by Ann Lawrence
She traced tantalizing patterns in the hair of his chest. “Roland and Nicholas have drawn up a list of those who might have killed William.” She sat up for a moment and dug about in their discarded clothing. “You kept this with you?” She drew out the belt she’d woven for him.
Gilles took it from her hands. He slipped his fingers along the pattern. “You wove this for me, these hawks, these symbols that link endlessly, one to the other. Did you mean something more than thanks for it?”
She bent and kissed the hands that held her work. “Aye, I did. I wove in my endless need for you, but did not know it at the time. We are joined, are we not?”
“Aye.” His emotion was so thick in his throat he could barely speak. “I wear it against my skin to have something of you near.”
His words reminded her that she was not there to offer him passion, but to give him his list of names. She carefully folded the belt and searched her pack. “They sent you this.” She handed him a tiny scrap of parchment severed from Roland’s list of names. “They will ascertain the whereabouts of any other suspects. These are for your attentions.”
Gilles propped himself on an elbow and peered at the list of names squeezed between some dowry figures. He gave a soft laugh. “I see Michelle d’Ambray’s betrothal papers are finally serving a purpose.” He glanced down the list. “I have determined the whereabouts of most of these men already—men love a gossip over a pot of ale, I’ve found. Few evade a direct question. Hmm. The miller. He spends all his time bragging of his role in discovering William’s body, but when challenged by others, admits that earlier in the day he was hauling a new millstone home from Lynn. I cannot go to Lynn to determine when he left there. Mayhap Nicholas could—”
“I will ask him. The others?”
He snuggled her into the crook of his arm and rested his chin on her head. “The alehouse keeper. Cross him off. He was serving drink before three men at the time. The baker. His wife and he were in near mortal combat all that day over her slattern ways—or so a gaggle of gossips claim. Big Robbie. Nay. Not possible—too gentle a soul. But I will see to his whereabouts if it would please you. These other two were with my party.” He sighed, folded the scrap, and tucked it into his beggar’s coat.
“Roland and Big Robbie think ‘twas a man who killed William. If none of these men did it, and it is discovered that none of those on Roland’s list did either, could it have been a woman?”
“Women do not kill.”
Emma stifled a laugh. “You are jesting. Women have terrible passions, too. And this crime was passionate. If done in the heat of the moment, would not a man draw his sword or dagger?”
“So Roland says, too, but I think William angered a man enough to fight him with fists. When William died during the fight, the killer concealed the fact with a stoning.”
“A woman might wish to do it, but mayhap not have the strength.”
“Women loved William.”
“Passionately. Mayhap he scorned the wrong woman. The court did not think a woman too weak to kill a man of his size.”
Gilles’ embrace was fierce, bone-cracking. “Do not speak of it. Put it aside.”
She waited until he relaxed against her. He needed to put it aside as much as she. “I want to believe a man did it, but it doesn’t feel right.”
Gilles slipped a hand from her waist and cupped her buttock. “It feels just right to me.” He nuzzled her neck. “When I see you in the village, I cannot believe our time together is but a tempting dream.”
He pulled her hips against his. “When summer arrives, I will take you out into a field of flowers and love you beneath the blue sky.”
“We’ll have no summer if you don’t give this up. Please, I beg of you again, come away with me. Choose life, not death. Forget William. God will see to the judging of this crime.”
“You asked me before to give this up, and I thought I’d never see you again. Yet, I cannot. I failed with William by denying him. Daily, I learn more of his perfidy. He left debts at the alehouse. He rode his horse carelessly through crops, laying them to waste and mayhap causing a family to starve this winter. It—”
“Is not your fault!”
“Hush!” He pressed his fingers to her mouth. “Do you want someone to know we meet?”
Suitably chastised, or deliberately silenced, she lowered her voice until only he could hear her. “Give this up. Now. For the sake of our child.”
He fell back and searched her face. As she leaned over him, he cupped her face in his hands. “Our child?”
