LordoftheKeep

by Ann Lawrence

  In a near whisper Emma repeated her vows, pledged herself to the one man who held her heart. She watched as Gilles slipped a wide band on her finger, gleaming gold woven with a dull black metal.

  “This represents my love, my eternal love,” he said. “The gold for you, the rarest of women, and other—naught but base metal for me, who is unworthy of you.” The priest inscribed the sign of the cross over their heads and pronounced them man and wife.

  “Be gone.” Gilles shoved the priest from the cell, tossed a purse to the gaolers, and kicked the door closed. He drew her into his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head.

  Lust had no part in their embrace. It was an embrace of hopelessness. He held her and she wept on his chest and choked out between long pauses what had occurred.

  “Gilles, I could not bear it if you thought I did this terrible thing.”

  “Shh, I know you, my love—know you are as gentle as a new fawn. Be at ease.”

  She pounded his chest in frustration. “They would not let me speak. I could only watch in horror. It all looked so awful. If only I’d not burned my gown, I could have proved ‘twas just mud, not William’s blood. Please, my love, help me.”

  “Aye, I will help you. This is only temporary, my love, until I may see the Duke. You will shortly be gone from this place. I have left a purse with the gaoler so he will better your circumstances.”

  Gilles held her close and soothed her with softly murmured words, and knew he lied. He’d fought and railed and threatened and stormed, yet he’d not been able to change the verdict. William was a knight who’d endeared himself in all the right places, Emma but a weaver, a lord’s leman. She would hang in four days time.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Gilles watched Nicholas from Norfolk’s doorway. He hesitated. His task was an onerous one at best.

  “I am here to see my father, your Grace.” Nicholas d’Argent stood at stiff attention before the duke. He still wore his mail and had not taken time to wash off the dust of travel.

  Gilles was pleased that, as ever, Nicholas had not wasted even an hour before riding out to his filial duty. Gilles already knew from Roland that Nicholas’ wife, Catherine, had accompanied his son.

  Gilles froze in mid-stride as the duke spoke. “Your father has been waiting most anxiously for your arrival, my boy. Mayhap you can dissuade him from his madness.” The Duke thumped his fist to the armrest of his chair.

  “Madness?” Nicholas arched a brow in question. Gilles moved forward. He did not want Nicholas’ opinions tainted by the Duke’s.

  “Aye,” the Duke continued, “your father is about to marry… Here he is. You dissuade him.” The Duke rose and left father and son alone.

  They did not embrace. Nicholas shoved his gauntlets into his belt and straightened his shoulders. “Father, Norfolk says that you are going to wed.”

  “Have wed. Just now.” Gilles locked his fist about Nicholas’ arm and practically dragged him from the chamber, down the steep stone steps to the terraced gardens. When they were as far from the hulking stone edifice as possible, Gilles released his son. He paced back and forth, stroking his beard, trying to think of how to explain. “You must hear this from me. There is no way to soften this, make it less…ugly. I summoned you because I didn’t want you to hear this tale from any lips but mine.”

  “Father, I’ve just arrived. What tale?” Nicholas shoved his hands through his thick hair in exasperation, causing it to stand on end like a rooster’s comb.

  His appearance reminded Gilles of the way his son had looked as a child, when his hair defied his nurse’s best efforts. The feeling that accompanied the thought was bleak. “When your mother was full with child—you—I took a mistress,” he said.

  Gilles waited, but Nicholas didn’t interrupt. He stared as if stunned.

  “‘Twas despicable. Oh, I know ‘tis accepted practice, to take mistresses, but still ‘twas dishonorable. Your birth was followed six months later by another. God forgive me, I had another son, by name of William Belfour.”

  “Belfour!” Nicholas spat the name. He marched away. He turned his back on his father. The stiff posture, the long strides, bespoke an angry man. Nicholas made it as far as a crushed stone border of the gardens before he wheeled and came charging back. He attacked, pummeling his father with his fists. Gilles did not defend himself.

  “Why?” Nicholas wiped the blood from his knuckles, then extended his hand to his father, hauling him back to his feet when madness settled to a simmering anger.

