by Lynsay Sands
All three men turned to stare at the post beside them, a comical look of horror on their faces as they stared at the befeathered article, now dangling from an arrow embedded in it. A mere inch above his head.
"What the--" Dazed, Amaury whirled to peer in the direction the arrow had come from, jaw dropping as his gaze fell on his 'gentle' wife standing at the top of the castle steps, a bow and arrow in hand. A choked sound emitted from his throat, drawing his friend's attention away from the post as she released a second arrow.
The hiss of the coming missile focused his attention on the mini spear, and Amaury watched as it sailed between his parted legs. Less than a heartbeat later, he heard it hit the post behind him.
"God damn," Blake breathed at the near miss, speaking the words Amaury could not seem to get out between his parched lips. The entire bailey seemed rooted where they stood as Lady de Aneford then calmly descended the keep steps and crossed the hundred feet that separated her from her husband.
Emma had stayed locked up in their bedchamber for over an hour. She had spent most of that time pacing the floor and muttering under her breath. She had done so throughout Amaury's demands that she unbar the door and hear him out, then for another half hour after he had finally realized she would not do so and had left her in peace to fulminate over it all. It had not taken much soul searching to realize why she was so upset. It was not just anger she was experiencing, but hurt. It hurt that the man she thought she might be in love with believed her capable and cold enough to try to kill him.
Love?! Good God! Surely she was not falling in love with him? 'Twas a wife's duty to love her husband, but not be "in love." There was a distinct difference between the two. It was not possible. How could she be in love with the great oaf? Nay. She could not. Not a man whose face scowled as if in pain at the mere thought of talking to her. True, she enjoyed his attentions in bed, but Emma was heartily sick of having to drug him to get him there and last night was proof that it was only her drugging him that brought him to her bed. She had put too much damiana into his drink, and he had tasted it and dumped out the liquid, then proceeded to drink himself into a stupor rather than join her above stairs. To her that seemed irrefutable proof that her husband had no desire to bed her without her potion.
Her thoughts had run around in circles thusly, until she had realized that she had quite forgotten the entire reason for her own anger. The man had accused her of trying to kill him. Imagine! She had saved his life twice now in their short marriage and he thought her a killer. She would see to that! she had thought, and had gathered her bow and arrow and set out for the bailey.
Now, as she paused before him and took in his pallor, she smiled her satisfaction. "I merely thought to show you that had I wished you dead, it would be so. I need no trickery to kill you. All I needed to do was leave you to the bandits. Or to the mercenaries, for that matter."
"Lord Darion!" Blake breathed suddenly.
Emma remained silent, her cool gaze on her husband.
Swallowing, he glanced at the arrows sticking up from the carrier on her back. There was no mistaking their flights as the same as those that had been recovered from the bandits. They were very distinctive with their red feathers. There was no doubt in his mind they were hers. Her comment regarding the mercenaries, however, caught his attention more, for it seemed she was claiming it had been no accident that she had come pounding back into the clearing, evening the odds somewhat by trampling one man and crashing into another. Replaying the scene in his head, he saw that it had only been his own blindness that had allowed him to convince himself otherwise.
Emma's expression hardened at his continued silence. "No doubt you shall now turn away from me as Fulk did as soon as he learned of my unladylike capabilities. But then, 'tis not as if I am losing much in the way of a husband, is it? You informed me yesterday of your intent to refuse me my rights as wife."
On that note, she turned and strode back across the bailey.
"You were saying?" Blake commented dryly.
Amaury's amazed gaze turned to his friend then, and he finally recalled the necessity of closing his mouth and swallowing.
"I think," Little George suddenly murmured, " 'Twill take a bit more than your new finery to draw her out of her temper."
Emma's anger was still riding high as she returned to the Great Hall. She had intended to return to her room and bar the door once more. She was more than sure that once Amaury got over his shock, he would wish to express his opinion regarding her precipitous actions of a moment ago. However, Sebert stopped her as she headed for the stairs, requesting her keys so that he might inventory the spices. She had barely handed them over and turned to continue on her way, when Maude stepped into her path.
"I be thinking ye might like to have a little nibble now that ye've spent your anger. Ye did not break fast this morning, me lady, and Cook made up some pastries special for ye. A little sweet treat will help right your day."
The expression on the woman's face was contrite as she spoke. Emma supposed this was her way of apologizing for what ever traitorous thoughts she had had that morning during all the furor. Cook's too. The man hated making pastries. Before she could accept or reject the peace offering, the Great Hall doors crashed open, drawing her reluctantly around.
"Bring me the tailor and his women!"
Emma grimaced at the fury on her husband's face as Little George moved away to fulfill his order. Amaury then turned in her direction.
Silently cursing the delay that had caused her to still be in the hall, Emma braced herself for an earful of his wrath, then noticed the odd slapping, stuttering step he used as he hurried toward her. Eyes focusing on his feet, she stared in horror at the odd contraptions flopping on them.
"Wife?"
Emma's eyes raised at once at that, and she finally noticed that he had that ridiculous hat back on his head. She had noticed the foolish thing when she had shot it off his head. Now it was back there, perched precariously on his dark hair, looking more absurd than ever with its bent plume and the hole through it. Her eyes dropped to his furious face beneath it then, and despite her anger with him, she could not contain the bubble of laughter that ballooned upward from her stomach and burst out.
