by Ann Lawrence
Any response from Nicholas was stifled as Gilles limped away, leaning heavily on his stick.
* * * * *
Emma sat on the feather bed and combed her hair. Angelique sat on a wolf pelt on the floor staring at Little Robbie. The boy crouched on his haunches, a frown furrowing his small brow.
“How can I ‘muse her? She doesn’t say nothing. Jest sucks her thumb like a babe.”
Emma smiled at him. “She is a babe. ‘Tis kind of you to come and amuse her, though.”
“She’s too young for dicing.”
“I would think so!” Emma laughed heartily. “You must know some other games.”
“Watch.” Little Robbie snapped his fingers. At his fingertips appeared a silver coin.
Angelique pulled her thumb from her mouth. She soberly examined the coin when the boy handed it to her. As she brought it to her mouth, Little Robbie snatched it away. “‘Tis not food!”
“Where did you get the coin, Little Robbie?” Emma leaned down and held out her hand.
He hid it behind his back. “‘Tis mine. I dint steal it. The dead knight give it to me.”
“Why?” Emma tried to keep her voice calm.
“‘Tis a secret. I promised.”
Angelique tried to climb on Little Robbie’s back. When he collapsed in a heap, Angelique squealed with delight. For a few moments, Emma watched the children play. Robbie would get on his knees. Angelique would try to mount him like a pony. Little Robbie would collapse. Their shrieks of joy brought tears to Emma’s eyes. Robbie needed to play as much as Angelique. She imagined he’d not often had the opportunity.
“Now, Robbie, the knight is dead. You have no more need to keep his secret.”
“Nay?” Little Robbie cocked his head. His cheeks had filled out a bit. The shadows around his eyes were fading.
“Nay.” She pretended it was unimportant, picking up her spinning.
“He ast me to take a message.”
“What was the message?” Her fingers fumbled the thread.
“‘Meet me at the mill pond’,” he said somberly, in a voice uncannily like William’s. Then Robbie spun in place. Angelique imitated him and fell in a heap, hiccuping and dizzy.
“To whom did you take the message?” She held her breath.
“Her who’s got the golden hair. Like yours. Bess.”
“Beatrice?”
“Oh, aye. Her. Beatrice.” He froze. “Should she be kissing me?” He sat very still as Angelique bussed him repeatedly on the cheek.
“I imagine ‘tis my angel’s way of thanking you for entertaining her.”
Beatrice. Mayhap Trevalin had not killed William. Mayhap Beatrice had seen William at the mill and become mad with anger that he’d invited her and yet dallied with another.
* * * * *
Nicholas sat at Catherine’s side by the hearth in the hall. He felt his cheeks heat. “I’ve been asked if I’d like an attendant at my bath this evening.”
Catherine grinned over her embroidery. “May is it? She stares at you whenever your back is turned.”
Nicholas flushed even hotter. “Nay. Beatrice.”
His wife’s smile faded. She stabbed her needle into the linen. “Her. She would bathe a toad if she thought he’d take her away from here.”
“Have I your permission to allow her attendance? We still do not know her whereabouts on the day William died.”
“And how will a back scrubbing gain you that information?”
He shrugged. “Mayhap you could come upon us. You could threaten to have her sent to Normandy—to a pig farm—should she not give up her whereabouts that day.”
She chuckled. “I think a pig farm suits her admirably, but if she killed Sir William, she will not be easily daunted by such threats.”
“I was jesting.” He touched her hand. “But an indignant wife, who chooses her words well, might still entice a slip of the tongue.”
She linked her fingers with his. “As long as nothing else is enticed in the doing.”
* * * * *
Beatrice simpered about Nicholas. He gritted his teeth. She supervised the bucket boys, then began to help him remove his clothing. “Yer a fine lookin’ man, my lord.”
“Why, thank you, Beatrice. When the…bath is done, mayhap we could find another amusement to whittle away the long hours of the evening.”
Her eyes grew round. “My lord. What are ye suggestin?”
He endured the skim of her fingers along his chest as he removed his tunic. “A game? Chess?”
“I fear I’ve not played that game.” She stood by the tub, a cloth held hopefully in her hand, her eyes just south of his chest.
