by Shari Anton
“Nasty day,” the carter said, pulling what looked like bread from a crate under his seat.
“Could be better.” Darian fetched similar victuals from the satchel strapped behind his saddle. “Have you drink?”
The carter smiled and held out his hand. After a few moments he sipped from his palm. “Rain is good for somethin’ leastwise.”
Amused, Darian shook his head and pulled out a wine-skin, preferring heftier drink.
A rustle of leaves and snapping twigs announced Emma’s return. She glanced at both him and the carter, then made her way to a log sheltered by a huge oak and sat down.
“Not hungry?”
She shrugged, loosening droplets to slither down her cloak. “Not particularly.”
But the look she gave his bread told him differently. The thought occurred to him that she wasn’t eating because she hadn’t brought any food along and was too proud to ask for a morsel of his.
Of course, he hadn’t remembered to bring food, either. William had sent the stable boy to the kitchens. Still, it seemed to Darian a woman would prepare better.
“Did you bring nothing along?”
“You did not give me much time to prepare.”
“So you chose to bring all your fripperies instead of food.”
Her eyes narrowed in indignation. “I will neither faint away nor starve. Tonight will be soon enough for me, at whatever inn you choose to spend the night.”
Her expectations were rather high. She assumed they would halt for the night in a town large enough to sport an inn. If the weather worsened and the roads became streams, they might not be so fortunate.
And she had been rushed.
And the king had extracted his vow to take care of her. So he would while Lady Emma was still his wife. Which wouldn’t be for long, he hoped.
He fetched another chunk of coarse bread and handed it to her. “Best you have something now. Supper could be a long way off.”
At first he thought she might refuse, but she took the bread and nibbled on it.
He watched her eat, admiring her straight, white teeth behind her lush lips. Her tongue darted to the corner of her sensually curved mouth to recover a stray crumb.
In danger of becoming overly intrigued by her quick, pink tongue, Darian sat beside her on the log, careful to sit only close enough to permit a quiet exchange.
“We agree this marriage is a farce. How do we obtain an annulment?”
She stared at him as if coming to a decision before finally answering, “I believe we must present our case to a bishop, but which one might be best, I do not know. Nor am I sure of what reasons we could use. Unfortunately, if we petition for an annulment, the king and Bishop Henry are sure to learn of it. Neither will be pleased and may try to hinder our efforts.”
She had a point. They couldn’t act too soon. But the time would come when they’d be free of one another and he could return to the life he preferred. But what of Emma?
A solution of what to do with Emma suddenly hit him, making him wonder why he didn’t think of it sooner.
“Perhaps you should go home and wait there until all is settled.”
“To Camelen?” After a pause she shook her head. “That was my father’s home, and now belongs to my sister’s husband. ’Tis not truly my home anymore. Besides, I should rather be closer to London. I have yet to petition the king to release my youngest sister from Bledloe Abbey.” She shook her head harder. “Nay, I cannot go far. Kent is far enough.”
Which meant he was saddled with her for the foreseeable future. He thought to ask why her sister needed release from a nunnery, but decided it wasn’t any of his affair.
Too bad he couldn’t send her home, though. Not that her company would be overly hard to bear. Emma was easy on the eyes. She didn’t complain or make insistent demands—or hadn’t as yet. She impressed him as a woman who took what fate tossed her way and then dealt with it in a quick, effective manner.
She was also easy to talk to, not an unpleasant companion with whom to share exile. An exile that would last too long, no matter if it were but for a few days. Except he shouldn’t have to suffer her company at all. Shouldn’t be noticing any of the lady’s finer qualities.
’Twas Emma’s fault he’d been exiled when he need to be in London. The longer he was away, the longer a murderer went free.
He rose. “The cart driver appears ready to continue. Let us hope the weather does not worsen.”
Despite the protection and warmth of a beaver cloak, Emma was both chilled and wet by the time they reached the Curly Goose. She was hungry, too. Stupid not to have thought about bringing provisions for the road.
