by Ann Lawrence
Lord of the Keep
Ann Lawrence
Blush Sensuality Level: This is a suggestive romance (loves scenes are not graphic).
When Lord Gilles invites Emma to join his weavers, she sees it as her salvation. Emma lives at the base of Hawkwatch Castle, barely making a living with her weaving for herself and her daughter. But when she comes to work for Gilles, she weaves far more for the Lord of the Keep than the finest fabric; she weaves a spell of love about him.
Lord Gilles cannot deny his love for Emma or the jealousy he feels at other men wanting her. And when her life is threatened, Gilles knows he has only one true gift to offer—his life for hers.
A Blush® historical romance from Ellora’s Cave.
LORD OF THE KEEP
Ann Lawrence
Dedication
To my perfect hero
Cast me not off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength faileth.
—Psalm 71:9
Prologue
Hawkwatch Castle, England, 1190
“I have never seen such a collection of rabble and complainers.” Gilles d’Argent turned from his closest friend, Roland d’Vare, and stared about the hall of Hawkwatch Castle. A line of petitioners and petty criminals stretched across the great stone chamber and wound itself about the perimeter. “Did these people feel so unjustly served they waited upon my father’s death to make their petitions? Some of these complaints are months old.”
“You have no need to trouble yourself with this chore. Be gone,” Roland, a tall, spare man with streaks of silver running through his hair, pared an apple, discarding the skins to the rushes beneath the table. “Your father, God rest his soul, felt much the same when King Henry granted him the barony. He made a point to be away for these events.”
“And I find no pleasure in being sent to take his place.” Gilles frowned as a cat leapt and danced after the curling strips of apple peel.
“Whilst you may mind your task, King Richard values your lands and would be loath to see them fall to Prince John’s scheming.”
“Aye, it did not take Richard long to rue granting John control of five shires.”
“Now ‘tis the task of men like you who must offer restraint.” Roland grinned as another cat pounced past Gilles’ boots to join the first tumbling feline.
“I served the old king from the age of nine. After three decades of duty, I scarcely warrant such a sentence. Guard duty! Saving one brother from another—pitiful. And must you entertain my mousers whilst old Garth is sleeping?” Gilles growled as yet another cat skidded among the rushes and apple skins and tumbled over the mongrel hound with a hoary muzzle that stretched, oblivious, at his feet.
“I believe you are delaying the matter at hand, my lord,” whispered Thomas, the cleric who had been frantically scratching out Lord Gilles’ judgments all day. He repeatedly wiped an impatient hand over his tonsured pate.
Roland ignored the man and grinned. “You have bailiffs, reeves, me, your newly appointed steward, to handle this. Why try your patience to such an extreme?”
Gilles grinned back. “You know the answer.”
“Oh, aye. You must put your long nose in every matter, sniff about like a hound.” He lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “You would make a better sheriff than lord.”
“I shall not be given the choice. But I feel I must take the measure of these men.” With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the cleric and village worthies who sat in anxious awe of his assessment. He made no effort to lower his voice, a subtle warning to them. “I believe they have wrung more silver for their own pockets from these miscreants, than for my father’s coffers—” He paused in mid-sentence and lifted his head.
“What is it?” Roland straightened and followed Gilles’ gaze to the stout oak doors of the hall.
“I don’t know. I feel…” He didn’t finish the sentence. A woman and an old man had entered the hall, drawing his eyes. Mayhap it had been but the chill air that accompanied them that raised the gooseflesh on his arms. He watched the couple advance toward him. Unbidden, as if approached by ones of higher consequence, he rose from his chair.
“You must await your turn,” Thomas said to the couple, pointing with a long, bony finger toward the direction from whence they’d come.
“I shall hear them next,” Gilles said.
“But, my lord!” Thomas began, then sputtered and coughed at Gilles’ raised eyebrow. “Of course, my lord. Forgive me. State your name, sir.”