  Gilles pressed the back of his hand to his split lip, then bent and spit blood to stain the purity of the white stones on the path. “Why? For the same reason all men give. My marriage to your mother was arranged. She had little affection for me, or I for her. Surely, that is not a complete shock.” He was glad that Nicholas seemed to have calmed. There was so much more to say, and little enough time in which to say it.

  “Nay.” Nicholas rubbed his grazed knuckles and stared at them as if amazed he’d raised his hand to his father.

  “I never meant to hurt your mother or you. I don’t think she ever knew of William, or William’s mother. William’s mother was not exactly constant to me, so I have oft doubted that William was mine, but the fact remains that I’d bedded the wench and she gave birth. I found her a husband and have paid them dearly for their promise to keep William’s fathering a secret.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Am I supposed to accept this bastard son now? I despise Belfour.” Nicholas’ face suffused to a deep red.

  “William is dead. You’ve no need to accept him.” The words did not make William’s death any easier to bear.

  “Dead?” Nicholas studied his father’s ravaged face. “Had you love for William?”

  “Love? Did I love William? Jesu, I can’t possibly tell you how I felt about William.” Gilles sank to a stone bench and breathed deeply of the harsh, cold air. He could not bare his soul too much. He could not let his pain show in this cold, cold light of day, could never admit that William was more rival than son, more enemy than ally. “Suffice it to say, he was my son. I paid for his keep, had him raised to be a fine warrior, just as I did for you. I took him into my own household when I sent you to be fostered at King Henry’s court, and made him a valuable knight.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Nicholas’ words were hard-edged with temper.

  “‘Tis a long tale, and I would ask your forbearance to hear it through.” Gilles waited in impatient anticipation. Nicholas gave a curt nod and Gilles began.

  “When your grandfather died, whilst I was on the continent, I sent a contingent of my men to Hawkwatch Keep to see to its management until I could come myself. Do you remember?”

  Nicholas thought on the events, the passing of a grandfather he barely knew. “Aye. I remember.”

  “One of the knights I sent was William Belfour.” Gilles waited for the explosion.

  “Sweet Mother of God. You had your bastard by your side in France, whilst I was at Seaswept?” Nicholas raised a fist, then let it hang at his side. “Go on, the tale grows ever more interesting.” He arranged his face into an impassive mask, and Gilles realized there was more hurt here than he’d expected. And how suddenly, for the first time, he saw his own harsh face reflected in his son’s.

  “As I said, William Belfour was in that company, and during those early days, William met a young woman by name of Emma.” Gilles looked down at his hand, at the ruby winking in the sunlight. Just the thought of William lying in Emma’s arms was terrible; to say it aloud was to flay his soul. “They said vows together, though William denied it.”

  “Hardly a surprise with Belfour,” Nicholas interjected.

  Gilles nodded. “It seems he made many promises and kept few.” He sighed. “William got Emma with child, then abandoned her.”

  “Like father, like son,” Nicholas sneered.

  “Aye. Your contempt is well placed, but I again ask your patience to hear me out.”
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br />   “Continue,” Nicholas snapped.

  “William scorned Emma, relinquished his…claim. She had the child, Angelique, to support—a child William would not claim. Don’t say it. ‘Tis the same.” Gilles forced himself to be calm. He looked over the bare canes of the Duke’s rose bushes and thought that surely his life would be like those thorny branches if Nicholas did not believe him. “I was drawn to the child. I fell in love with the mother first, but I love the child, too.”

  “Mon Dieu. A grandchild?” Nicholas strode away, paced back, wheeled, and turned in exasperation. “What of William? Did he accept your attentions to this—this—this leman?”

  “She went to him with love, not as a leman. They said vows, though William denied it.” Gilles realized he was getting sidetracked with William. “I will not bandy words with you; it wastes time. William didn’t care for her love or the child. No matter, it was over between them ere I came on the scene.”

  “How convenient for you. From son’s bed to father’s.” Nicholas leaned on a stone wall and crossed his arms on his chest in a belligerent posture. “I suppose ‘tis the woman I saw on her knees before you that night? Moving up was she? From simple knight to baron.”

