by Ann Lawrence
He ignored May’s invitation and others that presented themselves as women sought the man who was master. None met with his approval. His footsteps neared the long stone building where the weavers and spinners slept. As lord of the manor, all men, women, and children in his care must obey him. He had planned to order Emma to his bed, but now he realized he could not face her refusal and returned to his chamber, angry and taut with leashed desires and envies.
With a few terse words, he sent a sentry for Emma, unable to ask her to come himself. When she stood silently by his closed door, her head down, her shoulders bowed, hands clasped tightly before her, her posture told him all. He had shamed her, cowed her wonderful spirit, mayhap crushed it irreparably.
He stood confounded for a moment, unsure how to proceed. He’d let too much time pass for words to come easy.
All their moments of lovemaking had been a mutual coming together, with her often reaching out to him. He knew only how to command men.
His voice sounded harsh in the silent room. “You know why you are here, remove your clothes.”
“And if I do not?” her voice trembled. “Will you beat me?”
He did not believe his ears. He whirled to the hearth. “Get on with it,” he ordered.
The spinners, when they’d thought she was asleep, had whispered wagers on who Gilles would favor next. It only twisted the knife deeper that May was considered the most likely choice. Emma had tried to tell herself it did not matter—if he called for her, she would refuse.
But when the summons came, she went, a tiny part of her heart sure he wanted to beg her forgiveness.
Foolish heart.
Emma did not look at Gilles as she walked to the bed. Every night for days she’d rehearsed the words she thought might heal the rent between them, but his brusque manner struck her silent, held the words deep within her. She lost the will to say them and knew only a bleak despair. He was treating her like a leman.
Although a free woman, she could not disobey him. To do so might mean she and Angelique must leave. She was not yet ready to sever the tenuous connection she had to this man and make the trek back down the hill to the village.
With her back to him, fingers shaking, Emma unlaced her gown and dropped it in a heap. She sat down and slid her shift off her shoulders, then pulled up the covers. Her heart raced and her palms were sweaty.
She heard him strip off his clothing. Her eyes began to smart with tears. How could she endure his touch, grant his demands, if he treated her with cruelty?
She loved him, could not bear to have him touch her merely to gratify some base urge. How could she show him she loved him? How could she ever say the words aloud?
The bed dipped as Gilles climbed in beside her. She felt a trembling in her legs from the tension and fear.
Gilles leaned over her. The coarse weave of the linen sheets mocked him, for they were from a less-skilled weaver’s hands.
The mattress quivered with the trembling of her body. It was fear of him, he felt. It shamed him. He would not be shamed by a woman who was but a servant. “You know why you are here. Do you so soon forget your duties?”
His words killed any hope in her heart. She froze as his arms closed about her. He buried his face in her hair, his breath warm against her skin. She shivered. Then he ran his hand over her and, before she could prevent it, she rose to his touch, moved into his embrace, clung to him.
Whatever she had expected, it was not this, this gentle caress. He made love to her with all the skill he had at his command. He worked upon her senses, tantalizing, teasing, licking, kissing. She closed her mind against him. She willed her mind somewhere else, but could not stem the liquid rush of desire that flooded through her body. ‘Twas shameful to be so enflamed by a man who held her in contempt.
Gilles claimed her. When finally he fell upon his back, his heart racing, his body drained, he knew a deep pain that might never be assuaged, for as he’d spent himself, he’d faced a terrible truth.
Despite the fiery response of her body, his Emma was not there. He’d killed some precious part of her and, in so doing, part of himself.
Words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them. “You will not hold back from me what you so willingly gave him.”
Something within Emma snapped. She rolled from his embrace and slipped from the bed, then jerked on her clothes, tearing laces. “What I gave him? What tales have you heard? William, aye, let us name him, had nothing from me!”
She knotted her hands before her. “William Belfour! Let’s be done with pretense. Aye, he was my lover and I thought my husband. And aye, he is Angelique’s father. Did he claim her or me? Nay. Did he ever help me? Nay. I birthed his babe in Old Lowry’s stable, with rats eating the birth sac as I lay in a faint.
