LordoftheKeep (7 page)

“Angelique!” she cried, but her words were muffled by the
knight’s wet mouth. He leaned her back over stacked sacks of grain. His hand
groped over her breasts, his fingers pinching, kneading, grasping. She fought,
twisted, dislodged her headcovering, flailed her head about. Her eyes searched
frantically for Angelique as she clawed at the man’s questing hands.

Angelique set off a wailing so pathetic and loud as to wake
the dead. Her cries echoed off the dank stone walls. The man bit back his ardor
long enough to try to silence Angelique with a raised boot. Emma took advantage
of the lessening of his grip and brought her knee up between his thighs. He
roared in pain, stared at her in disbelief. Emma swept Angelique into her arms
and fled. What had she done? This was not Ivo, a village dolt, this was a
knight, a duke’s man.

Gasping with fright and her rapid pace, Emma burst from the
stair, careening into the broad form of William Belfour. He snapped a sharp
rebuke at her before he saw clearly who had run into his back. Recognizing
Emma, he grabbed her arm and drew her aside.

“
Jesu
, you are a mess.” His hand was huge and his
grip strong.

Emma placed a hand to her head. Her headcovering was gone.
One of her braids had begun to unravel. She decided to try to enlist his help,
although it pained her to do so. “A knight…a brute…he hurt Angelique,” she
gasped, stroking a hand over a red welt on Angelique’s cheek. “He put his hands
on me.”

William pulled Emma against a wall and out of view from the
company of people lingering after the meal. “Silence the child,” he growled.
Without thought, Emma did as he directed. She wrapped Angelique tightly in her
arms and rocked her and murmured endearments.

Angelique’s sobs subsided, her thumb journeyed to her mouth.
She settled.

William raked a hand through his blond hair, then touched
the braid that lay across her breast. “Did you invite his advances?”

“Nay! He accosted me! He hurt Angelique.”

“It didn’t take you long to start lifting your skirts.”

Emma’s gasp of disbelief turned to a choked back sob. How
dare he insult her so? He who’d had her virginity, he the father of her child.
“I did naught to tempt him!” she cried.

“Just as you did naught to tempt me?” He reached out, but
she jerked back from his hand. “A whore’s a whore. The men know you have no
protection. They see the babe in your arms, know you have been well bedded.
They want a taste. They will take what is offered.”

“I offer nothing!” She batted away his hand again.

“Really? You twitch your hips as you go by, you smile
sweetly to anyone who greets you. What are the men to think? Complain not of
your lot. The men see a new whore—”

“Wife! I am—”

“Whore and they all wish to taste her, and many suspect that
taste will be sweet.” He spoke over her as if her words were mist on the air.
“Your status as a free woman will not hold them off for long.” William lifted a
loose lock of Emma’s hair. She snatched it away.

“Where are you off to? Mayhap we could take this opportunity
to taste of passion’s sweet kiss once more?” William threw back his head and
roared with laughter when tears ran down Emma’s cheeks. “Weeping? Spare me. You
think yourself better than the others who sport a bastard? Think again. You
carry your shame in your arms.” William chucked Angelique under the chin and
turned away, still laughing.

Emma fled into the night. She stumbled on the slick stones
and slowed her pace. Clouds blanketed the sky, and all about her was silent and
midnight-black. Head down, eyes on her feet, she hastened to the weaving shed
where a dark form appeared suddenly before her. She stifled a scream and
clutched her daughter. The apparition became a large man—the last man she
wished to see at that moment.

“Mistress Emma.” Lord Gilles stood before her. His hair and
black mantle made him one with the night.

Emma quickly forced her features under control. She could
not let him see her anguish. She dropped a deep curtsey. “Lord Gilles. Forgive
me. I did not see you.”

Gilles realized he had almost touched the weaver. He glanced
about, but only the sentries on the wall stirred. The wind whipped Emma’s hair.
One of her braids had come loose. A break in the clouds sent a sudden gleam of
moonlight into the bailey. Molten gold, he thought. Molten gold flowing over
her shoulder. Then he saw the silver gleam of a tear run down her cheek. “What
ails you?” he asked, stepping closer to her. Her face was ravaged from weeping.
Her hair no longer looked windblown, but disheveled.

“Nothing, my lord. Please. ‘Tis cold.” She took a step away
from him, a step closer to the shadows.

He followed her, unable to ignore the hitch in her voice.
“Something has happened. Tell me.”

A sudden, overwhelming need to lay her cares on him made her
open her mouth. But fear stopped her. William’s words echoed in her mind.
Whore.
Whore. Whore.
Lord Gilles would only believe as William did.

“‘Tis nothing. Nothing.” She fled past him.

