LordoftheKeep (3 page)

“Are you injured?” Gilles asked the woman, the stick held in
one hand, his bloody knife in the other.

In answer, she crumpled in a heap at his feet, her head
striking a ring of stones surrounding a banked fire.

“
Jesu
!” He bent over the woman. A strange, hiccuping
sound made him draw back her mantle’s edge, which concealed her face and form.

Roland dropped at his side.

“
Jesu
,” Gilles repeated, for a tiny head, covered in
a nimbus of flaxen curls, poked out of the folds of cloth. The child opened its
mouth, issuing forth a protest loud enough to bring King Richard’s army from
the Holy Land.

Chapter Two

Gilles glanced up at Roland, who backed away in
consternation, hands palm up. “Look naught to me, Gilles, I know little of babes.”

“Then you will learn.” He picked up the wailing infant. Its
tiny legs churned and beat the air. A female. Too young to be off the breast.
Despite Roland’s sputtered protests, Gilles handed him the child.

Going down on one knee, he placed a hand to the swollen
breast of the fallen woman. “Emma…the weaver,” he said softly to himself, his
memories of the manorial court where he had met her as sharp in his mind as if
it had been yesterday and not two years before. He nodded once as he felt her
heart’s beat, strong and well beneath his palm.

“You know the wench?” Roland held the screaming babe at
arm’s length.

“Aye.” Gently, Gilles grasped Emma’s chin in his hand and
turned her head. “Blood.” It ran down her neck and stained the earth beneath
her. “Go back to camp and summon aid.”

“The child?” Roland danced from one foot to the other.

“Put her down, for surely she will land there one way or the
other.”

“Aye, my lord!” Roland placed the child on the ground as
gingerly as he might a venomous snake. The two men watched the tot scramble in
the dust to hide by her mother’s body. Gilles lifted the edge of woman’s mantle
and covered the two females.

As he waited for the return of help, Gilles watched
anxiously over Emma. He lifted her pack, a simple leather satchel, and looked
for some cloth to cushion her head. He found only plants and seeds and barks.
If they had medicinal purposes, he did not know them. Lacking a more suitable
cushion, he closed the pack and slipped it under her head. Roland returned with
alacrity, bringing Hubert to see to the woman.

“Her head injury is grave, my lord. These bites need
stitching,” the squire said, drawing up Emma’s gown to display her wound and at
the same time a slim leg clad in a worn and bloody woolen stocking.

“Do it whilst she is unaware, then we will take her to
Hawkwatch.” Gilles stripped the bloody hose from Emma’s leg, then hovered like
an anxious mother hen. Hubert used wine to douse a long tear along Emma’s ankle
where the bone showed white against her skin. He carefully stitched the wound
closed.

Gilles recognized the blue mantle. He remembered the woman,
remembered her name and face. After her humiliation at the manorial court, he
had not quite forgotten her. For several weeks he had expected her obnoxious
uncle to drag her before him, declaring her with child. When the pair did not
appear, Gilles assumed that the young woman had been lucky. He saw now that she
had not. Her child appeared to be the right age for conception at the time of
his first manorial court.

Ignoring propriety and flinging up Emma’s mantle and
threadbare gown, Gilles inspected the slash of teeth marks down the young
woman’s leg. He turned back to the child who continued to scream her head off
and paw at her mother. He felt for the child, felt her anguish in an unusually
tangible way.

Gently, he examined the raw edges of Emma’s wound now neatly
stitched. He knew a hound’s teeth could leave suppurating sores. He slipped his
hand along the inside of her leg to her knee, turned it, and checked that what he
could see was her only wounding. Satisfied, he tucked her gown and mantle close
about her ankles.

The babe burrowed in the curve of her mother’s body. Gilles
touched his hand lightly to the child’s towhead. Her hair tumbled in a mass of
short curls like silk, and he let his hand linger in appreciation of her tiny
beauty. He offered her what he hoped was a reassuring smile and was rewarded by
a sudden cessation of noise. Her cries subsided to hiccups. Her eyes grew wide.
A thumb, no bigger than the first joint on Gilles’ smallest finger, crept into
her mouth.

Roland knelt at Gilles’ side. “‘Tis good the wench fainted.
Stitching is painful work.”

Gilles nodded. They watched Hubert clean a wound on the back
of Emma’s head. The babe oversaw the procedure as she suckled her fingers. She
crept from her mother’s side to lean curiously on Gilles’ thigh to watch the
youth work.

