‘You are coming to live at the Staple for a time.’
Henri’s face brightened; he did a little jig. ‘Honey on bread, honey on bread!’
Hélène laughed. ‘Yes, sweetheart, every day.’
Emma bit her lip. ‘I cannot pay you…’
‘We can discuss that later. I don’t think that is a situation that is going to last.’
Chapter Four
Later that same night, Emma waited until Hélène was alone sitting at her usual table under the loft overhang. From there Hélène could keep close watch on the wine butts and the measures the girls were handing out. Smoke was swirling up into the blackened roof space along with the drone of many voices. Platters banged on to trestles; knives scraped on pewter plates; torches flared. A serving girl passed with a platter, and the smell of beef braised in rich red wine lingered in the air.
Emma and Henri had already moved into the Staple. They had been allocated space in one of the screened sleeping areas in the loft. Henri was worn out with excitement and had been put to bed, which left Emma free to raise the matter of payment with Hélène.
‘About my rent,’ Emma said. ‘I have worked out how I may be able to pay you.’
‘There is no hurry, I really can wait. Wine?’
‘Please.’ Emma took her place on the bench. ‘But I don’t want you to wait. And with Judhael so eager to speak out against me, Heaven knows when I will find work. Would you like to look at the gown? I would be prepared to sell it, if you like it.’
‘The one your sister sent you?’
‘Yes. It is very fine.’
‘I am sure that it is, although—’ Hélène’s lips curved ‘—knowing your sister, it will be the gown of a lady rather than a…shall we say, a tavern girl.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I know your sister. Still, my girls might be able to use it when their wealthier admirers want to play at being great lords. Go and put it on, so I can really see how it looks.’
‘Now?’
‘Why not?’
Emma nodded agreement and, taking up a candle from the table, headed for the stairs.
The loft chamber was airy and ran fully half the length of the building. It was divided in two by thick wool curtains. One half was used as a sleeping chamber for travellers while the other, divided into sleeping areas by yet more curtains, belonged to Hélène and the girls. Emma and Henri had been given one of these.
Despite the size of the loft, the private spaces were cramped and simply furnished. Like nuns’ cells, Emma thought wryly, except that some of these cells were put to uses that would scandalise any nun. What would Mother Aethelflaeda, the Prioress of St Anne’s, say if she found her here? No doubt a penitential fast would be the least of it.
Indeed, a few years ago, Emma herself would have been scandalised by what went on at this inn. Yet today…She sighed. So much had changed.
Henri was deeply asleep. Setting the candle safely on a stool, Emma reached under their bed and quietly pulled out the bundle that contained the gown. She began to undress.
Sounds of merriment came muffled through the floorboards. You wouldn’t believe it was Lent. Yet more to scandalise Mother Aethelflaeda. Laughter rolled up the stairs; it squeezed through the cracks in the floorboards. One man brayed like a donkey, another responded with a shout that nearly raised the roof.
Smiling, Emma shook her head. To think that the Staple was only a stone’s throw from the Cathedral and Nunnaminster….
Setting aside her workday gown, Emma reached into the bundle and drew out Cecily’s gift. The sumptuous fabric was heavily encrusted with silver-and-gold threadwork. There was also a filmy silk veil in a paler hue to wear with the gown. Emma’s throat ached. These lovely things were fit for Queen Mathilda, and Cecily had remembered that pink was her favourite colour. Emma was touched beyond words. She hated to sell them, but sell them she must. And while they were indeed more suited to a noblewoman than a tavern wench, if Hélène liked them, she would give her a good price, better than she might get elsewhere.
The candle-light flickered as Emma drew the gown over her head. Tugging at the lacings, she tied them off, staring down at herself critically. The gown was cut fairly low at the front and it gaped a little. Frowning, she readjusted the lacings and tugged the bodice into place. She must have lost weight since her measure had been taken at Fulford. As Emma shook out the veil, a small stoppered bottle—glass, it was such a rarity—rolled on to the bed. This was yet another of her sister’s gifts; it had been tucked into the fabric the day the carter had brought it.