But then, she really hadn’t had time to visit the palace kitchen to beg for bread and cheese, worried that Darian might leave without her if she didn’t hurry. Upon arriving outside of the stables, hard on the heels of the footmen carrying her trunks, she’d looked for signs of his impatience and, to her amazement, found none.
Oh, he’d been upset. What man wouldn’t be after all that had occurred? The murder accusation. Gaining a wife he didn’t want. Being exiled to Kent. Except for a couple of unkind remarks, he’d not proven himself intolerant.
So things could be worse. Much worse.
As she sat by the fire in the inn’s common room, a bowl of thick stew in her lap and a mug of hearty ale on the plank floor at her feet, she recalled the few moments when events could have taken a cruel turn.
She hadn’t realized they must ford a river, and she’d almost panicked the moment she realized they were about to cross water. A lot of water.
She’d thanked heaven and all of its inhabitants for sending the rain, not heavy enough to make the fording dangerous but enough to create ripples on the surface. Still, she’d taken no chances, pulling the cloak’s hood tighter to cover her closed eyes, preventing any possibility of being lulled into fixation.
She was drawn to water. To look at a puddle or pond too long and become enthralled brought on the visions that caused her pain, both physically and emotionally.
She’d learned as a child to close her eyes when doing something so ordinary as bathing or dipping her hands in a washbasin. Those effective actions prevented the visions and spared her the pain.
The last thing she needed on this journey was to struggle with an oncoming vision and suffer the resulting headache.
“More ale, milady?”
Emma smiled at the fair-haired, apron-wrapped inn-keeper, who held a pitcher. Since their arrival he had done everything he could to make her comfortable. He’d recognized her nobility immediately, even before she’d removed her cloak to reveal her finely made bliaut. He’d even given up his private bedchamber for her use, the inn lacking private rooms to let.
“I thank you, but no more. I compliment you on both your brew and victuals.”
He beamed and bowed before he turned to Darian, who sat nearby, cross-legged on the floor, his stew gone, staring into the flames. The wavering light caressed his face, flickered over his features, played along his rugged jawline, and deepened the shadows around his eyes.
She’d thought him lost in thought until noticing his brief, barely discernable reactions to noise. The man knew immediately whenever anyone came into or left the room, knew precisely where everyone was located. To all, he might seem preoccupied and vulnerable. He was neither.
“What about you? Want more?”
The change in the innkeeper’s demeanor was immediate and telling. He’d assumed her noble and that Darian was merely her escort. Nearly true, but she wondered how Darian felt about being relegated to the upstairs room lined with pallets, not offered any special accommodation.
Darian raised his mug for the innkeeper to fill, not saying a word, not even of thanks. Not until the innkeeper returned to his place behind the plank counter did Darian speak.
“ ’Ware how you smile at the man or he may forget he gave up his bed and pay you a visit.”
Emma bit back a retort that some
man should share her bed tonight. This was her wedding night, after all.
Her appetite suddenly vanished. Sadness washed through her and nearly brought forth tears. Sweet mercy, she’d been married this morn and nothing about the day was worthy of celebration.
She put her bowl on the floor and picked up her ale. “You should finish that,” he said of the stew. “You will need your strength. Tomorrow will be a long day, no matter the weather.”
Most likely. Except she was no longer hungry, and when she finished eating, Darian would expect her to retire and she would rather not. Her gown was finally drying, and the warmth of the hearth felt good.
If she went to bed now, she would only reflect on what a wedding day should be like. Feasting. Dancing. Well-wishers. A marriage bed.
Her vision of Darian wouldn’t come to pass tonight. He was in far too surly a mood for a glorious smile, and she was far too irritated with him to attempt to coax him into a less churlish state of mind.
“How far do we go tomorrow?”
“All the way to Hadone, which should take most of the day at ox pace. Weary of traveling already?”
