LordoftheKeep

by Ann Lawrence

  * * * * *

  The sunlight striped the dirt floor, mice rustled through the thatching. They lay entwined on the pallet in a fierce embrace.

  Gilles swallowed hard and linked his fingers tightly with hers and spoke into the charged atmosphere—said it all so no more stood between them.

  “William is my son.”

  He held his breath against her response. Would it be condemnation? Would it be horror? How he wished he’d said the words before they’d made love.

  Emma slowly withdrew her hands, reached across him, and drew his mantle up and about her. So much was now explained, she thought. ‘Twas more than simple envy of youth, ‘twas envy of a youthful son. An unacknowledged son.

  “Why have you not claimed him?”

  He heard curiosity in her voice, not censure. When she spread the mantle to include him and rested her head on his chest, an incredible tension loosened in his body.

  “His existence would have caused great pain to my wife. Margaret and I were a match of land and power. She cared little for me, I suppose, yet it was inexcusable to have dallied elsewhere whilst she was… Nicholas is only six months older than William, if you understand. I am ashamed of my behavior, even now, twenty years later.”

  “Did you love William’s mother?” Emma asked, listening to the rapid hammer of his heart.

  “Nay.” Gilles rolled from the pallet, disentangled himself from her arms and the mantle, and drew on his clothes. He’d been naked enough. He bent and lightly touched her cheek. “When William’s mother came to me, I doubted I was the father of her babe. Others had lain with her, too, habitually. But my honor said I should help her, for I had had her a number of times, and was old enough to feel the responsibility.

  “We bartered over him. A worthy husband and her silence for my wife’s peace of mind. I found her the husband, and paid gladly every year for William’s keep whilst Margaret lived. She may not have loved me, but she cared deeply for her good name and her place at Henry’s court.”

  “Oh, Gilles.” Tears pricked Emma’s eyes and he caught one, wiped it away with his thumb.

  “It somehow felt incestuous to lie with my son’s woman, the mother of my granddaughter. I felt so old…and yet lacking in wisdom I should have gained with those years. I understand now that I cannot demand what is in your heart. You must give it freely, or it is worth nothing.” He knelt before her. “Whatever comes, let me love you, love Angelique.”

  Emma felt his pain. It was as tangible as the love he’d poured into her but moments before. He was stripping himself bare before her. What knowledge he was giving into her hands. How much she understood of him now. How easy it was to forgive him.

  “Aye, Gilles. You may love me…and Angelique.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Emma stood in awe of the Abbot. He did not once look at her or appear to be aware she was present. She felt beneath his notice.

  The wealth of the Abbot’s apartment amazed her. He lived far better than Gilles. Tapestries hung on the walls, silk covers graced his stools.

  The Abbot rubbed his chin. “I will not speak merely to please you, Lord Gilles. The simple folk of the village ofttimes say their vows in bed.”

  Emma felt her cheeks heat. Her stomach churned.

  “Emma and William are not ‘simple’ folk.” Gilles rose and paced the elegant apartment.

  “No. It seems obvious to me this William Belfour sought to lure an innocent to sin. Shameful.” The Abbot closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the high headrest of his silk-covered chair. A few minutes later, he sat straight, and Emma knew a pronouncement was coming. She held her breath. The Abbot would say aye or nay, and from that moment, they must abide by his word. She would be a true wife, or forever but a mistress.

  Suddenly, she did not care. Surely, God had sent Gilles to save her in the forest. How could He then condemn their love?

  The Abbot impaled them with a sharp look down his long nose. “Our beloved Holy Father wishes that every marriage be consecrated by a priest. I, personally, believe a marriage is not valid without such a blessing. Indeed, I do not recognize the marriage of this,” he swept his thin hand in Emma’s direction, “weaver and Sir William. Be at ease. I shall have a dispensation drawn for you this very day. You may then marry at any time. In fact,” he impaled them both with a glare, “I suggest you do so immediately, to give her child a name.”