  Gilles bit back a bitter retort. “I have married her, Nicholas. She is my wife now, have some shred of respect.”

  Nicholas said nothing.

  Gilles sighed. “There’s more.” Gilles knew Nicholas was in some ways a guileless soul, and he watched as Nicholas’ every thought flitted across his no longer impassive features.

  “More?” Nicholas raised his hands heavenward. “How could there be more? You had another son, one you kept at your side, trained yourself, and now you’ve married that son’s whore—excuse me, wife. There’s nothing more to say, for I’ll hear no more.” Nicholas pushed off the wall and strode away.

  “Wait. Please.” Gilles hated the pleading note in his voice. Nicholas stopped in his tracks. He turned back and stood in silence, arms loose at his sides as his father approached him.

  “I told you William was dead. William was murdered and Emma suspected. They have tried her, Nicholas, found her guilty. She’s to hang in four days.”

  “Did she do it?” The question caused Gilles more pain than any other, for each word was imbued with the certainty she had.

  “Nay. Emma is…I can’t explain it. She gives life. She is honorable, kindly. She didn’t kill William. Although I have done all I can, I haven’t been able to postpone…haven’t been able to influence—” Gilles could not finish.

  “How may I help?” Gilles head came up. He searched his son’s face. Nicholas spoke harshly. “It is why you sent for me, isn’t it? To help you? Not just to confess the sins of your youth?”

  “Nay. I don’t need any help. I just needed to tell you what I intend to do. Had to tell you to your face. It is not something you should learn from a messenger.”

  “What are you going to do? Bury her next to my mother?”

  The sarcasm was back. Gilles took a deep breath. “Nay, son. I am going to confess to William’s murder. I’m going to say I killed him in a rage after he attacked Emma.”

  “Nay!” Nicholas’ face blanched as white as new milk. He clutched his father’s arm.

  “Aye. I’ve lived my life. What may I truly expect? Another five years? I can’t let them take her life. Angelique needs her. She must have a chance to live.”

  “You can’t do this for some leman.” Nicholas’ fear was as stark on his face as his anger.

  “She’s my wife. I would die for her, aye, willingly.”

  Nicholas stared in horrified dismay as Gilles’ determination became evident to him. “I will stop you!”

  Gilles gripped Nicholas’ arm and led him back to the stone path. “I won’t have it. My mind is made up, and tonight I will see the Duke to confess. I ask but one thing—”

  “What?”

  “Take care of Emma for all her days and Angelique as well. I must know she’s under your care, will reap the protection of being my wife. I ask this and only this.”

  Nicholas’ look was mutinous.

  “I love her, Nicholas. Would you ask less of me for your beloved Catherine?”

  They stood a moment in heavy silence, then Nicholas spoke, “Of course not.”

  “Then do this for me. Make me a promise you’ll look after Emma and Angelique.”

  “You can’t hang for this woman!” Nicholas cried.

  “She is my wife! Would you not give your life to save Catherine? Answer me!” Gilles waited in tense anticipation knowing that if Nicholas’ love of Catherine was not the all-encompassing passion he felt for Emma, he would never understand—or help.

  Nicholas locked eyes with Gilles. His throat worked. “What you propose is monstrous…but aye. I would give my life for Catherine.”

  * * * * *

  That night, in a bedchamber in Gilles’ rented townhouse, accompanied by the sounds of merriment from a nearby alehouse, Catherine d’Argent drew her husband down into her arms. She was a small woman, dark-haired, bright-eyed. Something lay coiled tightly in her husband. His body did not lay at ease; he stared at the ceiling.

  She would wait until he was ready to speak. She was a healer. When the cause of his discomfort became clear, she would heal him.

  Nicholas stroked his hands over Catherine’s silky skin. “You are so beautiful. Sometimes I feel unworthy.”

  Catherine sat up and let her thick brown hair fall forward to cover her breasts as she leaned over him and studied his face. “I sense pain, Nicholas. What has happened? Why were we summoned by your father?”

