LordoftheKeep (18 page)

He stumbled back as she jerked open her woolen gown and
kirtle, baring her breasts to him. “See me, my lord. See me.” Her naked breasts
heaved as she gulped in air. “Have me, have me if that is your will. But,
first, let me close the door.” She slammed it with all her strength. “The
village harlots hang a rag on the latch as a signal they are occupied. Have you
a piece of cloth? Mayhap your belt will do!”

Gilles held his hands palm out. He could not bear the words
she spoke. “Catch hold of yourself, Emma. Stop this.”

“Haven’t you sixpence, my lord?”

“Stop it!” He grasped her wrists and pinned her to the rough
stone wall. She fought wildly against his strength, bent and bit his hands,
kicked his shins. He wrapped his arms about her, held her tightly against his
chest, ignored any pain she inflicted, until she went still in his arms,
sobbing and heaving gasps of breath. He lifted her and carried her to the
straw-stuffed pallet and placed her gently there. He stretched out beside her,
his arms still tightly holding her in case she flew out of control again.

She lay stiff as an iron pike in his arms. Tears ran over
her cheeks. There was a streak of blood from his hand on her cheek. Every
muscle in her body quivered against him. Her eyes gleamed dark blue, filled
with her shame.

As if a bolt of lightning had struck him, he felt what she
felt, knew what it had cost her to come to him as a lover. A tremor ran along
his arms to his hands where they held her. There must be an answer that would
allow them to be together.

Darkness fell and still he held her. He stroked her hair and
held her loosely against his chest. He did not speak, and eventually her head
fell against him.

He rose once and went out to the side of her hut to relieve
himself. ‘Twas then he noticed the stench of refuse that lay on the misty night
air and the stink of charred wood. That she must daily take in these scents
added to his guilt.

When he returned, he gathered her back into his arms and
held her close, stroking her hair that smelled of a soap he knew was poor
stuff. She was clean, but no essence of flowers scented the soaps she used. He
did not like the thought of harsh soaps against her skin.

He dozed and woke finding that dawn had broken. He eased
from her arms and shut the door, closed them into the small space. When he
returned to the pallet, he saw that she was awake. He stretched beside her and
began to speak. “I am no longer young, Emma.”

“How does youth enter this?” She was calm now, had been
awake a long time, listening to his heart beat. She was no more sure of what to
do now than when she’d attacked him. Her whole being flooded with humiliation
at how she’d lost control. Just as he had…and how she’d blamed him, held it
against him.

“He is but a score of years.” He fisted his hand and smacked
the earth beside them. “I have lines on my face, scars on my body. I cannot
compete with such youth.”

“You have no need to compete.” She rose on her elbow and
looked down at the stark honesty on his face. How could this have escaped her?
He envied William in a way she couldn’t understand. “I see the power in you,
the many facets of your character. Aye, I also see the smoothness of William’s
youth, the facile nature of his being. Were he three score he would not have
your wisdom or caring. I don’t compare you, Gilles. Please believe me.” She
pressed her palm to his chest, felt the rapid, agitated beat of his heart. “I
care not for your age.”

“I feel like the old men of jests who are helped to climb on
their wives. I may not be there now, but in a few years…”

“Nay. I will not have it!”

“If you still love him—”

“I love
you
. I want nothing more than to be with you.
I believe you interpreted my ardor as experience—experience I gained with
William, but I never found passion with him,” she whispered. “He took me but
once, and ‘twas over before I knew what had happened. What I had with you
cannot compare.

“Only you have made me feel passion. Anything William told
you is a man’s bragging—swelling his prowess before one more powerful than he.
You are all that is powerful to me, Gilles. It is an intangible that all in
your presence feel. When you saved me in the forest, I thought ‘twas the devil
come to claim me. I wanted only to be swept into hell with you. And I have been
to hell, Gilles, the hell of wanting you, needing you, and knowing I’m but a
vessel for your lust.”

“How can I take those words back into my throat?” Gilles’
hand was unsteady as he stroked her cheek with his knuckles.

“You can’t take them back; they will always be there.”

“Always?” He could barely say the word.

“I don’t know.” And she didn’t.

“You were never just a leman to me. I love you, Emma. I have
been racked with jealousy at William’s knowledge of you. Rracked with guilt
that I had the power to make him acknowledge you and Angelique—and yet I did
not. Did I know even at the judging that I would one day want you for myself?