She bristled at his tone. He seemed to believe her weak and fastidious when she’d made a resolute effort to be neither.
“I shall manage. I merely wish to know so I can prepare.” A continuance of this conversation would raise her ire. A change of subject was in order. “Have you any insight into who de Salis’s murderer might be?”
He finally looked up at her, revealing anger and frustration. “Not as yet. What irks me is that the murderer might be someone I trusted. If one of the mercenaries has turned against me, I did not see signs of betrayal. I will solve the puzzle, however, and when I do, that person is going to feel the noose he tried to put around my neck.”
Emma almost shuddered at his vehement certainty, glad she wasn’t the current target of Darian’s wrath.
She remembered Julia’s warning that Darian could be dangerous. At the moment he certainly seemed capable of taking another man’s life. He was a mercenary, after all, a soldier whose business was war.
But she’d known many soldiers in her lifetime, including her father and brother. Both had been capable of taking other men’s lives, but both had also been honorable, at times kindhearted men.
Was Darian capable of compassion?
Sweet mercy, she’d meddled at court because she’d once envisioned him wearing little more than a glorious smile, and her original dilemma returned to haunt her.
Had she been wrong to interfere? They’d done naught but snap and snarl at each other since meeting. Right now, she couldn’t imagine him softening enough toward her to become her lover.
By acting on no more than her vision, she might be guilty of changing his life’s path for the worse—a betrayal of sorts.
At the moment Darian of Bruges didn’t strike her as a forgiving man.
Chapter Five
They’d headed out at first light, and because the day was fine and the road dry and not crowded, Darian spotted Hadone at twilight.
He marveled at the progress made since his last visit, nigh on two months ago. The masons had finished much of the thick outer wall built of Kentish ragstone. Only a portion of eastern wall of pike-tipped timber remained of the old palisade.
The work progressed ahead of William’s expectations. Even now, during the supper hour, the sharp ring of chisel and hammer against stone echoed over the countryside.
Darian doubted the masons worked so diligently out of pride or duty, but because Gar drove them hard. The steward of Hadone wasn’t above taking harsh measures when his needs weren’t met or wishes unfulfilled.
Much like his overlord, William of Ypres.
But where Earl William could show mercy, Darian knew Gar nearly incapable of compassion. Where William gave rewards to those who served him well, Gar considered the courtesy unnecessary, except when it came to himself.
Naturally, the drawbridge over the deep ditch surrounding the castle—not yet filled with water—had been raised for the night. For a moment Darian considered camping in the woods rather than risk an argument with Gar over lowering the plank bridge and opening the gate.
But then, over the next few days, he and Gar were likely to spar over one thing or another—especially if Gar took it into his head that Darian wasn’t a guest, but a servant.
“Hail on the wall!” he shouted at the guard on the wall walk near the gatehouse. “Darian of Bruges requests entry at the behest of Earl William.”
“Who is that with you?”
“Lady Emma de Leon, who I assure you is no threat.” The guard turned around and shouted down into the bailey below, no doubt sending someone to the keep to seek permission from Gar.
Darian glanced over at Lady Emma, who’d borne the entire journey with admirable stoicism. Not usual for a lady, at least not the ladies of his acquaintance, which he admitted weren’t many. Still, he remembered last summer’s flight from London when William had insisted Queen Matilda flee the city before it was captured by the enemy. Her life had been endangered, and she hadn’t fled this far into Kent, and yet she’d chided William over her discomfort.
Not so Emma. She must surely be stiff and sore from bouncing on the cart’s unyielding seat, and likely hungry from lack of food since nooning. At the moment, she was looking up, inspecting the wall and gate, waiting patiently for someone to lower the drawbridge.
A second man appeared on the wall walk. The light was now so dim Darian couldn’t say for certain who the man was—though from the man’s height and silvery hair, he surmised that Gar had come to see for himself.
“Were it not for the lady I would tell you to come back on the morn,” Gar declared from above.
