by Ann Lawrence
“Have I what, man?” Gilles tried to conceal his impatience.
“C-c-consummated your love, my lord?” Father Bernard mopped his brow with the edge of his sleeve. A hectic red stained his round cheeks.
Gilles smiled at the man’s hypocritical discomfort. The father kept a buxom hearthmate. “Oh, aye. Many times over.”
Father Bernard shook his head. “You really must do some penance.” He coughed. “Then you should tell the archbishop of your predicament. He can override a king’s wishes.”
“Can he?” Gilles arched a brow. “Why would the archbishop risk the king’s wrath over such a petty issue as my marriage?”
The priest eyed his dinner. He picked up a leg of mutton and began to gnaw at the bone. “Then find a willing substitute husband for the child. An equally tempting man—to the king, not the maid—one worthy of the match, your equal.”
“By God. You are brilliant!” Gilles shot to his feet. He clapped Roland on the shoulder. “We have but to find a substitute. Magnificent. Roland, put your mind to it—immediately. I must see Emma.”
In an instant he was gone, tearing up the stairs to his chamber. He startled Emma as she splashed water on her face. In the next moment Gilles had her in his arms.
“What is it?” she gasped as he swung her about, spraying water everywhere.
“Just joy, my love. Just joy.” He kissed her soundly and tossed her on the bed.
An hour later, their passions spent, Gilles raised himself on one elbow. He took a mighty breath of air and slowly let it out. “King Richard has betrothed me to a powerful baron’s daughter.”
Emma stared at him, dazed. For many moments, she lay speechless, her mouth open. Her words were high and sharp when, finally, she found her voice. “You’ve asked me to marry you and you’re betrothed to another? What cruel jest is this?” She shoved him aside and scrabbled about for her clothes.
“Hold.” He jumped from the bed and grabbed her shoulders. “I am not going to wed the girl.”
Emma jerked out of his grip. She quickly dressed. Then she seated herself at the table and tried to be calm. “Mayhap you should explain. You make love to me, then drop this news into my lap. I shall soon fear all lovemaking!”
Gilles drew on his robe. He sat at her side. Her fingers were cold when he held her hand. “Do you remember the royal emissaries who arrived today?” She nodded. “They brought betrothal papers drawn by King Richard. My marriage is meant to reduce his brother John’s power. I will not marry her.”
“How can you possibly defy a king?” He watched her eyes fill with tears.
“I will not defy the king. I will present him with a willing substitute who will just as ably suit his purpose.” Her face brightened. He swallowed hard.
“What if you cannot find a man who will do as you ask?” Fear struck deep and hard. Emma threw herself into his arms.
“If there are problems, we shall go away somewhere together and truly defy King Richard.” His grip was hard and fierce.
Emma searched his face for the truth of his words. “You would take such a risk? For me?”
“Aye,” he whispered against her lips. “Aye. There is nothing here for me if you are not by my side.”
“I love you, Gilles.” She pressed her cheek to his, felt the soothing silk of his beard, but inside, she was afraid.
* * * * *
The hunting birds were gone from the walls as the many men of the keep took advantage of the fine weather the next day to hunt. In fact, the hall was nearly deserted. Sun streamed in the arrow slits overhead and lay pools of gold on the wooden floor. The scent of baking bread filled the air as Gilles contemplated the chessboard. He took one of Roland’s pawns. “I cannot just pick any man. He must suit. Think.”
“I am thinking.” Roland retaliated by capturing Gilles’ bishop. A highly significant move, he thought. “We’ve named every lad in Christendom!”
“Every lad, true.” Gilles grunted as Angelique threw herself against his knee. He allowed her to climb into his lap and kept her little hands from stealing the colorful wooden figures on the game board. “My little lady.” He bent and kissed her hand. “Have you any names to suggest?”
Angelique shook her head as if she understood his question, snatched a pawn, and sucked it.
“You love the child.” Roland’s statement was met with a nod. “And does William? Does he love the child, too?”
“He repudiated Emma and the child. So Angelique is mine,” Gilles retorted. He replaced the pawn with a bone ring that had belonged to Nicholas.
