant. It was as though she were standing in the Staple once again and Hélène was filling ale-jugs round the corner. She lifted her chin. She could deal with this.

  Someone snatched at her skirt. Slapping the hand aside and giving the man—boy, really, he scarcely looked old enough to shave—a haughty glare such as she had often used back in Wessex, she elbowed her way to the heart of the room. It was stuffy and filled with blue smoke. More soldiers and yet more—each trestle was crammed, the benches bowed. Definitely overspill from the castle.

  ‘Emma!’ Judhael stood before her, hand outstretched.

  ‘Judhael, I am glad you have not gone. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘We’ll go outside.’ Judhael glanced at Henri. ‘Let me carry you, lad.’

  Thumb in his mouth, Henri’s eyes were wide.

  ‘It is all right, Judhael, I have him.’

  They threaded their way outside and found a bench that was catching the last rays of the dying sun. Judhael had taken Emma’s advice. He had trimmed his hair and beard, and he was wearing, she was pleased to note, different clothes, clean ones. The sour smell had gone.

  ‘You have reconsidered my offer,’ Judhael said, a hint of complacency in his expression. ‘You will marry me.’

  ‘I am sorry, Judhael, but I have already given you my answer, I cannot…’

  The words died on Emma’s lips, as the truth hit home with the force of a thunderbolt.

  She could not marry Judhael because she loved Richard! It had nothing to do with what Judhael had done in the past, nothing to do with her fears that he would never be entirely reformed. No, the main reason she could not marry Judhael was sitting up there in that castle at his council table in discussion with his knights. Richard.

  Tearing her gaze from Judhael’s, Emma blinked at the grass at her feet. How was this possible? From the start she had been determined to keep Richard at arm’s length. And now he was implicated in her father’s death. I cannot love Richard, that would be…

  ‘It is impossible,’ she said.

  ‘Emma…’

  The complacency had vanished from Judhael’s expression. Gathering her wits, she touched his sleeve. ‘I am sorry, Judhael,’ she said softly. ‘But it is as I said yesterday, I cannot marry you.’

  He grimaced. ‘No going back? Truly?’

  ‘Truly. But I do need your help.’

  ‘Name it.’

  Braced for an argument at the least, Emma stared. What, no swearing because she had thwarted him? No shouting? Praise the Lord, it would seem that Judhael was at last trying to reform.

  ‘I find I must leave the castle, Judhael.’ She nudged her bundle with the toe of her boot. ‘And I…I am sorry to have to ask you this, but I would like some of that money back. I gave you all I had.’

  ‘What will you do, find your mother’s relatives?’

  ‘No, I shall return to Fulford, I should have gone there years ago. The money will be needed for the journey.’

  Judhael patted his purse. ‘You have it. And more than that, I shall accompany you, at least as far as one of the ports. I will not stand to see you wandering around Normandy alone with our son, particularly with the Duchy in such a ferment.’

  ‘That is not necessary, I am sure we shall manage.’

  ‘I insist.’

  ‘But what of your plans—Apulia, Robert Guiscard?’

  ‘Our plans will keep. I would have you safely back in England first. What kind of a father would I be to allow you and Henri to make such a hazardous journey alone?’

  As Judhael spoke, the sun sank below the trees, tinting the sky with pink. Some rooks were flying back to their roosts, black dots against the glow. In the past Emma had always taken second place to Judhael’s ambitions; it felt very strange to be put first. She smiled. ‘You have changed, Judhael.’

  ‘Time changes everything, in the end.’ His hand came to rest on her arm and something in his eyes made her draw back.

  ‘I will not marry you, Judhael. My mind is firm on that.’

  ‘I have ears, love, I heard you the first time.’

  Despite his words, Emma could see that he didn’t believe her; he hoped to win her over. He got to his feet. ‘Come, love—’

  ‘I would rather you did not call me that.’

  ‘As you will. We should go and wrest another horse from the groom here. It won’t be easy with all this going on.’ Judhael jerked his head at the endless files of soldiers marching towards the castle.

  ‘No, it won’t. But I should like to set out as soon as possible, even though it will mean travelling through the dusk.’ Castle Beaumont stood on its escarpment glowing soft apricot in the evening sun. A cold blade twisted inside her. ‘He might come after me.’

  Judhael’s eyes became slits. ‘How likely is that?’

  ‘I am not sure.’ Emma waved at the massing troops. ‘His mind is fully occupied, but really I could not say.’

  Judhael nodded. ‘We shall leave immediately. And I will twist Azor’s arm to make certain he comes with us. Another sword arm wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Three days later, Emma, Henri, Judhael and Azor were back in the port of Honfleur. There had—Emma was trying not to care—been no sighting of Richard, Comte de Beaumont, although the whole Duchy was talking of no-one else. Emma might have fled his castle, but there was no escaping him.

