LordoftheKeep (29 page)

“Aye. Who is loyal. Who is not? Who would cheat his lordship
of his due.”

“The cooper—he clips coins. The reeve—he looks the other way
if a wife mills her own flour.” Beatrice spewed a stream of petty crimes
against the manor.

Nicholas nodded his encouragement. When she took a breath,
he slipped in his question. “Where were you the day Sir William died?”

“Here, my lord. I swear it. All day.” Her pale cheeks
flushed anew.

“Come now,” Nicholas prompted. “Surely you know some gossip
about our most famous crime. How many lashes, my lady?” He lifted his brow in
question.

“I swear it, my lord. Sir William sent me a message he’d
come ‘ome from Selsey, to see me, like. We was to meet at my father’s mill.
‘Twas our usual place, but…” She hung her head. Tears ran down her cheeks to
spot her bodice.

“But?” Catherine arched a brow and tapped her palm with the
rolled parchment. Beatrice watched the tantalizing movement, her head bobbing
with each tap.

“But, I were angry wiv ‘im. ‘E dint ev’n say goodbye when ‘e
left for Selsey. L-l-looked right through me, like. I w-w-wanted to make ‘im
wait fer it. I dint go.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand and
looked frantically from Nicholas to Catherine. “I swear it, my lord, my lady. I
dint go. I hid so’s ‘e couldn’t find me. If I’d a gone, ‘e might not be dead!”
The first true sorrow etched her face. “I were mad wiv grief fer ‘im. I loved
Sir William, my lord.” She wailed the last, burying her face in her hands.

Catherine stood up. “I suppose we can give her another
chance, can we not, my lord? Mayhap she could ask Father Bernard for a penance
for enticing you.”

“Aye, my lady. We shall give her another chance. No lashes
this time. But, Beatrice, you must promise not to tempt me again.”

“Nay, my lord. Never. Never again.”

Nicholas swept out his hand to the door. “Be gone.”

Catherine rolled her eyes as Beatrice dashed for the door.
When it closed softly behind her, she turned to her husband. “Well, I suppose
‘tis possible she might have wanted to make him wait; her words held the ring
of truth.”

Nicholas nodded. “I suppose. But from what we’ve heard, no
woman made Sir William wait for anything.”

“Could Trevalin have overheard Little Robbie deliver his message?
He might have been seized with a momentary anger and rushed off to confront
William. It would explain the stoning. A sudden anger, a weapon at hand. And
passion—it is as responsible for the ills of the world as it is for the good.”
She touched his shoulder gently.

Chapter Thirty-One

“We have no way to prove it. We have only a boy’s message as
evidence, ‘tis not enough.” Gilles sighed.

Emma clasped her arms about her knees. This meeting, in the
hour before dawn, was so different from the last. They had taken their places,
each as far from the pallet as the room allowed. He stood; she sat on the dirt
floor, back against the door.

“We can neither prove nor disprove that Beatrice hid from
William,” Emma said.

“What woman would hide from William?”

“We are not all fools to be held in thrall by a pretty
face!” Emma tried to hold her temper. “It seems William’s ill treatment came
back at him tenfold if she is telling the truth. You reap what you sow.”

“Is there no one who remembers seeing her about?”

She shrugged. “I feel it in my bones that it is Trevalin. He
suffers. His betrayal is etched on his face. We must make him confess.”

“How will we accomplish that?” Gilles propped his hands on
his stick and rested his chin atop them. “We have no bait with which to set a
snare.”

“If it is justice you want, Gilles, then kill him,” she
whispered. “Send him to stand before God and take his punishment. Offer to
fight him fairly, if you must, sword against sword, but end it.”

She raised her eyes to his. How she loved him. How she ached
inside that he was not tempted to give up his search. But now, when they had
some hope they knew William’s killer, he would never be dissuaded from his
goal—or at least not by her.

“Trevalin could go to his death denying his guilt. I would
be forever condemned to life as an outcast, or I shall be discovered and hanged
again.”

“Then we should no longer meet. I will take no more chances
that you may be discovered through me. What if I caused your capture?”

It was as if she had not spoken. “The only end to this is
Trevalin’s confession—before witnesses.” Gilles straightened up and stamped the
stick to the ground with the force of his anger. “And let us face the truth
here. He is half my age. What hope have I of defeating him? He is more than ably
skilled—he is one of the best. I taught him myself.”

“Half your age,” she spat. “God save us!” She rose and
dusted off her skirts. “I am going. I could not bear it should you be caught!
Hanged again. I nearly died of the pain of it. Think of our child, if not of
me!”

He did not speak.

She closed her eyes to hold the tears back. “You have made
your choice. See this to its conclusion without me.”

“Emma.” He tried to take her hand, but she tucked it into
the folds of her skirt. “We are so close to—”

“Death. Someone’s—Trevalin’s, yours. I cannot bear it. No
one in Lincoln would know us, should we go there. I could weave, you could…”
Her words drifted to silence. She saw on his face the futility of arguing.
“Nay. I see that is not your way. In truth, you are no longer bored. For you,
there is an exhilaration to the hunt, is there not?”

