LordoftheKeep

by Ann Lawrence

  “Nay, my lord. I see no difficulties for myself.”

  “Have you lived in a cloister to not know what becomes of unmarried females without male protection? Surely, this whim of yours to protect your lover will bring you to grief. Should your uncle scorn you, you may find yourself earning your living at the whim of less patient men. Your uncle may cast you out to earn your own way if you bring shame on his household.”

  “He brings his own shame by dragging me here and stating his ugly accusations for all to hear, my lord.” Her anger flared anew. “I believe he thinks less of my predicament and more of the weight of Jacob Baker’s coin.”

  “Aye. ‘Tis most likely true. No one would know of your predicament for a while, but only for a while. Surely you know that you cannot hide a child beneath your skirts for long.”

  “Who said I am to have a child, my lord? If all such…encounters caused birth, this keep would be overrun with babes. I see few in the village and fewer here.” She allowed an amusement she did not feel to enter voice as she swept out her hands to indicate a room with many people but few children.

  “True. But, as I have seen to the disposition of three such cases today, I can be sure that such encounters often result in birthdays. So, your uncle comes early to see to your honor—and his. May I ask, Emma, how you wish this resolved?”

  “My lord, if I were to be a farmer’s wife, the farmer would not see this as some shameful circumstance. Indeed, he might even demand I prove my fertility before he would wed with me—”

  “You are no farmer’s wife!” Gilles retorted. “You were to have been wed to a baker, a man of worth.”

  “I do not hold Jacob Baker in great esteem, my lord.”

  “Nay? And are maids picking their suitors these days?”

  “Would that they could, my lord.” Emma met his amusement with serious intent.

  Gilles lost his grin before her frown. “I believe I have been chastised! And by a simple maid!”

  Emma swallowed. Deep lines radiated from his obsidian eyes. Eyes narrowed now in displeasure. She clamped her teeth on her tongue to stay the torrent of words bubbling up inside her.

  “Again, Emma. How do you wish this resolved?”

  “Allow me to return home, my lord. I wish to return to my weaving. If I should prove wrong and…a child results, I shall pay my sixpence fine.”

  “You will find even sixpence a fortune without your uncle’s protection.” When she did not answer, Gilles signaled to William Belfour, who stood at an arched stone entrance to the hall. William hustled Emma’s uncle back into Gilles’ presence.

  “It seems, old man, that you come early to seek a wedding. Emma says she is not with child. I am reluctant to dictate solutions to events that have not some tangible consequence.”

  Simon spluttered his indignation. “My Lord Gilles, she is ruined. She has no dowry. How am I to make a marriage for her when she has given away her only possession worth anything? Who would have her now she has spread her thighs for some nameless man? All know she is no longer a virgin. You asked her before this company, and she has admitted her shame. She is worthless. ‘Twill cost me dear to keep her bastard, too.”

  “Well, old man, you certainly made sure every man, woman, and child is aware of her loss of virtue by presenting this case. If you had held your tongue, no one would have been the wiser.”

  Every one of their words cut Emma deeply. Pain flared and blossomed, swelled and grew to ugly proportions. Soon the pain would be there for all to see, for surely in another moment she would weep.

  Wait for the proper moment, her lover had said. Surely, this was that moment? Tears in her eyes burned to be released as she fought the urge to turn to her lover and demand he speak for her.

  She offered up a silent prayer for the judging to end. She wanted nothing more than to escape to the forest, to silence and peace.

  “Demand his name, my lord. I demand compensation.”

  The old man cowered as Gilles rose on the dais. His crimson mantle flared about him, angry in its own inanimate way. His black eyes flashed a warning. Emma silently prayed her uncle would heed it, else they might find themselves in the lord’s prison. Simon scuttled back as Lord Gilles stepped from his place to stand before them.

  “So, we come to the crux of the matter. Compensation. I have asked you to hold your tongue. I am at the end of my patience. Speak again and it will be you I punish, you who will pay compensation.”