  At an inn near St Pierre, Emma eavesdropped on a conversation between two women sitting by the hearth.

  ‘Quick to step into his cousin’s shoes, isn’t he?’ one woman had said, poking life into the fire with a stick.

  ‘He will have to be quick if he aims to keep the county,’ came the pragmatic reply. ‘He will need to be clever, too, and perhaps he is—Morwenna told me that envoys rode out from Beaumont bound for Argentan and Alençon.’

  At a well-head in the town of Pont-l’Evêque, there was more discussion
.

  ‘Count Richard brought letters with him, letters from Duke William,’ a young man said, while carrying a bucket of water for his heavily pregnant wife. ‘Argentan and Alençon don’t stand a chance. Even Count Remond has sent a troop to support him.’

  The pretty wife had laid a hand on her belly. ‘Count Remond of Quimperlé? I thought his face was turned in another direction?’

  ‘Not this time. They knew each other some years back and Count Richard’s reputation…’

  Emma had not tarried long enough at the well-head to hear about Count Richard’s reputation, she could not bear to. Whenever his name was mentioned her spirits sank. It was as though they were speaking of someone else, a stranger whom she had never met, and she did not like it. The Comte de Beaumont. Oh, Richard…

  Every step of their journey was taking her further away from him, and as the miles passed Emma’s heart got heavier. By the time she reached Fulford, it would be entirely made of lead. And that would be a blessing, because then she would surely stop hurting. She couldn’t wait to get out of the Duchy.

  At Honfleur, however, there was a minor setback.

  ‘There are no ships for Bosham for several days, madame,’ one of the ship’s masters informed her, while high in the salt-laden air the gulls swooped and keened.

  Emma pointed at another ship where porters were rolling barrels on the quayside and loading them into hoists. ‘That one’s about to set sail.’

  ‘That one?’ The ship’s master stroked his chin. ‘Bound for St Malo.’

  ‘And that one?’

  ‘No, my dear, that’s a river barge, it will eventually be going upriver towards Rouen. If you want to get to England you will have to wait. The next ship for Bosham leaves in four days’ time. A merchant vessel. In the meantime, should you require lodgings—’

  ‘No, thank you, we have lodgings.’

  Their inn, the Ship, was a flea-pit and could not compare to the Mermaid. The food was barely palatable and the mattresses were damp and likely verminous. Soon, Emma told herself, soon I will be home at Fulford. What a prideful fool I have been. Cecily was right, I do belong at Fulford. It is important to live a life surrounded by those who love you. At Fulford there is Cecily and Adam and Beatrice and…

  ‘You will like it at Fulford,’ she told Henri, preparing him for what was to come. ‘You will be able to play with your cousin, and I have a brother a little older than you. Adam will find a pony for you both and…’ Her voice cracked; she swallowed quickly. ‘You will love it.’

  One evening, as they were chewing their way through a gristly beef stew that had been salted with a heavy hand, Judhael, who up till now had kept his distance, touched her arm. ‘Don’t go, love,’ he said.

  Across the table, Azor’s head shot up. His expression was wary enough to have the hairs lifting on Emma’s neck.

  ‘Please, Judhael,’ Emma said, shifting away, ‘I am not your love.’

  ‘You are. I would marry you!’ His eyes were unnaturally bright. ‘It was always my intention, you know that. Please, Emma, reconsider.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  Judhael’s mouth set in stubborn lines. ‘You could do worse than marry me.’

  Azor thumped his cup down. ‘Lady Emma, married to a mercenary? What kind of life would that be for her?’

  Judhael’s eyes glittered in the torchlight. ‘It would be a life where she was no longer a fallen woman. It would legitimise our child.’ He took her hand. ‘Emma, I implore you—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I love you!’ His voice rose, heads turned.

  Lord, hadn’t they left all this behind them?

  Flushing, Emma jerked free and hid her hands in her lap. ‘But I don’t love you, not any more.’

  Much to her relief, Judhael subsided into silence.

  The day of departure arrived, their ship was to leave at noon. Emma had spent an hour in the local bath house so as to give Judhael time to make his farewells to Henri. God alone knew whether they would ever meet again.

  The minute Emma walked into the inn yard, it was apparent something was wrong. Judhael and Azor were standing by a stack of hay, glaring belligerently at each other and Judhael had a reddish mark—a developing bruise?—on one cheek. His badly stitched scar was livid in the morning light. There was no sign of Henri.

  ‘What’s happened? Where’s Henri?’

  ‘Ran off,’ Judhael flung at her, eyes never leaving Azor’s. He was rigid with fury.

  Emma’s skin chilled; she had seen Judhael in the grip of anger many times and the outcome was never pretty. Henri!

  ‘Ran off? Which way?’ She grabbed Judhael’s sleeve. ‘For pity’s sake, which way did he go?’

