LordoftheKeep (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

“My father is dead,” Nicholas d’Argent repeated, his voice
harsh as icy water.

She did not understand. Gilles dead? She stared at the young
man, speechless. Finally, she found her voice. “Nay.” She stated it
emphatically. Gilles could not be dead.

“Aye, he was hanged this dawn as punishment for the crime of
murdering his bastard, William Belfour.”

“Nay,” she shrieked. She leapt from the stool, her devastation
complete in an instant. She threw herself at the man before her. She pounded
his chest, screaming in her agony, beyond pain and conscious thought. Unable,
for days, to eat, to sleep; now she felt the world recede to gray and black.
She slid down his body to her knees, a terrible pain expanding and pulsing
through her being.

He crouched before her and gripped her arms.

“Aye, Emma, ‘tis done.” He tried to break through her sobs.
When her cries became silent gasps, he spoke. “Father asked me to take charge
of you. Roland’s wife has Angelique at Hawkwatch, and there we will care for
you both as long as you live.” His final words were more spat than spoken.

Nicholas tried to remain hard against her. Her pain was
tangible in the room, a living, screaming thing. He held her as she wept. This
woman was nothing like he’d expected. She was not beautiful, although a few
weeks in prison could take their toll on the most fair of face and form. What
gave him pause, however, was the depth of her agony.

After what seemed hours, Emma had no more tears. Her throat
ached from vomiting, and her eyes burned with her tears. She held her chest and
gasped several times, trying to get a grip upon her emotions. She looked up at
the man crouched by her side. He asked a question with his eyes and she nodded.
He lifted her up onto the stool, then hurried to the door. He spoke to someone
she could not see. He turned back to her and took her arm. Unaware of her
surroundings, she followed docilely to another chamber, more comfortably furnished.
He settled her on a padded bench and poured her a goblet of wine.

Emma choked on the strong warm wine, but it did serve to
steady the tremor in her hands and the roil of her stomach. She clutched the
goblet’s stem and looked up at the chilly man who was Gilles’ son. He seemed as
cold as winter.

“Tell me.” It was all she could manage.

“My father came to me several days ago. He told me of your
plight—”

“Nay,” she cried. “He knew he was to do this each time he
visited me?
He knew!
My God, he hid this from me…” Emma could not
continue. Suddenly the fierce embraces, the gentle promises, took on new
meaning, were not just promises that he’d look after Angelique, were not just
empty hope that she would soon be released. Nay, they were not as she’d
imagined. She’d thought them just the painful delusions of a man who loved her
very much. Now, she understood they were promises, promises he’d kept with his
life.

Nicholas began to pace. “My father swore that never would
you have lied. He insisted you left William alive and another killed him. He
said there was no time…no more time to discover the truth as you had been found
guilty and were to hang today.” He took a breath; Emma’s face had drained to an
ashen white. He took a step forward to catch her should she faint, but she
gestured sharply and he withdrew.

“He said he could not bear your death. He said he was going
to confess to the murder.” His voice became even harsher. “He said he had lived
his life.” Nicholas had trouble continuing. The magnitude of his father’s
sacrifice had kept him awake all night; his own fear for him was a painful
thing.

Tears welled and fell from Emma’s eyes. How could she still
cry? Yet the tears continued.

“I want to see him.” Her voice was hoarse.

“Of course.” Nicholas shrugged. “Come.” He extended his
hand.

She ignored it. She wanted to shun him. There was no comfort
in him. Just cold, hard accusation. ‘Twas obvious to her he blamed her for
Gilles’ death.

She blamed herself for Gilles’ death.

As she rose, she wobbled on legs barely able to support her.

When they left the Duke’s prison cells, Emma stepped into
dazzling sunshine. It must be near midday! She looked about in wonder, drawing
to a halt, causing Nicholas to stop and turn back to her.

“
The pain,
” she moaned. “I know the moment. I woke,
thinking it deep night, but I see it must have been dawn. I know the moment he
died.” She could not speak again, her breath sharp and cold in her chest. She
clutched Nicholas’ fingers tightly as she staggered at the knowledge. She no
longer noticed if he held her hand or paid her any heed.

Nicholas led her to a small chapel in the lower crypt of the
Duke’s palace.

A priest, the one who had shriven her the night before, met
them. Nicholas handed her off to the man and strode away without a word. The
priest clucked and patted her hand. “‘Tis his lordship’s wish that he be laid
to rest beside his father in the family crypt at Hawkwatch Castle. I was
preparing him to be taken. Come, my lady.”

