by Ann Lawrence
And to be within hearing of his words. ‘Twas his poetry and song that had first drawn her. Poetry he had composed just for her. Words that she had thought were a window to his soul, a soul she’d mistakenly believed was as golden and fair as his face. Instead, they’d been false words raising false hopes. The thought of listening to his poetry and song would be unbearable.
Starving would be unbearable. Beatings from Widow Cooper’s son would be unbearable.
Emma lifted Angelique’s hand and studied the dry tips of her little fingers and the chapped skin upon her downy cheeks. A mother should not put her fears before the health of her babe. She squared her shoulders and looked up at the man who offered her the world, frightening though it might be. “I will weave for you.”
Chapter Five
Gilles strode down the keep’s high wooden stairs to the bailey. Sourly, he looked around at the bustling activity in the courtyard, fully prepared to find fault with whomever should cross his path. He’d slept poorly, dined on turnips—which he hated—and spent the fine morning closeted with his punctilious cleric in discussion of the millage rates. The business of lord of the manor weighed heavily upon him.
If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine spring was coming, not winter. The promise of rain filled the air, but the banks of dark clouds were still far off over the bay. A path parted for him as he made his way in the direction of the armory.
She sat on a stool in a patch of sunshine, a wooden device in her hands. His steps slowed. For long moments he watched only her hands as they moved with agile grace. A belt, or perhaps a length of trimming, grew apace on what he determined was a hand loom. The colors draped across her lap and slipping through her fingers reminded him of the sea, rippling and undulating as she worked. Occasionally, she lifted her face to the warmth of the sun. He sensed contentment. It showed in the set of her shoulders, the gentle smile she gave to her child who slept in a large basket at her feet, and in her soft humming that drew him near.
But he could not linger, could not indulge this inexplicable whim to pull up a stool by her side and watch her hands more closely. He admitted he wanted to know the touch of her hands. He imagined her hands brought joy.
Shaking off the desire, he forced himself to continue through the crowded bailey to the armory. At the last moment, he could not resist a nod to her as he passed. She stood and dipped into a curtsey. Her smile warmed him and the day no longer seemed wasted.
Moments later, his armorer scratched his head that Lord Gilles had found no fault with his new sword. The master of hawks heaved a sigh of relief that Lord Gilles had not complained at the state of the mews, and Hubert nearly collapsed in shock when the quintain swept him from his horse and Lord Gilles made no caustic remark.
Hours later, a smile still on his face, he called to Roland d’Vare’s wife as he crossed the hall on the way to evening chapel. “A word, Mistress Sarah.”
Sarah was a tall woman of middle years, handsome and lithe, still capable of commanding a man’s attention by her forthright manner and winsome smile. Her dark hair beneath her headcovering might be salted with gray, but more than one youth sighed as she walked by.
“My lord?” she said and waited for him to approach. She admired Lord Gilles because he was not so set on protocol as his father. Never, under Gilles’ father, could she have risen to such a position as head of the weavers—a position traditionally held by a man. Nay, Lord Gilles had given her an unusual chance, saved her from endless days sitting with the other women, embroidering and talking inanities. Therein, he’d earned her steadfast loyalty.
“I want to know how the new weaver is settling.” Gilles held himself rigid with tension.
She noted the clenched jaw and the jump of a muscle by his eye. Had Emma displeased the new master so soon?
“The new weaver’s a conscientious worker, my lord. She has an uncanny knack for the cloth; she’s quick and her patterns are unusual. Her work is unparalleled. She has shown us a new way to tie up the yarns before dyeing that makes its own pattern, resists the dye as it were, then when woven—” Sarah halted. “Forgive me. My tongue runs away with me. She is satisfactory.”
“Excellent.” He had restrained himself from inquiring about Emma for three days. They had been three days of expectation and tension. The lord of the manor did not visit the weaver’s building. That chore fell to his steward, Roland. Emma had not taken her meals in the hall when Gilles was there, so he had not had a glimpse of her since her arrival—until this day, in a ray of sunshine, with the sea rippling through her fingers. “How fares her child?” Gilles hoped he was not further betraying his interest to his friend’s wife.
“Oh, Lord Gilles, what a beautiful babe. She is like her name—an angel in every way. She has a sunny disposition and we enjoy her happy company. She does not hinder the work.” Sarah finished in a rush. “Please, do not think the child hampers our work.”