“My experience with William says he has but to hear you express that opinion, and he will want the child with a singular passion that will tear us all to pieces.”
“Ah, but I know him, too. He will be silenced with the offer of enough silver, doubt it not.”
“As you say.” Roland returned to the game board. He moved his knight. “Harold of Middlesex,” he said into the lengthening silence. “He has a son. A rather homely lad, but his prospects are as formidable as yours.”
“Aye.” Gilles’ face lighted up and he gave Angelique a quick kiss before setting her back on her feet. “I would be able to ride to Middlesex on the way to seeing Richard’s justiciar with the news of the change of groom. Michelle d’Ambray is far better than Harold could ever hope for his boy. Harold holds important border properties with the Scots, too. ‘Twill be…a ridiculous match. The justiciar will roar with laughter.” Gilles surged to his feet. He paced and fumed.
Roland arched an amused brow. “Too bad Nicholas is wed. He would have served very well. Mayhap you should acknowledge William and offer him.”
“Damnation. This is not a jest.” Then he froze. “I know! Nicholas’ wife, Catherine d’Anjou. What of her brother Gabriel?”
Roland raised his hands in mock horror. “Gabriel d’Anjou! And who will drag him to the altar? You? Me? I value my head—attached to my shoulders.”
“But he is perfect. He has no lands and so would benefit greatly by the match, and yet his relations are beyond reproach. Richard would get what he wishes—alliances that make a web of protection against John’s connivance. Gabriel d’Anjou is perfect! He will forge a bond that John will find difficult to fight. At the same time, Gabriel will bring into Nicholas’ sphere, and mine, those lands belonging to d’Ambray.”
“Gabriel d’Anjou will never agree. He wenches from coast to coast.”
“Eventually he will need to wed. As you said, Michelle is a child. He can—” Gilles stopped himself. He had almost said that d’Anjou could wench for years before settling and getting heirs on his bride. A few years ago, he’d not have realized there was anything wrong with the thought. A few months ago, he’d not have cared. Instead he said, “Richard will love it. He will enjoy d’Anjou’s protests, but in the end, they both will see how perfect it is.” Gilles reached across the chessboard and moved his queen. “Check.”
Roland eyed the board. “You seem very sure.”
“I am sure. I feel it in my bones. ‘Tis an inspiration from God. All will be well!” He strode from the hall.
Roland sighed. “I am sorry, my friend,” he said softly. “You left yourself bare.” He lifted his bishop and took Gilles’ queen.
* * * * *
Gilles burst from the hall and out into the bright sunshine. He flung open the door to the weaving building. With no decorum, he snatched Emma from her loom and dragged her laughing behind him, up the stairs and into his chamber.
“Do I assume your happiness stems from finding a suitable replacement for matrimonial sacrifice?” Emma touched him lightly on the cheek.
“Aye. Gabriel d’Anjou. He is perfect. Handsome, young, well connected. He is brother to my son’s wife. I will ride tomorrow for Seaswept—d’Anjou is frequently a guest there. If he is not there, they will know where I may find him. I shall then convince Gabriel of the superior opportunity a marriage to Michelle d’Ambray will afford him.”
Emma gasped. So little
time. She cupped his face with her hands and stroked her thumbs over his close-cropped beard. She studied every line in his face, to memorize it.
“Such a serious expression, Emma. Are you regretting your decision to wed me?” Gilles’ laughing countenance grew stern.
She slid her fingers into his hair and drew his head down. “Nay. I have no regrets.” She gently kissed his lips. “Make love to me, Gilles.” He swept her into his arms and set her gently in the center of the bed. Though he was determined to go slowly and gently, it took but a moment for them to be mutually swept into passion’s web. At the penultimate moment of his passions, he clasped her fingers to his lips and again begged her forgiveness for any pain he’d caused her. Again, she granted him absolution and then joined him in a soul-tearing completion that was as powerful as anything they’d yet experienced.
Emma remained awake for several hours, wishing she felt as confident as Gilles. That she knew none of the people discussed, King Richard or this Gabriel d’Anjou, did naught to help her. She drifted asleep, their names awhirl in her mind, twisting and turning, linking to each other in an endless spiral of confusion.
