by Ann Lawrence
“I know full well your father’s love for Emma,” Roland said carefully. He crossed his arms on his chest and studied the young people.
“Father’s madness, love, or whatever it may be, has made him marry this woman today, in her cell.”
Roland nodded. “I know. I had charge of obtaining the marriage ring. Your father wanted Emma to have the protection of his name.”
Nicholas shook off his wife and began to pace. “And did you also know that Father’s bastard son was this Emma’s lover and the father of her child?”
Roland nodded, but kept silent.
“And did you know that he intends to confess to William Belfour’s murder and take her place?”
In startled disbelief, Roland gasped. “Nay.”
“Aye,” Nicholas spat. “He says he loves this whore enough to give his life for her. We must stop him!”
“Mon Dieu. This is beyond belief.” In two strides Roland reached Nicholas and gripped his robe in a balled fist. “What you say is surely mad.”
“Then let us see him, talk sense to him,” Nicholas pleaded.
The balled fist tightened. “Should you call Emma a whore, you young whelp, son or not, your father will gut you and feed your entrails to the hounds.”
For a brief moment, Roland thought Nicholas would strike out. His face suffused a deep red. He nodded. “As you wish. My opinion of his woman will not dissuade him from offering up his life for her.”
“We will speak to him, but I imagine he will not change his mind.”
Catherine piped up. “He will most likely repeat what he told Nicholas.”
Roland pulled on his braies and linen undershirt, heedless of Catherine’s presence in the room. She yelped and turned her back. Roland donned his tunic and sheathed a dagger at his waist. “What did he say to you?”
“He will but ask you if you love your Sarah, could bear to see her die.”
Roland paused, looked out to the night. “Nay, I could not bear to see my Sarah die.” He flung open the door. “But before I offered up myself, I would think of some scheme to save her. Let’s put our heads together with Gilles and see what we may hatch.”
Gilles was not asleep. He had no need to cover his nakedness with a bedrobe. He’d never undressed. The late night visit did not surprise him.
He sat in stubborn silence as his son and his friend pummeled him with questions and exhortations to change his mind. He barely spoke.
“How can you convince the Duke that you killed William when you were away at the time?” Catherine demanded.
“I will say I rode ahead—and that is the truth—Roland and I were ahead of our party of wagons by several days. The carts moved too slowly for me; I grew impatient.”
“What of motive?” Nicholas asked.
“I imagine Norfolk will believe me that I became maddened by William’s attack on Emma. I will say I saw William attack Emma, and then, when she ran away, I beat him to death.”
“You have the coolest head in Christendom. Who would believe that muck?” Roland began to pace, throwing out his hands in derision. “If William had been skewered on a blade, mayhap, but stoning? No one will give credence to such a thing.”
“Then I shall simply say I did not want anyone to suspect that the murderer was an accomplished fighter. And I had the best of motives, one not mentioned here yet.” They all stood still and looked at him. He swallowed hard. Honor had guided him all his life. Once he had acted without thought for it, and down through the years the ripples still spread in the pond of his deceit. This confession would sully his good name for all eternity. Yet for Emma’s life, he would do it. “Many, especially in the village, hold with the idea that saying vows, whether before a priest or not, is a binding marriage contract. Despite our dispensation, many will still believe Emma’s vows to William should stand.” He took a deep breath. “By killing William I cleared the way to an undisputed marriage with her.”
Roland threw up his hands. “But what of me? I was with you and know ‘tis not true!”
“You will lie for me, and say I rode ahead of you as well. You will say I was gone at the crucial time. I will say that I backtracked to you so that we could arrive at Hawkwatch together.”
“Nay. I will not be a party to this!” Roland drew his sheathed knife and flung it at the wooden mantelpiece. It quivered in inanimate testimony of its owner’s turmoil.
“Aye. You will agree because you would ask the same of me to save Sarah’s life.”