He had no answer for her.

When she was gone, he leaned on the door and stared at the
pallet. The stones she’d placed between the blankets the last time they’d made
love were icy cold tonight. Why could she not see that with the right approach,
Trevalin might reveal himself? Then they could raise their children in peace at
Hawkwatch, instead of hiding from life in Lincoln? And he wanted that peace.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel her skin against
his, her warm breath on his throat. She was right. Men did care for little save
bed and blood. And why did he feel as if he’d had something precious at the tip
of his fingers, only to have it slip away?

* * * * *

Emma carried only one word with her up the hill to the
castle’s postern gate, which she used to come and go in the dark of night.
Bait
.
What bait might entice Trevalin? Love. If he’d killed William for love, he’d
come to Beatrice’s call, would he not?

But Beatrice could not be asked to stand as a lure to bring
about the confession. “I shall be Beatrice,” she said. Her words echoed through
the stone passage that led from Hawkwatch’s underground storage rooms. “I shall
weave a trap for Trevalin, with myself as bait. And mayhap in snaring Trevalin,
I can snare Gilles’ heart once more.”

* * * * *

Emma wanted no interference from Beatrice in her scheme, and
so she sought the serving woman after the midday meal. She’d heard of what had
transpired between Nicholas, Catherine, and Beatrice two days before. “I am
sending you to Lynn, Beatrice. There is an inn, The Swan, by the water’s edge,
and you are to stay there the night.”

“Whatever for…my lady?” Beatrice looked her up and down.

“Your insolence is staggering. I believe you have recently
avoided a lashing—and worse—and yet your tongue is foolish.”

Beatrice’s face paled. “I meant no harm, my lady,” she
finished in a rush, bobbing a deep curtsey.

“That is far better. Now, many are still in need of
clothing, especially the children, and our looms are not adequate to the task.
You are to take two of the men and see to the purchase of the necessary cloth.
It is important you tell no one where you are going, as there are those who
would be most jealous of your task.” She turned to go, then spoke over her
shoulder as if in afterthought. “Oh, Beatrice, whilst there, as a small reward
for your trouble, you may see a seamstress and purchase a new gown for
yourself.”

* * * * *

Emma watched with satisfaction as Beatrice rode out with two
men at her side. She dashed to the chest that held the serving woman’s
belongings. Glancing about, she drew out a gown she knew Beatrice wore to scrub
the floors. She wrapped up her hair in one of Beatrice’s headcoverings,
frowning at its grimy state. Head down, she wandered about the bailey, staying
near to buildings and shadows, looking for Trevalin.

“Fetch his lordship a pitcher of wine, girl,” Sarah called.

For a moment, Emma did not realize it was to her Sarah
directed the order. She kept her face averted as she did as bid.

The gown gaped a bit at the breast, and strained at the
waist, but when Emma slipped into Gilles’ chamber, Nicholas barely glanced at
her. “Put the wine on the table.”

“Aye, my lord.” She set it down, sidled close to him, and
placed a hand on his shoulder. “What yer doing, my lord?”

He leapt to his feet as if burned. “Are you mad?” His eyes
opened wide. “Emma! I thought you were Beatrice.”

“Then ‘tis time to see if we can lure Trevalin to the
priest’s confessional with the same ruse.”

Nicholas smiled at her. “I can see the bent of your
thoughts, but what’s your plan?” he asked, inviting her to sit.

For the first time, Emma sat at ease with Gilles’ son.
“Gilles has put it about that Sir William’s shade walks the village. I want you
to be that ghost. When Beatrice makes a midnight tryst with Trevalin, he will
find her with William. Mayhap he will react in the same way this time as he did
the last—by attacking. Only Roland will be lying in wait to assist you.”

“‘Tis foolishness! You endanger yourself and, I might add,
my father’s babe. I forbid it!” He poured a cup of wine and drank it down in
one gulp.

She pounded her fist to the table. “I want my child to have
a father. What’s the good of being married to him if he is dead? I want to live
as man and wife with him.”

“I think it a fine plan,” Catherine said from the door and
entered with Roland. “I was just about to order a lashing when you spoke, Emma,
and I realized you were not Beatrice.”

“‘Tis uncanny, the resemblance, my lady,” Roland said, taking
Emma’s hand.

“Then help me. I’ve sent Beatrice away and the moon will be
full tonight. We can offer Trevalin a midnight pageant of sorts.” Emma spoke in
a rush before any more objections could be raised. “Nicholas could garb himself
in William’s clothing. He’s the only man who is like unto him in size and bulk.
If he wears mail with the coif on his head, who will not think him the shade of
that knight?”

“We must tell Gilles of our plan,” Roland said.

“Nay,” Nicholas said. “He would not allow it.”

“For once we agree,” Emma said to him. “For we would
endanger all he holds dear. You, me, his child.”

Sarah slipped into the room with Angelique in her arms. When
she saw Emma she gasped. “Emma! What are you doing in those clothes?” She
looked about at their faces. “I sense a plot. What are you planning? I’ll not
be left out.”