Amaury reddened at her laughter, his disgruntled expression deepening. That only managed to make him look more idiotic. A furious court jester. Emma began to shake as she tried to restrain the giggles that wished to follow the ones that had escaped. Trying desperately to contain herself, she dropped her eyes at once, only to find herself staring at his feet again and the chains attached to his knees to hold the toes up. She immediately wondered how much of the shoes were filled by his feet and how much by air. Surely it was mostly air? Else she would have noticed his great feet. They would have made a tent of the bed linens when they were abed, she was sure. On that thought, Emma lost the battle to contain her amusement and it was wrung from her in dismayed peels of laughter.
Amaury felt his chest squeeze painfully. He had worn the outfit to please her, dammit. "You find my vestments amusing, wife?"
The cold anger in his tone reminded her of her own anger with him and Emma's lips tightened, all signs of amusement gone. "Nay, husband. They are fine . . . if 'tis a court jester you strive to be."
Amaury stiffened. " 'Tis the latest fashion at court."
Emma's eyebrows rose. "No doubt that amuses King Richard no end. No wonder minstrels are becoming de rigeur. Who would have need of them?"
Amaury looked ready to explode at that, and Blake grabbed his arm, dragging him a few steps away. "Apologize to her," he told him in a hiss.
"Apologize!?" he exploded. "She has just called me a court jester."
"Nay. She is simply angry. Rightfully angry, Amaury. Think you on how you would feel had she accused you of trying to kill her."
"Aye." Shifting uncomfortably, he started to turn back to his wife, then paused and tugged his hat off. Shoving it into Blake's hands with a mutter, he turned once again,
only to find that his little wife had moved away. She now sat at the trestle table, a fare of sweet treats before her, gentilely nibbling at them and sipping at a tankard of mead. Sighing, he moved to the table, easing onto the bench beside her and collecting his thoughts before turning to face her. "Wife, 'tis sorry I am that I accused you of trying to kill me."
Emma turned to arch one eyebrow at him, only to pause as her gaze was caught by his sleeve. She had noted the overlong length of them earlier and thought nothing of it. She had seen many men wearing them at court. In truth she had seen many men with crakows on too, some even with toes as long as his, but somehow they had not appeared as amusing on others as on her husband. Perhaps because the other men had had enough practice walking in them not to appear to be fish-marching. She had not found the overlong sleeves amusing either, but then none of the people at court had had theirs hanging down into her tankard of mead.
Amaury frowned over his wife's response. At first she had simply peered at him with that slightly arrogant tipping up of one eyebrow he was beginning to detest, but just now she was beginning to tremble, her lips working in a way that gave him the very nasty suspicion she was about to burst out laughing at him again. Following her gaze, he glanced down at his arm, and jumped up from the table with a curse, grabbing at the sopping sleeve.
"Here." Blake was at his side at once, helping him to wring the liquid out of his sleeve and ushering him a little away to say, " 'Tis not going well."
"Nay. She thinks me the veriest buffoon."
"Nay," his friend lied reassuringly.
"Aye. She is laughing at me."
"Nay." Stiffening, Blake straightened and held up the tip of his sleeve. "This doublet is not finished. The sleeves are unsewn."
Amaury sighed. "Aye. I rushed de Lascey to have it done enough that I could wear it to impress my wife," he admitted bitterly. " 'Tis just the hem of the sleeve. He will finish it later."
"Hmm." Blake dropped the cloth and peered at him. "Mayhap she would warm a bit if you explained why you believed she had poisoned you."
Nodding, Amaury straightened his shoulders and turned toward the table, then paused and turned back. "What reason should I give?"
Blake rolled his eyes. " 'Twas due to all the potions she was putting in--"
"Oh, aye." Turning abruptly, he stepped back up to the table and dropped onto the seat beside his wife, careful to avoid dunking his sleeve this time as he faced her. "I believed you had done the poisoning due to the fact that you were forever sneaking those potions into my ale."
Emma's amusement fled. "Those potions were for your health."
"Aye," he agreed soothingly at once. "And 'tis sure I am the dogs have not been healthier . . . until they died, of course." Amaury shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping. Then it suddenly flew up again, brightening as he thought to add, "And they did aid my health, wife. Think on it. Had you not been sneaking those potions into my drink since my head injury, I would not have been dumping my ale in the dogs' bowl and might have been the one to die last night of poison."
Emma opened her mouth on an angry retort, then paused and blinked. "Would not have been dumping . . . How long have you been dumping your ale out in the dogs' dish?"
"Since the first night I was up from my sickbed," Amaury admitted after a hesitation, bracing himself for her anger. Instead of anger, Emma looked completely bemused.
"Then 'twas not the damiana that brought you to my bed?"
Amaury frowned over her faintly spoken words. "What? Damiana?"
A commotion drew his gaze toward the stairs, and he sighed impatiently as he saw that Little George was returning with de Lascey and his people. "We shall finish this discussion later," he announced, getting to his feet to face the group as they approached.