“Aye.” She clasped his hand and drew it down to the warmth of her stomach. “You will scoff, but I know ‘tis true. We made a child that night in the stable. I have never burned so fiercely or felt your passion so deeply.”
His throat ached, not from the indignity of the noose this time, but from the power of his emotion. He pressed his palm against the softness of her. “I cannot scoff. I love you too much, know how you found me with but your love for me to guide you.” They embraced each other. He kissed her shoulder, her throat, her breasts. Finally, he pressed his lips to her belly, her hands kneading his shoulders. Her heat mesmerized him; her words gave him hope for the future.
Later, he held her in his arms and stared unseeing at the thatch over head.
She spoke softly. He had not changed his mind, not even knowing of their child. “Men care of naught but bed and blood.”
He sat up. “That is a cold assessment.”
“And a true one. If it were not so, you would think first of this new life I nurture, instead of vengeance.”
“Enough. It is not revenge I seek, but justice. I will not change my mind. We will have a lifetime together after William’s killer is made to pay, a lifetime to raise Angelique and this child—in peace!”
She bit her lip at the pain of his words. Her hands covered her stomach. “We have talked of how William died and who might have killed him, but we have not talked of what is more important. Why?”
The rocks in the bedding and their passions had cooled. She shivered and he held her closer before answering. “Why? You mean why would someone kill William? ‘Tis simple. He made someone murderously angry. Or jealous.”
She studied his face. The hard lines were harshly delineated in the brazier’s glow. Without his beard there was nothing to soften his expression. “I mean why at that time, that place? Who would be so angry William was forcing me? Oh, I would hope a good person would have tried to stop him, but to be angry enough to kill him? Nay. I cannot think of any man save Roland who would care so much about my fate. And he rode with you.”
“Hmm.” Her words, coupled with the news of the child, pitched his mind into a turmoil. He no longer knew if what he did was right. He knew only he could not forego his oath to avenge William.
“What man would kill William for attacking me? Who would care for my fate?”
“I would,” he growled. “I cannot bear the thought of him hurting you…”
She closed her eyes. “Don’t think of it.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “Did he only have what is the worst in me?”
“Don’t say that. Don’t, please. What of his mother? The man who was husband to her? Had they no part in what he was?”
“You don’t understand. He came to me for training at nine. There was no other place to foster him. I am responsible for what he was—no other.”
Gilles moved over her, his body propped on his elbows to spare her his weight, and kissed her. She twisted her head aside. “What am I to you save this?” She cupped his buttocks and arched her hips against him.
“My heart. My soul.”
He tried again to bring his lips to hers. She turned her face to the wall; tears ran over her cheeks.
“‘Tis not enough,” she whispered.
“My love, ‘tis not true I care only for blood and bed. But the warrior in me will not allow this to pass. I must have justice—”
An eddy of cold air tickled G
illes’ shoulders. He rolled to his feet as he threw the blankets over Emma. In a moment he’d snatched up his rags and stick.
A small face peeked in. “Are you a ghost?”
Gilles relaxed. He glanced behind him. The pallet looked like naught but a rumpled heap of blankets. “Do I look like a ghost, ye imp?” he rasped out. He leaned on his stick, diminishing his height. His thundering heart calmed.
The child crouched in the open doorway and glanced about. “I heard his ghost were here.”
How swiftly word traveled. “Children should not listen to gossip. Where be yer mother? Yer father?” He shook the stick at the boy.
“Dead. They’s not ghosts. They’s buried in the field with the rest of the fever folk.”
“I’ll make a ghost of ye if ye don’t disappear!” Gilles prodded the boy’s belly with the end of his stick.
“You’s an old man. You couldn’t catch me if I decided to run.”
“But ye are not running, and I’ve a mind to whip ye with my stick.” The boy darted from the doorway. Gilles slammed it. He used the end of his stick to chop a small hole in the dirt, then jammed one end into the hole and lodged the other end against the door. “That should hold him. Next time, we will be more careful.”
