LordoftheKeep

by Ann Lawrence

  “There are those here who say Belfour is the father of your child, Angelique. Is that so?”

  Emma looked up at Sarah. She’d not told anyone beyond Sarah, yet as usual there were no secrets in the keep. When Sarah nodded and squeezed her shoulder, Emma knew her friend would stand by her.

  “Aye. William Belfour is…was the father of my child.”

  “And you tried to make him responsible for you? I found in the manorial records that your uncle brought you before Lord Gilles to ask you to name your lover. You paid a sixpence fine for bearing a child out of wedlock.”

  “I never tried to make Sir William responsible. That was my uncle’s wish, not mine. I wanted naught to do with William when I learned his true nature.”

  God, please send Gilles home.

  Trevalin rose. The other men at the table did not meet Emma’s eyes. They’d remained silent throughout the proceedings. “I am afraid there is too much evidence against you to let you go. I am also unable to decide a matter of this gravity. William Belfour was a knight of the realm, and therefore, you must answer in the royal courts. They are convened at the Duke of Norfolk’s castle, and I’ll have a party gathered to escort you there. The court will decide your guilt or innocence.”

  “Nay,” gasped Sarah. Emma said nothing. It was what she’d expected from the start. Silently she rose and faced Trevalin. When he nodded, two sentries, the same who’d come to her defense in the bailey, took her wrists and bound them.

  Before they led her from the room, Emma turned to Sarah. “Send for Gilles. He’ll know what to do. Look after Angelique. Kiss her for me. Care for her.” Emma’s voice broke on her words, and her eyes filled with tears. Before they could spill, she followed Trevalin from the room.

  Chapter Twenty

  Gilles woke, immediately alert, his heart pounding. He shot to his feet, groaning with stiffness from spending the night on the cold, hard ground. A sense of urgency, of foreboding, made him shake Roland awake and kick out the embers of the fire. His wrists burned and he rubbed them as Roland checked the girth on his horse. When Roland was ready, they mounted. The two men nudged their mounts to a quick trot along the fog shrouded roadway. The rest of their party was at least three days behind.

  “I know Nicholas thinks me mad to leave so abruptly.”

  “You were just avoiding Gabriel d’Anjou’s wrath,” Roland snorted.

  Gilles could not raise the expected grin—or response. He had not even waited on the loading of the wagons that would carry assorted goods he’d purchased for the displaced villagers back to Hawkwatch.

  The eerie silence of the morning fog made each word spoken seem loud and intrusive in the dawn. They rode in comparative silence for two hours, when suddenly the sun pierced the fog like golden knives cleaving the sky.

  “Ah,” Roland sighed, “‘tis a good omen, this sun. It warms the spirit.”

  “I am beset with this mad impatience to be home. Whatever good omens you may perceive, I have this gnawing in my gut. I feel uneasy, almost as if…I know ‘tis foolish, but I feel as if all is not well.”

  “‘Tis just deprivation, or your usual distaste for my cooking. You should have bedded that little redhead—Juliana, I believe her name was. She was practically undressing you before my very eyes. Ah, if only she’d looked my way!”

  “And at the risk of having Sarah flay the hide from your bones, you would have bedded her?” Gilles asked, smiling.

  “Nay, but a man may dream.”

  “Aye. A man may dream.” And Gilles’ dreams were all of Emma, the scent of her, the texture of her skin beneath his fingertips.

  Gilles was not heartened by the sun. Each mile drew them closer to home, and each mile the gnawing in his gut became more insistent. He let his attention wander to Emma’s dream. He’d tried to downplay his apprehensions, for to admit that dreams could foretell the future was to admit to belief in sorcery, but it boded ill that she’d dreamt an evil dream.

  “A race!” Roland kicked his mount to a gallop when the tower of Hawkwatch came into sight. Soon the two men were thundering along in reckless disregard of the sheep populace. Gilles was first over the drawbridge and into the bailey, sliding from his saddle and tossing the reins to a groom. He took the steps of the keep two at a time, Roland close on his heels.