  * * * * *

  Gilles took Emma to fetch Angelique from a ploughman’s home, where she had lodged in return for a length of cloth.

  Together, they went home to the keep. He strode through the crowds in the hall to the high table. He drew her close to his side. Before them all, he rapped his dagger on the edge of a metal goblet. A hush fell over the hall.

  “We have had enough of tragedy these past few weeks—the collapse of the north wall, the fire…” A murmur rose at his words. Heads bobbed in agreement. “In a fortnight, I propose to give us all a moment of joy in this dark time—a celebration. You are all invited, every man, woman, and child of the village and manor, to a wedding feast.”

  A thunderous shout rose. There had not been a feast at Hawkwatch Keep in many years. Gilles waited for the tumult to subside. He saw anticipation and hope on faces that yesterday had seemed drawn and discouraged. He saw his son William standing at the periphery of the crowd, arms crossed on his chest, puzzlement on his face.

  “I offer you my future bride.” Gilles lifted Emma’s hand and, before them all, kissed her fingers. Angelique strained in Emma’s arms to reach for Gilles. He laughed, snatched her from Emma, and tucked the child into the crook of this arm. The crowd cheered as he leaned over and kissed Emma with a passion that caused her face to flood with heat.

  Grinning, Gilles faced his people. And they were his people, he realized as he looked over the upturned faces. He was as responsible for their happiness as for their pain. It no longer seemed a burden, but instead, a privilege.

  * * * * *

  When the long, exhausting day finally ended, Gilles mounted the stairs. Emma sat on a stool by the fire rocking Angelique. A tenderness welled in his breast. He stood there in silence and watched mother and child.

  She looked up and smiled. “I hope one day to nurture your child, Gilles.”

  He turned away and went to the window embrasure. He threw open the shutters. “I must send for Nicholas. I want you to meet him in better circumstances…and, of course, his wife, Catherine. She is wonderful. An artful healer.”

  Emma watched him warily. No smile lit his features. “What is it? Have I said aught amiss?”

  With an abrupt shake of his head, he turned back to her. Leaning against the stone window ledge, he seemed one with the black velvet sky behind him. His features were solemn.

  “There should be only honesty between us, my love. That is why I must tell you a child between us is unlikely.”

  She tilted her head and gazed at Angelique’s downy cheek. She placed the sleeping child gently on the fur pallet by their bed. When Angelique settled, she went to stand at Gilles’ side. “Explain what you mean.”

  With an infinite sadness, he lifted his hand to her cheek. “I was two score this Epiphany. Did you know I was so old?”

  A fierce anger coursed through her. “You could be three or four score and I would not care,” she almost shouted. “I love you. I will not hear this talk of age again.”

  Gilles wrapped his arms about her waist. “You are as fierce in your defense of me as in your anger. But you must listen. A man of my age has had…women, my love.”

  She leaned back to better see his face. “Many, Gilles?”

  He nodded. “Many. Only after my wife died, I swear it. It has been eleven years since her death. I’ve never fathered a bastard in all that time. Never.”

  “What of William and Nicholas?” she ventured, puzzled, unsure what he was saying.

  “I was ten and seven when I fathered them. In the years since, I’ve never left a woman with a child
. Do you understand?”

  Emma studied his face. “You only had barren women?”

  Gilles pushed away from her and smiled ruefully. “I know ‘tis the belief of most men and women that ‘tis the woman who is to blame when no heir is born, no child conceived. In the early days of my marriage, my wife and I worked most diligently at giving Nicholas a brother. Do I need to say more? Another reason to wed a younger man.”

  Emma touched his back. The muscles were rigid beneath her hand. “Make love to me, Gilles. I care not if a babe results. You have no need of an heir. I have Angelique. We have each other. ‘Tis enough.”

  He bore her to the bed and made short work of their clothing. Rising on his knees, he drew the bed curtains tightly closed, cocooning them in their private space. When they lay naked, facing each other, he spoke. “I have laid bare my soul to you today as I have never done to another person in my life. What is it about you?”