  Judhael lifted a shoulder, his eyes as hard as glass. ‘Ask our friend here. I was too busy being thumped to see anything but stars.’

  ‘Azor hit you? Why?’ Emma darted a glance up and down the street. Nothing. She left Judhael rubbing the red mark on his cheek and ducked her head inside the tavern. No Henri. Lord. Her insides writhed. Where was he? ‘Azor?’

  A muscle worked in Azor’s cheek. ‘I am sorry, my lady.’

  Azor’s brown eyes did look apologetic, which was more than could be said for those of her erstwhile lover.

  ‘You bastard, Azor,’ Judhael cut in, voice tight with anger.

  ‘You should not have hit him, Jude,’ Azor said, ‘he was only upset.’

  ‘Why was Henri upset?’

  ‘An accident. Jude trod on some boat he had—it broke.’

  Enlightenment dawned. ‘Henri cried.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  So much for Judhael trying to reform. Emma rounded on him. ‘You hit Henri! I should have known! Violence has always been your way.’

  ‘Sometimes—’ Judhael’s tone was ugly ‘—it is the only way’ Refusing to meet her gaze, he scowled at the wooded hillside overlooking the port.

  ‘You are impossible!’ Emma’s stomach was churning and all she could think was that Henri had run off, crying, in a strange town and Judhael was more concerned with his pride. ‘Blessed Virgin, you must have some idea where he went!’

  Finally, Judhael was looking at her. ‘Only if you marry me.’

  Repelled by such callousness, it took a moment to find words. ‘I know who the real bastard is, Judhael, and it is not Henri.’ Picking up her skirts, Emma began haring towards the port, veil dragging at her scalp as it caught in the breeze.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Richard slowed the horse he had borrowed from Aude’s brother to a trot as they approached Honfleur. He had enjoyed feeling the wind in his hair. It had been an age since he had cantered along the roads of Normandy so informally, with only a sword and a leather gambeson, and without a full escort. He had won this privilege, but worry was nibbling away at his enjoyment. Theo’s report had made it clear that Emma had succeeded in booking passage on a ship that would leave for Wessex later than morning. He was determined not to be late.

  It had started to rain. Feeling it trickle down his neck, he pulled up his hood.

  Since Richard was riding incognito he was accompanied only by Geoffrey and the Saxon mercenaries, having left the rest of his entourage back at Crèvecoeur. Speed was key, which was why he had even left his hounds behind. He would have set out sooner, but it had been vital to await the return of his envoys and see negotiations through to a conclusion before he left Beaumont. Now, with his chain of command as secure as he could make it, he had come for her.

  Ahead lay the outskirts of the port: a storage barn, its thatch dark with age; a dubious-looking inn, its door rotted so badly it looked as though a wild beast had taken great bites out of the bottom of it.

  Theo had also mentioned Emma’s travelling companions in his report. Two Saxon housecarls, he had said, one going by the name of Judhael. Merde. Theo’s report raised more questions than it answered. Had Emma arranged to meet Judhael in Beaumont? Why else would the man be there? No Norman in his right mind would employ
Judhael of Fulford. And surely Judhael couldn’t risk returning to England?

  ‘About half a mile to go, my lord,’ Geoffrey said, dragging up his hood, too.

  Lost in his thoughts, Richard nodded. Would he be in time? He prayed so. How would she react when she saw him?

  ‘I am certain Lady Emma will be pleased when she sees you, my lord,’ Geoffrey ventured.

  Richard raised a brow. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I am sorry, my lord.’ Geoffrey flushed. ‘It was impertinent of me to comment.’

  ‘So it was, but since you have, you might care to expand.’

  ‘When Lady Emma learns what you intend…’ Geoffrey’s voice trailed off.

  ‘You presume to know the workings of my mind, Geoffrey?’

  ‘No, my lord, my apologies, of course.’ Geoffrey exchanged glances with Godric and Richard felt his colour rise.

  Was it so obvious? It must be. He had to have her back. He was a besotted fool, so entranced by his runaway mistress that he could not live without her. He had not breathed a word of his intentions, yet somehow these two had caught wind of them. Of course, they had been party to the meeting Richard had had with the Count of Corbeil on the way here and they knew he wanted her back. But he had not breathed a word of his real intentions regarding Emma.

  Over the years, Richard had travelled many miles with Geoffrey and part of him, the part that was more man than count, would have been happy to ask Geoffrey for his views about Emma. But, no, despite his informal attire today, he must remain ‘the Count’. He must be mindful of his consequence at all times.

  If Emma would return with him, then he really would have someone to talk things over with. There was that link he felt with her, that sense that a real meeting of minds might be possible, if only…

  Merde, why had she run away? Could she still have feelings for Henri’s father?