Gilles stared after her. Her hair streamed, unbound, down
one side of her back. In a moment she had disappeared into the spill of light
from the weaver’s building. He stood rooted to the spot. Anger burned through
him. He did not know how he knew it—but he knew someone or something had hurt
her badly. The light of the moon disappeared behind a bank of scudding cloud.
In a swift turn, he too disappeared into the shadows.

* * * * *

Emma spent the night tossing on her pallet. When she took
the next meal, it was suddenly apparent to her that some of the men were
watching her. She looked long about the company and saw that most were
battle-hardened men. What was in their minds was obvious now.

How had she been so blind? These men had no need of the many
knives and daggers that graced their belts if they wished to handle her. They
had only to exert their superior male strength and they would have her. She
realized that the one-eyed knight would never have approached her if she’d had
a man’s good name to protect her.

No good man would have her.

There was no Widow Cooper here to defend her. In the long
night she had also convinced herself that Lord Gilles would not protect her
either. What were her wishes in comparison to that of his men and their needs?

Men took what they wished. Some, like William, might use
pretty smiles and false vows to woo a female. Others would do as the one-eyed
knight had—use a fist to stun. But when the moment arrived, false words or
cruel fists, there’d be naught from the man but rough, hard hands and pain.

Chapter Six

“I seen ye speakin’ wiv Sir William.” Beatrice, a serving
maid, stood by Emma’s side at the table and offered her a platter of boiled
eggs.

Emma looked up, then hastily captured her daughter’s hands
that were taking as many eggs as her fists could hold. “You little swine,” she
murmured in Angelique’s ear. “Aye. I was talking to Sir William.”

Beatrice set her heavy platter on the edge of the table. Her
simple woolen tunic was taut over full breasts. Her blonde hair curled in fine
wisps about the edges of her headcloth. “Are ye wantin’ ‘im?” Her
work-roughened hands selected an egg and rolled it to Angelique who squealed
with delight. No longer just something to eat, the egg became a source of
amusement.

“Ball,” she squealed and quickly rolled it back to Beatrice.

Emma smiled up at the young woman, her cares momentarily forgotten.
“I have no interest in Sir William.”

With a nod, Beatrice plucked up another egg, peeled it, and
offered it to Angelique. “She’s a fetchin’ mite, ain’t she?”

With a possessive stroke over Angelique’s brow, Emma nodded.
“Aye. She is everything to me.”

Beatrice hefted her platter to move to another table. As if
remembering something, she turned back. “Mistress Sarah’ll stripe yer hide if
ye dally wiv them’s is above ye. Took a birch rod to May fer layin’ wiv Sir
William just last week.”

Emma said nothing. She had no wish to imply that William
held any of her interest. May and any other maid of the keep were welcome to
the knave, but a part of her wished someone would take a birch rod to him.

“Ye can ‘ave them’s as is sitting’ o’er there.” Beatrice thrust
her chin in the direction of two stable grooms who were staring at them.
“They’s poor sport though. Naught but babes if’n ye ast me, but Mistress Sarah
won’t begrudge ye the likes o’ them.”

A shiver coursed Emma’s spine. The grooms had only eating
daggers, yet there was no mistaking the same lascivious looks on their faces as
she’d noticed on the knights and men-at-arms. Cheeks still downy and bodies
unformed into manhood, and yet, she could read the bent of their thoughts as if
they’d called across the table and offered her coin for her favors.

A man, Mark Trevalin, came to stand at their side. He was of
middling height, barrel-chested, and plain of face. His best feature was his
thick brown hair, streaked with gold. “You have duties?” The words, though
mildly spoken, were orders. Beatrice rushed off. Mark Trevalin gave Emma a curt
nod, then joined a group of men by the hall entrance.

Emma studied Beatrice’s retreating figure as she moved down
the long, crowded tables. Why would Beatrice give her such advice? Could it be
that Beatrice thought her of easy virtue, just as William had implied?

That afternoon, Emma sought out Sarah.

“Mistress Sarah, I need to speak with you.”

“How may I be of service?” Sarah asked. “You’re pale, child.
Are you ailing?”

Emma shook her head. “I have need to gather some bark for
dyeing. May I have your permission to leave the keep for a time?”

Sarah nodded agreement. “The walk will do you good, put some
color in your cheeks. Take the boy, Ralph, with you. He’ll tend Angelique for
you whilst you’re gathering.”

“Aye, I will take the boy.” In fact, she would agree to
anything to be away, though lying sat ill with her. Sarah summoned Ralph from
the kitchens, and Emma followed him across the hall after she removed her pack
from the weavers’ building. If anyone inquired, she would say she was
gathering. In her pack was her leather purse of treasures and the worn hand
loom.