  “What is it about you that makes me turn liquid inside? Makes my heart beat so, makes life seem empty without you?”

  He smiled and cupped her face in his palms. “That night—on the wall. I have never been touched in such a way. I do not mean your hand on my body. I mean in my heart.”

  Emma captured his hand and placed it on her breast. “Touch me, my lord, here.”

  He felt the rapid beat of her heart. “I felt your fear that day in the woods. With the dogs. I felt it the moment you received the wound on your leg. You are somehow a part of me.”

  She drew his fingers slowly along her breast to the tight crest. It ached for his caress. He bent his head and took the swollen tip into his mouth. She moaned at the exquisite fell of his warm, wet tongue on her. As he caressed her, she wrapped her hand around his manhood. With slow, gentle strokes, she offered him pleasure, wringing a moan up from deep in his chest.

  When he would have moved atop her, she held him back. Instead, she lay facing him, her hands on him, savoring the satiny smooth texture of him. She rubbed her palms over him, then down his thighs, between them, up and over him again. Sweat gilded his skin. She bent her head over him.

  With a strangled oath, he pulled her forcefully back and all gentleness between them disappeared. He plundered her mouth. He mounted her in a near brutal plunge. She welcomed him, bore his ardor, returned it with savage pleasure.

  When they fell back into the pillows, chests heaving, mouths open and gasping for air, she felt the tears well up in her eyes at the shattering pleasure he’d wrung from her. She fell instantly to sleep.

  Gilles did not sleep. He thought of what lay ahead. A visit to the archbishop. A possible need to offer a suitably large gift to the church.

  A few hours later, Emma shifted closer to him and he realized the room had grown cold.

  He slipped from the bed, folding back one curtain to allow the light to enter the bed. Emma opened her eyes and smiled at him. Before going to the fire, he looked her over, sprawled in his furs. “I thought of you here, warmed by my passion, but it is you who has warmed me.”

  He moved to the fire. She gasped.

  “What is it?” He hurried back to the bed.

  Emma touched a long scrape on his upper arm. He looked down and shook his head. “I’ve had worse wounds. ‘Twas gained in loving combat. Do not concern yourself.” He watched the color flood her face. “In truth, the wound I dealt myself that night I accused you of preferring William pained me more than any wound I’ve had from dagger or sword.” Then he smiled and kissed her nose before tending the fire.

  The sight of him at the hearth, the muscles of his back moving as he worked, sent her from the bed. She knelt behind him and traced the ridges of muscle that edged his spine.

  She urged him to his back, there upon the rush-strewn floor. Astride him, hands planted on his shoulders, she possessed him as the flame possessed the wood, burning in a lick of searing heat, each movement of her body meant to seal their troth, bind him to her, and wipe the doubts from his mind.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, feeling rather dull from a night with little sleep, Gilles accompanied Sarah to the armory. Big Robbie nodded when they arrived and handed over a sword and belt. Gilles weighed the sword in his hand. He swiped the air a few times, then sheathed it. “I like the balance. You’ve done a fine job.” He unbuckled the sword belt. “Mistress Sarah will require it within the sennight.” Big Robbie grunted assent.

  Gilles gave Sarah a smile. “‘Tis a fine gift. Roland will treasure it.” Little Robbie rushed forward and reverently held out his arms for the sword. Gilles placed it on the boy’s palms with equal gravity.

  The heavy clatter of hooves distracted him from the boy’s devoted attention. He stepped from the armory and looked toward the gate that separated the lower bailey from the middle. A party of men rode through the gate a moment later.

  They wore the royal colors. Something dark and forbidding seized Gilles’ heart and squeezed. Several grooms rushed forward to assist the riders to dismount. When one groom pointed to where Gilles stood at the armory door, he strode to the party.

  “My lord Gilles d’Argent?” inquired a well-dressed man, a courtier from head to toe.

  “Aye.” Gilles nodded. “And you are?”