  “Not now.” Nicholas slid his hand into her hair and drew her mouth down to his. “Not now,” he whispered against her lips.

  * * * * *

  Later, Catherine lay awake waiting. A candle guttered in a dish, and she rose to light another. She wrinkled her nose at the rank stink of tallow and wished she had brought her scented beeswax candles with her.

  She pulled her bedrobe tightly about her against the cold. There’d been an edge to her husband’s lovemaking, a near violence that had never been there before. If he didn’t speak soon, she would have to badger him to it. Nicholas was an introspective young man, and it oft annoyed her that he held his troubles to himself. She curled at his side. They both stared at the ceiling.

  “My father intends to be hanged in four days.” Nicholas’ voice cracked on the words, and a sheen in his eyes told Catherine he was not jesting.

  “Hanged? I think you need to explain.” The cool air had no part in the shiver that coursed down Catherine’s spine. She lit more candles and put them by the bed. She sat at Nicholas’ side and picked up his clenched fist.

  “My father has fallen in love with a woman accused of murdering a man named William Belfour.” Nicholas lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed each of her fingers. Catherine could not see Nicholas’ face, could only hear the anguish in his voice. “My father swears she did not commit the crime. He loves her, has married her, and now he intends to confess to her crime to save her from the hangman.”

  “Oh, Nicholas.” Catherine drew him in. It was like finding out a loved one was mortally wounded. “Is there no way to dissuade him? Surely, the courts will not allow this?”

  “Allow it? My father is a powerful baron. He is respected. Who will doubt his word?”

  “Had he any reason to kill this William Belfour?”

  “Oh, a wonderful reason. The man is Father’s bastard son, the former lover of this Emma, and father of her child.”

  Catherine’s mouth fell open. “Surely, you jest!”

  “I had a brother, Catherine. I never knew it. Forget for a moment that I despised the man, still he was my half brother. Now he is dead!” Nicholas rose, naked, and paced the room. Catherine trailed after him, trying to get a bedrobe on his arms. “All these years I thought I was Father’s only child. How could he have betrayed Mother that way? He’s as dissolute as any other member of court. And why couldn’t
he have told me once Mother was dead? It wouldn’t have hurt her then. I’d not have condemned him.” Catherine bumped into him as he suddenly stopped. “Nay. That is not the truth. I condemned him today. I said hurtful things.”

  “You are rarely hurtful with your speech. I noticed it is a trait of your father’s. You temper it well, but sometimes it appears. If you hurt him, you must apologize.”

  “Never. He betrayed his marriage vows. He never recognized his bastard son. He married a murderess!”

  “Hush. You’ll wake his man Roland.”

  “Roland! He has been Father’s friend since childhood. We must wake him. Surely he’ll know a way to stop Father’s madness!” Nicholas yanked the robe from Catherine’s hands, wrapped the belt tightly, and then stormed out. He had but a few steps to go to find Roland d’Vare’s chamber. He didn’t think of the hour, he just pounded the wooden door.

  The door crashed back on its hinges. Roland’s hair was pillow-tossed. His frown made Nicholas pause.

  “I hope you have adequate reason to disturb me.” Roland stepped aside. He slipped the knife in his hand back under his pillow, and then covered his own nakedness with a robe and lit a taper. He watched Gilles’ son warily, then smiled. “Come in, Catherine.” Catherine slipped in the door. She encircled Nicholas’ waist with her arm.

  “So, take a seat and tell me what needs saying in the darkest hour of night. What couldn’t wait until dawn?” Roland did not remark that he, too, had been unable to sleep.

  Nicholas poured himself a goblet of wine from the skin Roland had warming by the fire. For many moments no one spoke.

  “Take your time. I find the hours weigh heavily when I’m away from my Sarah.”

  “Sarah.” Nicholas squeezed his wife’s hand and his eyes lit up. “Aye, Catherine, because of Sarah, Roland will understand.” Nicholas turned eagerly to his father’s friend. “Surely, I need not tell you that Father is besotted with love. This woman he loves has been condemned to be hanged in four days.” Nicholas looked to the dark night, seen through a narrow window. “Three days.”