Roland sighed, then gave Sarah the rough outline of their
plan.

She pursed her lips and considered the ceiling. “You will
only need a similar mantle to the one William wore that day,” she said. “It is
the illusion of the thing you want.”

Catherine agreed. “With the armor beneath, of course. I can
concoct a mixture that will look like blood and gore and spread it over his
features—”

“Please,” Emma begged, her stomach protesting. “Say no more of
it. Just do it. Tonight.”

* * * * *

Gilles felt at home in the night. He needed to guard his
face less, could lift his head and not fear so greatly that he would be
recognized. The layers of clothing he wore to protect him from the cold flapped
about his legs as he headed for the castle.

All day he had examined his motives, wandering about, half
listening to gossip, half reliving the precious times with Emma.

She was right. He had been enjoying the hunt. It gave him a
sense of usefulness as the summing of accounts could never do. But Emma was
also right that he might be giving up some greater good. As he had looked about
him during the day, he saw families—fathers, mothers, children—going about
their hard lives, and yet, they seemed at peace with one another and
themselves.

As lord he could see to righting some of the problems in his
village—the noisome alleys, the disputes over allotments.

But if he had not loved a hunt, would he have agreed to
Catherine and Roland’s plan for a false hanging in the first place? He faced
the muddy waters of his motives.

Emma had forced him to examine his heart. Only a need for
justice held him at Hawkwatch. Or was it vengeance as Emma suggested? And
vengeance was a cold bed partner. The loss of Emma raised an ache in his heart
that could not be assuaged. If she had already gone to Lincoln, he would follow
her there. Is she had not yet left, he would take her. Suddenly, he no longer
cared if his name was cleared. He cared only that he had Emma and the children.
He wanted to end his days with her by his side.

With a frown, he noted the drawbridge had not been raised,
then shrugged. ‘Twas no longer his manor. He was soon to be but a common man
from Lincoln. If his son wished the gates open at night, ‘twas his business.

In the inner bailey, he resumed more of his beggar aspect,
moving with halting steps among the few folk who had not yet sought their beds.
He crouched by the stable and watched the armory, looking for Little Robbie,
who might carry a message to Emma.

No one stirred. He plucked up a twig and began to draw it
over the ground, tracing impatient patterns.

A gasp made him toss the stick aside and rise. Sarah stood
near his shoulder. She gripped his arm. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

Gilles could not conceal a grin. “Am I so easily known?”

Sarah glanced about. “Nay, but I’ve seen you draw like that
a thousand times. How many others will remember you did so?”

With a shrug, Gilles went down on his haunches again. “I was
waiting for Little Robbie to carry a message to Emma, but now that you are
here, you may serve as well.”

She edged deeper into the stable’s shadows when the moon
burst through a bank of clouds and bathed her in light as bright as day. “A
message?”

Gilles peered up at her. “Aye. Tell her to come here.”

“Why?” She twisted her hands in her skirts. “I mean, she is
most likely sleeping. Why bother her?”

“I must see her.”

“Can it not wait until the morn?”

“What is wrong?” Gilles rose, a crawling sensation in his
belly. “You are being evasive. Why?”

“No reason. Emma needs her sleep.”

Gilles searched her face. “I command you, as the man who is
still your lord, to bring her to me. Now.”

The moonlight fled, plunging them into darkness. The wind
rose, whistling about the bailey. “I cannot. She is not here.”

The sensation in his middle flared into flame. Emma was
gone. He was too late. His need to find William’s killer had driven her away.
“Did she go to Lincoln?” He would seek her there, prove his love for her.

“Lincoln?” Sarah said. “Oh, aye. Lincoln.”

Immediately, Gilles knew she was lying. Would Emma have
proposed Lincoln and then gone elsewhere? And why? To be done with him and all
the heartache he’d caused her? “I know you are lying. If she didn’t go to
Lincoln, then where is she? I must know. I cannot live without her.”

Sarah stepped away from his emotion. “Please, I cannot tell
you.”

He followed her into the shadows. “Aye. You will. I command
it.”

But Sarah was no longer looking at him. Her gaze shifted
past him, her eyes wide, in the direction of the armory. He turned to see what
was more important than his need for Emma.

Mark Trevalin stood in deep conversation with Little Robbie,
hands clasped behind his back. Whatever the boy said produced an immediate
result. Trevalin broke into a run. He dashed past where Gilles and Sarah stood
and into the stable.

Little Robbie also ran, straight for them.

“Nay,” Sarah cried, hands up, palms out. “Later, boy. Not
now!”

The boy’s teeth gleamed in the meager moonlight. “I’s
delivered the message. Jest as ye wanted. Where’s my penny?” Robbie held out a
grubby hand to her.

“Later, boy. Later.”

“Ye said a penny, and a penny I’m wanting.”

Gilles looked from the boy’s determined face to Sarah’s.
“I’ll give ye tuppence to tell me the message ye delivered just now,” he said.