When the last course was served, musicians came forward to entertain the guests, a bard with a triangular-shaped harp and another musician with a dulcimer. They reminded him of Rhodri and the evenings at Talisand when the Welsh bard and Lady Serena had entertained them with song. He missed Talisand and such evenings, but were he to leave York without Emma, he would miss her more.
He glanced beyond Emma to see the music was lulling the old archbishop to sleep.
“Why, Sir Geoffroi,” Emma suddenly said, her eyes following the platter the servants set before them. “’Tis strawberry tarts. I have seen wild strawberries growing near the edge of the fields. Knowing your fondness for the sweet treats, you must be eager to partake.”
He grinned. “I am.” He reached for a tart and placed it on her side of their trencher, then retrieved one for himself, “Yet I do not see how they can rival the ones served by a certain lady of my acquaintance who lives in York.”
“Oh, but these you need not share with a hound and two ravenous children.”
He laughed at the memory, for it was a pleasant one and not just because of the tarts.
“The sharing of them was half the pleasure,” he said. Reminded of Emma’s household, the young woman who lived with Emma came to his mind. “How is Inga? I did not see her this day.”
“She was resting when you arrived. I think she is recovering, yet sometimes when she is lost in her thoughts, there is a sadness about her. While ’tis understandable, it worries me.”
The music faded into the background. The candlelight cast a warm glow on Emma’s ivory skin and made her blue-green eyes change to a dark blue. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to claim her as his. To see her at Talisand. “Mayhap a change of place might help her.”
“Mayhap…” said Emma.
When the music stopped and the last of the tarts had been consumed, the guests rose. Helise came to engage Emma in conversation about the plans for the new garden.
Malet drew Geoff aside. “Sir Geoffroi,” he whispered. “I must tell you after watching your lady this evening I do not think she is just any widow in York.”
“I would agree, Malet, she is more comely than the other women of York and what you do not see is her heart, as beautiful as her face.”
“You do not get my meaning,” Malet said in apparent frustration. “For one thing, she speaks French. Did you not see her eyes narrow when Fitz made his unwise remark? Helise pinched me she was so annoyed with the man, but it hardly suited for me to take the earl to task in the middle of the feast.”
“Aye, I had the same impression. She might speak French. So, what of it? We speak their tongue.”
“There is more,” Malet counseled. “’Tis clear the archbishop is well acquainted with her and she has the air of a highborn woman. What do you know of her?”
Geoff grew indignant at the sheriff’s probing. “I know all I need to. She is beautiful, kind and cares for others. She lives with two orphaned children and a young woman she has taken under her wing who was sorely misused by one of William’s more disreputable knights.” He said nothing about the man whose large shoes he saw in the chamber where they had laid the sword-maker. He did not want to consider what it might mean, so he dismissed the thought. Emma was all that was good.
“All to her credit, I admit,” said Malet. “But I cannot help wondering if she might not be acquainted with the leaders of Northumbria we replaced. Earl Cospatric, comes to mind for one. Could she be a rebel spy?”
“I had heard that Cospatric left Scotland but as yet he’s not been seen in England. And no, she is not a rebel spy. What is there to spy upon? There are no secrets here that I know of.”
“Mayhap not, but I would suggest you watch her closely.”
“I intend to, my lord sheriff,” Geoff said with a sly grin, “most closely.”
* * *
Emma had not imagined the evening with the Normans would be so enjoyable, though as she considered it, the pleasantness must be attributed more to the knight who had accompanied her than to anything else. She had begun to relax in Sir Geoffroi’s presence when her temper had flared at FitzOsbern’s remark. The man’s arrogance was exceeded only by his ignorance.
Her respect for Sir Geoffroi and fear of disclosing who she was had stilled her tongue. She would not embarrass him nor reveal all she knew. To do so would be to betray the two men she held in highest regard, the knight she had come to trust and her noble father. Oddly, it had been the knight who had come first to her mind. But she would not allow herself to consider that her feelings for Sir Geoffroi might run deeper than merely respect.
When they had taken leave of their host and descended the stairs to the bailey, their horses were waiting, along with Sir Alain.
The huge knight grinned, making his scar seem less formidable. “A pleasant evening, I trust?”
“Most pleasant,” said Sir Geoffroi, helping her to mount her mare.
Soon they were retracing their path to her home.
For some time, the three rode along in silence. The streets were darkened, but the waxing moon shining in the star-studded sky was so bright their horses cast dim shadows.
“Thank you for attending the feast,” said Sir Geoffroi.
“’Twas the least I could do for all you have done for me and those I love.”
Sir Geoffroi chuckled. “And now you have another garden to plant.”
“I do not mind. Helise Malet is pleasant enough. And the twins might enjoy her sons, but I cannot promise that Finna will not again refer to your king as a bastard.” She smiled at the memory of innocent Finna speaking with the knight.
“William hates the label, but ’tis what he is. You and Serena, Countess of Talisand, have in common your dislike of the king. She, too, once called him that.”
“She is English?”