“‘Tis done. But I think it should receive a poultice or some
such,” Hubert said. “See here where her head is bleeding? She is not in a simple
faint, my lord.”

“We will take her to Hawkwatch and see to it there.” Gilles
leaned forward and checked the bandages, careful not to disturb the curious
child, loath to bring on another bout of wailing. His hand smoothed over Emma’s
hair to her hood. His fingers lingered for a moment on the unusual weaving of
her blue mantle. It reminded him of how a field of bluebells might look when
the wind blows from first one direction and then another. He imagined he could
catch the scent of those flowers.

Shaking himself from his reverie, he scooped up the babe
and, grinning, handed her to Roland, who shot him an evil look. She clung to
Roland’s shoulder and stared back at Gilles as he bent and swept Emma up into
his arms. He carried her like a piece of rare window glass, for somehow the
child’s scrutiny made him more aware of the precious nature of his burden.

* * * * *

Rich scarlet linen formed a canopy above Emma’s head.
Gathered yards of the cloth, tied with braided cord of golden threads, were
held against bedposts carved with leaves and fruit. Emma twisted her head about
to see beyond the bed and saw a man seated by the fire. She shut her eyes as
quickly as one would a lid on a coffer of snakes.

Slowly, she opened one eye, just enough to peek between her
lashes. ‘Twas Lord Gilles d’Argent who reclined in the roomy chair of solid
English oak.

Cradling Angelique in his arms
.

Emma watched her daughter kick her little bare feet and push
them against Lord Gilles’ lap. Her mouth worked busily on her thumb. He tried
to pull it from her mouth. Emma knew the strength of that grip. She fully
understood why he gave up and left Angelique to her pleasure.

Emma lay motionless except for occasional restless movements
of her injured limb. It ached and throbbed from her foot to her knee. Only the
pain in her head rivaled it. She held her breath as Angelique reached out for
Lord Gilles’ beard, stroked her fingers along it, then giggled when he laughed.

The masculine laughter drew Emma from her feigned sleep, her
heart beating rapidly. She could not pretend to sleep any longer. She rose on
her elbows, moaned as pain sliced through her head. It took only one more
moment for her to realize she was nearly naked, clad in naught but a loose
linen shift. Not her own. Her milk-filled breasts ached and begged to be
emptied. Drawing the blanket to her chin, Emma sat up.

Gilles stood and then turned to Emma.

“Your babe seems hungry.” He stepped into the gloom that
surrounded the bed and gently laid Angelique in her mother’s arms. Angelique
immediately clutched at Emma who became intensely aware of Lord Gilles standing
at the bed’s edge. He stood so close she could smell the leather of his
garments.

She felt the blood rise to color her cheeks as Angelique
rooted about at her breast.

“I will send you food and drink,” Lord Gilles said. He
reached out and lifted her chin, ignoring the child. With great solicitude, he
inspected the bruise on her temple, then wordlessly removed his hand and turned
away.

Like a frightened rabbit in a burrow, Emma snuggled into the
blankets, her breath short until the door closed behind him. ‘Twas her injury,
she told herself, that made her blood pound in her head, increasing the pain
and leaving her confused. She slipped the loose shift down and fed her hungry
babe.

She didn’t know how to proceed. Should she arise? Should she
search about for her clothing? Was she to eat at the long linen-draped table
she saw on the far side of the bedchamber? With great indecision, Emma remained
buried in the huge bed, her nose the only thing visible above the covers, a
sated Angelique tucked tightly at her side.

A stout serving woman with red cheeks and frizzled gray
locks appeared at the door laden with a tray. She plunked it on the long,
draped table with a grunt of relief and beamed at them.

“My name be Meara, Mistress. May I help ye rise?”

“Aye.” Emma shoved back the coverlet, her hand lingering on
the linen sheet that separated her from the woolen blankets and soft furs. She
savored the fine weave, smooth and lustrous. “Thank you,” Emma said to Meara
when the woman helped her to the oaken chair in which Lord Gilles had sat.
Perched atop it was a carved hawk in flight, a snake clutched in its talons. It
loomed over her shoulder as if to make sure she did not steal from the tray.

“Ye’ll be cold.” Meara rummaged in a nearby iron-strapped
coffer and then wrapped Emma’s shoulders in a spare blanket. Emma pressed her
nose into the cloth for it held the scent of man, the scent of leather and
weapons laid up after being well-oiled. She knew the scent from her father. For
a moment, she missed her cheerful father as if his death had been but yesterday
and not five long years before. His death had meant the difference between
living in a stone house with a fire and plenty of food and living in Simon’s
hovel with only scraps for the table.

