LordoftheKeep (23 page)

Catherine’s mouth fell open. “Surely, you jest!”

“I had a brother, Catherine. I never knew it. Forget for a
moment that I despised the man, still he was my half brother. Now he is dead!”
Nicholas rose, naked, and paced the room. Catherine trailed after him, trying
to get a bedrobe on his arms. “All these years I thought I was Father’s only
child. How could he have betrayed Mother that way? He’s as dissolute as any
other member of court. And why couldn’t he have told me once Mother was dead?
It wouldn’t have hurt her then. I’d not have condemned him.” Catherine bumped
into him as he suddenly stopped. “Nay. That is not the truth. I condemned him
today. I said hurtful things.”

“You are rarely hurtful with your speech. I noticed it is a
trait of your father’s. You temper it well, but sometimes it appears. If you
hurt him, you must apologize.”

“Never. He betrayed his marriage vows. He never recognized
his bastard son. He married a murderess!”

“Hush. You’ll wake his man Roland.”

“Roland! He has been Father’s friend since childhood. We
must wake him. Surely he’ll know a way to stop Father’s madness!” Nicholas
yanked the robe from Catherine’s hands, wrapped the belt tightly, and then
stormed out. He had but a few steps to go to find Roland d’Vare’s chamber. He
didn’t think of the hour, he just pounded the wooden door.

The door crashed back on its hinges. Roland’s hair was
pillow-tossed. His frown made Nicholas pause.

“I hope you have adequate reason to disturb me.” Roland
stepped aside. He slipped the knife in his hand back under his pillow, and then
covered his own nakedness with a robe and lit a taper. He watched Gilles’ son
warily, then smiled. “Come in, Catherine.” Catherine slipped in the door. She
encircled Nicholas’ waist with her arm.

“So, take a seat and tell me what needs saying in the
darkest hour of night. What couldn’t wait until dawn?” Roland did not remark
that he, too, had been unable to sleep.

Nicholas poured himself a goblet of wine from the skin
Roland had warming by the fire. For many moments no one spoke.

“Take your time. I find the hours weigh heavily when I’m
away from my Sarah.”

“Sarah.” Nicholas squeezed his wife’s hand and his eyes lit
up. “Aye, Catherine, because of Sarah, Roland will understand.” Nicholas turned
eagerly to his father’s friend. “Surely, I need not tell you that Father is
besotted with love. This woman he loves has been condemned to be hanged in four
days.” Nicholas looked to the dark night, seen through a narrow window. “Three
days.”

“I know full well your father’s love for Emma,” Roland said
carefully. He crossed his arms on his chest and studied the young people.

“Father’s madness, love, or whatever it may be, has made him
marry this woman today, in her cell.”

Roland nodded. “I know. I had charge of obtaining the
marriage ring. Your father wanted Emma to have the protection of his name.”

Nicholas shook off his wife and began to pace. “And did you
also know that Father’s bastard son was this Emma’s lover and the father of her
child?”

Roland nodded, but kept silent.

“And did you know that he intends to confess to William
Belfour’s murder and take her place?”

In startled disbelief, Roland gasped. “Nay.”

“Aye,” Nicholas spat. “He says he loves this whore enough to
give his life for her. We must stop him!”

“
Mon Dieu.
This is beyond belief.” In two strides
Roland reached Nicholas and gripped his robe in a balled fist. “What you say is
surely mad.”

“Then let us see him, talk sense to him,” Nicholas pleaded.

The balled fist tightened. “Should you call Emma a whore,
you young whelp, son or not, your father will gut you and feed your entrails to
the hounds.”

For a brief moment, Roland thought Nicholas would strike
out. His face suffused a deep red. He nodded. “As you wish. My opinion of his
woman will not dissuade him from offering up his life for her.”

“We will speak to him, but I imagine he will not change his
mind.”

Catherine piped up. “He will most likely repeat what he told
Nicholas.”

Roland pulled on his braies and linen undershirt, heedless
of Catherine’s presence in the room. She yelped and turned her back. Roland
donned his tunic and sheathed a dagger at his waist. “What did he say to you?”