  Gilles moved to stand before Emma with arms crossed on his chest. A single shaft of afternoon sun pierced an arrow slit high above, casting a sparkling flame to radiate from the blood-red ruby on his left hand.

  “I will not force you to name your lover. Yet I know few men of quality who will have you without your virtue intact.”

  He spoke intimately to her, so only she could hear his words, spoke softly as if to spare her further torment and yet, torment her his words did. She bled inside.

  “Emma, did you not realize the consequences when you took a lover? What manner of man would leave you to face a judgment such as this?” He swept out his hand to the company before crossing his arms again. “Why did you give away your most precious possession?”

  Emma found herself unable to speak. This close to him, she could not hide from his intent scrutiny. She could not hide from the terrible twist of realization his words forced upon her. What manner of man would leave her to face this humiliation? Her lover could have come forward. He could have saved her from this humiliation—claimed her before the company, admitted the vows they’d spoken. He could have stayed Simon’s fist. She must lie to Lord Gilles and to any other who chanced to ask the same questions as he.

  “Speak. Why did you give away your most precious possession?”

  She slowly shook her head.

  “Answer me, Emma.” His voice gentled, but there was a power in his words that made her unable to refuse him.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and met his eyes. “You have answered your own question, Lord Gilles. You see—I had nothing else to give.” So saying, she bowed her head.

  They stood in silence for a few moments. “Pray God your lover holds your gift in high esteem.” His voice was harsh.

  He resumed his seat, once more at that impossible distance, ready to pronounce her fate. As he moved away, she felt the loss, as if his power had included her, had given her the strength to explain, to stand here before this company, exposed. With distance, she felt frail and alone. Her stomach churned, her knees threatened to fail her.

  “Old man, take your ward home. Mistreat her and you face my wrath. If a child results, see me at the next manorial court. You have wasted my time.”

  Simon grew red beneath his yellow complexion and in anger wheeled away, swearing as he scurried up the aisle of the hall.

  Emma vowed to hide her pain, hold it inside. She looked once more on Lord Gilles. She wished to steep herself in the power that shimmered about him, as if that inner power of his might sustain her in the days to come, for suddenly, her future seemed tenuous and frightening. She locked eyes with him for a moment, boldly drinking him in from his ebony hair to the hard lines of his warrior-trained body, knowing instinctively he’d not punish her for meeting his eyes. She nodded once and, head held high, she followed her uncle.

  The cold air that greeted them as they left the hall did naught to cool her feverish brow and sweaty hands. For one brief moment, she whirled and reached out for the iron latch of the door to his hall. She grasped the curved metal that held the double doors to Lord Gilles’ life closed to her—held his world closed to her. And, she now realized, that of her lover, too.

  Despite the humiliation and pain of the judging, Lord Gilles had treated her kindly, more kindly than she had expected. She was beset with confusion.

  “Come, you worthless bitch,” Simon called from the bottom of the steps that led up to the hall doors.

  “Worthless bitch,” Emma murmured, her hand falling from the latch. She raised th
e hood of her mantle to conceal her face and turned away, following her uncle into the roiling mass of humanity that moved about the bailey.

  Chapter One

  The forest near Hawkwatch Castle, 1192

  Despite the vociferous protests of his squire that a lord should not indulge in such behavior, Gilles knelt at the edge of a rushing stream and began to skin a rabbit. Deftly sliding the knife between the skin and the flesh, he worked it off in one smooth, practiced motion. He offered the hare to the hovering young man and then cleaned his knife, thrusting it into his belt. Dipping his hands into the icy water, he used sand from the stream bank and the water to cleanse the blood from his skin and nails. The squire handed him a linen cloth.

  As Gilles dried his hands, he looked about the assembled company of men who sprawled at ease at the edge of the ancient pine forest. In the distance stretched the wetlands giving onto Hawkwatch Bay. He propped himself against a tree and waved off the offer of a tankard of ale. The marshy scents mingled with the sharp odor of burning pine.

  Gilles frowned. He had been playing lord of the keep for nearly two years. Running a wealthy manor was tedious, if time-consuming. Even Prince John’s forays into brotherly insurrection caused little more than a ripple on the tides of Gilles’ life. He straightened and stretched.