  An ominous silence greeted them. No one smiled. No one hurried forward to greet the lord. The oak door crashed back on its hinges as he strode in. The people gathered there, frozen in their various positions as if turned to stone. Gilles’ frown deepened as he strode up the center aisle of trestle tables set for the midday meal. His eyes searched, but found no pleasure in the journey over the many faces.

  The gnawing became a searing, stabbing pain in his stomach and chest.

  Roland skidded to a stop at the door. Unlike Gilles, he could not make himself walk into the trouble, for only trouble could have painted such expressions on the faces before him. His eyes also sought through the crowd and came to rest on Sarah. When Gilles stopped before her, she sank back to her bench, her hand clutching the table’s edge. Roland hurried forward, knowing instinctively that she needed his support.

  “Speak.” Gilles’ voice was a near shout. A servant dropped a knife and several eyes turned to it, for the sound pierced the silence.

  “Speak,” he thundered, and smashed a fist on the tabletop.

  “W-W-William Belfour. He is dead.”

  Gilles reeled away. He tore off his leather gauntlets and stepped up to the dais. He braced his hands on the mantelpiece and drew on his vast control. “How? Was there trouble at Selsey?” He turned back. He was not wholly surprised; warriors died. But then he saw the faces in the hall. Eyes slid from his. No one spoke. No one moved. “How?” he repeated, returning to stand before Sarah.

  She rose on shaky limbs and met his eyes. She was aware of Roland’s approach and put out her hand to him—a hand that trembled. Roland took it and squeezed, gave her his strength.

  “William was found two days ago at the mill, murdered. Someone had…stoned him…his face. A bloody rock was nearby.” Sarah had no tears for William, had loathed him, but she cried for what more needed to be said.

  “What villainy is this? Has the murderer been found?” Gilles swallowed. He couldn’t betray his sorrow. It was too late to acknowledge William now. Revenge was all he would have.

  “Aye.” Sarah’s voice caught on a sob, and her nails dug into Roland’s hand, her eyes round and frightened in her face.

  Gilles searched her pale face, the sudden way she’d aged. Her face had grayed to match her hair.

  “Nay,” Gilles roared, whirling away. He knew what Sarah wasn’t saying. He hurled himself up the tower stairs and away from the hall. Roland dragged Sarah after him. They watched in mute distress as Gilles flung open his chamber door, took in the empty room.

  Sarah stepped in behind him, clinging to Roland’s strength. “Aye. Emma. Trevalin took her away, to the Duke of Norfolk’s. She denied the murder, but she admitted hitting him.”

  “Nay and nay and nay.” Gilles went wild. He whirled through the chamber, smashing and destroying everything in his path. He couldn’t think and couldn’t feel. A crowd gathered at the doorway, and Roland enlisted two hefty sentries to tackle Gilles. They pinned him against the wall until his struggles weakened. Roland and the men dragged him to a chair and pressed him into the seat.

  “Tell me. Everything.” Gilles’ voice trembled with leashed fear and rage. His eyes were burning black coals in his pale face.

  Sarah dropped to her knees before him, frightened, but wanting to help him. She tentatively touched his hand, but he snatched it away.

  “No one knew William had returned, my lord. He must have stopped at the mill pond on his way here. The miller found him, and Emma’s pack was nearby. A hue and cry rose when William was brought here by the miller.

  “We all hastened out to see what the fuss was, and in front of all, Emma claimed her pack. Many women were wailing and…and w
hen Emma took up her pack, they turned on her.”

  “Jesu.” Gilles tried to rise, but Roland held his shoulder in an iron grip.

  “God was not there!” Sarah began to weep. “They tore at her and blamed her. The gatekeeper told the crowd he remembered her coming over the bridge, her skirts torn and bloody. She had no chance. Your men took her. No one knew when you were returning. I sent a messenger to bring you home, but the guards took her to Norfolk’s, to the royal courts.” Sarah clutched his hand. “You must not believe she did it.”

  “Never…Emma…she would never.” His voice was a harsh whisper.

  “You must help her, my lord. The women were crazed. William loved them all so indiscriminately. In death, they all claimed him by turning on her. They snatched at her hair, stripped off her gown. She was naked when your guards were finally able to stop them.”