“He will but ask you if you love your Sarah, could bear to
see her die.”

Roland paused, looked out to the night. “Nay, I could not
bear to see my Sarah die.” He flung open the door. “But before I offered up
myself, I would think of some scheme to save her. Let’s put our heads together
with Gilles and see what we may hatch.”

Gilles was not asleep. He had no need to cover his nakedness
with a bedrobe. He’d never undressed. The late night visit did not surprise
him.

He sat in stubborn silence as his son and his friend
pummeled him with questions and exhortations to change his mind. He barely
spoke.

“How can you convince the Duke that you killed William when
you were away at the time?” Catherine demanded.

“I will say I rode ahead—and that is the truth—Roland and I
were ahead of our party of wagons by several days. The carts moved too slowly
for me; I grew impatient.”

“What of motive?” Nicholas asked.

“I imagine Norfolk will believe me that I became maddened by
William’s attack on Emma. I will say I saw William attack Emma, and then, when
she ran away, I beat him to death.”

“You have the coolest head in Christendom. Who would believe
that muck?” Roland began to pace, throwing out his hands in derision. “If
William had been skewered on a blade, mayhap, but stoning? No one will give
credence to such a thing.”

“Then I shall simply say I did not want anyone to suspect
that the murderer was an accomplished fighter. And I had the best of motives,
one not mentioned here yet.” They all stood still and looked at him. He
swallowed hard. Honor had guided him all his life. Once he had acted without
thought for it, and down through the years the ripples still spread in the pond
of his deceit. This confession would sully his good name for all eternity. Yet
for Emma’s life, he would do it. “Many, especially in the village, hold with
the idea that saying vows, whether before a priest or not, is a binding marriage
contract. Despite our dispensation, many will still believe Emma’s vows to
William should stand.” He took a deep breath. “By killing William I cleared the
way to an undisputed marriage with her.”

Roland threw up his hands. “But what of me? I was with you
and know ‘tis not true!”

“You will lie for me, and say I rode ahead of you as well.
You will say I was gone at the crucial time. I will say that I backtracked to
you so that we could arrive at Hawkwatch together.”

“Nay. I will not be a party to this!” Roland drew his
sheathed knife and flung it at the wooden mantelpiece. It quivered in inanimate
testimony of its owner’s turmoil.

“Aye. You will agree because you would ask the same of me to
save Sarah’s life.”

The fight went out of Roland. He nodded. “Then we must think
of a scheme that will allow Emma to go free and you to live.”

“There’s no time,” Gilles said. Every muscle in his body
felt stiff and aged. Just a few months ago, he’d rued the end of the second
score of his life. How precious every day seemed now. “It is too late.”

“It is too bad we cannot make it appear that you are dead,
Gilles; you know, trick the hangman somehow,” Roland mused.

Gilles just shook his head. Nicholas shrugged.

“‘Tis possible,” Catherine said into the silence.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The three men turned to look at Catherine. She smiled at
them. “I know herbs and their properties, men. There are several potions that
would render a man quite like the dead. The mixtures I make are delicately
weighed and portioned out, my lord. Many have soporific or deadly properties.
When they are taken just right, healing and easement take place, but too much
results in death.”

“It matters not.” Gilles flicked his hand in dismissal.
“They will not offer me a cup of hemlock to end my days. It will be a tight
knot and a swing.”

Catherine’s face paled at Gilles’ stark description of his
fate.

“A tight knot…” Roland said. He suddenly smiled and patted
Catherine gently on the shoulder. “I believe I know a way. Now, I think we
should all get some rest.”

Grateful when they finally left, Gilles stretched, fully
clothed, on his bed. He was not afraid to die. He could just as easily have
fallen in battle. Certainly, it could be no more difficult to hang than to take
a sword in the chest.

* * * * *

Catherine rose and discarded her embroidery when Roland and
Nicholas walked in.

“What news?” she asked.

“News? What news?” Gilles came down the ladder that led to
the second floor.