The fight went out of Roland. He nodded. “Then we must think of a scheme that will allow Emma to go free and you to live.”
“There’s no time,” Gilles said. Every muscle in his body felt stiff and aged. Just a few months ago, he’d rued the end of the second score of his life. How precious every day seemed now. “It is too late.”
“It is too bad we cannot make it appear that you are dead, Gilles; you know, trick the hangman somehow,” Roland mused.
Gilles just shook his head. Nicholas shrugged.
“‘Tis possible,” Catherine said into the silence.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The three men turned to look at Catherine. She smiled at them. “I know herbs and their properties, men. There are several potions that would render a man quite like the dead. The mixtures I make are delicately weighed and portioned out, my lord. Many have soporific or deadly properties. When they are taken just right, healing and easement take place, but too much results in death.”
“It matters not.” Gilles flicked his hand in dismissal. “They will not offer me a cup of hemlock to end my days. It will be a tight knot and a swing.”
Catherine’s face paled at Gilles’ stark description of his fate.
“A tight knot…” Roland said. He suddenly smiled and patted Catherine gently on the shoulder. “I believe I know a way. Now, I think we should all get some rest.”
Grateful when they finally left, Gilles stretched, fully clothed, on his bed. He was not afraid to die. He could just as easily have fallen in battle. Certainly, it could be no more difficult to hang than to take a sword in the chest.
* * * * *
Catherine rose and discarded her embroidery when Roland and Nicholas walked in.
“What news?” she asked.
“News? What news?” Gilles came down the ladder that led to the second floor.
“I’ve been to see the hangman, Gilles.” Roland poured a goblet of wine and strode to his friend.
“How ghoulish.” Gilles’ tone was light. In truth, since making his decision, he’d felt oddly at peace. Emma was all he cared about.
“It seems Master Dobbins is soon to give up the hanging business and live in idleness in York.” Roland handed the wine to Gilles.
Gilles just arched a brow.
“For a princely fee, he is most anxious to help us in our game.”
“What game?” Gilles frowned at Roland.
“Catherine here will mix you a most vile tasting brew—or so she claims—and you will drink it. When Dobbins, the hangman, slips the noose about your neck, you will be feeling no pain. He will tie it loosely, or he will reap no reward. He will cut you down immediately, and you will lie in your coffin like the dead until Catherine’s potion wears off.”
Gilles watched the reactions of those about him. Catherine, nearly as white as Nicholas, was clutching her husband’s waist as if it was all that kept her standing. A bright spot of red appeared on each of Nicholas’ cheeks, and the hand that held his wine trembled. Gilles’ face heated with anger. “This is nonsense. I will go to my fate without your interference!”
Roland rested his hip on the table. “So anxious to die? Do you not wish to hold your wife in your arms, make love to her again?”
Gilles whirled about, his mantle flaring in anger behind him. He was abruptly halted at the door. He struggled with his mantle and realized he was pinned by a thin silver knife to the jamb.
“Now. Seat yourself and tell me why you object to my offer of life.�
� Roland strode to his friend and released the knife, slipping it back into his boot.
“‘Tis not life I object to, ‘tis the foolishness of it all,” Gilles said as he stuck his finger through the thin slit in his mantle. He was no longer angry for some reason. “What is gained?”
“You will be dead,” Catherine said before Roland could. “No one notices a dead man. You could return home and discover who really murdered William. You could gather the evidence and see the man held accountable. Then you and Emma may be free to live your life together.”
Gilles touched Catherine gently on the shoulder, a rare display of affection. “Sweet, sweet child. What if I can’t find evidence or am unable to discover the murderer?”
“You will discover the evidence,” Nicholas interjected, a genuine smile lighting his face for the first time since Gilles had told him of his brother. “When have you ever failed at what you have taken on?”
“Your faith is touching,” Gilles said sardonically. “But if I fail?”
Roland raised his goblet as if in a toast. “You and Emma can go quietly off somewhere and live as peasants until the end of your days, with no one the wiser.”