Removing the stopper, Emma sniffed. Rosewater. It was her favourite scent; Cecily had remembered that, too. It must have been imported. Blinking hard, Emma dabbed some at the wrists and neck, and carefully replaced the stopper. She might have to sell the dress and the veil, but it would not hurt to keep the rosewater. Slipping the bottle into her bundle of everyday clothes, she set about arranging the silk veil.
Curtains brushed her shoulders as she made her way back to the head of the stairs. A piercing whistle cut through the din. By the fire at the middle of the inn, Ben Thatcher, a man with more looks than sense, was giving her the eye.
Cheeks brighter than the flames in the hearth, Emma hurried downstairs and dived into the relative safety of the shadows at the cookhouse end of the room. Another appreciative shout came flying towards the wine-butts. At her table, Hélène scowled at Ben Thatcher and waved Emma over.
‘That the new girl, Hélène?’ Unrepentant, Ben shouted over the general clamour. ‘How much?’ His companion made a coarse gesture and muttered an aside. Ben spluttered into his ale.
‘It is the dress that is for sale here, Ben Thatcher, so mind your tongue,’ Hélène said, tugging Emma to her. ‘Never mind them, dear. They are good lads, but—strong ale and weak minds…’ She looked Emma up and down. ‘Ooh, yes. I see what you mean, that gown is fit for a queen. You look well in it, Emma, very well. Indeed, I am not sure that you should sell it. I am sure you will find another way of repaying me.’
‘If times were better, I would not sell it. I love it, but…’ Emma shrugged ‘…you know how things are.’
‘I wonder that you can bear to part with it.’ Hélène took the fabric of the skirt between her thumb and forefinger. ‘This cloth, shipped in from the east, would you say?’
‘I think so.’
‘Are you certain about this? What will your sister say?’
Emma grimaced. ‘I hope she never finds out. I shall certainly not be telling her.’ She spread the skirts to demonstrate their fullness and gave a mocking curtsy. ‘See? Every detail is perfect. The lacing ribbons are silk, and this veil is light as a cobweb.’
‘It hangs well. I do like the way the skirts swing. Yes, it is perfect. A little large at the bosom, perhaps.’
Flushing, Emma put a hand to the neckline.
Hélène batted it away with a smile. ‘No, let it be. It is quite…alluring like that.’
Emma fussed with the neckline. ‘Gudrun made it. She and Rozenn—the Breton seamstress—have been working together and…’
A movement by the door caught Emma’s attention. She frowned.
‘Emma, what’s amiss?’
‘I…I…no matter. Except—was that Sir Richard’s squire I saw leaving just then?’
‘Possibly, he does occasionally favour us with his custom when Sir Richard is in residence. He likes it here, even if his knight does not.’
‘Excuse me?’ A man’s voice cut in behind them. ‘Lady Emma?’
Emma whirled and her stomach lurched. ‘Azor!’
The hood of Azor’s head was up and he was standing in the deepest shadows, but Emma knew him at once. Judhael’s comrade, Azor, was a former housecarl of her father’s. He, too, had allied himself with the Saxon resistance. So it had been Azor she had seen on Mill Bridge…
Azor looked pointedly at Hélène and jerked his head in the direction of the screen. Hélène backed away. Catching Emma by the
arm, Azor drew her into the darkness between two large wine caskets.
‘Lady Emma…’ Azor’s eyes raked her from head to foot; his beard—threaded with grey nowadays—quivered. ‘No wonder it took so long for me to find you. When I heard you were…in difficulties…I imagined the worst.’
Emma swallowed. Azor had her fenced in with his body. Her hands began to shake. ‘Where is he?’ Her voice rose. ‘He is not here?’
Azor flung a glance over his shoulder. ‘Hush, no names, eh?’
‘I am not stupid.’
Azor’s lip curled as he looked at her. ‘I thought he might have caused you trouble when he visited your friends, but in my worst nightmares I would not have imagined this.’ His gaze took in the tavern, while the sneer on his lips spoke of a high disdain for tavern girls. He twitched clumsily at Emma’s skirts. ‘Bedding with men for coin, are we?’
Emma’s heart was fluttering like a netted bird. Was Judhael in the inn? She had hoped to have at least a couple of days’ grace…
Henri! Emma did not care what Judhael or Azor thought of her, the important thing, the most important thing, was that they should not find out that she had a son. Thank God Henri was safe upstairs.