He pulled off his linen undershirt and said a silent prayer Catherine would arrive before Beatrice attacked. “You said you’d attended others at their bath.”
“Oh, aye. Lord Gilles.” Her face colored and her eyes evaded his. A lie, he decided. Her gaze returned to his. “And, of course, Sir William.”
“Ah. My father’s bastard. You were quite privileged to serve both father and son.” He stalled. “Fold this.”
She dropped the washing cloth and hastened to do his bidding. “I were ofttimes called upon to serve Sir William. He were the finest of the knights. He offered to take me away with him.” She sniffed.
“Did he?” Catherine spoke from the doorway. Her arms were crossed over her chest. “And did he offer marriage? Or did he just need a whore for his bath?”
“My lady!” Beatrice bent over the shirt, folding it carefully. “His lordship bid me tend this shirt—”
“His lordship has a squire.” Catherine strode to stand before Beatrice. His wife was a hand shorter, but her manner made Beatrice shrink back. “I believe you have made an unfortunate choice here. I am in charge of the females on this manor.” She rounded on Nicholas. “And you were warned that if you got another servant with child, you’d find a shrew for a wife in your bed. I want her gone. Send her to my brother in the Holy Land. He can sell her—”
“My lady!” Beatrice fell to her knees. “Please I beg of ye. I’m a virgin. His lordship never touched me!”
Nicholas smiled sweetly at his wife. The Holy Land, by God. Much better than a pig farm! “I’m sorry, Beatrice, but we cannot lie. God will surely strike us dead.” He hung his head. “We were touching—”
“Nay!” Beatrice burst into tears.
“The Holy Land. Tomorrow, my lord,” Catherine said, shaking her finger at her husband. “Send Trevalin to do the deed. He’ll see we get a fair price for her.”
Nicholas hauled Beatrice to her feet. She tore out of his grip as if he’d burned her. “I swear, my lady. As God is my witness. We never touched. Never.”
With a flick of her hand, Catherine dismissed Beatrice’s words. She sat at the table and drew one of Gilles’ parchments toward her. She unrolled it. “Here, my lord. This looks like a good place for her.” She tapped the diagram of Gilles’ stable addition. “Right here. An Arab prince might like her milk-white skin.”
“Mayhap that’s a trifle harsh for just touching,” Nicholas mused.
Beatrice stared round-eyed at the parchment, tears running down her face. She wrung her hands. “I swear, my lady, I swear, we never did nothin’ to dishonor ye.”
“My lord?” Catherine cocked her head to the side.
She gave him a look that sent a small shiver down his spine. Thank God he was acting. He thought Catherine quite capable of arranging Beatrice’s sale to perdition if she wished it. “Let us think of another way to punish her,” he said. “A lashing?” He watched the color drain from Beatrice’s flushed cheeks. “Aye. A lashing. How many strokes?”
Catherine rolled the parchment. “Mayhap none if Beatrice will tell us some gossip.”
“G-g-gossip?” Beatrice stopped wringing her hands and stared.
“Aye. Who is loyal. Who is not? Who would cheat his lordship of his due.”
“The cooper—he clips coins. The reeve—he looks the other way if a
wife mills her own flour.” Beatrice spewed a stream of petty crimes against the manor.
Nicholas nodded his encouragement. When she took a breath, he slipped in his question. “Where were you the day Sir William died?”
“Here, my lord. I swear it. All day.” Her pale cheeks flushed anew.
“Come now,” Nicholas prompted. “Surely you know some gossip about our most famous crime. How many lashes, my lady?” He lifted his brow in question.
“I swear it, my lord. Sir William sent me a message he’d come ‘ome from Selsey, to see me, like. We was to meet at my father’s mill. ‘Twas our usual place, but…” She hung her head. Tears ran down her cheeks to spot her bodice.
“But?” Catherine arched a brow and tapped her palm with the rolled parchment. Beatrice watched the tantalizing movement, her head bobbing with each tap.
