by Ann Lawrence
“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.
“There!” she cried, pointing to a knot of men and women who were shifting the remains of some poor soul’s shattered home. “Widow Cooper!” She searched the crowd frantically for the five grandchildren.
The widow paused in her labors and turned, her face fiery red from her exertions. Emma heaved a sigh of relief when she spied the widow’s son, moving among those who rendered aid. Huddled nearby, the familiar faces of his children gaped at the rubble like a row of crows on a branch. “Thank God,” she said to Lord Gilles. “They’re safe.”
Gilles stilled his mount as the gelding shifted and danced when Emma leaned over to touch her friend’s cheek. He forced his mind from her bottom wriggling against him. He tightened his grip to hold her still as she clasped her friend’s hands. A shiver, not brought on by the chill wind, coursed his body.
“Praise God, yer not part o’ this,” the widow said, kissing Emma’s hand.
Emma felt the heat on her cheeks. What must her friend presume from her position in Lord Gilles’ lap? She stammered an excuse for her actions when Lord Gilles cut across her words.
“Have you need of more help, Mistress? Is anyone trapped beneath yon building?” He flexed his fingers about Emma’s waist, drawing her tighter against his chest. Heat flashed up her cheeks.
“Nay, my lord, there’s naught but a few goats lost here. But we’re in need of a few more hands to shift the stone as these people counted on the goats to see them through the winter. Can’t let them rot.”
“You shall have what you need.”
Emma had but a moment to lift her hand to bid her friend goodbye when Gilles wheeled his mount and made his way back to the crowd who worked at the wall. In moments, he’d commandeered men who were doing naught but gawking at the mountain of rubble. He sent them to aid Widow Cooper, then turned his horse again.
Emma sat in the shelter of his body. Warmth radiated from him. He’d drawn the edge of his mantle over hers. Every inch of her body was aware of him, aware, most especially, of the nearness of his hands as he tugged at the reins. He wore no gauntlets. His hands were red from the cold, and she almost gathered them to her to rub them back to warmth. ‘Twould be an impertinence…nay, a madness.
There was nowhere to put her hands. The most likely place, the horse’s mane, had put them in his way as he plied the reins, shifting the horse skillfully through the crowd. She kept them balled in fists instead, or clutched her mantle’s edge. But the constant movement of the horse as Lord Gilles rode about, calling orders, directing the workers, made her wobble against him constantly. She wanted to hold onto him, but didn’t dare.
Again, he seemed to read her mind. “‘Twould be safer if you held my arm. Should you fall off, you would suffer a grave injury.”
Gently, she locked her fingers about his forearm. She felt the strength of him through the wet cloth of his sleeve, and knew immediately that she had not the right to touch him. “‘Twould be safer yet to put me down, my lord.”
“Aye,” he agreed. Emma wanted to bite her tongue, for he looped his reins in one hand and wrapped his other arm securely about her waist. In a moment, she was sliding back to earth. Her skirts tangled on his boot and she fought them down. “Thank you, my lord, for helping me search for my friend.”
Gilles reached out for her hand. Her fingers were cold as they met his. “Go back to the keep and see that Mistress Sarah gives you a warming drink and dry clothes. Tell her that if others have the same need, the chests in Lady Margaret’s chamber should at least clothe the females.”
Lord Gilles held her hand as if she were a fine lady and he a courtier. She felt breathless and, despite the disaster, she did not want to relinquish her hold. “Rest assured, my lord, I shall do your bidding.”
She looked at her hand in his. An urge to bring his fingers to her cheek made her draw back as if a snake had bitten her. Head down, she whirle
d away. Lifting her skirts, she ran from him, her heart wild in her chest.
* * * * *
Gilles, disconcerted, stared about his hall, which held twice the normal number of folk. Roland joined him. “Quite a spectacle, is it not?”
Gilles nodded, stripped off his sopping wet mantle, and tossed it to Hubert. “I had no idea my wife had such a colorful array of garments.” Dotted about the hall from high table to low, women sat in bright silks and woolens. “Well, well,” he muttered.
“My Sarah was loath to take the weaver’s word that you wanted to rifle Lady Margaret’s coffers, but when Sarah saw the pathetic garb of the villeins you sent here with William, she did not really care if you had offered the suggestion or not. You did suggest Lady Margaret’s clothing for these unfortunates, did you not?”