‘Well?’ Azor gave her a little shake, such as he would never have done when her father had been alive, he would not have dared.
Emma lifted her chin. ‘It is none of your business what I am or what I do.’ Azor still had her boxed in. Laying a hand on his chest, she gave him a shove. ‘Please let me pass. I was having a private conversation with Hélène, and you interrupted us.’
Azor snorted, but in the flare of the torches it seemed his expression had softened. ‘The Lady Emma I used to know would have died rather than consort with the likes of Hélène.’
Conscious of Hélène hovering like a guardian angel behind Azor, Emma bit her lip. ‘Hélène is a friend, a true and loyal friend when many have deserted me.’
‘The woman’s a whore! Hell, my lady, Ju—he will kill you when he finds you.’ Again, the harsh features appeared to soften; his voice became gentle. ‘He wants you back, my lady. It has become an obsession with him.’
‘Let me pass.’ Emma’s mouth was dry, for she feared Azor spoke the truth. Judhael might well kill her. It was a struggle to keep her expression calm, when every nerve was shrieking at her to pick up her skirts and dash upstairs to check on Henri. She must know that that he was safe. Azor might have found me, but please, God, let him not learn about Henri.
‘My lady, there is no need to look at me like that. You must not fear me, I came to warn you—’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Hélène broke in. She had found a wooden cup and was filling it with wine from one of the barrels. As she approached, trying—bless her—to draw Azor’s attention, Emma willed her friend not to mention Henri. ‘You are new to the Staple, are you not? Please accept a cup of our best red. It is come in a recent shipment from Aquitaine in the land of the Franks.’ She lowered her voice. ‘King Harold himself never drank better.’
Azor looked doubtfully at the wine and more narrowly at Hélène. ‘He drank Frankish wine?’
Hélène smiled. ‘Indeed he did.’
‘But I didn’t order it.’
‘Take it, sir, with my compliments, as a welcome to the Staple.’
‘Waes hael.’ Mouthing the traditional Saxon toast, Azor grudgingly nodded his thanks, but his eyes never left Emma’s and she knew he had not finished with her.
Nevertheless, she made to push past him, not trusting him an inch. ‘Excuse me, if you please.’
Someone threw a log on to the fire and sent up a shower of sparks as the door opened to admit two men. The fire flared.
Silence gripped the room. Squinting past Azor’s shoulder, Emma tried to see what everyone was looking at, but Marie was moving between the tables, blocking her vision.
Emma was not the only person to notice the silence; Azor turned to look, too. ‘Swithun save us!’ Thrusting the cup at her, he ducked deeper into his hood.
Sir Richard of Asculf, garrison commander, paused in the doorway as a trio of troopers jumped to their feet and saluted sheepishly.
Richard had heard of this place—what man in the garrison had not? The prettiest girls in Wessex worked here. Richard was not averse to the idea of using their services—he would hardly have sent for Frida if that had been the case, but this was the first time he had stepped inside the Staple himself. His subordinates needed somewhere where they could be at ease, somewhere where they were not under the eye of their commander. By unwritten law, this was their territory, not his.
If the women here nursed a hatred for Norman soldiers they hid it well, or so he had been told. Saxon tavern wenches who had learned to smile at Norman soldiers.
A swift glance around found Richard surprised. Many of his men were there, of course, sprawled across benches, leaning on tables, sitting with girls on their laps. But overall, the Staple was more orderly than he had expected. The tables, though busy with cups and plates and half-eaten suppers, had a clean, scrubbed look to them; the fire was well built and spare logs and kindling were stacked safely to one side. A mouthwatering smell of beef stew reminded Richard that not only was he hungry, but that the Staple’s reputation did not rest entirely on the beauty of the servings girls. The madame apparently ran a kitchen fit for a king.
Irritably, Richard addressed the room in general. ‘At ease. Mon Dieu, you’re all off duty!’ As conversation resumed, he turned to Geoffrey. ‘You are certain you saw Emma of Fulford in here? I thought I told you to help her find work at the castle.’
Geoffrey bit his lip. ‘Yes, sir. I left her with the steward, as you said.’