“But, I were angry wiv ‘im. ‘E dint ev’n say goodbye when ‘e left for Selsey. L-l-looked right through me, like. I w-w-wanted to make ‘im wait fer it. I dint go.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked frantically from Nicholas to Catherine. “I swear it, my lord, my lady. I dint go. I hid so’s ‘e couldn’t find me. If I’d a gone, ‘e might not be dead!” The first true sorrow etched her face. “I were mad wiv grief fer ‘im. I loved Sir William, my lord.” She wailed the last, burying her face in her hands.
Catherine stood up. “I suppose we can give her another chance, can we not, my lord? Mayhap she could ask Father Bernard for a penance for enticing you.”
“Aye, my lady. We shall give her another chance. No lashes this time. But, Beatrice, you must promise not to tempt me again.”
“Nay, my lord. Never. Never again.”
Nicholas swept out his hand to the door. “Be gone.”
Catherine rolled her eyes as Beatrice dashed for the door. When it closed softly behind her, she turned to her husband. “Well, I suppose ‘tis possible she might have wanted to make him wait; her words held the ring of truth.”
Nicholas nodded. “I suppose. But from what we’ve heard, no woman made Sir William wait for anything.”
“Could Trevalin have overheard Little Robbie deliver his message? He might have been seized with a momentary anger and rushed off to confront William. It would explain the stoning. A sudden anger, a weapon at hand. And passion—it is as responsible for the ills of the world as it is for the good.” She touched his shoulder gently.
Chapter Thirty-One
“We have no way to prove it. We have only a boy’s message as evidence, ‘tis not enough.” Gilles sighed.
Emma clasped her arms about her knees. This meeting, in the hour before dawn, was so different from the last. They had taken their places, each as far from the pallet as the room allowed. He stood; she sat on the dirt floor, back against the door.
“We can neither prove nor disprove that Beatrice hid from William,” Emma said.
“What woman would hide from William?”
“We are not all fools to be held in thrall by a pretty face!” Emma tried to hold her temper. “It seems William’s ill treatment came back at him tenfold if she is telling the truth. You reap what you sow.”
“Is there no one who remembers seeing her about?”
She shrugged. “I feel it in my bones that it is Trevalin. He suffers. His betrayal is etched on his face. We must make him confess.”
“How will we accomplish that?” Gilles propped his hands on his stick and rested his chin atop them. “We have no bait with which to set a snare.”
“If it is justice you want, Gilles, then kill him,” she whispered. “Send him to stand before God and take his punishment. Offer to fight him fairly, if you must, sword against sword, but end it.”
She raised her eyes to his. How she loved him. How she ached inside that he was not tempted to give up his search. But now, when they had some hope they knew William’s killer, he would never be dissuaded from his goal—or at least not by her.
“Trevalin could go to his death denying his guilt. I would be forever condemned to life as an outcast, or I shall be discovered and hanged again.”
“Then we should no longer meet. I will take no more chances that you may be discovered through me. What if I caused your capture?”
It was as if she had not spoken. “The only end to this is Trevalin’s confession—before witnesses.” Gilles straightened up and stamped the stick to the ground with the force of his anger. “And let us face the truth here. He is half my age. What hope have I of defeating him? He is more than ably skilled—he is one of the best. I taught him myself.”
“Half your age,” she spat. “God save us!” She rose and dusted off her skirts. “I am going. I could not bear it should you be caught! Hanged again. I nearly died of the pain of it. Think of our child, if not of me!”
He did not speak.
She closed her eyes to hold the tears back. “You have made your choice. See this to its conclusion without me.”
“Emma.” He tried to take her hand, but she tucked it into the folds of her skirt. “We are so close to—”
“Death. Someone’s—Trevalin’s, yours. I cannot bear it. No one in Lincoln would know us, should we go there. I could weave, you could…” Her words drifted to silence. She saw on his face the futility of arguing. “Nay. I see that is not your way. In truth, you are no longer bored. For you, there is an exhilaration to the hunt, is there not?”
He had no answer for her.
When she was gone, he leaned on the door and stared at the pallet. The stones she’d placed between the blankets the last time they’d made love were icy cold tonight. Why could she not see that with the right approach, Trevalin might reveal himself? Then they could raise their children in peace at Hawkwatch, instead of hiding from life in Lincoln? And he wanted that peace.