Catching the coldness in his voice, Emma glanced at him curiously, then at the people moving toward them. She stood slowly. "What is occurring, my lord?"
Amaury glanced at her warily. His wife did not appear angry any more, simply concerned, so he allowed himself to relax somewhat. "Little George questioned the cook and his helpers about anyone being near my tankard, and learned that two of de Lascey's women were the only ones in the kitchen besides yourself yesterday before sup."
Emma nodded at that. "Gytha and Sylvie. Gytha came in to fetch a beverage and spoke to me while I made the potion, and Sylvie was entering the kitchen as I left." She peered up at him. "Surely you do not suspect either of them?"
Amaury grimaced. "I only wish to question them, wife. 'Tis the only clue we have so far." He frowned as he glanced over the seamstresses. "There are only five here. Which one is missing?"
"Sylvie," Emma admitted reluctantly. Sylvie was the youn gest of the seamstresses, a mere slip of a girl, not yet sixteen. Emma could not imagine the girl poisoning anyone, and feared her absence would make him judge her harshly.
Little George led the group to stand before them, then stepped aside. Amaury glared over them, his gaze going over each face. The women looked confused and anxious, but nothing more. De Lascey was doing his best to cower behind the women without appearing to. "Where is the one called Sylvie?"
There was a moment of silence as the women glanced at each other; then de Lascey stepped forward long enough to say, "I zent her to zee kitchens to get me zome vine." Then he stepped quickly back behind the women again.
Amaury turned a glance to Little George at that, but he needn't have bothered. His first was already moving toward the kitchen door.
A moment later he was back with the news that she had been and gone, and was supposed to have returned above stairs. A nod from Amaury then sent the man sprinting up the stairs to seek out the missing girl.
"Might I ask what ees 'appening, my lord?"
Emma's surprise showed when the tailor found the nerve to step out from behind his women long enough to ask that question. Amaury merely seemed annoyed. He glared at the man, then continued his slow study of each of their faces as he awaited his first's return. He wanted to see if anyone betrayed guilt by expression. All of these people were strangers to the castle and therefore any of them could have been the guilty party.
Emma nearly sighed in relief when Little George finally hurried down the stairs. The tension in the Great Hall was unbearable. That relief turned to concern, however, when he whispered something in her husband's ear that made Amaury take her arm and lead her toward the stairs.
"What is it, husband?"
"Little George found the wench." He paused at the top of the stairs and turned to her to add grimly, "She is dead. It appears to be poison. I wish to know if 'twas the same poison that killed the dogs."
Emma nodded her understanding. He wished her to view the body and look for the same signs she had found on the dogs.
"Thank you," Amaury murmured, then led her down the hall to the room de Lascey had chosen to store the fabric in. It was crowded with bolts of fabric stacked haphazardly in any space not taken up by the two makeshift, blanket-covered straw beds on the floor and the large draped bed in the center of it all.
It was the large bed where the girl in the plain homespun dress was. She was draped across the bottom of it on her back, an empty vial clutched in one hand. Her legs hung off the edge as if she had sat down to rest. She had never gotten back up. In this last sleep Sylvie appeared even younger than she had in life.
Sadness welling up inside her at this waste, Emma moved to sit carefully beside the reed-thin body and bent to peer on her eyes and mouth. She then lifted the hand holding the vial, peered at her nails, then took the vial and gave a sniff.
" 'Tis the same?"
"Aye."
Amaury grunted. "Bring me de Lascey and his women."
Emma sat staring at the dead girl, wondering what had brought her to this pass in her life, then glanced to the door as the rustle of clothing and several small gasps announced the arrival of de Lascey and his women. Straightening her shoulders, she stood and moved to her husband's side.
"What i
s zis?" De Lascey peered at his seamstress in dismay.
"She is dead," Amaury announced grimly. Then, before they could quite accept that, he asked, "How long has she been in your employ?"
"I hired her just before coming here." He looked truly taken aback by these events . . . as his missing accent suggested.
"How did that come about?"
De Lascey shook his head. "One of my other women did not appear on the day we were to leave. Sylvie arrived at the door just as we were about to depart. She claimed she was accomplished at sewing. It seemed a blessing."
Amaury grimaced at his choice of words. De Lascey's blessing had very nearly been his own funeral. "Where are her belongings?"
The tailor looked blank at that, then glanced to his workers questioningly, and one of them hurried to one of the makeshift beds and retrieved a small sack. "This was hers, my lord."
Accepting the small bag, Amaury turned it over, dumping its contents on the bed. He and Emma both stared sadly at the contents. A wooden comb with many teeth missing, a plain brown gown with several holes, a small sack, and another vial. Picking up the vial, Amaury opened it and took a whiff, then handed it to Emma for her to sniff as he reached for the sack.
The vial was empty, but there was still the faint bitter smell she had noted in the first vial, and Emma shook her head with a sigh.
"Is it not also poison?"
"Aye," she admitted reluctantly. " 'Tis the same as the one she held. But I do not believe it. Why would she--" Her voice came to an abrupt halt when Amaury tipped up the sack he held and poured out a handful of coins.
"There is your reason," he said.