For a moment the name did not register. Then she realized that
she had become a lady, and that the man she was to view was not just the love
of her life, not just her soul, not just her reason for life itself, but also
her husband. It took both of the stout priest’s arms to support her into the
dimly lighted chapel.

The man lying silently at the fore of the altar looked like
a marble effigy in a great cathedral. She walked as if in a trance to his side
and reached out her hand.

He was cold.

Grave cold.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Gilles appeared merely asleep. The priest had covered him to
his chin with a coarse blanket to hide the mark of the hangman’s noose. Despite
her wish to find him but slumbering, she knew there was no question—Gilles was
dead. The hand she held to her cheek was icy. She traced the scar that crossed
the back of his fingers, knowing it well.

She turned to the priest. “I want to be alone.” The man
patted her shoulder gently, bowed assent, and withdrew.

Roland watched from the curtained alcove of another side
chapel. He did not want Emma to do anything harmful to herself, and he prayed
that Gilles would not choose the next few moments to stir back to life. Roland
suspected that such a happening would be too much for Emma.

As he watched, she drew the blanket from Gilles’ body.
Roland turned away, his cheeks flushing hot as Emma bent over Gilles’ naked
body. He turned his back, leaned against the chapel wall, and fervently wished
they’d not promised Gilles to keep their plans a secret from Emma. In truth,
his promise to Gilles held him silent whilst he suspected Nicholas’ agreement
with his father was for nothing more than spite. But the result was the same.
They were bound to silence.

Emma knelt by the side of the slab on which Gilles’ naked
body reclined and pressed her head to the cold stone. For many moments she
stayed there, lost in prayer. Then, rising, she stood and looked over her
beloved’s body. She touched each scar on him from his feet to his face,
trailing her fingers lovingly over him. She covered him with the blanket to his
shoulders and broke down. She railed aloud at him and fate. She cursed him for
leaving her, then begged his forgiveness. She cupped his face and pressed her
lips to his cold ones, breathing her warmth on him, trying for one frantic
moment to bring him to life.

Roland rushed forward and touched her on the shoulder. She
whipped around and stared, disoriented. When she finally focused, she gave him
a wan smile and turned back to her dead husband.
Husband
.
For but a
few hours.

“Ah, Roland. Why, why?” She would never understand, never
know what lay at the heart of Gilles’ sacrifice. She pressed her hand over his
heart and stroked from the rise of his chest to his strong shoulder,
remembering how she’d caressed him often in love. “He is so cold, and I know
‘tis madness, but somehow I sense his presence. Do you believe in the soul,
Roland?”

He touched her hand. “Aye.”

“I feel his soul. Here with me.” She swallowed hard. “It
gives me no comfort. He was so proud, Roland. Now, he will be remembered always
as a man who murdered his own son. I don’t understand. I know he didn’t kill
William. Why? Why? Why…” Her voice trailed off into sobs.

“Gilles said you would ask me just that. He said to say that
he was a sworn knight, that without thought or regret he would have laid down
his life for his king, so
why not for love?
”

Why not for love?

She stared at Gilles’ face. She could almost hear him saying
the words. She knew now why he had done it. She understood. It was just as it
had been at the manorial court when first she’d seen him. She could hear his
voice just as if it was but a moment ago.

“Emma, did you not realize the consequences when you took
a lover? Why did you give your most precious possession away?”

Her voice was very soft, but not as anguished as she spoke,
“Oh, Gilles. You, too, have given away your most precious possession, your
honor—for love.” She groped for his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “He did
this for Angelique and for me. He gave away his name and his honor. I will try
to be worthy of such a sacrifice.” Reverently, she smoothed the blanket over
his body, her hands lingering for a last touch. She brought her lips to his a
final time, then turned to Roland.

“I want him dressed in the surcoat in which he was married.”

Roland went for the priest. Emma bathed and dressed Gilles
herself, the priest and Roland only helping her to shift his body when it
proved too heavy for her. Roland hovered in the background, no longer
embarrassed by her reverent care of Gilles’ body, but fraught with nervous
tension that during her loving treatment and frequent pauses to caress Gilles’
hand or to arrange and rearrange his garments, Gilles might begin to wake.