  There was little reason to hurry the roasting of the meat, for the sooner they ate, the sooner they would return to Hawkwatch Castle. Hunting offered a short respite from the checking of accounts, the judging of complaints, the endless training of the younger men.

  “Have you need of anything?” Roland d’Vare asked, coming to Gilles’ side.

  “Need of anything? Aye. Relief.” Gilles smiled at his friend.

  “Yon bush should be adequate to your needs.” Roland grinned in return and tossed Gilles his mantle.

  “You know what I mean.” Gilles waved away his squire and pulled on his black woolen mantle. Hubert dearly loved the niceties of ceremony whilst Gilles detested the fussing. “You would think I was not capable of securing a simple pin,” he muttered at the young man’s downcast face. “By relief I meant that beyond a hunt such as this, the training of the men is the only diversion here.”

  “Diversion? You mean hard work, do you not? I had never seen such poorly trained men ‘til we came here. No technique, no tactics. ‘Twas shameful.” Roland raked his fingers through his silvery hair as if the men’s incompetence yet tried his patience.

  “Aye. I wonder to what my father devoted his attentions whilst his men slacked at their work. At least now they are fit fighting men. Yet…the hours I spend at arms practice do not make up for the grinding boredom of my other responsibilities. What I would have given to have been with Richard, testing myself against this Saladin at Acre. Instead, I train men who will do naught but chase an occasional brigand.”

  “‘Tis younger men who follow Richard—not those loyal to Henry. Our day is past.”

  “Mayhap I should invite Prince John for a gallop across the estuary—as the tide is coming in.”

  “He’d be swallowed by the quicksand. He cannot travel without the weight of his own importance.” Then Roland grinned. “Ah, I see, ‘tis just what you are hoping for. With John out of Richard’s hair, you may be called to more active duty.”

  Gilles shrugged off the suggestion, but he could not prevent a rueful smile from touching his lips.

  He turned his back to the trees and looked off to the distant thread of white that indicated the bay and farther, the North Sea, his mind on other times and other places.

  Roland followed the direction of his gaze. “I, too, occasionally feel what you do.”

  Gilles turned to his friend in puzzlement. “What is it I feel? Even I do not know.”

  Roland hesitated.

  The forest behind them was dark and silent. The voices of the men sounded loud and intrusive. Gilles lowered his voice to keep their words between just them. “Do not fear to offend me, my friend. I know you ofttimes find it hard to forget the distance betwixt lord and vassal, but I prefer you speak plainly as you did when we were equals, before my father saw fit to expire and put this damnable iron weight of responsibility about my neck.”

  “Then speak plainly I will. You believe time has passed you by. I feel the passage of time less than you. I have Sarah. I find I am content these days to sit by a fire with her and,” Roland’s grin split his face wide, “bask in her warmth at night. You need a leman.”

  Gilles snorted in derision and tossed the edges of his mantle off his shoulders. “I need no woman. When I feel the urge there are wenches aplenty. The lord of the keep has but to raise a brow and his needs are met—well met. A leman would be about, constantly, like a wife, God forbid. I need no companion to harp at me for jewels and ribbons, nor bore me with gossip.”

  “A woman need not be so shallow. Sarah neither connives, nor prattles at me, although I imagine she is privy to all the intrigues. I never seem to know who is warming a man’s bed, more’s the pity.” Roland laughed, then sobered. “A woman is more than gossip and soft thighs, Gilles.”

  “Little more.” Gilles turned and strode away to join his men. He sank to the ground by the fire so Hubert could serve him with a trencher of meat. The gangling boy was hopeless with bow and arrow, but at least he cooked plainly. Frowning, Gilles contemplated the bird before him. But today’s fare had not been cooked well enough to placate him in his present ill-temper.

  While Gilles thoughtfully chewed the meat, charred in spots, raw in others, William Belfour sank down beside him. “You have something to say, William?” Gilles asked, watching the knight from beneath his glowering black brows.