“When I saw you at the stairs with him, I thought you had
lain with him, but I should have listened, and believed in you. To do anything
else was to deny what it is I love about you—your sweetness, your caring, your
inner beauty.” He looked away. “I thought you wanted him in your bed. I was the
fool, not you.”

Emma rose above him, bent down to him, and stroked his
cheek. “I want only you. I see you in my dreams. I see you in my mind’s eye as
I weave, the shuttle flying in patterns it knows by heart, weaving you into the
cloth of my life.”

When he did not respond she hurried on. “I met William and
saw only his beauty. Nay, ‘twas his words—his songs that lured me in. I was so
lonely, and he offered what I had lost when my mother died. I thought I loved
him, when, in truth, I knew nothing about him. When I met you—at the judging—I
felt struck by some disease, a fever to be near you, to know you. I beg you to
understand—you are like the warp of my fabric, woven into my life. The cloth is
not whole if you draw those threads. It falls apart. When I’m with you—flesh to
flesh—I am like a person possessed.”

“I cannot live without you,” he said, his hand slipping into
her hair.

“I promised before God I would be with no other.”

His black eyes roamed her face. “But you are not really
free.” He touched her breast. “Not here, not within your heart.”

Silence stretched between them. Finally, he rose on one
knee, pulled her to sit before him. He lifted her hand and spread it open, palm
up on his right hand. With his left, he touched each finger, traced the
calluses there at the tips, stroked the lines of her palm. When her fingers
curled about his, captured his caressing hand, he lifted their joined hands to
his mouth.

“Forgive me,” he breathed against her skin. “There is naught
to my life without you—free or not.”

She fisted her hands in his hair, yanked his head back, and
studied his face. “Even if I were free, a weaver may not wed a lord.”

“She may if the lord wishes it.”

Her hand trembled as she traced the shape of his brow. “You would
say vows with me, at the church?”

“Aye. If we can free you, will you wed me?”

“Free me?” Her voice trembled.

“I have been thinking all night. We could see the Abbot.
Seek a dispensation from the archbishop, if necessary. It would benefit
everyone.” He smiled and captured her hand. “I could purchase a great window
for the abbey, with the Abbot’s face as St. Peter or some such.”

She could not prevent a smile, but then just as quickly as
it had appeared, it died. “And if freedom is not possible?”

“It is possible. I feel it in my bones; I believe it.” His
voice became rough with emotion. “I promised you I would be with no other.”

Peace flooded through her. The dawn no longer looked a dull
gray, but silver—precious, foretelling a day worth living. “I, too, promised to
be with no other.”

Their lips touched in a gentle caress, his tentative and
fearful of frightening her with the sheer power of his need. Her fingers traced
the shape of his face, skimmed his throat, his chest, and flattened over his
groin. Her caresses there set him to groaning, and he cupped her face as his
mouth grew hungry and urgent. She met his ardor, degree by fevered degree,
stoking the flames to a conflagration. Painstakingly, Emma unlaced and removed
his clothing until he was naked.

On her knees at his side, she kissed him as lightly as a
butterfly sips nectar, from his shoulder to his knee. She visited her favorite
places, the sharp male nipples, the black wings of hair across his chest, the
sleek muscles of his arms and thighs that shuddered with leashed power beneath
her touch. She examined his bandages and kissed the tips of his injured
fingers.

Every place she touched, burned. The golden skeins of her
hair slipped across his shoulders and arms. He shivered with anticipation. He
pulled her into his arms and atop him.

Together, they slid sword into sheath, and then were swept
away. His hands snatched her down, breast to breast as their hips and mouths
met in a clash. She took him and he took her. They burned at the same moment,
and quickly, like a spark to dry straw. Emma tore her mouth from his just as
the incredible heat of her release swept her. Her cries of ecstasy were her
gift to him. He pulled her mouth back to his, his kisses gentle now, to soothe
her lips. He touched her soul; she possessed his.

* * * * *

The sunlight striped the dirt floor, mice rustled through
the thatching. They lay entwined on the pallet in a fierce embrace.

Gilles swallowed hard and linked his fingers tightly with
hers and spoke into the charged atmosphere—said it all so no more stood between
them.