“Hmm.” Gilles liked it. “I could shave my beard!”
“And your head,” Catherine offered. A stunned silence met her remark. Gilles’ hair was his vanity, and all knew it. “Well, you’re far too distinctive a man with that ebony hair!” she said in defense of her comment.
“I will do it.” Gilles smiled at the gathered group. He slapped his hand on the table. “Come, let us see to the details.”
“First, you must tell Emma of our plan,” Roland said.
Gilles shook his head. “She will never allow it. She will confess herself. She’ll… Mon Dieu… I don’t know what she’ll do, but she’ll not let me risk my life for her. The Duke has promised to hold her in her cell until after the deed is done. There’s no way you could convince her to go along with this.” Gilles raked his hands through his hair. He knew Emma, knew she would reverse her plea and stand by it, confuse everything”
“Then we’ll not tell her,” Nicholas said. “Let her think as all others do that you are dead. She’ll present the proper demeanor.”
“Nay,” Catherine protested. “Proper demeanor? What of the shock? The grief? Her pain?” Catherine grasped her husband’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. She was a sprite of a woman and came scarcely to her husband’s shoulder. “I cannot imagine the pain if Nicholas were to die,” she said to all of them.
Nicholas gripped her hand. “I care naught about her grief. ‘Tis Father’s possible death I fear.” Nicholas let his antipathy for his father’s bride take control of him. His words were harsh and nearly shouted.
“Nicholas,” Catherine spoke sharply. “You cannot mean it. She will grieve, painfully so. Do not be so heartless.”
“Aye, Nicholas. I would have you give Emma your sympathy, not your anger. Save your anger for me.” Gilles stepped between husband and wife.
“She causes your death! She will live on…will most likely spread herself for the first—” Nicholas found himself stretched across the hearthstones, his head throbbing, his father looming over him.
“You speak of my wife.” Gilles’ face flushed with his effort to control his own anger. The desire to strike again was nigh impossible to resist.
Roland stepped in to make the peace between father and son. “There is naught to be gained by this. No one need die. Catherine will make her potion and Dobbins will do his part. Emma will grieve but will find future joy in Gilles’ eventual return.”
“What if I can’t get the potion right?” Catherine’s fear for her part in the plot showed vividly on her face.
Gilles turned to her and offered her his hands. He knew he’d intimidated his son’s wife from their first meeting, and he sought to reassure her. Catherine slipped her hands into his and squeezed them.
“Catherine, if your potion is wrong, it will matter naught. I am prepared to die. I am a knight. I would gladly give my life for my king and my country. Why not for love?” He was not speaking to Catherine, but to Nicholas, who still did not understand. It was Nicholas he’d charged with Emma’s care, and Nicholas who must have compassion.
* * * * *
The pain came in her sleep. Emma sat bolt upright, her hands clutched to her throat, unable to get her breath, the pain so acute there were no words to describe it. Her skin became clammy with sweat as she fought the pain. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. She lay back, shaking, and fear of what was to come swept in to replace the pain. The darkness of the cell was absolute.
It was her dream come true.
She was overcome with fear, then fixed her mind on Gilles and what he had said to her the night before.
Angelique would be loved and cared for always.
She had never believed that she would be released. Oh, she believed that Gilles worked to see it come true. Why, even last evening, as he’d held her in his arms, he’d promised her this moment would not come. But come it had.
As she thought of Gilles, her heart rate slowed and her fear began to retreat. She spent the final hours before dawn thinking of him and Angelique, knowing they would be her last thoughts.
The scrape of a key brought her heart rate back to a thundering crescendo, surely audible to those on the other side of the door. She knelt quickly and asked forgiveness for her sins, straightened her spine, and folded her hands.
A burning torch preceeded the sentry who stepped into the cell. The torch’s smoke burned her eyes and clogged her throat. The man waved some of the smoke away as he gestured her to follow him.
