LordoftheKeep (8 page)

Gilles thrust the man away as if he weighed no more than a
sack of feathers. The man bounced off the far stone wall and fell to his knees,
clutching at his throat and gasping for life-giving air. With legs spread and
fists on hips, Gilles watched the man recover himself. Scrambling to his feet,
the knight fled.

That night Gilles paced his chamber, considering the many
ways he might somehow entice Emma back to his keep. In truth, he had never been
at ease with the seduction of a woman. Crooking a finger usually sufficed. The
courting of his wife, a score and more years before, had been done by his
father and the king’s men with little care for his wishes or needs—or hers. He
combed his fingers through his black hair and summoned his friend Roland.

Roland sat himself down at the table and propped his feet on
a stool. Watching him pace, Roland waited patiently to hear whatever Gilles had
on his mind.

Gilles halted before his friend. “Since the knight who
accosted Emma is gone, think you she might return?”

“Emma? Knight?” Roland peered at Gilles, eyes wide in
innocent wonder.

“Do not pretend to ignorance. I’m sure Sarah has told you
all about the new weaver.”

“Aye.” Roland placed the tips of his fingers together. “I’m
sorry, my friend, Sarah doubts your weaver will return. She seemed sure others
would be similarly inclined as the duke’s man.”

Gilles resumed his pacing before the fire. “Others?”

“Mayhap,” Roland continued, “if the wench were assured of
your ‘protection’? Or you could wed the wench.” The words hung in the air
between them.

Both knew what protection Roland implied. The other Gilles
dismissed with a sharp slash of his hand. “Barons do not marry their weavers.”

“Aye, tongues would wag if you were to wed Robert of
Lincoln, despite his skillful hands and fine cloth.”

Gilles grinned, then frowned. “Barons wed for land and
power—not to satisfy some basic urge. We jest, but mayhap a leman would not be
such an ill-conceived notion.”

Roland leered and propped his boots on the table. “I thought
you had no use for a leman.”

With an answering leer, Gilles shoved Roland’s boots to the
floor. “A man may have a change of heart.”

He paced in a turmoil of agitation. For all his outward show
of humor, his insides seethed. To have Emma near to him! His footsteps paused
at the bedside. He stared at the luxurious furs and linen draperies. His
imagination placed her there on the furs, draperies drawn, the scarlet linen
aglow around them, lit from the hearth as if on fire, whilst she warmed the
inner space with the heat of her body. And she would be very warm. He would see
to it. He would warm her with the conflagration of his passion.

A cold thought quenched the embers of his desires. What hope
had he of enticing such a young woman when men such as William roamed the hall?

Roland interrupted his thoughts. “If I may suggest, Sarah
believes Emma will need to return to her usual method of feeding herself and
her babe. She will need to barter her handwork at the market. If you were to
seek her there, you would not need to go to her in the village. Sarah thinks it
would shame her, should you go there.”

Shame. Aye, if he was seen alone with her, word would spread
like seed scattered on the wind. It would harm her. But in the marketplace all
could mingle and speak without censure.

Roland continued, “Once you have her inside the keep, ‘twill
be child’s play to have her in your bed.”

Gilles nodded and dismissed Roland with a vague wave of his
hand. The marketplace. How simple. Emma could be back within two days’ time.

Gilles stripped off his clothes. He slid between the cool
covers and vainly sought the relief of sleep. His fevered mind and fevered body
did not relent until the wee hours before dawn.

* * * * *

As if by magic, the morning’s cold winds fled. Warm ones
replaced them with just enough of a hint of the autumn past to bring the crowds
to market. She found a spot where she could set out her work, next to a
butcher’s stall. Swarms of flies raised by the stink of blood nearly made Emma
return home. More time was spent flapping at flies buzzing about Angelique who
nestled in her lap than entertaining offers on her work.

Sarah had left a bundle on Emma’s stoop—the belt she’d left
behind. With shaking hands and prayers of thanksgiving, Emma had held it to her
chest. There had been little to eat since the day she’d left—naught but bread
and fresh water. Soon she would need to spend the last of her pennies. Emma’s
stomach felt squeezed back against her spine. Her breasts felt drained dry.
Mayhap from the tension of her life, or mayhap from Angelique’s growing diet of
other foodstuffs, Emma found her milk supply almost gone. Now that the
bountiful food of the keep was gone, she had not the milk to take its place.