  “She didn’t do it.” Gilles spoke calmly. This awful stillness frightened Roland more than the wild rampage. Gilles’ lips were pale and bloodless. His hand shook as he offered it to Sarah, helping her to rise. “Emma would not hurt a fly.”

  “She was bruised and bleeding. I tended her wounds, but she was like the walking dead. She couldn’t explain herself, just said she had been gathering plants for dyes when she’d met William. She said he tried to force himself on her.” Sarah’s tears wet the back of Gilles’ hand. “She fought him, hit him with a stone. But she said when she ran from William he was standing, dabbing at his head, and calling obscenities at her. I believe her. I went to the mill pond and there was a small stone with what might have been blood near the…place.” Sarah closed her eyes on the memory of the large stain of black where William had bled his life into the dirt. The other rock, the one smeared with flesh and hair and blood, had gone with Emma to the royal court. “I kept the small stone.”

  “I must go to Norfolk’s. Now.” Gilles began to pace. He couldn’t think coherently. He had no grief for William now, had only fear and anguish for Emma. The thought of her stripped and abused by a crowd brought him close to the edge of madness.

  Gilles turned to action, hurling orders. Less than an hour after he had ridden into the bailey, he rode out, with naught but a small stone with which to defend the woman he loved.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Duke of Norfolk’s great hall was paneled in English oak, the walls adorned with ranks of weapons, attesting to the prowess of the Duke as a warrior.

  Daniel Tucker, the Hawkwatch Castle gatekeeper, licked his lips and gazed about, awed by his surroundings. He didn’t meet Emma’s eyes, but then he didn’t meet the eyes of the men who sat on the panel of judges either.

  “What evidence do you have to present?” The lawyer paced before the panel of judges. He was bored. He flicked a small piece of lint from his hose and adjusted his jeweled belt. It was close on midday, and he mused on braised lamb in rosemary sauce.

  “I saw the weaver come arunnin’ in the gate, my lord.”

  “And how did she appear?”

  “Appear?” Dan licked his lips and twisted his cap.

  “Appear. Look? Was she upset? What of her clothing?”

  “Oh, look. She were upset. Running. She sat a moment and that’s what made me notice, like. She sat on the railing. Was getting her breath.”

  “And her clothing?” the lawyer prodded.

  “‘Twas torn about the skirts.” His face flushed hot. It was the view of her long, shapely legs that had drawn his eyes. “Her legs be showing.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The front part, on her—” He gulped.

  “Breasts?” the lawyer supplied.

  “Aye. Her breasts, ‘twas all blooded.”

  “Nay!” Emma shot to her feet. All day she had listened to the testimony, most of it exaltations of William’s prowess as a knight, a fact that Emma felt had naught to do with what had happened. She was not permitted to speak. No one had asked her what happened. She could no longer remain silent. “Nay, ‘twas mud, mud!”

  “If you cannot keep the prisoner quiet, remove her,” one of the judges said to a nearby guard. The guard stepped before her and she lost control.

  “I want to speak, I have to speak. I didn’t kill him. ‘Twas not blood!”

  “Remove her,” the judge ordered the guard. Emma had to be dragged away. She knew she was going to be found guilty, did not understand this travesty of justice that a woman could not speak in court, could not offer up some defense for herself.

  The guard was less than gentle as he heaved her along the corridor. That she was unbound was a testament to how little they feared her. She was shoved back into her cell and the door shut.

  Her meager cell held only a slops jar and a moldy straw pallet. It had neither window nor ventilation. The only hint of air was a thin, cold draft that crept around the ill-fitting oak door. There was no candle to light her way. She used her hands to locate the pallet and stretched out. She wept. She prayed, first to God, then to Gilles. Her only hope was for Gilles to return and save her.

  * * * * *

  The Duke of Norfolk’s personal apartments were as rich as a king’s. His walls were carefully painted to resemble marble. The leather benches that lined the wall were hand-painted and dyed. “This is highly irregular, Lord Gilles.” The Duke of Norfolk rose and greeted his guest. “Please, rest your bones.” He indicated a seat before the fire.

  Gilles remained standing. The Duke of Norfolk was a hard man, and Gilles was not about to put himself at a disadvantage. A head taller than the Duke, Gilles knew he’d be giving the advantage to the Duke if he sat. “I did not come here to rest. You have one of my weavers here.”