If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel her skin against his, her warm breath on his throat. She was right. Men did care for little save bed and blood. And why did he feel as if he’d had something precious at the tip of his fingers, only to have it slip away?
* * * * *
Emma carried only one word with her up the hill to the castle’s postern gate, which she used to come and go in the dark of night. Bait. What bait might entice Trevalin? Love. If he’d killed William for love, he’d come to Beatrice’s call, would he not?
But Beatrice could not be asked to stand as a lure to bring about the confession. “I shall be Beatrice,” she said. Her words echoed through the stone passage that led from Hawkwatch’s underground storage rooms. “I shall weave a trap for Trevalin, with myself as bait. And mayhap in snaring Trevalin, I can snare Gilles’ heart once more.”
* * * * *
Emma wanted no interference from Beatrice in her scheme, and so she sought the serving woman after the midday meal. She’d heard of what had transpired between Nicholas, Catherine, and Beatrice two days before. “I am sending you to Lynn, Beatrice. There is an inn, The Swan, by the water’s edge, and you are to stay there the night.”
“Whatever for…my lady?” Beatrice looked her up and down.
“Your insolence is staggering. I believe you have recently avoided a lashing—and worse—and yet your tongue is foolish.”
Beatrice’s face paled. “I meant no harm, my lady,” she finished in a rush, bobbing a deep curtsey.
“That is far better. Now, many are still in need of clothing, especially the children, and our looms are not adequate to the task. You are to take two of the men and see to the purchase of the necessary cloth. It is important you tell no one where you are going, as there are those who would be most jealous of your task.” She turned to go, then spoke over her shoulder as if in afterthought. “Oh, Beatrice, whilst there, as a small reward for your trouble, you may see a seamstress and purchase a new gown for yourself.”
* * * * *
Emma watched with satisfaction as Beatrice rode out with two men at her side. She dashed to the chest that held the serving woman’s belongings. Glancing about, she drew out a gown she kn
ew Beatrice wore to scrub the floors. She wrapped up her hair in one of Beatrice’s headcoverings, frowning at its grimy state. Head down, she wandered about the bailey, staying near to buildings and shadows, looking for Trevalin.
“Fetch his lordship a pitcher of wine, girl,” Sarah called.
For a moment, Emma did not realize it was to her Sarah directed the order. She kept her face averted as she did as bid.
The gown gaped a bit at the breast, and strained at the waist, but when Emma slipped into Gilles’ chamber, Nicholas barely glanced at her. “Put the wine on the table.”
“Aye, my lord.” She set it down, sidled close to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “What yer doing, my lord?”
He leapt to his feet as if burned. “Are you mad?” His eyes opened wide. “Emma! I thought you were Beatrice.”
“Then ‘tis time to see if we can lure Trevalin to the priest’s confessional with the same ruse.”
Nicholas smiled at her. “I can see the bent of your thoughts, but what’s your plan?” he asked, inviting her to sit.
For the first time, Emma sat at ease with Gilles’ son. “Gilles has put it about that Sir William’s shade walks the village. I want you to be that ghost. When Beatrice makes a midnight tryst with Trevalin, he will find her with William. Mayhap he will react in the same way this time as he did the last—by attacking. Only Roland will be lying in wait to assist you.”
“‘Tis foolishness! You endanger yourself and, I might add, my father’s babe. I forbid it!” He poured a cup of wine and drank it down in one gulp.
She pounded her fist to the table. “I want my child to have a father. What’s the good of being married to him if he is dead? I want to live as man and wife with him.”
“I think it a fine plan,” Catherine said from the door and entered with Roland. “I was just about to order a lashing when you spoke, Emma, and I realized you were not Beatrice.”
“‘Tis uncanny, the resemblance, my lady,” Roland said, taking Emma’s hand.
“Then help me. I’ve sent Beatrice away and the moon will be full tonight. We can offer Trevalin a midnight pageant of sorts.” Emma spoke in a rush before any more objections could be raised. “Nicholas could garb himself in William’s clothing. He’s the only man who is like unto him in size and bulk. If he wears mail with the coif on his head, who will not think him the shade of that knight?”