Gilles nodded. “Aye. ‘Twas done as I directed.” He smiled with satisfaction as a yellow gown he had particularly loathed on his wife went by on a wench who most likely sold her favors at the village tavern. “That gown always made my wife look bilious.”
Roland snorted. “I hope Lady Margaret does not return to haunt you when she sees who is wearing it. The bodice does strain the—”
“Imagination?” Sarah finished with a cuff to her husband’s arm. “You’ll keep your eyes in your head.”
Roland grinned, hugged her close, and nuzzled the warm skin of her neck. “Aye. I’ve eyes only for you, my love. Could you not find some filmy silks for yourself?”
“I’ve no need of silks,” Sarah said, sighing and leaning against her husband.
Gilles coughed. Sarah slipped from Roland’s arms. She turned her attentions to other matters with a grin. “Hubert has seen to a hot tub in your chamber, my lord.”
“My thanks.” Gilles bowed, then crossed the hall. He looked neither right nor left. His strength had been tested. Not the strength of his body, but of his spirit. He wanted to hear no more of misery for a few hours. In truth, he had need to cleanse his spirit before cleansing his body.
With that in mind, he made his way to the wall-walk that encircled the high stone keep and connected with another walk running atop the outer defensive walls. The wooden walk was four feet wide. He propped himself on his forearms in a crenel, the gap between two merlons, and stared out to the waters of the bay. The parapet was his favorite spot for thinking through a knotty problem. The sentries did not trespass here when he appeared. They respected his need for solitary silence.
The rain still fell in a light drizzle. Every muscle in his body screamed with fatigue, but he dreaded sleep. He would see the dead in his dreams, he was sure.
He breathed deeply and imagined the hint of lavender on the air. A ghostly flutter of cloth caught his eye—not the sentry. He knew their every step, their hours, their habits. From the dark shadows, a woman appeared. The weaver. A flush of heat crept up his cheeks as he remembered how warm and supple she had felt in his arms. How shameful to have his mind on his cock when so much misery had been all around them.
“Mistress Emma.” He said her name softly. He nodded.
“Lord Gilles.” She dipped into a low curtsey.
She’d changed into a worn gray woolen gown. It was ill-fitting and frayed at the hem.
“Forgive me for trespassing on your privacy,” she said. She made no move to the arched entrance and the winding stone staircase that led past his chambers to the hall below.
“You do not trespass.” He returned to his contemplation of Hawkwatch Bay. He felt rather than saw her move close and stand on tiptoe to look through the neighboring crenel. His thoughts spilled from his lips. “Does not the bay appear as if it were a silver island?”
Her voice was a soft whisper in the night. “Aye.”
He imagined her saying aye to him in just such a way when he asked her to come to his bed.
Emma cleared her throat. “My lord?”
He turned and faced her. They were near enough that he could scent the wool of her gown, the poor soap she’d used to bathe. “Emma?”
“You saved so many this day. Should no one else say it, I must. Thank you.”
“I but did my duty.” His voice felt rough, raw.
“Nay, you acted from within here.” She touched her hand to the center of his chest. “Many would not have cared for some poor serf’s death.”
A flame of passionate agony burst where her hand lay on his chest. It was all he could do to stand still. They locked eyes.
Emma could not move. What had she done? She had touched him. Yet she could not remove her hand. Her arm trembled. Slowly, Lord Gilles lifted his own hand and covered hers. She felt the hard beat of his heart, felt the warmth of him through the damp wool of his tunic. He pressed her hand against him.
The flickering, smoky light of a nearby torch cast his face in harsh shadow. She knew what character of man he was now. A man who thought of others. A man who commanded, but yet did not crush those beneath him under his boot.
“Do you remember accepting my protection?” Gilles asked her.
“Aye.” She nodded. Her mouth dried.
“I want you in my bed.”
A cold pain washed through her. William had said much the same. Yesterday. And today. She jerked her hand from under his. A quick step back and she bumped into the hard stone wall. With trembling fingers, she clutched at the soft wool of her damp skirt. How could she have made such a mistake? Tears rose and blurred him into a dark, formless shape.