  “Aye, the murderess.” The Duke did not smile.

  “She did not kill William Belfour.” Gilles tried to remain calm.

  “The royal court has decided she did—but an hour ago.” Norfolk said it gently. He had heard the weaver was once d’Argent’s mistress.

  “An hour ago?” Gilles sank to the bench he’d shunned. He couldn’t take it in. He was too late. Pain burned through him, stole his breath.

  “I understand she was your leman. I am sorry.” There was a slight hesitation, then, “The hanging will be in a sennight.”

  “Hanging?” Gilles repeated it like some dull-witted fool.

  “Sir William was well thought of. He curried favor in the right places. Richard’s men rule now.” It was a subtle warning that Henry’s men were no longer in favor and could expect no special treatment.

  The duke poured wine into a silver goblet. He put it in Gilles’ hand and watched him drink, though he suspected Gilles didn’t taste the wine. Color flooded back into Gilles’ ashen complexion.

  “I am too late.” Gilles slammed the goblet to the table and, ignoring all protocol, rose and stormed from the room.

  Roland, waiting in an antechamber, had only to see Gilles’ face to know the news was of the worst sort.

  “Gilles, what can I say?” Roland reached out to his friend, but Gilles avoided his touch.

  “Send for Nicholas, immediately, then send a man home to see if any evidence can be found that will save Emma. I’ll not be too late.” Gilles squared his shoulders and focused on his friend. “I will think of something.”

  “Gilles. There is nothing—” Roland began.

  “There will be something. Pick the best of your men—not Trevalin—he sent Emma here. But find someone. Something. Anything. Anything that will stay this madness.”

  Roland bowed at the waist and hurried from the antechamber. For a moment, Gilles was alone with his grief. He shut his eyes, fought the pounding blood that made his temples throb and his vision blur.

  “God in heaven, don’t let him fail,” Gilles whispered.

  * * * * *

  The clink of metal alerted Emma to a presence. When the door opened, Emma threw up her hand to ward off the light, a light she’d not seen in three days. Then she was leaping across the room, for she knew the silhouette in the lighted door, knew the scen
t of him.

  “Gilles,” she cried.

  He embraced her, crushed her in his arms, sought her mouth. There were aware only of each other in the dark space. The stink of the slops jar, the mold and damp of the chamber retreated. For Emma there was only Gilles and his strength.

  “Ahem.” They ignored the noise behind Gilles and continued their frantic kisses, and when Gilles tore his mouth away, his cheeks were as wet as Emma’s.

  He tilted her head back and looked her over in the dim light of the torch behind him. He saw a ravaged countenance. He saw fear. He saw despair.

  “My lord?” The priest tried again. “My time is limited.”

  “Just so.” Gilles turned to Emma and crushed her against his chest again. “This priest will wed us.”

  “Wed us?” Emma struggled in his grasp. “You can’t possibly marry a murderess.”

  “There are still four days, Emma. I am seeking an end to this madness. You have only to trust in me. Now…I wish to be married.”

  “I don’t understand.” Tears streaked her dirty face, and he raised the edge of his hand and smoothed them away.

  Gilles’ voice was light, seemingly unconcerned. “I will not be apart from you another day.” He gently kissed her cheek.

  “You cannot mean it.” Emma searched his face.

  “Would I dress just so, only to visit?”

  Emma stroked her hand down his chest, savoring the weave of his silver tunic—her magnificent gift. “I remember every thread of this cloth, Gilles. I wove it with my dreams and my love.”

  He pulled her around to face the light, blinking rapidly to hide his emotion. He urged Emma to her knees. Neither noticed the damp, nor the look of distaste on the priest’s face; they only had eyes for each other. The gaolers moved near, to stand as witnesses.

  “Say your vows, Emma.” Gilles caressed her wrist, maintaining his lightness of manner when inside he was broken, devastated, and near to his own limit of endurance. He had envisioned her as she was when he’d left. He’d not prepared himself for what she had become—abused, purple bruises on her face, dirt on her skin and clothing, hair in greasy hanks about her shoulders. He would not react. He needed her to have hope.