Emma clothed Gilles in the silvery gray coat she’d woven
with her own hand, and looped at his hips the first belt she’d given him. It was
woven in the colors of heat, and represented the flame of hot love she felt
inside. She groomed his beard and hair herself, stopping every few minutes to
take a deep breath, and wipe the tears from his cheeks as they fell to splash
upon his skin, ashen and waxy in death.

When there was no other excuse to linger over her beloved,
several monks laid him in a wooden casket, ornately painted with hawks in
flight. ‘Twas like no burial cask she’d ever seen. Before the lid was lowered
into place, Roland laid Gilles’ sword upon his breast and folded his hands
about the hilt.

“Nay,” Emma cried as they made to place the lid upon him.
She darted forward, and groping in her gown, she withdrew her mother’s cross.
She took Gilles’ scarred hand and wrapped the chain about his fingers, then
folded them so the cross lay clasped in his palm.

“Now,” she whispered. She took one last look. “Wait in God’s
holy love until I come to join you.” She kissed his hands, his face, and then
stood back to finally let the monks secure the lid. She almost screamed at them
to stop, almost screamed at them to let her have another look, but she was
restrained by the strong hold Roland had on her shoulders. There was nothing
left to say.

“I am ready, my friend,” she said.

Roland took her arm and led her away. He was beyond
agitated. He feared the worst, that his friend would never regain
consciousness, for ‘twas an hour past time for Gilles to rise.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Gilles awoke in darkness. He stretched and met the wall of
his confinement. Confused, not able to see, he felt naught but walls about him.
Panic rose in his throat.

His throat.
His throat burned and ached. To swallow
was agony. Just as he almost lost control of himself in the small dark space,
he remembered.

He was dead.

He heaved his sword aside. Something was tightly wrapped
about his fingers. Breathing deeply, stilling his thundering heart, he ran his
bare hand over the other. In an instant, he recognized what held his fingers
prisoner. A delicate chain, a cross.

Emma’s cross.

So all they’d planned had come true. Pressing carefully on
the lid of his coffin, he pushed. Nothing. He pushed again. His arms trembled
and in a moment of near panic he realized that they’d not thought he might be
too weak to open his coffin.

Gilles turned his head and saw pinpricks of light coming in
from small holes hidden amid the ornate paintings on his coffin—a coffin he’d
chosen for himself. At least he had air. He gave another attempt to lift the
lid and felt a small shift in its position. Then it flew off and bright light
blinded him.

“Thank God. We were about to take you out, servants about or
no servants about to see you.” Nicholas reached in and grasped his father’s
arms. With Roland, he dragged Gilles to a sitting position.

“Don’t move him,” Catherine admonished. “I do not like his
color,” she whispered aside to her husband. She placed her hand on Gilles’
chest and felt his heartbeat. “‘Tis too slow. Get him out.”

“Take his feet.” Nicholas grasped his father’s ankles and
with Roland, shifted him from his coffin bed to a chair by the fire. They stood
back and let Catherine take over.

Gilles felt curiously lethargic. He could barely bestir
himself, was not even embarrassed as Catherine swept her hands over his body,
touching him, lingering especially over his throat. He tried to speak but could
not.

“Gilles, please squeeze my hand.” Catherine took his hand in
hers and chafed his wrist. With a sigh of relief, she felt the strength of his
grip. “Now, can you speak?” Catherine had had two fears from her role in this
scheme. One that Gilles would die and two that he would have lost his
senses—suffered damage to his mind—even if he did awaken.

Gilles opened his mouth and a croak issued forth. After
several tries he could rasp out a few words.

“Honey.” Catherine snapped her fingers and Nicholas put a
stone pot in her hand. Nicholas held Gilles’ shoulders while Catherine spooned
some of her honey mixture down his throat. “There’s more than honey in the pot,
my lord.”

It cost him dearly to swallow, and he held the concoction in
his mouth as long as he could, stalling to avoid the pain. Finally he let the
warm, sweet mixture slide down his throat and was pleased that it hurt less
than he’d anticipated.

Catherine examined him for a moment, turning his head this
way and that, then peering into his eyes and laying a hand to his chest. “Now,
tell me how you are.”

His voice was a whispered rasp in the silent room. “I feel
quite marvelous for a dead man.”

* * * * *

Emma paced the small bedchamber Lady Catherine had led her
to in the rented townhouse, fingers busy with her spindle. As she spun and
walked, round and round, back and forth, she yearned to hold Angelique. She
needed the comfort of her child’s embrace and innocent scent.