“Aye, and has no love for William, but for the sake of the Red Wolf, she tolerates our sire’s presence when he visits.”
Emma could not imagine entertaining the Norman king. Serena must be an unusual woman.
They turned down Emma’s street. It was quiet with nary a candle she could see, save in her own home where the light flickered behind the skins that covered the windows. She was comforted by the knowledge that the hearth fire would still be burning and the brazier in her chamber would be warming the space. Artur, ever faithful, would have seen to it.
They reached her house and Sir Geoffroi slid off his horse to help her dismount. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders and allowed him to lift her down, her breasts brushing his chest as her feet met the ground. For a moment their gazes met, the moonlight bathing them in its soft glow. His hands still on her waist, he bent his head and kissed her lightly. His lips were warm and as gentle as she had remembered them. Though tender, there was passion in the kiss and when he raised his lips from hers, he was breathing heavily. So was she.
He kissed her forehead and whispered, “That you do not reject my kiss encourages me, Emma. Were we alone, I would not leave you so soon.” He pulled back and let out a breath. “Still, I would provide no further display for either Alain or your neighbors who might be curious to know what passes between us.”
She was gratified to see Sir Alain stood some distance away on the other side of Sir Geoffroi’s stallion, his back to them. “Thank you for protecting my reputation, though I am certain my neighbors already wonder at my behavior.”
“I hope they do not cause you concern.”
“Nay.” She would not change what she had done no matter her neighbors disapproved. She had enjoyed her evening with Sir Geoffroi.
“When are you to meet with Helise Malet to plan the garden?”
“Two days hence.”
“If I can, I will be there to bid you welcome.”
* * *
The next day, kneeling in her own garden, Emma loosened the dirt around the young plants that had risen from the soil. The smell of the herbs and the rich, tilled earth reminded her of the summer harvest that
would come.
The garden was nestled behind the kitchen and surrounded by a reed fence some distance from the stable at the rear of her home. While not nearly the scale of the one her family had cultivated in Lincolnshire, it was of sufficient size that they always had more than enough to share with others. Cabbage, leeks, turnips and kale were among the vegetables she planted, along with herbs for cooking—parsley, sage, chives and dill—and those for healing, like betony and chamomile. She planted flowers, too, both for eating and for healing, though not many. Her small garden did not allow for all she would have liked, but there was always enough.
A shadow fell over the plant she was weeding. She sat back on her heels and lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
Sigga stood over her, a worried expression on her face. “Mistress, I am concerned about Inga.”
Emma set aside her tools and rose, dusting off the tunic she usually wore to dig in the earth. “Why?”
“These past few days she has spewed up her morning meal.”
“She is unwell?” Inga had seemed so much happier in recent days. Emma had begun to believe the young woman would be able to look forward to her future.
“No, I do not think she is sick.” Sigga hesitated, wringing her hands, as if reluctant to say more.
“What, then?” Emma waited for her servant to speak. Whatever she had to say was obviously causing her pain.
“I believe she is with child.”
“Oh, no.” Emma’s heart sank. She had hoped there would be no child from the rape, no lasting reminder of that night. Her own courses were so erratic she did not note Inga missing one, but she had not inquired. Perhaps she had not let herself consider she might be wrong in her assumption all was well. “If what you believe is true, this changes everything.”
“Aye, Mistress. And just now she ran from the house. When I shouted after her, asking where she was going, she said only ‘the old tower’.”
Emma inhaled sharply.
Sigga said, “Might she go to confront the knight who is responsible?”
“Nay,” she said, rising from the ground. “Inga would not want to see him again.” Suddenly a thought came to Emma, one so horrible it made her heart speed in panic. “Sigga, the square tower the Normans first built is the highest point in the city, save for the Minster. I pray she does not plan what I fear.”
“What?” inquired a concerned Sigga.
“The shame she feels may have impelled her to want to take her own life. I think she means to cast herself down from the ramparts.”
Sigga crossed herself. “God and all the angels, no.”
Emma raced into the house, Sigga following on her heels. “I must stop her.”
“But you will not be admitted to the Norman castle,” cautioned the servant. “Neither will Inga.”
Reaching the door, Emma grabbed her cloak from the peg. “She has only to persuade them she is a new servant and they will let her in. They did me when I went to see Sir Geoffroi. Keep watch over the twins and do not let Magnus leave. He would only draw unwanted attention and no servant would travel with a hound.”
She ran out the door. Once in the street, her gaze searched for Inga but all she saw were people going about their business. It was midday and the streets were crowded. If Inga were running, she would be some distance ahead.
Launching herself into the street, she did not stop running until she reached the castle. She was panting when she spoke to the guard. Using her prior excuse, and the added one of being late, she gained entry and hurried through the bailey to the tower. Seeing a group of knights going in the same direction, she kept her head down.
The hall was full of men eating their midday meal and she was able to move to the stairs as one of the servants. Once there, an older serving woman stopped her.
“What brings such a one as ye to the castle?”
Knowing she did not look the part of a servant even wearing her soiled tunic, the only thing that came to mind was to mention the reason she had come to the tower in recent days. “I am on an errand for Helise Malet.”