“William is my son.”

He held his breath against her response. Would it be
condemnation? Would it be horror? How he wished he’d said the words before
they’d made love.

Emma slowly withdrew her hands, reached across him, and drew
his mantle up and about her. So much was now explained, she thought. ‘Twas more
than simple envy of youth, ‘twas envy of a youthful son. An unacknowledged son.

“Why have you not claimed him?”

He heard curiosity in her voice, not censure. When she
spread the mantle to include him and rested her head on his chest, an
incredible tension loosened in his body.

“His existence would have caused great pain to my wife.
Margaret and I were a match of land and power. She cared little for me, I
suppose, yet it was inexcusable to have dallied elsewhere whilst she was…
Nicholas is only six months older than William, if you understand. I am ashamed
of my behavior, even now, twenty years later.”

“Did you love William’s mother?” Emma asked, listening to
the rapid hammer of his heart.

“Nay.” Gilles rolled from the pallet, disentangled himself
from her arms and the mantle, and drew on his clothes. He’d been naked enough.
He bent and lightly touched her cheek. “When William’s mother came to me, I
doubted I was the father of her babe. Others had lain with her, too,
habitually. But my honor said I should help her, for I had had her a number of
times, and was old enough to feel the responsibility.

“We bartered over him. A worthy husband and her silence for
my wife’s peace of mind. I found her the husband, and paid gladly every year
for William’s keep whilst Margaret lived. She may not have loved me, but she
cared deeply for her good name and her place at Henry’s court.”

“Oh, Gilles.” Tears pricked Emma’s eyes and he caught one,
wiped it away with his thumb.

“It somehow felt incestuous to lie with my son’s woman, the
mother of my granddaughter. I felt so old…and yet lacking in wisdom I should
have gained with those years. I understand now that I cannot demand what is in
your heart. You must give it freely, or it is worth nothing.” He knelt before
her. “Whatever comes, let me love you, love Angelique.”

Emma felt his pain. It was as tangible as the love he’d
poured into her but moments before. He was stripping himself bare before her.
What knowledge he was giving into her hands. How much she understood of him
now. How easy it was to forgive him.

“Aye, Gilles. You may love me…and Angelique.”

Chapter Sixteen

Emma stood in awe of the Abbot. He did not once look at her
or appear to be aware she was present. She felt beneath his notice.

The wealth of the Abbot’s apartment amazed her. He lived far
better than Gilles. Tapestries hung on the walls, silk covers graced his
stools.

The Abbot rubbed his chin. “I will not speak merely to
please you, Lord Gilles. The simple folk of the village ofttimes say their vows
in bed.”

Emma felt her cheeks heat. Her stomach churned.

“Emma and William are not ‘simple’ folk.” Gilles rose and
paced the elegant apartment.

“No. It seems obvious to me this William Belfour sought to
lure an innocent to sin. Shameful.” The Abbot closed his eyes and tipped his
head back against the high headrest of his silk-covered chair. A few minutes
later, he sat straight, and Emma knew a pronouncement was coming. She held her
breath. The Abbot would say aye or nay, and from that moment, they must abide
by his word. She would be a true wife, or forever but a mistress.

Suddenly, she did not care. Surely, God had sent Gilles to
save her in the forest. How could He then condemn their love?

The Abbot impaled them with a sharp look down his long nose.
“Our beloved Holy Father wishes that every marriage be consecrated by a priest.
I, personally, believe a marriage is not valid without such a blessing. Indeed,
I do not recognize the marriage of this,” he swept his thin hand in Emma’s
direction, “weaver and Sir William. Be at ease. I shall have a dispensation
drawn for you this very day. You may then marry at any time. In fact,” he
impaled them both with a glare, “I suggest you do so immediately, to give her
child a name.”

* * * * *

Gilles took Emma to fetch Angelique from a ploughman’s home,
where she had lodged in return for a length of cloth.

Together, they went home to the keep. He strode through the
crowds in the hall to the high table. He drew her close to his side. Before
them all, he rapped his dagger on the edge of a metal goblet. A hush fell over
the hall.

“We have had enough of tragedy these past few weeks—the
collapse of the north wall, the fire…” A murmur rose at his words. Heads bobbed
in agreement. “In a fortnight, I propose to give us all a moment of joy in this
dark time—a celebration. You are all invited, every man, woman, and child of
the village and manor, to a wedding feast.”