“Be at ease, Mistress. I have no reservations about the child,” he said. “I wish the new weaver to weave exclusively for me.”
“My lord!”
So ‘twas pleasure not displeasure that drove him to inquire. Never had such a directive been given. A holding such as Hawkwatch was filled with hundreds of people. The looms of the village worked as hard as the looms of the castle, and still some cloth must be purchased farther afield to provide for all their needs.
“Mistress?” Gilles did not raise his voice but the line between his brows grew deeper and his eyes snapped fire. No one questioned the master with impunity.
How could he explain that he wanted no one else to sample the fruit of Emma’s labors? That he could not bear it if he saw another’s surcoat belted in the colors of the sea?
“As you wish, my lord.” Sarah huffed off to the outbuilding in the middle bailey that housed the weavers.
Lord Gilles could not have proclaimed his feelings any louder than if he’d shouted them from the ramparts. So…the master was enamored of the new weaver, Sarah thought.
Not such a beautiful woman, save for her eyes and hair, and perhaps her figure. She patted her own still slim hips. She thought it interesting that Emma did not yet share Lord Gilles’ bed but rather had a pallet with her babe in with the spinners as most of the other weavers were men. This should prove an interesting match to observe.
For a moment, Sarah wondered if Angelique was Lord Gilles’ babe, but decided not on the basis of the lord’s startling black coloring, which was in such sharp contrast to Angelique’s. Lord Gilles could have passed for one of Saladin’s men with his sun-darkened skin. He wore his hair overlong for Sarah’s taste, but as most men of his years were balding, her own dear Roland included, she did not fault him the small vanity. His black eyes and dark straight brows gave him a fearsome scowl, but she found him more bark than bite.
A sweet, fair child like Angelique was unlikely produced by such a man. Granted, round apple cheeks did not mean that future high slashing cheekbones and a long haughty nose would not emerge, but she decided that some other man had fathered the babe. It would prove interesting to watch Emma’s waistline over the next few months and see if Lord Gilles put his claim on her, Sarah decided as she hastened to give Emma her orders.
* * * * *
“He said I was to weave only for him?” Emma looked down quickly lest the flush on her face betray her. Her hands stroked the belt she’d just finished. A belt she’d imagined looping about his waist. Her face flamed hot.
How enthralled she’d become!
She must avoid his lordship, avoid such thoughts. They led only to heartache. The distance betwixt lord and weaver was as far as that from earth to moon. She was a servant in his household, nothing more, pledged by loathsome vows to another.
But the thought of moonlight sent her musing on her weaving. She ran a hand along the smooth wood of her hand loom. Her mind conjured the shimmer of moonlight, molten silver, reflecting off a pool in the darkest hours of night. Abruptly, she rose and fled to the dyeing hut
to have a special batch of wool prepared—wool for a surcoat.
* * * * *
Angelique’s quick tug at her hem caught her attention. Her back ached and her fingers cramped. She had not noticed how much time had flown by as she worked.
“Ah, sweet. Are you hungry?” She slipped her shuttle into the threads and hefted her babe to her lap. She kissed the small head as her daughter fed. “I have not forgotten you.” When Angelique finished, Emma hastened to the hall, then paused and looked about. “But I have forgotten my place.” Quickly, she made her way to a table where several spinners sat in deep conversation. Cradling Angelique in her arms, she ate from the communal platter of venison that fed a dozen workers, from spinners to dairymaids. She tore up soft pieces of bread for Angelique and crumbled cheese. Not once did she look toward the high table. As always, she kept her eyes downcast.
Despite her efforts, however, she could not ignore all the activity in the hall. This evening, men from the Duke of Norfolk’s household dined with the company. William regaled them with song. She made every attempt to pretend indifference when the hall fell silent and his rich voice filled the vast space.
Truly the voice of an angel, Emma thought. Each note clear and fine. She looked about. Even the men sat enthralled, watching William. The man on her right leaned across the table and whispered to another. “One can always tell when Sir William’s taken a new wench—he composes a new song!” The men laughed loudly over their jest. Emma sat frozen and sick. What simple devices men used to lure a woman. How simple of women to be snared so easily.