If not for the lady, Gar might refuse to let him in at all, which would suit Darian fine. But there were William’s orders to consider, so Darian strove to keep his tone amicable. “Were it not for the lady’s sake, I would not request admittance at this late hour.”
Soon chains rattled and winches groaned as the drawbridge began to lower and the iron gate to rise.
“I gather you and Gar are not on the best of terms,” Emma commented.
“We have no great liking for each other. Gar would prefer that all the Flemish in England be sent back to Flanders.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Even Earl William?” “Especially Earl William. The notion of a man of Flanders being named an English earl doesn’t sit well with Gar.”
“Then why does William keep him as his steward?” A question Darian had once asked of William after Gar had ordered a peasant whipped for mixing a batch of mortar too thin.
“As long as Gar continues to efficiently oversee the defense of Hadone and the building projects, William sees no reason to replace him. The man is a reliable steward and William considers that a boon.”
The drawbridge thudded to the ground. He nudged his horse forward and the carter snapped his whip.
Darian led them across the bailey. Here, too, were changes. The pile of rough stone had been moved to near the uncompleted section of wall, where masons and laborers applied chisel and hammer to smooth those stones to be raised on early morn. More shelters, built of timber and roofed with thatch, abutted the new wall. Flickering candlelight seeped from the closed shutters of most of them.
Just as Earl William wanted, people were settling here, a new town forming.
When Darian reached the keep’s stairway, where Gar now stood with a group of servants and stable lads, he dismounted and tossed the reins to one of the lads. Before he could turn around to aid Emma from the cart, Gar rushed by and held up a hand, which Emma courteously accepted.
“I welcome thee to Hadone, Lady Emma.”
Emma descended with as much grace and dignity as was possible when climbing down from a cart. “My thanks, Gar. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated.”
“ ’Tis not right that a lady should be forced to endure the rigors of the road in such rough company. I hope your jour
ney was not overly harsh.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed as she withdrew her hand from Gar’s. “Darian did all he could to make the journey pleasant. Our English weather, however, did not cooperate with him.”
“Earl William will be pleased to hear of Darian’s diligence. Come, food and drink await. While we eat, you can tell me why the earl sends you to Hadone.”
Emma’s gaze settled on Darian. “I believe the tale best left to my husband.”
Gar looked around for a noble male he might have missed seeing before he reasoned out the identity of Emma’s husband. Distaste twisted Gar’s mouth.
Darian could almost hear the steward’s disapproving thoughts. A noble lady married to a lowly mercenary? Unacceptable. Unforgivable. Unimagainable!
“You?” was all Gar asked.
“Dreadful, is it not?” he responded, for once agreeing with Gar. “I would not feel too outraged on Lady Emma’s behalf, however. The marriage will be short-lived, so she will not suffer unduly.”
Gar arched an eyebrow. “You will seek an annulment?”
“With all due haste. Neither the lady nor I wish to be bound to each other any longer than we must.” He waved a dismissive hand. “However, I have more formidable problems to solve first. I fear we must impose on your hospitality for several days. Pray see Lady Emma made comfortable.”
Servants passed by carrying Emma’s trunks. The carter tugged on the ox’s lead rope and headed for the stable. A stable lad had already led away Darian’s horse. Intending to retrieve his satchel, Darian took several steps before Emma appeared in his path.
Her wide eyes revealed apprehension. “Where are you going?”
Where the devil did she think he was bound at this time of night, and why should it matter to her? He need not answer to her for his whereabouts, so why did he feel it necessary to answer?
“Merely to the stables to retrieve my belongings.” “Oh. Well, then, I will leave you to your errand and await you in the hall.”
Her relief was so apparent Darian had to wonder why she seemed so nervous. Gar might not be one of his favorite people, but the steward would treat Emma with the respect and courtesy due her. But perhaps she didn’t know that. From the rumors he’d heard bandied about at Westminster, she hadn’t been treated with much courtesy of late—not at court, and not from him.