* * * * *
Gilles awakened, struck by Emma’s flailing arms. She moaned, eyes tightly closed. Gathering her to his side, he hugged her and smoothed her hair, gentled her and urged her from her dream. Her skin was slick with sweat. She lay quivering in his arms, her face buried against his chest.
“What troubles you?” he whispered into her hair.
“Nothing.” Emma did not want to put her dream into words. She wanted to banish it.
“Tell me. You will feel better and be able to sleep again.” Gilles stroked his hand down her back.
Emma refused to acknowledge that she’d had a bad dream and turned his questions aside by caressing him and drawing him into her arms.
All thoughts of dreams flew from his head, replaced by the reality of Emma touching, holding, and loving him.
When they were sated, she burrowed deeper into Gilles’ side. She feigned sleep that he might not raise the issue of her dream again. As she lay waiting, his breathing deepened, and she knew he slept. Thus she lay awake until dawn, frightened by what she’d dreamt.
* * * * *
It took Gilles a day to prepare his party for hard riding. Emma wished it was longer. She was scarcely prepared, herself, when Gilles came to bid her goodbye.
“Take care, Emma. I have sent William to oversee the strengthening of one of my properties near Selsey. He’ll be gone far longer than I, and needn’t trouble you. Mark Trevalin and Sarah will see to your care. Do not hesitate to seek their advice.”
“Gilles, don’t go.” Emma clung to him. “I have had a dream—a fearful dream.”
“I wondered what made you so restless.” Gilles patted her back. “Now, hush. A dream is not truth.” He turned the subject. “You will think of me every day, will you not?” In truth, Gilles was as loath to leave Emma as she was to have him go.
“My dream, Gilles, I must tell you.” She searched his face for impatience or derision. She found only concern.
Gilles drew her to an alcove and sat her down on a long, padded bench. “Tell me.” He held her hands.
“It was very dark. I thought mayhap the fire had died as there was no light. Then I realized that I was dreaming. I was in a dark room, no fire, no lamp, just darkness. I was so cold.” She clutched Gilles’ hand until hers hurt. “I woke in darkness, pain in my throat, cutting off my air, strangling me. Then it was gone. You were gone. ‘Twas agony.”
“Emma, it is but a dream. You are worrying about our future.” He gathered her in close and held her fiercely. “I love you. I will return to you a free man and we will wed. You must put aside your fears.”
“I love you, too.” Emma did not pursue her fears. He needed to go. She wanted him to stay. She was afraid.
Gilles rose, drawing her up. He stepped away and turned to Angelique, who’d pursued them to their private alcove. He held her tightly and breathed in her innocent scent. “Be good, my child.”
It felt wonderful to call her his child, for in his heart she was.
Together they went to the bailey. Just as Gilles mounted, William drew to his side on a magnificent gray stallion and bid Gilles good journey. Emma was heartily grateful that Gilles had seen fit to send William away. Seeing him as he now was, armored, trailed by his own men, she feared him anew.
A familiar figure darted between the great horses. “Sir William,” cried Beatrice. He half turned in the direction of her voice. “I packed this jest fer ye.” She held up a napkin Emma had seen her preparing that morning. Emma smiled, remembering the care with which Beatrice had selected fruit and cheese for her parcel.
William’s gaze swept over the woman’s offering. Without a word, he turned back to Gilles, bowed, and kicked his mount into motion.
Emma cried in dismay as mud splattered Beatrice’s snowy apron. She hastened forward to help her, for Beatrice stood in the midst of the horses, arms upraised, frozen like a statue. “Come,” Emma urged her as Gilles scowled, then drew his horse about to lead his men from the bailey. ‘Twas another ill omen, Gilles leaving with a frown on his face.
Beatrice’s body stiffened in Emma’s arms as she awkwardly lowered her gift. “‘E dint see me.”
Distracted by her last glimpse of Gilles riding out, Emma spoke half to herself. “He saw you.”
With a wrench of her shoulders, Beatrice tore herself from Emma’s grasp. “Ye know naught! ‘E gave me a token last night. A token! A lock o’ ‘is ‘air. ‘E’d a spoken if’n ‘e’d a seen me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Ye flaunted yerself ‘ere afore all ‘is lordship’s men, so they’s eyes fer only ye. ‘Ow’s William to see me,” she thumped her chest with her fist, “if’n yer twitchin’ yer skirts?”