She’d soon need to seek Widow Cooper’s help to aid
Angelique. Her mind shied from thoughts of Widow Cooper’s son. To go to the
widow would be to admit defeat and seek charity, begging. Emma was not yet
ready to beg or wed—or pretend her vows to William did not exist.

If not for Sarah’s kindness, Emma would have had nothing to
barter at the market. Now she would be able to earn a few coins to keep them in
food and warm clothes for the winter. The belt was made of the finest of
thread, the best of dyes. She’d chosen them with Lord Gilles in mind; it should
fetch a high price. But should she fail to sell it, she would lodge Angelique
with Widow Cooper and walk to the nearby port of Lynn. There, heart-rending as
it might be, she would sell her mother’s cross or her father’s spurs. Pride
truly could not abide in the same house as starvation.

Two women approached—Ivo’s wife and another woman she did
not know. They fingered Emma’s work while gossiping. Neither acknowledged her.
They did not buy. Ivo’s wife spat near Emma’s feet. The other lifted the belt,
slipped it through her fingers, and then let it drop into the dust. An
inauspicious beginning to the market day. With unsteady hands, Emma brushed off
the belt and arranged it again to catch the light and show the surface sheen.
Two more hours passed.

Emma knew when he entered the row of stalls.

She had no need to actually see him. A tingling in her
spine, some change in the air, alerted her. When his shadow fell over her lap,
she raised her eyes.

He was resplendent in black and scarlet. His richly
embroidered tunic and black mantle suited him well. He wore his mantle thrown
back over his shoulders, held in place by a gold pin inset with blue enamel.
The hand that caressed the belt she was selling had a vivid scar across four
fingers. She wondered if he’d suffered when he received it.

As if reading her mind, he spoke to her, “‘Twas nothing.”

Angelique stirred against Emma’s breast. She attempted to
still her wildly beating heart by stroking the nimbus of curls that rose about
her child’s head.

Gilles watched Emma’s hands, and for a moment, it was him
she stroked. He could almost feel the warmth of her palm and the press of her
fingers on his body. Desire hammered him unmercifully so his words sounded
harsh and complaining.

“How may I persuade you to return to your duties?”

“Meaning no disrespect, my lord, but I cannot return.”

“Ah, you prefer this,” he said with a gesture encompassing
the area. His mantle slid over one shoulder. Impatiently, he flung it back.

“To fear and pain, aye, I prefer it.” Emma shot to her feet
and clasped Angelique tightly to her chest.

“Mistress Sarah told me of your fears. You should have
confided in me that night, Emma. I demand total obedience from each person
under my care. If you were being accosted by some unworthy, then it was to me
you should have come. Why did you run from me, from telling me your troubles?”

She met his eyes. “I am sorry, my lord, but I did not want
to make you choose between one of your knights and…a weaver. Surely, you would
think ill of me.” Emma could not say that to accuse a knight might bring the
lash. She’d not lived in a cloister. William Belfour, too, was unlikely to earn
censure for his behavior toward a mere weaver, so well-favored was he, sitting
as he so often did at the high table.

“A cur is a cur. I don’t allow the forcing of any woman, no
matter how humble her station.”

Her voice almost a whisper, Emma tried to make him
understand. “There are those who would be most subtle in their pursuit.”

“I offer you my protection.” He couldn’t banter words with
her. He had to say what he wanted. She would say aye or nay, but it must be
brought to that point—
now
.

“Protection?” Her eyes searched his face. Just the night
before he had appeared vividly in her dreams, a dark image jumbled together
with hawks soaring into the heavens. She had jolted awake aching with desire.
Her thoughts painted a rosy blush on her cheeks.

“Aye, you do understand
protection
, don’t you?”

His implacable demeanor and his fierce scowl made Emma feel
slightly faint. A nervous sound escaped her throat. His scowl melted into a
smile.

“Nay, my lord. I don’t think I do.”

His smile deepened the lines radiating from his ebony eyes,
and she thought of smoothing those lines of care with her fingertips. Then she
realized she’d never be in a position to touch this man. Only a light-skirt
could touch a lord, and then only at his behest, not hers.

“Then I will explain it to you.” Gilles clasped the length
of cloth in his hands and sighed. If she refused him, he knew the pain of it
would be like that of a suppurating lance wound, unlikely to heal, always
weeping. “My protection would mean no man will dare accost you, speak to you
with impropriety, touch your hand even, without your permission.”