A flood of words spilled from the old man before them.
Gilles d’Argent held a hand up. “Hold. I can scarcely follow your words.”
The old man petitioning him was dressed in filthy attire, his odor offending even from ten feet away. His ochre skin indicated disease, his lank hair clumped in dirty hanks, personal neglect.
In contrast to him, the young woman at his side stood tall and lithe and, better yet, clean. Her mantle could challenge the gentians for glory. It hung well from her shoulders, clasped with a simple knotting of the cloth.
Her dignity before the manorial court impressed Gilles. She somehow seemed aloof of the proceedings, untouched by the torrent of words flowing in an obscene stream from the old man. She did not gawk at the crowd on the benches about the hall who had gathered to be heard and to be entertained by the telling, but kept her eyes dutifully lowered.
Gilles returned to his seat on the dais. He did not wish to appear unduly interested in the young woman. Her hair, the color of summer honey, fell loose about her shoulders. Her pale cheeks seemed almost colorless as if she had been ill. He willed her to look up, to allow him to assess her beauty.
“State your name again for Lord Gilles,” his cleric said, whilst trying to fend off a feline determined to climb his woolen cassock.
Gilles contemplated the young woman. He wondered if she found him forbidding. Did she fear his decisions? He arranged his face in what he hoped was a less forbidding aspect.
The old man rasped out his name once more, this time slowly and distinctly. “I am Simon of Lynn and my brother’s been dead these past few years. I’ve the wardship of his only daughter—and a sore trial it be. He had only this female, and before he died, promised her to a worthy Yorkshireman, Jacob Baker by name. ‘Twas a bargain that would have greatly benefited me. Now ‘tis all for naught. She’s soiled herself and my good name. Demand she name the cunning knave who stole her maidenhead. Make him take her to wed and end the shame that will surely fall upon me and mine.”
The old man’s malicious voice rose like a wind foretelling a coming storm. Quick as a viper, he turned and struck the young woman on the face, forcing her head up as she stumbled and fell to her knees. The crack of his hand reverberated around the vaulted hall.
“Hold,” Gilles thundered, leaping to his feet again. The attack had caught him by surprise, for the man was skinny and small. The young woman struggled back to her feet, unaided, and again stood composed and mute before him. The ugly red mark of the old man’s fist stood out starkly against her pale complexion. She never raised her eyes from the floor.
“She’s made a whore of herself and shamed my family. Make her name the man and wed him, my lord. Why should I be providing for her and her bastard? Make the man pay the price.” The old man spat onto the stones at his feet.
Gilles subsided into his seat, though he felt the strong throb of his pulse in his throat and temple, and considered the two diverse individuals. “Your name, mistress?” Gilles asked. He tempered his tone to the one he used to his youngest squire when he wanted to sound stern yet reasonable.
The young woman raised her head and her eyes, mirroring the mantle’s vibrant gentian color, looked steadily at him. Although pleasing, he realized she was not beauti
ful. It was her compelling eyes, so large in her face, and her dignity that made one notice her. Once noticed, Gilles mused, never forgotten.
She watched him for a moment, then with a soft voice spoke into the quiet oasis of men on the dais. “Emma, my lord,” she said, then bowed her head and considered her toes again.
“What have you to say, Emma? Three others have been before me today with the same complaint—love satisfied, but not sanctified.” Gilles stroked his closely cropped black beard. This woman had not the demeanor of the other young women, and he wanted to hear from her, not the uncle.
“My Lord Gilles, the fact remains—” her uncle began.
“Silence, old man.” Gilles’ voice cut through the man’s words.
The young woman knotted her hands before her, her only sign of agitation. “Lord Gilles, I have no complaints to bring before you. I am content with my lot and just wish to return to my weaving.”
Her words surprised him. She spoke as one from a station of life far above her companion.
The old man flew into a paroxysm of vituperative adjectives describing the young woman, her mother, and her mother’s mother. When Gilles raised his hand, the old man stamped and swore.
