A few men-at-arms lingered in the wide open bailey, guards mostly, she assumed. Still, her presence was noted as their heads raised and work stopped, their eyes following her as she passed them. They could not see much of her, cloaked as she was, but they had to wonder at a woman escorted by two knights.
Her gaze was drawn to the stables, larger than those built to support the knights garrisoned in the first tower. The other buildings she assumed were those typical of such castles: the armory, blacksmith and lodging for men who did not sleep in the hall. In one corner, a chapel was nearly finished. It was ironic, indeed, that those who came prepared to kill paid homage to God in building a chapel. Mayhap they thought of their deaths and wanted to be prepared. The archbishop had once told her that the Norman king came to England with the Pope’s blessing. She could hardly fathom it.
A groom came to take their horses. Sir Geoffroi dismounted and helped her down, raising his hands to her waist to lift her from her saddle. His touch sent a wave of pleasure coursing through her as his hands slid inside her cloak and he lowered her to the ground. How could such a slight encounter leave her wanting? A flame she had thought long extinguished suddenly ignited within her. When her feet touched the earth in the bailey, she raised her eyes to meet his, darkened with emotion. He, too, had been affected by their closeness.
Sir Alain, still atop his horse, interrupted the moment. “I will return at the end of the eve to go with you when you take the lady home.”
Sir Geoffroi inhaled deeply and nodded. Turning to her, he offered his arm. She had only to set her fingers upon his tunic and an unexpected shiver ran down her spine. He must have felt the attraction, for he turned his head to look at her and in his eyes she glimpsed intense interest as he led her toward the open door of the castle. It was not convenient, this attraction between them.
Inside the great hall, a servant accepted their cloaks and Sir Geoffroi introduced their host as Gilbert de Ghent. His clothing and bearing suggested he was a nobleman, landed and wealthy. He had black hair and was not more than thirty, dressed in an emerald green tunic with an ornately jeweled belt. His stance conveyed arrogance and his dark eyes raked her body. Here is a man who expects women to fall at his feet.
Gilbert bowed over her hand and gave her an admiring glance. “Had I but known a woman of your grace and beauty lived in York, I would have invited you myself.” Then with a wry smile aimed at Sir Geoffroi, their host said, “The Talisand knight is holding some secrets.”
Sir Geoffroi reclaimed her hand and placed it on his forearm. “Beware the young rogues of Flanders, Emma. My father’s estate in Tournai might be in France, but ’tis close to Flanders. We know them well.”
Gilbert laughed and strode off saying he would see them at the feast.
For an instant, she entertained the possibility Sir Geoffroi might be jealous of the handsome Gilbert, but then she reconsidered, knowing he loved to tease. Likely the two knights exchanged barbs often.
They walked farther into the hall. It smelled of new timber, herbed rushes and the dinner being prepared. The large timbered space was not unlike the one in the castle across the river, mayhap larger. Sconces full of candles cast a warm glow about the immense room. Servants hurried in and out with platters and trays, occasionally glancing in her direction. They were Northumbrians, after all. A young minstrel walked about strumming a lute while singing a French song. ’Twas the well-appointed den of her enemy. She had to remind herself she was still in York.
Ahead of them a man and a woman stood together, watching them approach. The faces of the couple bore looks of curiosity as if they had not expected Sir Geoffroi to be accompanied by a woman. Like the others, they were richly clothed in fine velvet embroidered with silver and gold, the woman in a dark red gown, the man in a tunic the color of cloves.
When they reached the couple, Sir Geoffroi said, “Allow me to introduce Emma of York.”
Emma curtsied as she had been taught as a young girl in Lincolnshire, the same way she had curtsied before the Saxon King Harold.
“Emma, these are my friends, William Malet, our sheriff, and his wife, Helise.”
“Welcome Emma,” said Helise Malet, “I am delighted you are here.”