For a moment Emma thought she would faint. But she sucked in her breath and followed. The passage through the bowels of the Duke’s castle was black as night. No windows pierced the stone to allow the wan light of dawn to show the way. Emma thought it could as likely be midnight as morn. The guard moved slowly, occasionally looking over his shoulder to check that she followed.
Her legs began to tremble. Could she do this with dignity?
Finally, they reached the end of the stone passage. Emma had been aware of a slight rise in the passage, and the footing was drier, less slick with damp and mold. The air smelled fresher, and a breeze touched her cheek.
The sentry turned and opened a stout arched door, strapped with iron, then stood back to allow her to pass. He closed the door behind her. She looked about. The room, bare of furniture save a wooden stool and a table, was cold. She shivered. A scrape of a key made her whirl to another door opposite the one through which she’d passed. The room tilted a moment. A hum filled her ears. She swallowed and breathed deeply. She still could not take a deep breath, her throat still burned.
A cry of surprise escaped her lips when a man entered the room. Nicholas d’Argent!
She swayed, then gripped the edge of the table. His unexpected appearance robbed her of speech.
“Do you know who I am?”
She nodded, utterly confused. With a wary glance she glanced at the door he’d left open. No sentry was in sight. For a brief moment she thought of dashing past him, escaping…fleeing her fate. Nay. That would be dishonorable. She must do this with dignity. “I don’t understand why you are here,” she said. “Where is Gilles?”
“Gilles is dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“My father is dead,” Nicholas d’Argent repeated, his voice harsh as icy water.
She did not understand. Gilles dead? She stared at the young man, speechless. Finally, she found her voice. “Nay.” She stated it emphatically. Gilles could not be dead.
“Aye, he was hanged this dawn as punishment for the crime of murdering his bastard, William Belfour.”
“Nay,” she shrieked. She leapt from the stool, her devastation complete in an instant. She threw herself at the man before her. She pounded his chest, screaming in her agony, beyond pain and conscious thought. Unable, for days, to eat, to sleep; now she felt the
world recede to gray and black. She slid down his body to her knees, a terrible pain expanding and pulsing through her being.
He crouched before her and gripped her arms.
“Aye, Emma, ‘tis done.” He tried to break through her sobs. When her cries became silent gasps, he spoke. “Father asked me to take charge of you. Roland’s wife has Angelique at Hawkwatch, and there we will care for you both as long as you live.” His final words were more spat than spoken.
Nicholas tried to remain hard against her. Her pain was tangible in the room, a living, screaming thing. He held her as she wept. This woman was nothing like he’d expected. She was not beautiful, although a few weeks in prison could take their toll on the most fair of face and form. What gave him pause, however, was the depth of her agony.
After what seemed hours, Emma had no more tears. Her throat ached from vomiting, and her eyes burned with her tears. She held her chest and gasped several times, trying to get a grip upon her emotions. She looked up at the man crouched by her side. He asked a question with his eyes and she nodded. He lifted her up onto the stool, then hurried to the door. He spoke to someone she could not see. He turned back to her and took her arm. Unaware of her surroundings, she followed docilely to another chamber, more comfortably furnished. He settled her on a padded bench and poured her a goblet of wine.
Emma choked on the strong warm wine, but it did serve to steady the tremor in her hands and the roil of her stomach. She clutched the goblet’s stem and looked up at the chilly man who was Gilles’ son. He seemed as cold as winter.
“Tell me.” It was all she could manage.
“My father came to me several days ago. He told me of your plight—”
“Nay,” she cried. “He knew he was to do this each time he visited me? He knew! My God, he hid this from me…” Emma could not continue. Suddenly the fierce embraces, the gentle promises, took on new meaning, were not just promises that he’d look after Angelique, were not just empty hope that she would soon be released. Nay, they were not as she’d imagined. She’d thought them just the painful delusions of a man who loved her very much. Now, she understood they were promises, promises he’d kept with his life.