“I’ve been to see the hangman, Gilles.” Roland poured a
goblet of wine and strode to his friend.

“How ghoulish.” Gilles’ tone was light. In truth, since
making his decision, he’d felt oddly at peace. Emma was all he cared about.

“It seems Master Dobbins is soon to give up the hanging
business and live in idleness in York.” Roland handed the wine to Gilles.

Gilles just arched a brow.

“For a princely fee, he is most anxious to help us in our
game.”

“What game?” Gilles frowned at Roland.

“Catherine here will mix you a most vile tasting brew—or so
she claims—and you will drink it. When Dobbins, the hangman, slips the noose
about your neck, you will be feeling no pain. He will tie it loosely, or he
will reap no reward. He will cut you down immediately, and you will lie in your
coffin like the dead until Catherine’s potion wears off.”

Gilles watched the reactions of those about him. Catherine,
nearly as white as Nicholas, was clutching her husband’s waist as if it was all
that kept her standing. A bright spot of red appeared on each of Nicholas’
cheeks, and the hand that held his wine trembled. Gilles’ face heated with
anger. “This is nonsense. I will go to my fate without your interference!”

Roland rested his hip on the table. “So anxious to die? Do
you not wish to hold your wife in your arms, make love to her again?”

Gilles whirled about, his mantle flaring in anger behind
him. He was abruptly halted at the door. He struggled with his mantle and
realized he was pinned by a thin silver knife to the jamb.

“Now. Seat yourself and tell me why you object to my offer
of life.” Roland strode to his friend and released the knife, slipping it back
into his boot.

“‘Tis not life I object to, ‘tis the foolishness of it all,”
Gilles said as he stuck his finger through the thin slit in his mantle. He was
no longer angry for some reason. “What is gained?”

“You will be dead,” Catherine said before Roland could. “No
one notices a dead man. You could return home and discover who really murdered
William. You could gather the evidence and see the man held accountable. Then
you and Emma may be free to live your life together.”

Gilles touched Catherine gently on the shoulder, a rare
display of affection. “Sweet, sweet child. What if I can’t find evidence or am
unable to discover the murderer?”

“You will discover the evidence,” Nicholas interjected, a
genuine smile lighting his face for the first time since Gilles had told him of
his brother. “When have you ever failed at what you have taken on?”

“Your faith is touching,” Gilles said sardonically. “But if
I fail?”

Roland raised his goblet as if in a toast. “You and Emma can
go quietly off somewhere and live as peasants until the end of your days, with
no one the wiser.”

“Hmm.” Gilles liked it. “I could shave my beard!”

“And your head,” Catherine offered. A stunned silence met
her remark. Gilles’ hair was his vanity, and all knew it. “Well, you’re far too
distinctive a man with that ebony hair!” she said in defense of her comment.

“I will do it.” Gilles smiled at the gathered group. He
slapped his hand on the table. “Come, let us see to the details.”

“First, you must tell Emma of our plan,” Roland said.

Gilles shook his head. “She will never allow it. She will
confess herself. She’ll…
Mon Dieu
… I don’t know what she’ll do, but
she’ll not let me risk my life for her. The Duke has promised to hold her in
her cell until after the deed is done. There’s no way you could convince her to
go along with this.” Gilles raked his hands through his hair. He knew Emma,
knew she would reverse her plea and stand by it, confuse everything”

“Then we’ll not tell her,” Nicholas said. “Let her think as
all others do that you are dead. She’ll present the proper demeanor.”

“Nay,” Catherine protested. “Proper demeanor? What of the
shock? The grief? Her pain?” Catherine grasped her husband’s hand and pressed
it to her cheek. She was a sprite of a woman and came scarcely to her husband’s
shoulder. “I cannot imagine the pain if Nicholas were to die,” she said to all
of them.

Nicholas gripped her hand. “I care naught about her grief.
‘Tis Father’s possible death I fear.” Nicholas let his antipathy for his
father’s bride take control of him. His words were harsh and nearly shouted.