A thunderous shout rose. There had not been a feast at
Hawkwatch Keep in many years. Gilles waited for the tumult to subside. He saw
anticipation and hope on faces that yesterday had seemed drawn and discouraged.
He saw his son William standing at the periphery of the crowd, arms crossed on
his chest, puzzlement on his face.

“I offer you my future bride.” Gilles lifted Emma’s hand
and, before them all, kissed her fingers. Angelique strained in Emma’s arms to
reach for Gilles. He laughed, snatched her from Emma, and tucked the child into
the crook of this arm. The crowd cheered as he leaned over and kissed Emma with
a passion that caused her face to flood with heat.

Grinning, Gilles faced his people. And they were his people,
he realized as he looked over the upturned faces. He was as responsible for
their happiness as for their pain. It no longer seemed a burden, but instead, a
privilege.

* * * * *

When the long, exhausting day finally ended, Gilles mounted
the stairs. Emma sat on a stool by the fire rocking Angelique. A tenderness
welled in his breast. He stood there in silence and watched mother and child.

She looked up and smiled. “I hope one day to nurture your
child, Gilles.”

He turned away and went to the window embrasure. He threw
open the shutters. “I must send for Nicholas. I want you to meet him in better
circumstances…and, of course, his wife, Catherine. She is wonderful. An artful
healer.”

Emma watched him warily. No smile lit his features. “What is
it? Have I said aught amiss?”

With an abrupt shake of his head, he turned back to her. Leaning
against the stone window ledge, he seemed one with the black velvet sky behind
him. His features were solemn.

“There should be only honesty between us, my love. That is
why I must tell you a child between us is unlikely.”

She tilted her head and gazed at Angelique’s downy cheek.
She placed the sleeping child gently on the fur pallet by their bed. When
Angelique settled, she went to stand at Gilles’ side. “Explain what you mean.”

With an infinite sadness, he lifted his hand to her cheek.
“I was two score this Epiphany. Did you know I was so old?”

A fierce anger coursed through her. “You could be three or
four score and I would not care,” she almost shouted. “I love you. I will not
hear this talk of age again.”

Gilles wrapped his arms about her waist. “You are as fierce
in your defense of me as in your anger. But you must listen. A man of my age
has had…women, my love.”

She leaned back to better see his face. “Many, Gilles?”

He nodded. “Many. Only after my wife died, I swear it. It
has been eleven years since her death. I’ve never fathered a bastard in all
that time. Never.”

“What of William and Nicholas?” she ventured, puzzled,
unsure what he was saying.

“I was ten and seven when I fathered them. In the years
since, I’ve never left a woman with a child. Do you understand?”

Emma studied his face. “You only had barren women?”

Gilles pushed away from her and smiled ruefully. “I know
‘tis the belief of most men and women that ‘tis the woman who is to blame when
no heir is born, no child conceived. In the early days of my marriage, my wife
and I worked most diligently at giving Nicholas a brother. Do I need to say
more? Another reason to wed a younger man.”

Emma touched his back. The muscles were rigid beneath her
hand. “Make love to me, Gilles. I care not if a babe results. You have no need
of an heir. I have Angelique. We have each other. ‘Tis enough.”

He bore her to the bed and made short work of their
clothing. Rising on his knees, he drew the bed curtains tightly closed,
cocooning them in their private space. When they lay naked, facing each other,
he spoke. “I have laid bare my soul to you today as I have never done to
another person in my life. What is it about you?”

“What is it about you that makes me turn liquid inside?
Makes my heart beat so, makes life seem empty without you?”

He smiled and cupped her face in his palms. “That night—on
the wall. I have never been touched in such a way. I do not mean your hand on
my body. I mean in my heart.”

Emma captured his hand and placed it on her breast. “Touch
me, my lord, here.”

He felt the rapid beat of her heart. “I felt your fear that
day in the woods. With the dogs. I felt it the moment you received the wound on
your leg. You are somehow a part of me.”

She drew his fingers slowly along her breast to the tight
crest. It ached for his caress. He bent his head and took the swollen tip into
his mouth. She moaned at the exquisite fell of his warm, wet tongue on her. As
he caressed her, she wrapped her hand around his manhood. With slow, gentle
strokes, she offered him pleasure, wringing a moan up from deep in his chest.