Dark eyes tracked her progress across the vast chamber and
noted the eyes of many that also were drawn as a moths are to a flame. Dark
brows drew together in displeasure.

Another set of eyes, the blue of the summer sky, noted her
progress and smiled.

Ralph, a gangly youth of two and ten, fell into step with
Emma and prattled about the day. Emma knew the boy liked going outside the
castle walls and so would not question their destination. He ran in circles
about Emma making faces at Angelique and causing her to giggle and hide her
face in her mother’s neck.

They made their way down the steep hill to the base of the
castle wall. Turning east, they walked until they came to Emma’s hovel. She
halted and looked the boy square in the eyes. “Ralph. You are to return to the
keep. I’ll be staying here from now on and if Mistress Sarah asks why, you may
tell her it is none of her concern.”

Mouth open, showing the gaps in his teeth, Ralph stared at
her. He was a simple-minded boy. He shrugged and left Emma alone.

Emma laid Angelique on her pallet and surveyed her
surroundings. From humble to shabby they had gone. Someone had stolen the stool
she had left behind, so Emma had only her pallet left to her name. She must be
thankful, she supposed, that the thief had not moved in instead. With a sigh,
she sank to the covered bed of straw, and after several moments, allowed her
shoulders to slump in despair. To have come so close to comfort and have it
snatched away was crushing. But in her heart, Emma knew each day would become a
challenge for her virtue, if not from William, then from some other man.

“I said vows! He said vows! I am virtuous!” she said into
the silence of her home. “I gave myself for what I thought was love, and I will
not be shamed by the outcome. ‘Tis William who should hang his head in shame!”
Tears rolled down her cheek. Angelique touched her face and frowned. Her little
fingers rubbed at the tears. “Nay, child. Do not fret.”

But the tears would not abate. They ran in rivulets to stain
her mantle and finally, she dropped her head to Angelique’s shoulder and
sobbed. “I gave my virtue to a liar.” Poor luck it was that she’d so misjudged
the recipient of her gift.

Who is she that
looketh forth as the morning, fair as

the moon, clear as
the sun…

The words of the song William had composed for her ran
through her troubled mind. How his words had touched and beguiled her, drawn
her to him.

Her mouth is most
sweet:

yea, she is
altogether lovely. This is my beloved.

How his words had remained with her, taunting her after his
cold, scornful rejection. She could not shake them off. False words, false
heart. Other words also taunted her, for another reason. The words of her
dinner companions: William composed a song for each new lover. What a fool
she’d been.

But Emma’s thoughts were not of William as she rose and set
aside her daughter, ignoring the child’s mewling protests. She pressed her
cheek to the rough stone wall of the hut. Blinking back tears, she placed her
palm flat on the stone as if pressing her hand to feel a heartbeat. Lord Gilles
was in there and she would likely never see him again.

What was the uncanny pull she felt when near him? How could
she explain the attraction she felt? Simple. The oldest one in the world. Then
she shook her head. Nay. That attraction she had known with William. This was
as different as moonlight to madness, a stunning blast of something for which
she had no name.

Emma forced herself to change the direction of her thoughts.
What mattered was the loss of a steady diet of nourishing food. Naught else
should matter.

But she lost the battle with herself as cold crept under the
door. She forgot her hunger and mourned the loss of
him
, for his
nearness had nourished her dreams—childish dreams. She would never again trust
in a physical longing. This flutter in her belly, this ache in her loins would
not lead her into fancies that had not a chance of fulfillment.

“I have no notion of Lord Gilles’ character,” she said
softly, pushing thoughts of him away. “I know naught of the man. Mayhap he,
too, composes false songs and poems for his lovers. I know only that he is not
of my world and foolish fancies will only make life more difficult. ‘Tis better
not to dream.” She wiped her face on her mantle and dropped to her knees. She
dug a hole in the corner and buried her father’s spurs and her mother’s cross.
With them, she buried her dreams.

* * * * *

“Ralph,” Sarah gestured the boy to her. She slid over to
allow him to sit by her side at the table. “Where’s Mistress Emma? I haven’t
seen her since she left the keep.”

“Mistress Emma told me to tell ye she were stoppin’ there…in
that place…by the wall.” Ralph stuffed his mouth with a bun topped with sticky
honey.

“Stopping? Whatever do you mean?” Sarah cuffed Ralph when he
reached for another bun. It was several moments before he was able to speak.
His cheeks bulged with dough.

Gulping, he eyed the next bun but decided ‘twould be folly
to try to reach past Mistress Sarah. “She said ‘twas naught of yer concern.”