“Widow Cooper saved me, not William! Why should I feel any loyalty, any caring for him? I was just a vessel for his lust. And why do you, his lord, not take him to task for his behavior? Because he is a man—your man—and I am but a woman?”
Gilles sat up. She looked him over. The bedclothes pooled about his hips. Just a few moments before, his beguiling body had claimed her, driven sense from her, maddened her. Now, the fire painted harsh shadows on his face. Hard man. Hard heart.
“I erred in first love.” Her voice dropped from frantic anger to whispered sadness. “I have erred in my second love, too.” She tipped up her chin, defiant again. “Well, my lord, I will not err again. I refuse you your satisfaction, save this—I never knew passion with William because he sought only his pleasure, never mine.”
Gilles stared at her as she turned away.
Could she be telling the truth?
She left him with a bang of his chamber door—left him to cold, coarse sheets. Her words ran like a litany in his mind.
Second love…second love…love…love.
A knot of ice lodged in his chest. She had loved him. His eyes burned with tears he denied, as he’d denied their love.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning, Mark Trevalin roused Gilles from a restless sleep. His head pounded as if he’d had too much ale.
“My lord, I beg leave to disturb you. The village…I fear ‘tis in flames. The smoke is everywhere!”
“Mon Dieu!” Gilles rolled from the bed. “Summon the men. Saddle the horses.” He snatched at his discarded clothing. In moments, he was striding through the hall, looking neither left nor right as he called for his horse.
Roland caught up with Gilles near the stable yard as he talked to the village lad who’d originally sounded the alarm. “What is it?” Roland asked, gasping for air.
“A thief, likely one I trusted William to string up, has fired an abandoned cottage. These damnable winds have cast the embers to others. The village is in turmoil. Again! Order all the men available to help carry water from the village well. I want to see to the matter myself.” At that moment a groom arrived leading the mare Gilles favored for short rides. He swung into the saddle. “Trevalin will see to the gathering of the men. Attend me, Roland.”
“Is there fear of the fire spreading?” Roland asked, looking up to Gilles.
Though Gilles’ hair was tied back with a leather thong, the high winds tossed the loose strands about his brow. That brow was deeply furrowed with anger. “With my luck of late? Be sure of it.”
Roland’s horse was brought forward. From the vantage point of his saddle, he saw thick smoke billowing skyward.
Gilles’ mount thundered over the drawbridge, Roland on his heels, and scattered people who barely had time to escape the hooves. They swung off to the west, toward the plume of smoke rising beyond a cluster of cottages.
As they neared the conflagration, their mounts sidled and reared in fear.
Gilles slid off his mare and soothed her until she quieted, then he turned her reins over to a stout man who hurried to assist him. Roland ran after Gilles through the frightened clusters of people passing buckets of water. They aimed to soak the thatch of the roofs of the nearest cott
ages threatened by the flames. The fire, larger than Roland had anticipated, made him swallow hard. His mother had died in a fire.
Gilles pulled off his mantle and offered it to a woman who stood and stared, tears running down her face. She shivered in naught but a shift. Her feet were fiery red. He spied Roland and turned her over to him.
“Find a woman to care for her. We need you here.” Gilles disappeared into the swirls of smoke that enveloped one end of the lines of people who fought the flames.
Roland felt the woman quiver in his arms. He looked down and saw what Gilles had seen. The woman must have walked across one of the patches of burning hay. Her feet looked painful, though the woman seemed oblivious. Roland looked wildly about until he saw an old woman.
“Grandmother. Take this poor woman. She’s in need of care; her feet are burned.”
“Aye. Mistress, come with me.” The villagers nearby surged forward and offered their help, glad to be of some assistance rather than just standing and watching their homes burn. The lines of men passing buckets made little headway. The winds were too strong.
Gilles strode out of the smoke, his face streaked with grime, and spoke with Roland. “There’s little help for that end of the village. We’ve soaked the thatch here, and we can but hope. Most surely, the gods are punishing me.” He shook his fist at the azure sky overhead. “Where are the rains now?”