When he would have moved atop her, she held him back.
Instead, she lay facing him, her hands on him, savoring the satiny smooth
texture of him. She rubbed her palms over him, then down his thighs, between
them, up and over him again. Sweat gilded his skin. She bent her head over him.

With a strangled oath, he pulled her forcefully back and all
gentleness between them disappeared. He plundered her mouth. He mounted her in
a near brutal plunge. She welcomed him, bore his ardor, returned it with savage
pleasure.

When they fell back into the pillows, chests heaving, mouths
open and gasping for air, she felt the tears well up in her eyes at the
shattering pleasure he’d wrung from her. She fell instantly to sleep.

Gilles did not sleep. He thought of what lay ahead. A visit
to the archbishop. A possible need to offer a suitably large gift to the
church.

A few hours later, Emma shifted closer to him and he
realized the room had grown cold.

He slipped from the bed, folding back one curtain to allow
the light to enter the bed. Emma opened her eyes and smiled at him. Before
going to the fire, he looked her over, sprawled in his furs. “I thought of you
here, warmed by my passion, but it is you who has warmed me.”

He moved to the fire. She gasped.

“What is it?” He hurried back to the bed.

Emma touched a long scrape on his upper arm. He looked down
and shook his head. “I’ve had worse wounds. ‘Twas gained in loving combat. Do
not concern yourself.” He watched the color flood her face. “In truth, the
wound I dealt myself that night I accused you of preferring William pained me
more than any wound I’ve had from dagger or sword.” Then he smiled and kissed
her nose before tending the fire.

The sight of him at the hearth, the muscles of his back
moving as he worked, sent her from the bed. She knelt behind him and traced the
ridges of muscle that edged his spine.

She urged him to his back, there upon the rush-strewn floor.
Astride him, hands planted on his shoulders, she possessed him as the flame
possessed the wood, burning in a lick of searing heat, each movement of her
body meant to seal their troth, bind him to her, and wipe the doubts from his
mind.

* * * * *

The next morning, feeling rather dull from a night with
little sleep, Gilles accompanied Sarah to the armory. Big Robbie nodded when
they arrived and handed over a sword and belt. Gilles weighed the sword in his
hand. He swiped the air a few times, then sheathed it. “I like the balance.
You’ve done a fine job.” He unbuckled the sword belt. “Mistress Sarah will
require it within the sennight.” Big Robbie grunted assent.

Gilles gave Sarah a smile. “‘Tis a fine gift. Roland will
treasure it.” Little Robbie rushed forward and reverently held out his arms for
the sword. Gilles placed it on the boy’s palms with equal gravity.

The heavy clatter of hooves distracted him from the boy’s
devoted attention. He stepped from the armory and looked toward the gate that
separated the lower bailey from the middle. A party of men rode through the
gate a moment later.

They wore the royal colors. Something dark and forbidding
seized Gilles’ heart and squeezed. Several grooms rushed forward to assist the
riders to dismount. When one groom pointed to where Gilles stood at the armory
door, he strode to the party.

“My lord Gilles d’Argent?” inquired a well-dressed man, a
courtier from head to toe.

“Aye.” Gilles nodded. “And you are?”

“I am Stephen Monkfort, emissary of the king’s justiciar. I
have come with important documents drawn by the king,” the man coughed, “before
his, shall we say, journey on the continent.” Monkfort placed his hand on the
parchments that protruded from a leather satchel.

“Present them.” Gilles extended his hand. “These precede
Richard’s imprisonment?” He was too tired to dance over semantics. It was
obvious at this time that Richard had been imprisoned somewhere and a ransom
would soon to be demanded.

“Aye, Lord Gilles.” Monkfort nodded and offered the sealed
papers. Gilles drew his dagger and slit the seals. He rapidly scanned the first
document, turning slightly away so his face would not betray him to anyone
watching. When he had read it, he crushed it in his hand, and slit the seal on
the next. He disposed of three others, treating each as contemptuously as the
first.

Pain bloomed in his chest, clutched his throat, and caused a
muscle beneath his right eye to jump. In the first document, King Richard had
betrothed him to Michelle d’Ambray.

She was ten and three.