“Again, old man, do not speak until I direct you.” Gilles leaned forward and rested his elbows on the arms of the ancient oak chair in which he sat. He reached down and scratched Garth’s ear for a moment, although he did not take his eyes from the young woman. She stood as still as a statue, as composed as if naught concerned her, stately and calm.
“Emma, your uncle seems to think he has a complaint. As you are his ward, he has complete control of you, your thoughts even. If he has a complaint concerning you, it is your complaint, too.”
This time her chin jerked up and her deep blue eyes flashed defiantly for a moment, then her head bowed quickly as if she’d gained control and remembered her place, her anger suppressed as she answered. “I cannot help what my uncle thinks, or others, my lord.”
“Are you a maiden?” Gilles watched intently as the question brought a red flush up from the mantle’s braided edge to stain the rest of her face the color of the angry mark on her cheek.
“Nay.”
The one word prompted another round of angry invectives from the old man and a cuff to Emma’s shoulder.
“William.” Gilles snapped his fingers at William Belfour, a young knight of his company who, along with others, had been avidly watching the proceedings. “Take this old man out until I have finished questioning his ward.” The knight, tall, blond as a Viking, and thick with a warrior’s muscles, unceremoniously dragged Simon from the hall. The old man looked like a small child dangling from the knight’s large hand.
“Now, Emma, mayhap we may proceed without interruption. Your uncle is—not unreasonably—upset that you have lost your maidenhead. What is so entertaining?” Gilles spoke sharply. The small smile that had appeared on the young woman’s face disappeared at his tone.
“Forgive me, Lord Gilles. It is just that I find the idea of a ‘lost’ maidenhead amusing.”
“How so?” he asked, puzzled by her attitude, for most often such boldness in a serf resulted in, at the least, a few lashes. Of course, she was a free woman. Her speech and demeanor indicated gentle birth. His curiosity was piqued.
“Lost implies one may find the object in question and so have the benefit of its use again, and we know that is not the case here, my lord.”
Though her posture had stiffened with his rebuke, Gilles noted that she no longer avoided his eyes now that her uncle had left the hall. Gilles smiled despite his inclination to sternness. He kept the smile in place to reassure her. He had brought a sharp discipline to Hawkwatch Keep, a discipline resented by many who had grown lazy under his father’s haphazard regime. His manner, coupled with his sun-darkened skin, hard features, and black hair, had many thinking him the spawn of Satan.
Gilles let his spine relax against the chair back and stretched out his long legs. He had no wish to rush this judgment. He had no wish to rush such a lovely creature from his presence. In truth, he considered that if she were no longer a maiden, if she had been well bedded, he might wish to have her himself. She had more than a compelling face and pleasing figure. She had some indefinable aura that drew him, sent his blood rushing as if he were a boy in his first flush of manhood.
“The loss of a maiden’s virtue, Emma, is not a matter of amusement,” he lectured, trying to maintain a serious demeanor and shake off the attraction.
“Aye, my lord,” Emma returned.
“How does your uncle know of…this happenstance?”
“Why, I told him so.”
Gilles sat bolt upright and stared at her, dumbfounded. The cats scattered in a rush. Garth lifted his head and yelped. “You? You told your uncle? Surely you could have foreseen the consequences of such an action?”
She looked away from him, and he watched her stare down the long, stone hall with its high ceiling and brightly woven tapestries. She seemed to consider each person who loitered or sat at ease before deigning to answer him.
“Nay, I did not foresee these circumstances, my lord. I meant only to end the connection my uncle had arranged for me. I do not believe my father intended any such alliance as this for me.”
“Why? ‘Twas surely an honor.” Gilles’ sympathy rose; he empathized with the difficulty of answering his questions in a public venue. The dais upon which he sat stood a goodly distance from the folk in the hall. Still, her uncle’s commotion had ensured that many took an interest.