Then he was engulfed by a throng of panicked people. He promised all shelter at the keep and help for those burned. He soothed and calmed. He shepherded the people away from the lines of men passing buckets. He issued directives to the able. Finally, he and Roland joined Trevalin where he stood with a line of men who were trying to save the alehouse. “I’ve assigned tasks, more to keep the idle busy and panic down,” Gilles said to the men, “but there’s little to be done.” And little to return home to. He sighed. “I’ll stay until the fire is out.”
* * * * *
Word of the devastating fire’s consequences raced through the village, over the drawbridge, and into the keep. Emma hurried to join the crowd in the bailey to hear news of the village. As villagers once again thronged to the keep in an age-old seeking of shelter, as they would in a siege, Emma searched their faces for friends. Widow Cooper, hair windblown, soot on her plump cheeks, trudged in her direction from the inner bailey. Alone.
Waving frantically, and unable to breach the throngs of people, Emma caught her friend’s attention. “Thank God you’re well.” Emma clutched the kindly woman to her breast when they finally found a way to each other.
“Aye. I am. But others were not so fortunate.” The widow swept her hands down her skirts, spotted with soot.
“Your son? The children?” Emma asked, her eyes searching the crowd again. She would never have admitted it was Gilles she sought.
“The young ones are settled in the chapel. Eating their ‘eads off. My boy’s fine. Able, ‘e is, and thus Lord Gilles has set ‘im to fight the fire. There’s a one!”
“Who?” Emma took the widow’s arm and lead her through the masses of people toward the hall.
“Why, Lord Gilles. Other nobles would ‘ave let the village burn and sent their steward to assess the losses, with a mind on taxes to cover ‘em, too, no doubt.”
Emma tried to keep her voice even and calm. “Did you see him?”
“Aye. I was close enough to touch ‘is ‘and if’n I’d so desired. There’s one not too proud to pass a bucket o’ water with ‘umble folk. God love ‘im.”
How easy, Emma thought, to forgive him in light of the widow’s report. He’d behaved in an admirable way. It was such behavior that had made her love him, but he had another side, a dark side, one he’d hidden from her. Angry words might occur daily in the village, but Emma had elevated Gilles to another plane. She’d made a god of him in her dreams and in her life. He’d fallen from grace. She choked back tears of anguish as the widow rambled on about Gilles.
“Come, help me with the children,” Emma urged the widow.
“Nay. Take me to the kitchens. I’d be ‘appier ‘elpin’ prepare a meal for this vast crowd than watchin’ babes. They’ll surely need extra ‘ands in the kitchen, don’t ye think? Ye could watch the babes ‘til my son comes.”
Emma had to agree. She sighed. The last thing she wished was to bandy words with the widow’s son. Emma left the widow in the kitchens in Beatrice’s care and went into the chapel to see what she could do. In short order she was bathing grime from children’s faces and helping to entertain them while spouses found their partners and groups of adults gathered to tell their own separate tales of the fire. The villagers seemed sure that Lord Gilles would come to their aid as promised.
No lives had been lost, so the atmosphere was not one of great sorrow. The greatest loss, deserving of much mourning, appeared to be a goodly number of kegs of ale.
She looked about. Smoke wreathed the high beams overhead as torches burned in the chapel’s wall brackets. The cross at the front mocked her. She touched the one about her neck. A servant hastened by her with a tray of loaves of bread which he handed to Father Bernard to distribute. A mother soothed her crying child. The stink of burning clung to everyone’s clothing and hair. The widow’s son lay asleep in a tangle of his children’s arms and legs, Angelique among them.
Carefully, so as not to wake her, Emma lifted Angelique into her arms. Another would need the space. When she came to the building that housed the spinners and weavers she found every available space taken. Her pack hung from a peg on the wall. She lifted it and tiptoed away.