Emma threw off the blankets and scrambled into her kirtle and gown. “There will not be a next time. What if he recognized me? I’ll surely be called a whore then, lying abed with a beggar.”
Gilles reached for her, but she evaded his touch. “He could not possibly have seen who was lying beneath me. My body concealed you, I am sure.”
“But all know this was my place.” She checked her pack and slung it over her shoulder. “They would assume…”
“Exactly.” Gilles captured her hands and held them in his. “Think, Emma! We see what we expect to see because of where we are. Anyone opening that door and seeing a man making love to a woman, would assume the woman was you—”
Emma bit her lip. She refused to acknowledge the seduction of his hands, the nearness of him. She concentrated on his words. “And who might a person expect to see at the mill pond? Beneath a man or not?”
“The miller’s daughter,” Gilles said.
“Oh, sweet God.” Emma stared at him.
“What? You have thought of something.”
Emma paced the tiny space, biting her lip. “Trevalin has mistaken me for Beatrice on a number of occasions. What if,” she swallowed hard, “what if Trevalin thought ‘twas Beatrice William tried to rape.”
“What care would Trevalin have for Beatrice?” Gilles tried to close the space between them, but each step he took, she took one away. It hurt in an intangible way.
“He cares deeply for her. It could be him.”
“You wear a mantle unlike any other.”
She shook her head. “Not that day. The sun was shining so, I wore but a heavy woolen gown.” Her voice grew more confident as she mulled over the idea. “And Trevalin feels guilty—’tis preying on his mind.”
“Why do you say that?”
“What is your assessment of him?”
“He is an able, if not inspired, warrior. I would trust him to guard my back. Nay, he could not have done it.”
She nodded. “I, too, would have dismissed him as a possibility, save for two things. His captivation with Beatrice and the fact that suddenly he looks slovenly. His skin is an ill color. He looks as if he is suffering.”
“Suffering?”
Emma watched Gilles wrap his rags about his head, hiding his identity. “Aye. I think he regrets what he has done. Has he not betrayed his lord?”
“If he killed William he did more than betray me.” Gilles thumped his chest with a fist. “He sentenced himself to death.”
She met his obsidian gaze. Sorrow filled her. “I will not be here to see it done.”
Chapter Thirty
Gilles used his stick to forge a halting path through the bailey to where a few beggars awaited the handing out by Father Bernard of scraps from the manor kitchen. Less eager than the others, he took a cold leg of mutton, disregard. Most of the meat had been stripped by some man or woman who dined in his hall. As he gnawed at the bone, he watched for Trevalin. When he finally saw the man, he felt a chill run down his spine. Somehow, he had not really believed Emma. Yet Trevalin walked as if already dead. His footsteps dragged. His hair lay lank on his scalp. If Gilles did not know otherwise, he would think the man suffering of a wasting disease.
He hardened his mind against pity. If Trevalin had killed William, ‘twas in a moment’s passionate anger. But what he had done to Emma, nay that had taken calculation, the allowing of blame to fall on an innocent woman. Were not knights sworn to protect the weak? Trevalin had betrayed his vows in more ways than one.
Nicholas stood in the entrance to the stables. Out of the corner of his eye, Gilles spotted Beatrice, the object of Trevalin’s passion.
She ran to the stables, stopping there before his son. Without hearing a word, he knew she curried favor. She stood too close, smiling broadly, hands clasped behind her, rocking back and forth, the forth a thrusting of breasts for his son’s attention. Nicholas shook his head twice, then shrugged and nodded.
A strangled sound drew Gilles’ attention from the couple to Trevalin, who stood, hands fisted at his sides, but a few feet away. Beggars passed as though invisible, and most assuredly, Trevalin seemed not to notice those who scrambled next to him over the kitchen refuse. He muttered to himself. When Beatrice trotted toward him, he met her head-on, only a few feet from where Gilles crouched.
“What are you doing? His lordship may be young and comely, but ‘tis said he much favors his wife.”