“When my uncle came to me with the marriage plans, I felt duty bound to tell him that I loved another. I believe his words were that a woman’s wishes meant naught. Master Jacob and he had marked their names to the documents. My uncle said the contract was met. And so I told him ‘twas more than a woman’s wishes. ‘Twas a deed done.” Her voice broke on the words.
“Do you not wish to name the man who took your innocence so you may wed him?”
“Nay.” Her answer came swiftly. There was a silent entreaty in her eyes.
“Hmm.” Gilles tented his fingers beneath his chin, then steepled his index fingers and stroked his mustache.
“Did you give yourself of your own free wish? Has someone abused you?” Gilles asked quietly and gently.
She shook her head, sending her hair flying out in a golden bell. “Nay, my lord, nay.”
“Would naming the man cause him distress?”
“The distress would be mine, my lord.” Her hair subsided, along with her agitation.
He is pledged to another woman, he thought, or already wed.
Emma studied Lord Gilles as he considered her. Outwardly calm, inwardly a sea of screaming emotions, Emma remained determined to give away nothing of her inner turmoil or the sickness in her belly at being so publicly examined. She thought Lord Gilles too intelligent to accept the denials she had practiced on her way to the judging.
As she and her uncle had stood outside the hall, Emma had paid sharp attention to the gossip of Lord Gilles’ attendance at the judging. It was generally accepted among the satisfied that he cut swiftly through to the core of a matter. He dealt judiciously with petty squabbles and in some cases was just as likely to think of an unusual settlement as dismiss the complaints as a waste of his time. He listened fairly, but suffered fools not at all. Of course, the dissatisfied thought him cruel, a blight on their future. Emma had decided that she would say nothing and offer no denials, for ‘twas obvious Lord Gilles accepted none.
Now her heart beat in panic and fear; the panic and fear of a decision made that might bode ill for the future.
He had looked right through her.
She had sworn to keep secret her lover’s name. When the time was ripe, they’d acknowledge the vows they’d spoken together. She never doubted it for moment—until now. She had thought she had his most sacred vow, could withstand any beating she received.
Until today, this hour, her heart knew her lover would
take her away when his obligations were fulfilled. Although she had known him but a few weeks—he was a member of an advance guard of Lord Gilles d’Argent’s—Emma had fallen in love with a stunning swiftness that defied sense. She had accepted her lover’s promises for the future and sealed those promises with the joyful giving of herself.
Emma looked about the crowd and her gaze rested on her lover. His interest in the proceedings seemed to have waned. Indeed, he stood in haughty disregard of the proceedings and her presence. Feigned, she hoped. He no longer looked in her direction.
Suddenly, he seemed a shadow of a man compared with the power and force of a Gilles d’Argent. In vain, Emma tried to shrug away her thoughts, telling herself she merely sensed the difference found in a man of but a single score of years and that of a man of two score years or possibly more.
Surely, one would note the strength of a warrior tested and honed in battle and one not yet tried, not yet called to prove himself. From the moment she’d entered the hall, she’d been struck with Lord Gilles’ power. It radiated to her from across the long chamber, like tendrils of creeper extending along a garden wall, drew her forward as if someone had taken her by the hand.
Did everyone feel it, that power, as she did? ‘Twas obvious from the gossip some feared him, whilst others felt grateful to rest their cares with him. Why did no one remark on this intangible pull? His physical presence drew her, too. His fierce expression did not frighten her; it beguiled her. She felt somehow mesmerized by the lord’s every word.
Nay, I must not let my fears entice me to these doubts, she thought. She had made sacred promises, sealed them with more than a kiss. All would come right if she but kept her silence, as she had promised her lover. Surely, God would help her, answer her frantic prayers.
“Emma?” Gilles’ voice jolted her to the present. “Do you not think that whatever difficulties may arise for your lover, you will bear greater ones if you do not name him?”