  “I thought you might like to hear of a new wench awaiting me on our return. She has the softest of blonde curls between her thighs—”

  “Are you, perchance, offering her to me?” Gilles interrupted, stripping some meat from the bone and casting it into the fire. The scent of sizzling meat joined that of the burning wood to fill the air.

  William, as usual, missed the underlying hint of sarcasm in Gilles’ tone. “Oh, you may use her if you wish. ‘Twould be a shame to take her before I’ve finished training her, however. She has incredible passions.” William looked about to see who eavesdropped before lowering his voice and leaning toward Gilles. Gilles rolled his eyes, knew he would have to hear of the young man’s escapades. “I took her behind the mill four times the other night, and she bit like a vixen. The moans and screams—I thought the miller would be out with a pitchfork!”

  Gilles’ mood plummeted and he cast aside the bones of his offensive meal. Mayhap he should have waited upon the hare he’d skinned. “I think you need to spend more time at arms practice to use up some of that energy. If you have the potency to take a woman four times in one bout, you are slacking at your training.”

  He unfolded his long frame and walked to where Roland tended his horse. Gilles patted the mare’s neck and spoke softly to her, praising her dappled gray coat and ancestors. Irritation would have been how he described his feelings for William. William drew the eye of every wench and lady of the manor with his tall, blond good looks. The women flocked to his side. He boasted of his conquests. That most of his stories were exaggerated did little to lessen Gilles’ irritation.

  Gilles knew Roland had struck at the heart of his discontent. He spoke as much to the horse as to Roland. “You have it aright. Age sits hard upon me. I hanker to be on horseback, riding with King Richard wherever his adventures might take him. I feel useless here, holding property against John’s possible treachery. Would that I could be content to sit with a wench by the fire.”

  Roland lifted his horse’s hoof and used his knife to pick out the clots of earth packed from hard riding. “Mayhap you have just not met the right wench.” The mare snorted and tossed her head as if in agreement.

  “It chafes at me, this idleness,” Gilles continued as he soothed the mare. A long silence stood between the men.

  “Defy Richard’s wishes and
join him.” Roland released the hoof and straightened.

  Gilles looked over Roland’s shoulder to William Belfour, now the center of the other men’s attention. Gilles could imagine the story William told by his expansive and graphic gestures.

  As if alone, Gilles spoke aloud, his eyes locked on William Belfour. “My sword elbow aches on bitterly cold days. The cook’s rich sauces unsettle my belly. A simple run up the castle steps feels as if an arrow were embedded in my right knee. Look at this hand.” A stark white line ran across all four of Gilles’ fingers where a sword had slashed him, opening his hand to the bone. “Hubert, who stitched this gash, remarked that I must be slowing up. Slowing up. Aye, I am slowing up. I teach technique these days to the men in training. I do not test them myself, nay, I leave that to younger men.”

  “It troubles me that you are so discontented,” Roland answered sharply. “What need have you to compete? All know of your abilities. There is scarcely a man alive who could best you.”

  Gilles raised a black brow at his friend’s swift defense.

  “Oh, I could best most of them.” He thrust his chin in the direction of William and the other men. “But only because they do not think or plan; it is thinking and planning upon which I must depend. I can no longer trust the speed of my reflexes or the sureness of my foot against a youth of William’s age and prowess.”

  Turning at the laughter coming from the fireside, Roland grimaced at William. “Belfour.” Roland spat in the dirt.

  “Few of them will see our age,” Gilles continued, “few of our companions remain.”

  “Your father lived to three score years and five. You are not yet two score,” Roland rebutted.

  “At the next Epiphany, I will be that age, the age of men who sit at the fire, hands on their fat bellies, dozing.” Gilles ran his hand down the mare’s neck and ignored Roland’s sudden laugh.

  “Pardon me if I find that image amusing. Your father never had a fat belly and was too busy wenching to doze. I believe he died in the act, by God. You’ve not a white hair on your head, I might add.” Roland smoothed a hand over his own thinning hair, silvery gray for many years. “I have five years on you. You insult me with your complaints.”