Richard frowned. ‘Left her? You are saying you didn’t make certain she was given work?’
‘N-not exactly, sir.’ Geoffrey shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I told the steward what you had said and…and—’
‘You went away.’
Geoffrey stared at the floor. ‘I…I am sorry, sir.’
‘That was ill done, Geoffrey, very ill done. Do you even know if she was given work?’
‘No, sir. I am sorry.’
Sighing, Richard dragged off his gloves and held his hands towards the fire. Behind them, the door slammed, candle flames bent in the draught.
Richard acknowledged one of his soldiers with a smile. Belatedly realising who had joined them, a lanky sergeant hastily pushed a girl from his lap. ‘At ease, soldier, you’ve earned a little relaxation,’ Richard repeated. He scowled at his squire. ‘You had better be right.’
‘I am, sir. Look, there at the far end.’
Merde. The lad was right, though Richard could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was Lady Emma of Fulford, flanked on the one side by a huge wine keg, and on the other by Hélène, the madame of the Staple. Emma had been talking to a Saxon giant of a man. Negotiating a price for her favours? Lord.
Oblivious of everyone but Lady Emma—this was Cecily’s sister, her sister and Cecily and Adam would never forgive him if he let her continue on this course—Richard marched towards her. The Saxon giant vanished behind an oak post. Richard paid him no heed. ‘Lady Emma.’
She gave him a hasty curtsy. ‘Sir Richard!’
Taking in her finery, particularly the way the front of her pink gown gaped to reveal far more than it should, Richard’s gaze sharpened. ‘What in hell are you doing?’ Diable, it was obvious what she was doing. In that gown, a gown which set off her curves in a discreet yet, oddly, far more tantalising way than the vulgar yellow gown had set off Frida’s charms, Emma of Fulford could only have been doing one thing. The woman had been selling herself. With difficulty, Richard lifted his gaze from the alluring dip in the neckline, from the gentle curve of her breasts. The smudges of fatigue under her eyes were not visible in the torchlight. A translucent veil failed to hide her hair, which gleamed like dark gold beneath it.
Hidden treasure, he found himself thinking. Here in the Staple, in that gown, Emma of Fulford
had the loveliness and the hauteur of a princess of the Norse.
Her brows snapped together. ‘What business is it of yours, sir?’
Richard shook his head. ‘Just look at you. Is this the first time you have…done this, or is it something you make a habit of?’
Her blue eyes were cloudy, perplexed. It came to him that she was not connecting properly with what he was saying, that her mind was elsewhere.
‘My lady, are you drunk?’ He leaned closer, intending to discover if she had the smell of wine or mead about her. Instead, he caught the sweet scent of roses, freshness and roses. Hastily, he drew back.
‘Drunk? Certainly not!’
Her eyes, dark in the uncertain light of the torches, were scouring the tavern behind him. Searching for her lost customer? Richard clenched his fists. ‘You are a thane’s daughter,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘What would your sister say? Lord, have you no shame?’
‘He’s gone.’ Those dark eyes were full of shadows. She put a hand to her head. ‘Saint Swithun, help me.’
Whatever was the matter with the woman? How could the loss of one customer mean so much to her? Was she so desperate?
Firm action was clearly going to be called for.
Pink skirts rustled as she made to move past him. ‘Sir, you must excuse me, I need to go upstairs.’
Richard had her by the arm before he had time to think. ‘A moment.’
‘Sir,’ the madame, Hélène, cut in. She clicked her fingers and another Saxon, all muscle, appeared at her side. Not a threat exactly, but close. Geoffrey’s hand crept to the hilt of his dagger.
Richard gave the woman a direct look. ‘Madame Hélène, I presume?’
‘Sir?’
‘Lady Emma and I have matters to discuss, private matters. She will accompany me back to the castle.’ By Saint Denis, that sounded as though he intended buying Emma of Fulford’s favours, which he most certainly did not. At least…Richard was opening his mouth to clarify himself, but Madame Hélène got in first.
‘Emma, are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes, I am fine.’ Emma smiled, but her smile made a liar of her—it was vague and abstracted. ‘Sir Richard, please, I must go up to the loft.’ She laid a hand on his arm, white teeth worrying her lower lip.
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord Page 5