Emma returned the smile the woman gave her. Malet’s wife was a woman of some years but despite the gray strands in her dark hair, Helise was probably not yet forty. She had a kind face and when she returned Emma’s smile, it occurred to her that the woman was, indeed, happy to have another woman to talk to. There were no other women in the hall save the servants.
Emma acknowledged Helise’s husband with a nod. His red hair was fair, almost Saxon in appearance. His chin bore a short, well-trimmed tuft of the same red hair. His expression was jovial.
“My lady.” He bowed before her.
Malet could not know of her noble Danish blood, nor of her highborn father and mother, so she assumed his use of the title was mere courtesy. She wanted no one to know she was the daughter of a Danish thegn, much less Maerleswein, now a rebel leader. It worried her that the archbishop might inadvertently disclose her identity.
Another man, who looked to be near fifty, confidently strode to Sir Geoffroi and introduced himself to her as William FitzOsbern, the Earl of Hereford. His lined face and gray-streaked dark hair made her think he had seen many battles and his heavy mustache gave him a harsh look. She recalled her father once mentioning that FitzOsbern was a friend of the Norman king.
“My lord,” she said curtseying before him. Her father would be amazed at her audacity in joining the Normans in their feasting, but he would also have encouraged her for the information it might provide him.
FitzOsbern smiled at her as she rose and facing Sir Geoffroi, said, “Hiding so lovely a flower from us, Sir Geoffroi? ’Tis brave of you to bring her as your guest, knowing neither Gil nor I have a wife.”
The offhanded compliment did not endear him to Emma.
Sir Geoffroi laid his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “Have no misconceptions, Fitz, the lady is with me.”
“Aye, I can see that,” FitzOsbern said with an amused expression. “I wish you both a happy feast.” Tipping his head to her, he took his leave, saying he had to greet a late arriving guest.
Left alone for the moment, Sir Geoffroi led her toward the place where they would dine.
“Should I be flattered by FitzOsbern’s words or would he say the same to any woman?” she asked as they walked toward the table.
“Fitz meant it as a compliment, Emma, but truthfully, there are too few women in England for William’s thousands of knights. And none like you.”
“Are you teasing me again? You pay me too high a compliment.”
“Nay, I do not.” Guiding her toward the table, he explained that the table arrangement would be different than she might have expected. Instead of a raised dais set at a right angle to long trestle tables, because there were so few guests, there was a U-shaped table covered with a linen cloth and set around the stone-ringed hearth fire.
Servants had begun setting platters of food and trenchers on the table for the guests. Candles illuminated the many dishes that were sending smells of spices and roast meat into the air.
“Suddenly I am hungry for what should be a memorable meal,” said Sir Geoffroi. “Come, Gil urges us to take our seats.”
They were about to sit when she spotted FitzOsbern coming toward them with the archbishop at his side.
“Do you know the archbishop?” Sir Geoffroi inquired in a whisper. “I had not thought to ask before.”
“I do,” she said, smiling at the elderly man of God in rich vestments who slowly ambled toward them as if the effort pained him. His hair was white now and very thin but his beard was still full. He wore a surcoat of rich purple velvet and over his shoulders was a white, fur-trimmed robe, the brooch fastener bejeweled. Here is the one who crowned both Harold of Wessex and William, Duke of Normandy.
When FitzOsbern and the archbishop reached them, be
fore anyone could introduce her, she curtsied. “My Lord Archbishop.”
“Emma,” he said, as she stood. “I was delighted when I was told you would be in attendance.” She was relieved he had not called her “Lady Emma”. “I’ve not seen you at Mass in recent weeks.”
Her cheeks flushed at the reminder. “I have been remiss.”
The archbishop sighed. “’Tis not unexpected. These have not been normal times, so we must make allowances. The Good Lord will surely understand. One need not be in a church to pray.”
“You are most understanding, My Lord,” she replied, grateful he had not said more. He was a kind man, more like a father to the people of York than another archbishop might have been.
FitzOsbern then introduced Sir Geoffroi and the archbishop welcomed the knight to York. “Do come to Mass when you can.”