  “I am Stephen Monkfort, emissary of the king’s justiciar. I have come with important documents drawn by the king,” the man coughed, “before his, shall we say, journey on the continent.” Monkfort placed his hand on the parchments that protruded from a leather satchel.

  “Present them.” Gilles extended his hand. “These precede Richard’s imprisonment?” He was too tired to dance over semantics. It was obvious at this time that Richard had been imprisoned somewhere and a ransom would soon to be demanded.

  “Aye, Lord Gilles.” Monkfort nodded and offered the sealed papers. Gilles drew his dagger and slit the seals. He rapidly scanned the first document, turning slightly away so his face would not betray him to anyone watching. When he had read it, he crushed it in his hand, and slit the seal on the next. He disposed of three others, treating each as contemptuously as the first.

  Pain bloomed in his chest, clutched his throat, and caused a muscle beneath his right eye to jump. In the first document, King Richard had betrothed him to Michelle d’Ambray.

  She was ten and three.

  Chapter Seventeen

  With an ingenuity born of necessity, Gilles avoided Emma for the rest of the day. He found much to do in the village. He also discovered from a few terse questions that the emissaries had no real knowledge of the content of the papers. They would rest the night and depart in the morning. With no answer. No answer was necessary, Gilles had told them, with no further explanations.

  Now, alone in the small chamber where Thomas, Roland, and he discussed the business matters of the manor, Gilles read and reread the betrothal papers. The other documents were the marriage settlements—vast in number—to encourage Gilles to wed again. Michelle d’Ambray’s father was a powerful Marcher baron to whom Richard owed a favor. D’Ambray was also a man with seven daughters. He held far-flung estates from the dispositions of William the Conqueror. To secure his barons’ loyalties where Richard wanted them, Richard had betrothed Gilles to the d’Ambray’s eldest daughter. The king’s personal message stated his devout wish that Gilles would obey.

  Sweet Jesu, Gilles mused. Richard expected him to wed a child. But the awful irony caused him to throw his head back and howl with laughter. He laughed so hard, Roland and Mark Trevalin crowded into the small chamber in alarm. Gilles waved them off.

  “‘Tis a madness,” he said and swept his hand out to the papers. “Read gentlemen, read, and tell me how I may wed the woman I love and still satisfy a king.”

  * * * * *

  Roland leaned his shoulder on the stable wall and watched Gilles throw his knives. It had not taken Roland long to find him. When Gilles had not been contemplating Hawkwatch Bay from the wall, Roland guessed he would be here, away from prying eyes, thinking. Each blade Gilles threw found its
mark, dead on. “What are you going to do about this betrothal? Have you told Emma?”

  Gilles flicked a glance at his friend. He tossed a knife from hand to hand, then let it fly.

  “‘Tis ludicrous.” Roland shook his head. “Richard knows you have no wish to wed.”

  “Aye. Do you think he will reconsider?”

  “Not from afar. You were Henry’s man, not his. A simple refusal will not work. You could cross the channel, look for our wandering king, and when you find him, negotiate his ransom. He might be so grateful he’ll release you from the betrothal, head intact.”

  “Jesu,” Gilles swore and glared at his friend.

  “Or, you could marry them both. Of course, an old man such as you may find it difficult to satisfy two wives.”

  “Would you like me to plant this knife in your back?” Gilles snarled. He strode to where Roland leaned so indolently. His steps slowed. “Ah, I see, you think ‘tis time I told Emma of this dreadful coil.”

  “Sarah and I think you have waited overlong.”

  Gilles sheathed the knife he held in his hand. He nodded.

  “Sarah suggested you speak with Father Bernard. He may be a tiresome flea, but unlike the abbot, who is a political animal, Father Bernard cares little for the machinations of state. He might know of some practical way to thwart a king—without spreading word of the betrothal about the kingdom.”

  Together, the men went in search of the good father. They found him over a trencher of mutton.

  Father Bernard blinked an owlish gaze at Lord Gilles and cleared his throat. “You announced your intention to marry Mistress Emma before all the people of the keep, my lord. May I ask, um, that is, did you and she, that is, have you—”