“Aye, well, she is not usually in the floors above.”
“I must see for myself,” Emma told the woman and brushed past her, racing up the stairs.
Midway to the highest level, Emma stopped, her chest heaving as a sharp pain stabbed her beneath her ribs. She was not accustomed to running such long distances. A few breaths later, determined to find Inga before it was too late, she resumed the climb, reaching the top of the narrow, curling stairs.
The stairs ended in a wooden door. She opened it and stepped onto the platform on the third story of the tower. The wooden walls of the battlement were solid except for the arrow loops, too narrow for even a woman to jump through. But there was the walk at the top that circled the walls. It was there she found Inga, staring out, her hands gripping the edge of the low wall.
“Inga.”
The girl shot a glance at Emma, but then returned her gaze to the vast expanse below the tower. The wind whipped strands of her honey-colored hair about her face as she held her body rigid and leaned slightly forward. Was she preparing to leap?
Cautiously, so as not to cause Inga to make a sudden move, Emma closed the distance between them and whispered, “Inga, you must not.” She wanted to grab hold of Inga but feared she might cause the girl to suddenly leap from the wall.
Inga glanced back at her. “All will know. I will be shunned, the child called the bastard of our hated enemy. How will my father bear it?”
Finally reaching out to Inga on the narrow walk, Emma pulled her into her arms and backed them away from the precipice. The girl turned into Emma’s chest and sobbed.
“Oh, Emma…”
“Your father will not blame you, Inga.”
Inga pulled back, her gray eyes appearing to plead. “But how can I live with such a thing?”
“The child is innocent, a child who will grow to love you. To take such a life and your own would be against God’s law. ’Tis worse than murder, Inga. You would be killing not only the body, but also the soul. You could not even be buried in hallowed ground. You and your innocent babe would be barred from Heaven for all eternity.” Emma knew the words of the Church’s teachings were harsh, and while she did not believe God was so unmerciful, she had to use what she could to dissuade Inga from such a dire action.
Inga shuddered in Emma’s arms. “How could I ever love a child who looks like him?” Inga muttered.
“Mayhap the child will have your golden hair and gray eyes. Did you not once tell me that your grandfather’s look was clear on all his offspring? You and Feigr have the same look about you. So might the child. And to a mother’s love, looks are nothing. The child will be heart of your heart, half your own soul. How could you fail to love it?”
Sniffing, Inga’s sobs abated, giving Emma hope.
“What are you doing up here?” a deep voice bellowed behind them.
Emma turned her head to see the Norman guard. “We are just looking at the countryside,” the excuse coming to Emma. “The forest is so beautiful it has moved my friend to tears.”
“Aye, that may be, but you have no business here.” He gave Inga a suspicious look, her tear-stained cheek speaking of things other than surveying the surrounding countryside.
“We will trouble your battlement no longer, good sir. We are leaving.”
His eyes followed them as Emma helped Inga down and together they walked to the stairs.
“It will be all right, Inga. I will help you. We will raise your child with the twins.”
* * *
“I saw your lady in the bailey today,” Mathieu said to Geoff as he left the practice yard in the bailey wiping sweat from his brow.
Geoff paused. “Mayhap she came to see Helise about the garden they plan for the new castle. I am sorry to have missed her.”
“I do not think so, sir. She was running, as if for her life.”
“What?” Why would Emma be running across th
e bailey? “Was anyone chasing her?”
“Nay, but she appeared fearful. Then I saw her again, a short while later, when she walked with her friend, Inga, to the gate. You were in the midst of sparring with Sir Alain or I would have fetched you. I did not see Inga enter, but they left together.”
Geoff could not imagine what the sword-maker’s daughter would be doing in the castle where Eude and his companions kept their pallets. He would have to ask Helise if Emma had come today about the garden. Or, better still, he would try and get away to pay Emma a visit and ask her himself. Why had she been afraid?
* * *
Emma was focused on her embroidery when she heard Feigr’s heavy steps as he trudged down the stairs after one of his many visits to see his daughter. Seeing Emma, he drew up a bench in front of her. “Why does my daughter weep so, my lady?”
He was pale and his face lined with worry. She rose and poured him some mead from the pitcher on the table, dreading the conversation to come. “Let us share some mead.”
She resumed her seat with her cup, wondering if he would be able to absorb the news. “Inga recovers, Feigr, but…”
“’Tis still that night she thinks of?” he interrupted. Without waiting for Emma’s answer, he gazed into the pale liquid he held in his hands. “I failed to protect her.” His eyes narrowed. “But no more! I am training with the warriors now. My own swords will be put to good use killing Normans.”
“Oh, Feigr, not you, too?”
“I must,” he insisted. “When that cur and his brutes came for Inga, had I known better how to wield my own weapons, I might have stopped them.”
“Or, mayhap you would have been killed, Feigr. The knights train from their youth. And think. Inga would have wept all the more had she lost you.”
For a moment he said nothing, just stared into his wine. “I would give anything to see the tears gone from my daughter’s face.”
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