“Nicholas,” Catherine spoke sharply. “You cannot mean it.
She will grieve, painfully so. Do not be so heartless.”

“Aye, Nicholas. I would have you give Emma your sympathy,
not your anger. Save your anger for me.” Gilles stepped between husband and
wife.

“She causes your death! She will live on…will most likely
spread herself for the first—” Nicholas found himself stretched across the
hearthstones, his head throbbing, his father looming over him.

“You speak of my wife.” Gilles’ face flushed with his effort
to control his own anger. The desire to strike again was nigh impossible to
resist.

Roland stepped in to make the peace between father and son.
“There is naught to be gained by this. No one need die. Catherine will make her
potion and Dobbins will do his part. Emma will grieve but will find future joy
in Gilles’ eventual return.”

“What if I can’t get the potion right?” Catherine’s fear for
her part in the plot showed vividly on her face.

Gilles turned to her and offered her his hands. He knew he’d
intimidated his son’s wife from their first meeting, and he sought to reassure
her. Catherine slipped her hands into his and squeezed them.

“Catherine, if your potion is wrong, it will matter naught.
I am prepared to die. I am a knight. I would gladly give my life for my king
and my country. Why not for love?” He was not speaking to Catherine, but to
Nicholas, who still did not understand. It was Nicholas he’d charged with
Emma’s care, and Nicholas who must have compassion.

* * * * *

The pain came in her sleep. Emma sat bolt upright, her hands
clutched to her throat, unable to get her breath, the pain so acute there were
no words to describe it. Her skin became clammy with sweat as she fought the
pain. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. She lay back,
shaking, and fear of what was to come swept in to replace the pain. The
darkness of the cell was absolute.

It was her dream come true.

She was overcome with fear, then fixed her mind on Gilles
and what he had said to her the night before.

Angelique would be loved and cared for always.

She had never believed that she would be released. Oh, she
believed that Gilles worked to see it come true. Why, even last evening, as
he’d held her in his arms, he’d promised her this moment would not come. But
come it had.

As she thought of Gilles, her heart rate slowed and her fear
began to retreat. She spent the final hours before dawn thinking of him and
Angelique, knowing they would be her last thoughts.

The scrape of a key brought her heart rate back to a
thundering crescendo, surely audible to those on the other side of the door.
She knelt quickly and asked forgiveness for her sins, straightened her spine,
and folded her hands.

A burning torch preceeded the sentry who stepped into the
cell. The torch’s smoke burned her eyes and clogged her throat. The man waved
some of the smoke away as he gestured her to follow him.

For a moment Emma thought she would faint. But she sucked in
her breath and followed. The passage through the bowels of the Duke’s castle
was black as night. No windows pierced the stone to allow the wan light of dawn
to show the way. Emma thought it could as likely be midnight as morn. The guard
moved slowly, occasionally looking over his shoulder to check that she
followed.

Her legs began to tremble. Could she do this with dignity?

Finally, they reached the end of the stone passage. Emma had
been aware of a slight rise in the passage, and the footing was drier, less
slick with damp and mold. The air smelled fresher, and a breeze touched her
cheek.

The sentry turned and opened a stout arched door, strapped
with iron, then stood back to allow her to pass. He closed the door behind her.
She looked about. The room, bare of furniture save a wooden stool and a table,
was cold. She shivered. A scrape of a key made her whirl to another door
opposite the one through which she’d passed. The room tilted a moment. A hum
filled her ears. She swallowed and breathed deeply. She still could not take a
deep breath, her throat still burned.

A cry of surprise escaped her lips when a man entered the
room.
Nicholas d’Argent!

She swayed, then gripped the edge of the table. His
unexpected appearance robbed her of speech.

“Do you know who I am?”

She nodded, utterly confused. With a wary glance she glanced
at the door he’d left open. No sentry was in sight. For a brief moment she
thought of dashing past him, escaping…fleeing her fate. Nay. That would be
dishonorable. She must do this with dignity. “I don’t understand why you are
here,” she said. “Where is Gilles?”

“Gilles is dead.”