“I will do that,” said Sir Geoffroi, smiling. Shooting a glance at Emma, he added, “Mayhap Emma will come with me.”
With that, the group took their seats. On one leg of the U-shaped table, sat William Malet and his wife, Helise. Across from them were Sir Geoffroi, Emma and the archbishop. She was happy to be seated next to Sir Geoffroi though the attraction she felt for him made his closeness somewhat disturbing.
The middle leg of the U-shaped table, which for the evening was essentially the head table, was where Gilbert and FitzOsbern took their seats. The arrangement was such that all the guests could easily converse with each other.
As the servants poured the red wine and the men filled the trenchers from the platters the servants brought, Emma let her gaze drift around the hall, surprised at the lovely tapestries gracing the walls. In a knights’ fortress she would not have expected so much civility. Some were so finely woven they appeared to be made of silk. Others, she was certain, were made of wool and pictured trees, deer and birds in blue, green and crimson thread. Raised in Lincolnshire, where her father had many manors, Emma had been taught to weave and embroider as a young girl before her mother had died. The scenes depicted in these tapestries were different than the ones her mother had made for her father, yet Emma still admired the skill of the weavers.
“Do you enjoy the tapestries?” The question had come from Gilbert, their host.
“They are beautiful.” She would not tell him of the others with which she was familiar for it would reveal too much. “And fine work.”
“In Flanders, where I come from, we have many makers of tapestry. Not a few of those I’ve displayed here are made of your fine English wool. I brought some with me to remind me of home.”
She forced a smile. Before the Bastard had come to England, trade had prospered. Her husband, Halden, had been among those merchants who sold English wool to the Flemish weavers and then sold the tapestries they made back to the English. Tucked away in a chest in her home, there were many.
Emma glanced at the archbishop on her left, hoping he would say nothing about her parentage or her donations of tapestries to the Minster. He must have caught her meaning for his next words did not give away her identity. “The Minster has been given some fine ones by the wealthier families of York.”
“I trust the Minster has recovered from the trouble of a few months ago?” offered FitzOsbern.
The old archbishop let out a sigh. “The Minster has been cleansed, blessed and restored to its proper role, thank the Almighty.”
Emma detected regret in his voice and remembered the shame the Minster had suffered when the Normans took their revenge on the rebels. It was all she could do not to say something, particularly when FitzOsbern leaned over to Gilbert and in French made a remark about the “good people” of York needing a lesson and the Minster served well enough.
Hearing the insult, Emma’s eyes flashed in anger. She had to bite her lower lip to keep from giving him a scathing rebuke. Surely the archbishop had heard the remark.
“Will you not eat, Emma?” asked Sir Geoffroi looking at the choice pieces of venison he had placed on her side of the trencher.
She stabbed the piece of meat as if it were FitzOsbern himself and brought it to her mouth and bit down hard. But when the succulent juices encountered her tongue she had to praise the food. “’Tis very good.”
“The knights do not often dine so well,” said Sir Geoffroi. “We buy from the market and the herdsmen and hunt for both deer and boar, but the preparation is usually a simple roast on a spit, not cooked in the well-spiced sauce that has made this venison so tender. And you must try some of the boar,” he added, laying a slice on her trencher, along with a large helping of roasted beets, onions and turnips. “’Tis delicious.”
Emma was amused. Did he realize he had set enough on her side of the trencher to feed two men? “You will make me fat should you expect me to eat such large servings, sir knight.”
He turned his head so that his twinkling blue eyes met hers. “I would see you always well cared for, Emma.”
In that moment, she forgot she was sitting in the Norman castle surrounded by her enemies. She thought only of the knight who had been her savior more than once. Her kind Lucifer, who was no fallen angel. More like Gabriel, the bringer of good news. Her gaze lingered on his handsome face, his high cheekbones, his striking blue eyes and his full lips. Aye, Gabriel.
The archbishop drew her attention as he began to speak. “I was delighted to see you here, Emma, dining with the new castellan. Mayhap your presence will cause others in York to see that peace is in their interest. We must urge them to submit to William. Further rebellion will only lead to more hardship and death.”