Meara whipped off the napkin that covered the dishes,
releasing the scents of rich gravy and freshly baked bread.

“Is all of this for us?” Emma gaped at the tray. The food
arrayed before her represented enough food to feed a family of four. The
delicious aroma made her head swim. Intangible memories of another time brought
tears to her eyes.

“Aye. ‘Is lordship ordered it so. ‘Tis just for ye—and the
babe. Have ye need of anything else, Mistress? ‘Is lordship said yer to have
whatever ye need.” Meara stood before Emma awaiting her wishes just as if Emma
were a fine lady.

“I-I can think of nothing. We are most grateful to you for
your service.”

Meara nodded, patted Angelique’s head, and silently left the
room. Emma turned back to the feast before her. The trencher, a slab of day-old
bread, held a rich meat dish thick with onions and gravy. Its aroma tantalized
and set her mouth watering as she tore off tiny slivers of the trencher, sopped
them well in gravy, and fed them to Angelique. She would soon need to wean
Angelique. A hungry mother did not produce much of a milk supply for a
developing child. On the other hand, she also knew a child weaned too soon had
less chance of living past three summers.

Emma forced herself to eat slowly and savor the fare. A
polished pewter salver held fruit. When she tentatively tasted of the dish, she
realized it was pears poached in a delicate wine and honey syrup.
Ambrosia,
fit for the gods
, she thought.

Warm goat’s milk, also sweetened with honey, completed the
repast. Emma held the cup to her daughter’s lips and stroked her warm, silky
tresses, urging her to try the new drink. Her own mother had much loved a cup
of honey-sweetened milk.

When their bellies were full, Emma resisted the urge to lick
the pewter plate clean. She set it aside with great care, then hefted Angelique
to her shoulder and paced before the fire. Each step sent shooting pains
through her leg, but she knew she must move it or it would seize up and cripple
her. ‘Twas a long, steep hill from the castle to her humble village.

Her curiosity got the better of her. She examined every inch
of the chamber. A spigot yielding water into a stone basin made her jump and
squeal aloud with delight. Beeswax candles made her breathe deeply and remember
her mother at the task of making just such candles during her childhood. Now
she was grateful if there was sufficient oil in which to float a wick. His
coffer beckoned, but she was not brave enough to lift its lid and touch his
belongings.

Meara appeared at the doorway. “Yer clothing be clean now.
If ye’d consent, ‘is lordship ordered ye a bath.” Meara hefted the tray onto
her sturdy shoulder.

“Sweet blessed heaven, Angelique! A bath.” She limped
forward, then stepped back as a hulking man delivered a wooden tub to the room.
He said nothing, but his interest was acute, and Emma felt a flame of heat
across her cheeks.

When an army of serving boys departed, a deep wooden tub of
steaming hot water stood behind a wooden screen. The tub, painted about the
sides with flowers and vines, was small, intended for a feminine form and most
certainly not one that would be used by a man of such a size as Lord Gilles.
Emma wistfully stroked her hands over the art that graced the tub.

Meara helped Emma climb into the bath, careful that her leg
remained propped on a soft pad of cloth on the rim, and then handed Angelique
over. Angelique played a slapping game with the bubbles formed as Meara washed
them. The child’s delighted squeals brought tears to Emma’s eyes. Joy
supplanted fear. What luxury, Emma thought, to have someone scrub their hair
and rinse them clean.

Sighing with contentment, Emma leaned back and steeped in
the lavender cloud that enveloped them, and allowed the serving woman to wrap
her hair in a length of warmed linen. Meara lifted Angelique from her arms,
wrapped her up, and dried each tiny toe. Emma smiled at her babe, so warm and
clean, in Meara’s arms.

Lord Gilles had saved their lives.

How might she ever repay him? Would she even see him again
or be close enough to him to offer her thanks? What a gift from providence that
a man such as he was in the woods when she most needed aid.

Was it her imagination that painted concern in his dark eyes
and more than gentleness in the touch of his fingers? Mayhap ‘twas just a fancy
born of loneliness. Unbidden, her hand moved to where he had touched her.

Meara roused Emma from her languor. “Ye’ll catch a chill if
ye linger much longer, Mistress.” Meara extended a linen drying cloth. “Lord
Gilles directed me to put ye in his wife’s chamber.”