“That is a formidable statement, Lord Gilles.”

Her voice was a caress of his name. Desire was a tangible
web being woven around them. He offered her safety in his lofty world.

“I am a formidable man,” he said.

Chapter Seven

The desire to touch him was overwhelming. Emma reached for
the belt that lay between them and took it from his hands, brushing against his
knuckles. A shiver coursed through her.

“Again, Emma. Do you understand
protection
?”

“I must think first of Angelique,” she began.

“The child will be protected as well.”

Emma searched his face for guile, for some telltale sign to
guide her. He held her gaze and did not look away, nor did he begin to babble
reassurances to persuade her—or spout pretty words. He waited in silence. She
took a deep breath.

“Mama?” Angelique raised her head. “Hungry!” Her little
hands tugged at the front of Emma’s mantle.

They were in a world of their own. Time and sound receded to
a gentle buzz. Who watched, who spoke, she wouldn’t later be able to say. It
was as if time stood still for her reply. After Angelique’s words, there could
be but one answer.

Emma nodded agreement. Her eyes filled with tears. They fell
unheeded down her cheeks and dripped on the soft wool of her mantle. Gilles
reached out and caught one silver droplet on the edge of his finger. He brought
it to his lips, tasted the salt, savored the moment. He had no doubt the tears
were from an excess of emotion. He hoped the emotion was joy.

“Forgive me. We are hungry and tired.” Emma dashed the tears
away with the back of her hand.

Gilles snapped his fingers and his squire appeared as if by
magic. “Hubert, escort this woman and her child to the keep. See that Mistress
Sarah feeds them both.” He swept up the belt and strode away.

* * * * *

Roland looked about the hall to see what had turned his
wife’s mood sour as poorly made wine. She was stiff and abrupt. He supposed it
was the weather. Gloomy and dark, the hall had taken on the dank, wet scent of
the rain-swept outdoors.

She shook off his soothing hand. “‘Twas only a matter of
time,” Sarah muttered to her husband and nodded in the direction of the lower
tables.

He saw William Belfour teasing the new weaver. The weaver,
whose name he’d forgotten, was not smiling or enjoying whatever jest so amused
Belfour.

“Be she blind or simple?” Roland asked, draining his tankard
and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Humpf. More like the brightest of them all or the clearest
of eye—to give that one the cold shoulder.”

“No other wench here would agree with you.”

Sarah turned on the bench and contemplated her husband. He,
too, was gray now. He was a fine man, firm of limb, strong of wit and a
generous lover. He’d given her three fine sons, sons off fighting with King
Richard. She tempered her black mood with a smile and touched his thigh. “There
are many women here who see through that one. They wish to warm his bed
anyway.” With a sigh, she rose. “I will see to Emma. Lord Gilles would not want
her annoyed.”

Roland d’Vare watched his wife cross the hall. She went
directly to the young people, intent on her task. She did not, therefore, note
that Gilles had entered the hall, come from the bailey. He noted Gilles’ scowl,
noted that the hem of his mantle was thick with mud and stained with wet.
Roland rose and headed in his wife’s direction. Should there be trouble, he
wanted to be there to smooth the rough edges.

“Sir,” Sarah said to Belfour. “You take advantage of your
position.”

“How so, Mistress?” William rested his forearm on his thigh
and looked Sarah up and down.

“‘Tis obvious Mistress Emma wishes you to leave her alone.”

“Emma?” William turned from Sarah to Emma.

Emma felt the warmth drain from her body. Her hands were
icy, her throat dry. Over William’s shoulder she saw Lord Gilles approach.
William had been describing to her what she must do to get back into his good
graces—meet him behind the granary or the dovecote.

She swallowed her fear of him. Lord Gilles had promised her
protection, but to need it so soon made her sick with apprehension.
Courage
,
she bid herself,
courage
.

William moved his leg an imperceptible inch toward her arm
and pressed against her. ‘Twas time to put Lord Gilles’ promise to the test,
when few could hear her words. If William persisted, the time might come when
she would need to speak before a larger company. “Aye, William, Mistress Sarah
has it aright. I wish that you would be gone.”

Gilles wore a fierce scowl. As he passed through the crowded
hall, the men and women fell silent. Many had heard the rumors of Lord Gilles’
protection of the new weaver, though none were privy to any actual time they
spent together. But here was William Belfour with the weaver, a man notorious
for taking what he wished. Surely, sparks would fly.