The archbishop’s voice had grown thinner with age, yet she believed Sir Geoffroi had heard him because he had been listening intently. But, thankfully, the knight could not know why the archbishop thought her presence might send a message to the people of York not to pursue rebellion. “I have little to say about what the people might do, My Lord. They have much to regret and many losses to mourn, not the least of which is their freedom.”
The archbishop sighed but said nothing.
* * *
Knowing well the losses Emma spoke of, Geoff was grateful she had accepted his invitation to dine with his fellow Normans. It might be difficult for her but he selfishly enjoyed having her by his side. He was proud of how well she had done, how effortlessly she had moved among the French nobles. And he was surprised.
Mayhap she and her husband had been among the wealthier citizens of York. The home her husband left her certainly bespoke of such status. The tapestries that hung on the walls in her home were as well made as the ones Gil had added to the new hall.
Geoff sat close to her on the bench, his tunic touching her gown, close enough to feel her heat, to smell her fresh scent and to notice her body stiffen at FitzOsbern’s remark. Her reaction told him she understood the words Fitz had spoken in French. Since Geoff had learned English in the three years he’d been in England, he did not think it unusual for one as intelligent as Emma to have learned some French in the year William’s knights had been garrisoned in York.
There was much he wanted to ask her but the questions never made it to his tongue, for he worried her answers might destroy the delicate trust that had grown between them. He needed time to understand her, time for her to freely tell him of her life. Time in which the budding affection between them could grow. Mayhap with summer’s coming and peace, they would have that time.
From across the table, Helise spoke. “Emma, I am thinking of planting a garden for the new castle. Gilbert,” she looked toward the castellan, who had stopped talking to listen, “has welcomed my efforts. We’ve servants enough to do the work, but you know the soil of York better than I, what to plant and where. If I could persuade you to assist me, I would welcome your advice.”
“Do help her, Lady Emma,” said Malet, “for my lady wife is most determined to make the garden a success before we leave at summer’s end for Holderness.”
Geoff suspected along with help for her planting, Helise wanted Emma’s company. He kne
w of her kitchen garden behind her home, which she had tenderly cultivated with her servants since the first signs of spring. Helise’s garden would be a much larger affair, one to supply a castle. Would Emma want to take on such a task with all she had to do? Would she even know how to begin?
“I would be pleased to help you,” Emma said graciously.
“Very good!” exclaimed Malet.
Geoff supposed the sheriff also wanted a woman’s companionship for his wife while they were in York, but Geoff had another reason to be glad she had agreed to Helise’s request. He would see her more often.
“How fortunate for me,” offered Gil, “this garden business will bring you back to the castle I am responsible for.”
Geoff held back the curse that nearly slipped from his lips, but allowed the scowl on his face at the thought of the handsome castellan paying court to Emma.
“I detect Sir Geoffroi likes not your coming into my castle’s bailey,” said Gil.
“’Tis not the castle’s bailey, so much as the castellan that concerns me,” Geoff said.
“Do not mind the cocks’ banter, Emma,” advised Helise. “Before the dinner is over and Sir Geoffroi sweeps you into the night, we must plan for your return.”
Geoff heard Emma let out a sigh and he reached his hand to hers where it rested between them on the bench, giving her slender fingers a gentle squeeze. “Her sons are here, Emma, and only a bit older than the twins.”
She looked across to Helise. “Mayhap I will bring along one day the two children who are my charges.”
“I am certain my boys would like to meet them,” replied Helise.
Listening to the exchange, Geoff wondered. Had she agreed to help Helise for his sake, or only because she was at heart a gracious woman? He hoped her desire to see him had led to her willingness to help Helise, but however it came about, it pleased him that she would be close to where he was most days, where he could see her more often. With difficulty, he pulled his gaze from her face. In Helise’s company, she would also be protected by Malet’s guards—and from Gilbert’s attentions.
A Warrior's Heart Page 12