Beatrice shrugged. “What’s it to ye? ‘E likes me. I offered to tend ‘im at ‘is bath tonight. ‘E accepted.”
“You bloody fool. What would he want of you in his bath save a quick ride between your thighs? ‘Twill gain you naught but a bastard. Did you learn nothing from Sir William?”
“I learned ye can be rid o’ a bastard easy enough if’n ye want to.”
Trevalin grabbed her by the upper arm and hauled her close. “What are you saying?”
“I’m sayin’ a woman needn’t birth a babe lessin’ she wants to.” She snapped her fingers. “‘Twas gone like that!”
“Was it his?” Trevalin’s voice trembled. “Or mine? Or don’t you know?” His face had paled to milk white. “I’d have made you my wife.”
“What would that git me?” She jerked from his hold and lifted her skirts, flashing her ankles and calves as she ran up the keep steps.
Gilles rose and, leaning heavily on his stick, made his way to the stables. His son stood in a stall, saddling his horse. No grooms were near. “Beatrice said you invited her attendance at your bath.”
“By God’s throat!” Nicholas gasped. “You scared the life from me.” The horse swung around, his hooves dangerously near Nicholas’ boots. He clouted the horse’s rump with his palm.
“Well? Did you?” Gilles crouched in the entrance to the stable. He stared up at his son, who returned to tightening the horse’s girth.
“What if I did? She is on my list of potential killers to question. ‘Tis not only men who hate. We drew lots and Beatrice fell to me. She’s a conniving wench, bent on bedding every man with a suitably full purse at his belt—or between his thighs.”
“Drew lots?” He stood up, forgetting to disguise his height. Eye to eye, he held his son’s gaze.
“Oh aye. Your wife insisted you would not find William’s killer without our help, so we have made note of every lad and lass in Christendom who might wish William dead and then divided them into portions. Did you not get your share? She had charge of seeing to its delivery.”
Gilles nodded. “Aye. She gave me a list.”
Nicholas led the horse to the stable door. “I am off this minute to check the miller’s tale in Lynn—as you directed. We’ve eliminated most of the other names on our list.”
“And Beatrice?” G
illes spat out.
“Beatrice? She eludes me. I cannot determine when she left the keep—or if she did. I’ll bathe her myself if ‘twill gain the information we need.”
“We?” Gilles gripped his stick so tightly, his knuckles ached at the effort.
“Roland, Sarah, Catherine, Emma.”
“And will Catherine approve this bathing with Beatrice?”
Nicholas met Gilles’ gaze. “Approve? Are you taking me to task for my behavior? Mayhap you should examine yours before criticizing mine.”
Gilles let his son and the horse leave the stable without another word. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The familiar scent of horse and hay filled his head.
“Old man.”
Gilles opened his eyes. Nicholas had returned. He stood framed in the stable entry.
“Catherine’s land and coin, her brothers, made her a worthy mate, I believe you said when you proposed her as my wife. But I have learned to love her. Had she come in naught but a moth-eaten kirtle, I would have taken her. If you think Catherine would allow any other woman to attend my bath, you do not know her. Beatrice may say what she likes, doing is another matter.”
“Emma and I think Trevalin saw William attack her that day, and mistook Emma for Beatrice. We think he might have killed William in a rage over the forcing.”
Nicholas glanced over his shoulder. He came further into the stable shadows. “What would you have me do?”
“Watch him, especially around Emma. Set Catherine or Sarah to watch Beatrice. I want Emma protected at every moment. Whoever did this thing was willing to let her die.”
“I will do as you wish.” He touched his father’s arm. “Your Emma asked if I would trade the cost of her board in Lincoln for a length of cloth each quarter. I believe she will leave here soon.”
Gilles took a steadying breath. What was the point in triumphing if he savored his victory alone? A murmur of voices made them both look to the stable entry. Three men-at-arms were striding their way. Gilles gripped Nicholas’ arm. “Protect her. She carries my child.”