She went to a chest where Catherine had placed a cup of wine
containing a sleeping potion. She lifted the goblet and swirled the deep red
liquid. Her throat seemed hot and scratchy, mayhap from her weeping. And when
she’d dozed, she imagined she heard Gilles’ voice. Far away, echoing in her head
as if in a cave. Her hand trembled. In the lower reaches of the house, someone
laughed.

“How dare they!” she whispered, and drank the drugged wine
to block out the laughter below. “How can there be pleasure when Gilles is
lying cold in a box?” The thought made her throat tighten, her eyes burn. She
stretched on the bed and waited for blessed sleep to claim her.

* * * * *

Roland lifted his sharp knife and severed a long lock of
Gilles’ hair.

“Emma will sleep away the night?” Gilles asked.

“So Catherine assures me. ‘Tis a powerful potion. You will
gone before dawn, and we’ll take your box to Hawkwatch and bury you with all
due ceremony on the morrow.”

“I fear for her. Mayhap this is a mistake.”

Nicholas and Catherine drew near. “We have gone round about
this a dozen times,” Nicholas said. “She must appear grieved.”

Catherine stepped in. “I, too, worry for her, but I have
come to think the men are right, my lord. Whoever killed William wished her
ill, too. If she does not display the proper demeanor, the killer may wonder.
That wonder might extend to more deadly thoughts.”

Gilles sat with no energy, curiously detached and outside
himself with his troubled thoughts as Catherine and Roland prepared his
beggarly appearance.

Was it right to leave Emma in ignorance?

When Catherine swept the long hanks of his black hair into a
pile, gathering them to be burned, he rose shakily to his feet.

“Wait,” he managed. His voice still hoarse and barely
audible. He accepted the offer of Nicholas’ arm and walked slowly to where Catherine
stood patiently waiting. He stooped and plucked up a lock of his hair. He
leaned on the table and fumbled about his chest, sweeping his hand along,
searching.

“What is it?” Catherine came close.

“I had a…a—”

“Is this what you want?” Catherine understood, rushing to a
pack by the door.

“Aye, ‘tis what I sought,” Gilles whispered, accepting the
lock of golden hair Catherine extended to him. “I cut this from Emma’s hair
myself in the prison. She didn’t understand why I wanted it. How long ago was
it?”

Catherine rested her hand on his arm, alarmed at the anguish
in his voice. “You’ve no need to speak of it.”

“When was it?” he asked again, smoothing a thumb over the
loop of silky hair.

“You were senseless for more than fourteen hours,” she
answered.

Gilles lay the two locks of hair, the gold and the ebony,
side by side. He untied the ribbon that bound the golden tresses and sifted the
strands together with his fingers, like the wind had entwined them when first
they’d kissed and come to each other as lovers. He bound them as one and
offered it to Catherine.

“For her.” He extended the token. Catherine nodded as she
took it, then left the room. Roland and Nicholas stripped Gilles naked of his
finery. “Have a care of the coat, for it is precious to me,” Gilles said, in
his new gravelly voice. He strode to them, near at the limit of his strength.
He took up Emma’s belt and wrapped it about his waist, against his skin.

With a nod, Roland folded the coat in Gilles’ linen shirt
and tucked it into his saddle pack. The two men then dressed Gilles as if he
were a helpless babe—indeed he almost felt like one. He’d used what energy he
had, and found none left except to drop Emma’s silver chain and cross over his
head so they might lie upon his chest.

When Gilles was garbed to Nicholas and Roland’s
satisfaction, they called Catherine for her approval. She clapped her hands to
her mouth then rushed to her own saddle pack and withdrew a looking glass of
polished steel she’d brought for just this moment. She held it before Gilles.

The man who looked back at Gilles was a stranger. He
appeared elderly and gaunt, half starved. He wore tattered clothing and
appeared to have a scabrous condition of his bald scalp. Gilles’ heart beat
frantically in his chest. He didn’t know the man, didn’t recognize himself. His
heartbeat slowed and he began to smile. “‘Twill do,” he rasped. “Now, dawn is
not far off, and ‘tis a long way to Hawkwatch. Roland—”

“Aye, I found just what you need. There is a party of
pilgrims who travel near to Hawkwatch—they’re off to the abbey and a viewing of
the relics there. They are in need of a few pennies and will take you that far
if you will but present yourself at the city gate.”

“And Emma—”

“I will guard her with my life,” Roland answered as he
opened the door for Gilles. A mist had risen and crept over the threshold in
fingers of white.

He nodded once and disappeared into the mist.