Emma’s hands were cold and her throat tight. She had angered
William, could see it was so in the tight line of his jaw and the hand he
fisted on his bent knee. What if William shamed her before Lord Gilles? What if
Lord Gilles did not come to her aid?

“Problems, Mistress Sarah?” Gilles stripped off his
gauntlets. There was a pain residing in his belly. It had flamed there when
he’d seen William, one powerful thigh so near Emma’s face, his boot propped up
at her side on the bench. He trusted himself to speak only to Roland’s wife.

“Nay, my lord.” Sarah met Gilles’ eye and smiled a smile
that let him know
she
was capable of handling any problems between these
two.

“Excellent. William, Roland, come. Gather the men.” Gilles
strode away.

William stretched out his fingers, gave Emma a baleful
stare, and hastened after Gilles, who had returned to the bailey. William had
no wish to anger Gilles. He, too, had heard the rumors. As one of Gilles’
knights, he had power here at Hawkwatch Keep. He would have less at some other.
A dispute over a wench was foolish if it meant being sent to some hellhole,
like Seaswept Keep on the Godforsaken coast, with its weeping stone walls and
unknown steward—Gilles’ son, Nicholas d’Argent.

Emma allowed the tension to ooze from her body. Her neck
ached. She rubbed it with the tips of her strong weaver’s fingers. Lord Gilles
had but to raise a brow and all acceded to his wishes. His power was as
tangible as a scent in the air. Emma lifted a brow and practiced Lord Gilles’
stare on a potboy. The child scurried away. She giggled.

“What amuses you so?” Sarah used the edge of her apron to
wipe where William had planted his boot before seating herself.

“‘Tis naught.” She watched as men hastened from the hall
after Lord Gilles. “What has happened to rouse so many men from the hearth in
this beastly storm?” She stood and shook out her skirts she’d been sitting on
lest they’d touched William Belfour’s muddy boot. She wore a woolen overgown of
russet wool. A linen kirtle to match could be seen at hem and neck. They were
her first new clothes in three years.

Sarah followed Emma’s gaze. “The rain caused a slide. Part
of the north wall collapsed. I will see if we may make ourselves useful.”

Emma could only stare after Sarah. The north wall. Widow
Cooper lived at the north wall. The five grandchildren, too. Emma ran from the
hall, heedless of the rain, sweeping up her mantle. She jumped puddles on her
way to the weaving building where the spinners slept.

“May! Thank God. Please, could you see to Angelique until I
return? ‘Tis said the north wall is collapsing. I’ve a friend there. She might
need me.”

“Aye. I’ll be pleased to see to yer babe.” May nodded. Wisps
of fine brown hair had escaped from her cap. Her gentle doe eyes made her seem
as guileless as a child, but Emma knew May was as quick as a fox. Emma bussed
her child’s cheek and dashed off.

The cobblestones in the forecourt were slick with wet and
mud. She held her skirts aloft of the mire. Disaster filled the air. Men ran
through the gate, pushing her to the side. She became just another person
pulled along in a tide of people heading to the north wall.

The sight that met her eyes chilled her bones. Rubble, mud,
and water took the place of homes and businesses. She stood in stark fear for
her friend, her hands clutched in her skirts, the effort to protect her new
garments forgotten.

A shout drew her attention and she saw Lord Gilles, mounted
on a black horse, calling orders to other mounted men who circled the rubble.
The sight of him made her freeze. He looked magnificent atop a horse that must
stand at least seventeen hands. His harsh features somehow reassured her. He
was not a romantic courtier. He was a man to whom the milling people turned for
succor. The very breath in her lungs heated.

In the next moment, he leapt from his horse to stay the hand
of his squire, Hubert, who shifted stone with a long wooden rake. From out of
the pile Gilles lifted a muddy bundle. In one smooth motion, he mounted his
horse, the bundle close against his chest. The huge horse high-stepped amongst
the people to the edge of the crowd. A keening cry rent the air. A woman burst
from the mist. She tore at her hair, shrieked, then threw herself on the
stones.