The ire and bitterness of Beatrice’s attack stunned Emma. Her clenched fist seemed poised to strike. Emma backed away, clutching Angelique close against her chest.
* * * * *
Sarah and Emma walked slowly about the bailey taking the air. Trevalin trailed them at a discreet distance.
Sarah sighed. “It has been a sennight and I don’t mind admitting I am missing my Roland. ‘Twas necessary he ride with Lord Gilles, but still, I miss him.”
Emma turned to her friend. “I have had my dream again. I want Gilles to come home.”
“Aye. Dreams are powerful things.” Sarah shook off her own shiver of fear. Anxiety had etched itself on Emma’s face. Her eyes were shadowed and her skin pale. “Come, let us see what you might accomplish on the loom ere they return. You may tell me of your dream, and we will banish it from your mind. Mayhap we may lose this shadow.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder in Trevalin’s direction.
Emma cared little who followed, watched, or heard them speak. She had little enthusiasm for any activity save caring for Angelique. They finally settled in with the spinners. May came to them and begged a few moments’ privacy, leaving Angelique with the two women. They sat in silence, Sarah’s spindle moving in a smooth rhythm, Emma knotting and twisting the silks she was using to weave a trimming for one of Gilles’ tunics. Finally, frustrated with the tangled mess, she threw it aside and hoisted Angelique into her lap. She rested her chin on her daughter’s head.
“I cannot shake this foreboding.”
“Then tell me the dream again and purge yourself of its poison.” Sarah set her spinning aside.
“‘Tis always the same,” Emma began. “I am in a dark, dark place. Night or day—I can’t say, I just know ‘tis dark and I am sleeping. It is pain that wakes me each time. A pain so piercing, so terrible, I need to scream, but fast on the pain I lose my air. No screams escape my throat because I can’t breathe. I try, I grasp my throat, I struggle, but ‘tis all for naught. Then, just as suddenly as the pain comes—it goes. In my dream I lie on some hard surface and know that this pain means something terrible, something fearsome. I’m so afraid, Sarah. I want Gilles.”
Angelique
thrashed in her Emma’s arms, responding to her mother’s agitation.
“Be calm,” Sarah warned, reaching for Angelique and pulling her from Emma’s lap. “Do not let others see you so overwrought. You don’t want to be an object of gossip. You’ll be Lord Gilles’ lady soon.”
Lord Gilles’ lady. Emma nodded, saw the curiosity around the weaving room, and choked back her fear. She plucked up the silks and bent her head over them, fussed at the snarls.
“This dream is disturbing, I’ll grant you that,” Sarah said when Emma had regained her composure. “But I see naught in it that would bode ill for our men. So try to put it aside.”
Emma knew the subject was closed. She looked about the room at the other women spinning. There was no one to help her. She was alone.
Chapter Eighteen
William Belfour had made several quiet visits to Hawkwatch over the three weeks since Lord Gilles had sent him to see to the inspection of the outer walls at Selsey Manor. Lord Gilles had no wish to have the same tragedies repeated there as at Hawkwatch. The fortifications were of a like age.
Once William had determined the builders knew their task well, he saw no reason to breathe down their necks, and, in truth, Selsey quite lacked in maidenly diversions.
This day, loath to bestir himself from his horse, William Belfour leaned his arms on his saddle and waited patiently for his horse to drink from the pond behind the mill that served Hawkwatch Manor. The day stretched lazily before him, pleasure only on his mind. A quick movement in the shadows cast by the morning sun caught his eye. Ah, she was early, eager. It boded well.
A woman walked from the copse of trees edging the pond. He frowned. Then a short, jeering laugh caught in his throat. Dismounting and flipping his reins over a branch, he crouched behind some low hedges and watched.
He remembered well another day when he’d seen Emma searching among roots and reeds for plants to enhance her dyes. That she still came here amused him. Shouldn’t a future lady of the keep be ordering jewels and ribbons, not grubbing in the dirt?