Chapter Fifteen
Sarah removed the bandages from Gilles’ hand and, with Roland peering over her shoulder, inspected the burns on his palm and fingers. “‘Tis healing well, my lord, but the leech should see it.”
He shrugged. “He will do naught but bleed me. I am burned not feverish.” She coated the wounds with goose grease, and then wrapped his hand in clean strips of cloth. When it was done, Gilles rose and cleared his throat. “Mistress Sarah, may I have a word with Roland?” He stood indecisively before the couple. He’d never known their closeness; in truth, had never before sought it, or realized it was missing from his life—until Emma.
“Aye, but not for long, my lord.” Sarah gave her husband’s knee a squeeze and slid silently from the chamber.
“Gilles?” Roland hooked his foot on a rung of Sarah’s stool and pulled it toward him. He propped his feet up and began to pare his nails with a small, sharp knife.
“Roland, we should seek those villagers tomorrow who are capable of speaking for the rest. We need to assess how the rebuilding is going.”
“Aye.” Roland nodded.
Gilles took an apple from the table and took a bite. He frowned. It was hard and mealy, tasting of ashes, as all he ate did these days. “I know nothing of thatching cottages. I am better suited to determining Richard’s ransom!”
“Aye. But you’ll soon learn.” Roland settled back into a lazy posture again.
Gilles sat on Sarah’s stool after pushing Roland’s boots to the floor. He was now at eye level with his friend. Roland returned to his nails, with apparent lack of interest.
A silence reigned. A log fell in a shower of sparks and fragrant smoke. A child cried out for its mother and Gilles thought of Angelique. Anguish smote him.
He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands. “Emma and I, we have had a falling-out.”
“Tell me something the entire keep does not know.” Roland snorted.
“Jesu. Must you make of everything a jest?” Gilles turned his anger on his friend. He leapt to his feet and made for the door.
“Gilles, stop. I did not mean to offend you.” Roland also rose. He stood in stiff anticipation before the hearth. “I have promised Sarah I would lend you an ear should you broach the subject yourself. There’ll be domestic hell to pay if I let this opportunity slip by.”
Gilles stood, taut and angry, by the door. Suddenly his shoulders slumped. He had no othe
r of whom to seek advice, no one whose advice he valued more, no one to whom he could speak frankly.
“What I am about to tell you, it must remain here. It is not for Sarah, either.”
“‘Twill be hard to keep any secrets from her.” Roland sheathed his knife and approached Gilles. “Secrets between husband and wife foster distrust and make for acrimony.”
“Then only Sarah.” Gilles felt raw and on edge. He felt at sea, a feeling new to one so used to command. “I know all about secrets.”
“Then sit and tell your tale.”
Gilles strode past Roland and slammed a fist on the sturdy table, causing goblets to leap and apples to roll. “Angelique is William’s babe.”
“Never.” Roland grasped Gilles’ shoulder, spun him around. He saw the stark truth in Gilles’ eyes. And he saw deep pain.
“She believed herself in love, said vows with him.”
“What kind of vows would William offer a woman?” Roland sniffed.
“The kind that will hasten the lifting of a skirt.”
“What can I say, friend?” Roland gave Gilles’ shoulder a squeeze.
“Nothing. There’s nothing to be said. Mon Dieu, I have said it all—already—to Emma.” He let the pain burn up his throat again, had to turn abruptly away to hide his emotion. Bracing his hands on the table, he confessed. “It ate at me. Mon Dieu. It tore me apart. One night I let my jealousy get the better of me.” Gilles could feel the blood rise to stain his cheeks.
“Did she wish to hold William to his pledge?” Roland asked.
“I think…not.” Gilles raked his fingers through his hair. “Mon Dieu. I do not know. Jesu, Roland. He is but a score of years.” He whirled to face his friend. “I cannot fathom why she would want my company, other than the obvious reasons.”
“What are the obvious reasons?”
“My position…William’s rejection of her…my ability to offer Angelique a better life…” He burned with leashed emotion.
“Mayhap she seeks you because she sees much to admire and loves you.”