“Not my concern?” Sarah rose and excused herself to those
she bumped in her hurry to exit the keep. She drew her shawl about her
shoulders to fight the winter chill in the air as she hurried across the middle
and lower baileys. At the gate she waited for a team of bullocks to enter
before she hurried across. She stood indecisively at the edge of the village.
Against the castle wall was all Sarah could remember about Emma’s story of her
home. It took an hour, but Sarah found Emma.

“Explain yourself.” Sarah blocked the doorway, stealing away
the meager sunlight.

“There is naught to explain.” Emma rose from her loom and
clasped her hands calmly before her. She had been prepared for this, was just
surprised it was Mistress Sarah herself who had sought her out.

“Since I will surely have to explain to
him
, I
suggest you explain to me. I’ll not be going until you do.” Sarah stomped to
the pallet and sat, her hands clamped on her knees, determination on her face.

Emma sighed. “‘Twas only a matter of time until I would have
been ravished by one of the men in the keep.” Emma’s knuckles turned white as
she tightened her fists to calm herself.

“Ravished? Were the men after you already?” Sarah did not
sound surprised.

“Aye. What am I to do? I’ll not become what they think of
me.” She wiped at the corner of her eye with the hem of her gown. “I fought off
a man, a one-eyed knight, but ‘twas only a matter of time. I was…afraid.”

“One-eyed? Aye, I know him—a careless brute. I understand,
dearie.” Sarah slapped her knees and rose. “There will be hell to pay.” She
swept past Emma.

Frantic, Emma flew after the older woman and snatched at the
flapping tail of her shawl. “Wait. What do you mean—hell to pay?”

Sarah turned and considered Emma. A cry made both women lift
their eyes. A hawk coursed the sky. They watched it float on an eddy of air
before it disappeared over the keep’s high tower. Sarah broke their
contemplation. “Lord Gilles, is what I mean. The man is not to be thwarted.”
Sarah turned and began the long walk back to the keep.

Emma stared at the castle wall so high overhead.

Thwarted
.

Whatever did Sarah mean?

* * * * *

Sarah approached Lord Gilles when his page stepped away to
fetch a new pitcher of ale. The two knights on his left were engaged in a
heated discussion of the afternoon’s hunt. Her husband, on Lord Gilles’ right,
was sound asleep. She spared Roland an indulgent smile before speaking. “My
lord, may I have a word with you?”

Gilles raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Speak.” He raised his
tankard and took a long swallow of the cold ale.

“For your ears, my lord.” Sarah eyed the men at Gilles’
side, and then jerked her head to the crowd behind her and met his steady gaze.

“Hmm.” Gilles rose. After finishing what remained of his
ale, he set the tankard on the table and strode from the hall, through the
stone arch leading to the chapel. He turned and crossed his arms on his chest
and waited.

“My lord, your new weaver is gone.” Sarah cringed as she
waited for the explosion.

“Gone?” He spoke mildly, deceptively so. In truth, he could
only say one word. He didn’t know what emotion he felt, only knew it was stark
and painful.

“Aye. I went to see her because she failed to return from an
errand outside the walls. I questioned her, as she seemed determined to settle
herself in the village.” He felt Sarah’s scrutiny, but could do naught but
stare. “Emma said she was threatened here. Feared ravishment.”

“Ravishment?” Gilles whirled about, turning from Sarah to
face the dimly torchlit altar at the fore of the chapel. In truth, ravishment
was so close to what he wanted to do that Gilles thought Emma must have read
his mind.

“Aye, my lord.” Sarah spoke to his back. “From one of the
duke’s men—the one-eyed brute. The cur trapped her in a storeroom below
stairs.”

“Thank you.” Gilles dismissed Sarah with a sweep of his
hand. How he wished he’d trusted his instincts when he’d seen Emma in the
bailey. Her hair, half unbound, her tears, they should have alerted him to her
fear. Instead, he’d allowed himself to focus on his lust, the sensual gleam of
her hair. Had the one-eyed knight hurt her?

His thoughts sent him to the bailey where he scanned the
crowd. He did not see the knight among the Duke’s men who were loitering at
ease. He called Hubert and told him to find the man.

When the one-eyed man stood before Gilles, he felt
satisfaction at the man’s trembling voice and evasive eye.

“My lord? Y-y-you wanted to see me?” he stammered.

“Aye. I have heard you were bothering one of my weavers.”

“Her.” The man’s posture eased. He spit in the rushes.

Gilles stepped forward and grasped the man by the throat,
striking with the swiftness of the hawk carved on his chair. “You knave.”
Gurgling sounds of protest issued from the man as he hung from Gilles’ steely
grip. “I do not want any woman in my keep to be cornered and pawed by the likes
of you, be she serf or highborn. Never do I want a member of my household to
walk in fear. Never. You have overstepped the bounds of propriety, and you will
take yourself back to the Duke’s from whence you came—now.”