The horses shied and pawed at the commotion. Lord Gilles
rode straight at her, controlling his horse’s agitation. When he reached the
woman’s side, he spoke sharply and to Emma’s amazement, the woman clutched at
his mantle and kissed his hem. Two men-at-arms rushed forward, but Lord Gilles
waved them off. Carefully, he leaned down and offered the woman the bundle in
his arms.

Emma gasped, for the woman tore open the wrapping and a
babe’s flailing arms beat the air. The weeping mother clutched again at Lord
Gilles’ mantle and babbled words of gratitude for the saving of her child. With
a brusque wave, Lord Gilles wheeled his mount and edged his way back to the men
frantically casting stones aside.

“Sweet God,” Emma whispered as their efforts revealed a poor
soul; his clothes proclaimed his low station. Lord Gilles dismounted and
crouched at the man’s side, momentarily going down on one knee and bowing his
head. Emma reeled away from the sight of death. She must find Widow Cooper. The
muddy bundle could have just as well been one of Widow Cooper’s grandchildren.

She searched the crowds who had gathered to help the keep’s
men shift stone. Slick mud hampered their efforts. Rain pelted their shoulders.
Emma ignored the chill drops and moved through the throng, her eyes alert for
anyone familiar.

* * * * *

Gilles’ stomach lurched as another body was revealed. A
woman, full with child, broke from the crowd to fall on her knees at the young
man’s side. Unlike the mother whose child he’d saved, this woman’s sorrow was
deathly silent. Gilles placed a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Come,” he said,
and urged her away from the pitiful sight. He glanced about and saw the captain
of his guard, Mark Trevalin. “Take this young woman into your care.” Trevalin
nodded, wrapped his own mantle about the woman’s shoulders, and led her away.

As Gilles turned back to mount his horse and see what else
needed doing, he caught sight of a familiar color bobbing at the edge of the
crowd. “
Jesu
,” he swore. He swung into the saddle and nudged his horse
through the crowd. “Emma!” he shouted. She whirled about and stared up at him,
her face a pale oval in the sodden shadow of her mantle’s hood. “What are you
doing here?” he roared. “Do you value your life so cheaply?”

She stared up at his angry face. “My friend, my lord. Widow
Cooper—”

“Get back to the keep. Now.” Mud had dirtied her hem, rain
had plastered her hair to her face. At worst she might be caught in a further
slide. At best take a chill.

“I cannot!” she cried up at him. She gripped his hand where
he held it clenched in a fist on his thigh. “Would you have me abandon a
friend?”

He leaned over and swept an arm about her waist. Breathless,
she found herself before him in the saddle—held by an iron grasp to an iron
chest. Still, she could not let him take her away. She shifted, turned, and
raised her eyes to his face.

His glower told her she would not easily persuade him. “I
must find my friend. She birthed Angelique, saved me from starvation. Please,
my lord, I beg of you, I must find her.”

His expression softened. He slid back in his saddle and made
more room for her. His hand at her waist eased. “Allow me a moment and I will
see to your friend.”

Emma scanned the crowd as Lord Gilles maneuvered to a large
group of men. Emma stiffened in his arms as William Belfour separated from the
crowd to stand at their side. His swift and contemptuous leer swept over her as
she sat in Lord Gilles’ embrace.

“William. I want every homeless villein taken to the keep,
the injured put in the chapel. Have Father Bernard gather as many braziers as
he can find to keep them warm. Have the leech see to the injured in the order
of the severity of their need and not by his estimation of the number of pence
in their purse. Do you understand?”

“Aye, my lord.” William saluted and strode to his men.

Gilles did not wait upon the completion of his orders, but
rode back to where he’d lifted Emma from the ground. “How shall we know this
widow?” he asked her, his mouth close to her ear. The sharp contrast of the
warmth of his breath on her cheek and the wet of his beard raised gooseflesh on
her arms and sent a shiver through her.

She felt the press of his body against hers, felt the shift
of his thighs and arms as he urged his mount along the perimeter of the
disaster. Her tongue seemed clumsy on her words. She gripped his horse’s rough
mane and attempted composure. “Widow Cooper is most likely issuing her own
orders, arms akimbo, my lord.” Her voice dropped. “Unless she has been—”

“We will find her.” His confidence soothed her.

Emma leaned forward, assured of his hold and searched the
sea of faces. Their search was continually interrupted as men and women
snatched at Lord Gilles’ mantle, beseeching his attention. He stopped for each
and answered calmly, directed them to the keep or the chapel depending upon
their need.