The measured cadence of a sentry’s boots nearer, then turned and moved away. “He will not trespass here,” Gilles assured her. She listened to the fading sound of the man’s departure. The night became still save for the whistle of the wind and the drip of rain from the roof.
Gilles blocked her flight by stepping in close. He cupped her cold face in his hands. “You are lovely.” He rubbed his thumbs over her soft cheeks. “Sweet. Yet loveliness and sweetness I can resist. ‘Tis something else you have, some spell you’ve woven about me that makes me want you.” He released her and turned away. How could he possibly tell her how drawn he was, how captivated? “Nay,” he said it quietly, almost to himself. “Nay, it makes me need you.”
Emma stood as if bolted to the wooden walk. Nothing lay between her and the arched way to the hall, but she could not move. Of all the reasons he might have offered, need she could not have guessed. He appeared to be a man who had everything. Mayhap his words were ones of calculation, as William’s had been. Before she left, she must make him understand. Just in case. Just in case it was need that had made him speak. “My lord, I believe I have misunderstood your protection. I paid my six-pence fine. It makes us even. My crime is paid for. Do not seek to enter my name in your rolls again.”
Gilles jerked around at her words. “Is that what you think? I want to shame you? I want to honor you.”
She shook her head slowly. A pain pounded in her temples. “There is no honor in what you offer. If my father and mother lived, I would feel no pride in my position. You see, I said vows I thought were forever, so there is no role I can play here save mistress. It’s a fool’s role.”
He had forgotten her background. “I meant no insult. On my honor, on my good name, I had no intention to sully yours.” They stood there in silence for a moment. Then her words penetrated his utter disappointment. “Vows? What vows did you say?”
She bent her head and folded her hands, yet he imagined the flush on her cheeks. “I offered myself once, in exchange of a promise of marriage, not, I regret, before others or a priest. Needless to say, the father of my child denies his vows, denies his daughter.” Her chin came up, her eyes met his. “See, my lord. I have already played the fool’s game. And though he may deny his words, I said mine. And meant them. To say anything else makes of my daughter a bastard. Pray, my lord, let us forget what has happened between us.”
She turned and fled.
Gilles cursed himself for a clumsy fool. He’d botched the offer, insulted her. He’d held her in his arms, touched the silk of her
cheek, breathed in her womanly scent. Madness would claim him if he did not have her.
The wind rose. It carried the salt scent of the sea. It neither soothed nor cleansed. Nay, it swirled about him as his passions and disappointment swirled through his mind.
He understood all about making a child a bastard.
Vows. Bloody vows. Pledged for eternity—to another.
* * * * *
Emma watched Angelique from the corner of her eye as she worked at a loom in the far corner of the room. The men had accepted the child. She tumbled in and out of a basket of yarn. Emma’s back ached. She worked from dawn to darkness and fell into a troubled sleep each night. Lord Gilles visited her dreams. She dreamt she could feel the heat of his skin, the touch of his hands. There was no peace. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Time had eased nothing, in fact, had made it worse. Each day strengthened her conviction that he was a good man, one who cared for those beneath him.
“Sarah,” she asked her friend one day, “what think the people of the keep of Beatrice?”
“Cock-struck. She’s little on her mind save what’s between a man’s thighs. Poor Trevalin—and Hubert—they pant after her but haven’t enough between them to hold her attention.” She held up her fingers spaced a few inches apart and laughed.
Emma nodded. Cock-struck. Was that what she’d be called if she gave in to temptation?
“Why do you ask?” Sarah swept Angelique from the wool pile and dandled her on her knee.
“A woman has no respect if she lies with a man out of wedlock.”
“‘Tis more like she has no respect for herself.” Sarah began to tickle Angelique. The child’s squeals and shrieks drew all the other weavers’ attention and allowed Emma a moment of red-faced shame.
Sarah brought Angelique close. She went down on one knee at Emma’s side. Emma ignored her and threw her shuttle as if naught else concerned her.
“Forgive me, Emma. I did not think when I spoke just then.”
Emma’s hand trembled. “No need to apologize for truth.”
“Stop.” Sarah captured Emma’s hand. “I’ve insulted you. Please, forgive me.”