William took a long drink from a tankard and waved off calls for him to sing again. When the crowd grew insistent, he strode among the tables and bodily lifted a small man in colorful garb from his seat. Emma watched the ripple of muscles along William’s back and arms as he hoisted the man overhead. She shivered and remembered the strength of his hands as they’d bitten into her arms and held her immobile.
Cheers rose. William deposited the man on the table before Lord Gilles, and going again amongst the people, grabbed up apples and empty tankards. He tossed them to the man who deftly snatched them from the air and began to juggle.
Emma did not see the objects whirling over the juggler’s head, for he offered her an excuse to stare at the head table and the men who sat there. She examined them all, comparing them to William. They ranged from young to old. Nothing stirred within her as she examined their faces—until she settled her gaze on Lord Gilles. He watched the entertainment with a smile on his face, much like the one he’d bestowed on her that very day in the bailey. That simple smile had knotted her stomach and caused heat to flood through her.
She flicked a glance from William to Lord Gilles. William was roving the company, bending and whispering to women as he moved about. Emma saw blushes and hopeful glances. Lord Gilles gave his attention to the juggler. An apple flew from the juggler’s control and landed in a pitcher of ale. Ale splashed the face of a short, stocky man who rose in a roar to chase the juggler. The juggler nimbly leapt from table to table, avoiding his pursuer. Lord Gilles rose and watched to see who won the race. Wagers flew. Emma found herself caught up in the moment. The juggler disappeared out the door. The company subsided, voices dropped, conversations resumed. When Emma looked at the high table, Lord Gilles was gone. The hall seemed colorless and empty without him.
Cease this senseless dreaming! Can you not see how far you sit from his table? She hoisted Angelique into her arms and forced herself to leave the hall. She must avoid Lord Gilles and his enthralling presence.
Avoiding Lord Gilles should not be difficult. He kept warriors’ hours, up at dawn. He did not carouse with the younger knights, but rather retreated to his chamber early of an evening or remained only to play a game of chess with one of his men—most often Mistress Sarah’s husband. Lord Gilles did not wander the hall as William Belfour did.
To avoid William Belfour took a much greater effort, but she had swiftly learned that the man was tiresome and predictable. Emma had only to mark which women of the keep were most comely and stay away from their places of work.
It had become her habit to rise at dawn and work first to allow Lord Gilles and his men time to leave the hall before she ventured out. She waited for the sounds of the men’s morning work at arms practice, then broke her fast.
‘Twas usually only at prayers that she saw Lord Gilles. ‘Twas sin, she knew, to stare at him so, instead of concentrating on her own prayers. Many prayers of thanksgiving had she offered in her few weeks at Lord Gilles’ keep. ‘Twas a miracle that her life was so blessed. No one scorned her for the child, or not in her presence anyway. Mistress Sarah was a hard taskmaster, and she brooked no gossip or nastiness among her workers.
As Emma passed through the hall entry a voice called to her. “Wench.” It was an order as well as a greeting.
She turned and put down Angelique who clung to her skirts and hid her face. Her babe had been fussy and irritable all day. ‘Twas time she sought her bed. The short, burly man before her was battle-scarred and bullnecked. He was missing one eye, and the empty socket made Emma’s skin crawl. She waited patiently, however, to hear what the man wanted. “Sir?” She recognized him as one of the duke’s visiting knights.
“Come.” The man crooked a finger and turned abruptly away.
Emma hesitated, but realized that a knight must be obeyed as surely as the lord himself. She lifted Angelique, protesting, to her hip. Her stomach danced. Mayhap he was to take her to Lord Gilles. Her free hand rose to smooth her headcovering and fuss at the wrinkles in her worn gray overgown, aware she looked unfit to stand before Lord Gilles.
She followed the man’s swiftly retreating form as fast as she could with Angelique on her hip. The man led the way to a narrow stone staircase that led into the bowels of the keep.
The stair opened to a dark hallway lit only with two rush torches. Their smoke stung her eyes. Off the hall were dark alcoves headed by stone arches. The scent of mold and damp pervaded the chilly hallway. At the bottom of the staircase Emma peeked around the corner. She set Angelique’s twisting, wriggling form on the floor. The man disappeared into a side alcove, and she followed. The man cuffed Angelique away with one sweep of his arm as he engulfed Emma in a strong embrace.
“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 mou
th. 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.
