‘You do have some interesting views, ma petite,’ Richard said, in so mild a voice he quite took the wind out of her sails.
Interesting views? That cool gaze was thoughtful. He gave her one of his lopsided smiles while she took another gulping breath, appalled at herself. What had she done? She must be mad, to shriek at the Count of Beaumont as though, as though…
‘However, I am relieved to hear that you were drawn to me. And that I have at least one other redeeming feature,’ he murmured.
She folded her arms. ‘Oh?’
‘You said you like my looks.’
‘I do not, you are as ugly as sin!’
Shifting towards her, a warm hand moved suggestively on her thigh. ‘I take it then that there’s no chance of…?’
She pushed at his chest. ‘Not a chance, not tonight. In any case, I am no longer certain that it is my safe time.’ This was an outright lie and, judging by his expression, Richard recognised it as such.
‘Truly?’
She glared. ‘Truly.’
‘Very well.’ Shifting, he pinched out the candle, keeping hold of her all the while. Gently but firmly he pressed her head down on to his chest. ‘I will leave you in peace tonight. You are not in the mood and far be it for me to force myself on you when you are unwilling.’
Emma lay rigid in his arms, not believing he would be as good as his word. Judhael would not have been. If Judhael had wanted her, Judhael would have taken her.
It was hard to nurse your anger though, when you were held warm and snug in strong arms and that wicked masculine scent was fuddling your senses. Emma frowned into the dark. The force of her anger had shocked her; it had driven the charm she had been striving for right out of the window. It wasn’t like her to rant and rave, and it certainly wasn’t in her interests to alienate Richard. She was lucky he hadn’t flung her into the great hall.
With a sigh she relaxed against the muscled length of his body. So much anger, it was almost as though she loved him. She could not, must not begin to love Richard of Beaumont. This was meant to be a simple arrangement, one which was to have suited both parties equally.
Sweet Mary help her, she must not begin to feel more than affection for him. Misery lay at the end of that road: look at poor Frida at the Staple, look at Lady Aude. Any such feelings must be quashed. Instantly.
It had been the thought of him marrying Lady Aude that had set her off, that and the discovery that Emma might like the woman.
Was she jealous? Saint Swithun help her. This obsession with a man who wasn’t Henri’s father was positively indecent. Sinful.
She must guard her heart, for her role at Beaumont remained uncertain. But at what point had it started to feel downright humiliating to know that Richard would never, not even for one second, contemplate marriage with Emma of Fulford?
‘My lady? Lady Emma?’
She woke with a start and stared past Richard’s empty pillow towards the door. The window shutter had been opened and a shaft of sunlight slashed across the floor. Whoever was outside kept on knocking.
‘My lady?’
It wasn’t Geoffrey and Emma didn’t recognise the voice. Throwing her cloak round her shoulders, she went to the door and opened it a chink.
It was Theo, the Saxon mercenary who had accompanied Godric on the crossing from Bosham. Unlike most of his compatriots, Theo had shaved his hair and his beard was short and neat. ‘Yes?’
‘Count Richard said I was to offer you my escort if you wanted to go to the market.’ Theo’s disgruntled expression told Emma what he thought of such a commission at a time when a man ought to be sharpening weapons or drilling with his comrades in the bailey.
A market. Emma was tempted, but thought of Judhael gave her pause.
‘My thanks, but there is no need. Theo, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Theo, I am certain I can manage without—’
Theo shook his head. ‘My lord was most explicit. You are not to leave the confines of the castle without my escort.’
Emma eyed Theo. He had a hard edge to him and looked more than strong enough to ward off any trouble. She would love to see Beaumont and the market. Why should Judhael rule her life? He might not even be there; even if he was, Richard had sent this man to look out for her. She stiffened her spine; there would be no more cowering in corners for her.
‘I see. Well, thank you, Theo, I would like to go to the village, very much. I will meet you by the gatehouse in, say, half an hour.’
‘Very good, my lady’ Inclining his head, Theo withdrew.
A bright sun had banished the mist, making visible what had been invisible on the day of their arrival. As Emma and Henri walked hand in hand through the gatehouse and out on to the drawbridge, Emma’s eyes widened. The drawbridge spanned not a river as she had imagined, but a deep ravine. The drop was dizzying.
Castle Beaumont was perched on a rocky outcrop and Emma’s first proper view of the county from the other side of the drawbridge took her breath away. ‘So high,’ she murmured, keeping fast hold of Henri.
Theo marched stolidly at her side with hand on his sword hilt as though, even up here by his lord’s drawbridge, he feared attack. He was being over-cautious, Emma decided as she looked out over a wooded valley. Nevertheless she was glad of his company. Judhael might be about and, while she felt confident that she could deal with him, at least in public, she was thankful to have an escort.
A river wound through the valley floor. Oak and beech trees were coming into leaf and the riverbank was lined with poplars and alder, tiny at this distance. Here and there the forest had been cleared for farmland. She could see the orchards that Richard had mentioned. A few shreds of mist remained, refusing to give up the hollows. Farther down the valley, a buzzard was circling.
‘The village is halfway down the hill,’ Theo said. ‘My lady, are you certain you wish to walk?’
‘Yes, I don’t recall it being far.’
Muttering under his breath, her reluctant escort tramped along beside her. At a crossroads there was a small shrine to Our Lady, buried in offerings. Primroses and wood anemones had been scattered over several pilgrims’ lead tokens and for an instant Emma was whisked back to Saint Swithun’s shrine in Winchester.
Past the shrine, the houses began. The village of Beaumont had a church and a smithy. Emma’s heart twisted as once again she was put in mind of Wessex. How like Fulford Beaumont was, save that here there was no mead hall. A tavern faced a grassy square, there were a couple of prosperous peasants’ cottages, and several humbler ones. Many of the houses were basic wattle and daub with thatched roofs, but some were planked. The only stone building in the vicinity was the castle that overlooked everything from its rocky escarpment.
There was another noticeable difference to Fulford, Emma thought, making a beeline for the market stalls set up on the grass in front of the tavern. Here, naturally, everyone was speaking Norman French. Two women were haggling amiably over the price of new season’s eggs; a man sat on a log outside the tavern singing a marching song—he was off-key and drunk, but it was definitely French.
A fabric stall caught her eyes. It was groaning with as tempting an array of materials as one could hope to see: soft silks in rich reds and dark blues; shiny satins; filmy fabrics and heavy homespun; velvets and damasks. Richard had mentioned a pedlar from Paris—this must be his stall. Emma smiled down at Henri. He was growing so fast always in need of new clothes. She was bound to find something for him here.
‘Emma?’ A voice hissed in her ear. ‘Speak to me, Emma!’
An English voice? Here? She turned and ice skittered down her spine. ‘Judhael!’
The world narrowed down to a pair of staring blue eyes. The spring sun lost its warmth, the hustle of the market quieted and the village seemed to vanish from her sight. Judhael. Emma braced herself. In her heart she had known that this meeting was inevitable.
Judhael was much changed. A straggling blond beard could not hide the fact t
hat he had lost weight. His cheekbones were prominent, his eye sockets too pronounced. A livid scar cut diagonally across his jaw. It looked old, but it was not one Emma recognised. The stitching had been botched.
‘Will you not speak to me, my lady?’
Theo made a movement, his knuckles gleaming white on his sword hilt as he looked a question at her.
‘It is all right, Theo.’ The coming moments would not be pleasant, but Emma was confident she could cope. She motioned the mercenary to one side. ‘I know this man, he and I are…old friends.’
Theo withdrew a few paces, obedient because in Judhael he recognised a fellow Saxon, but his eyes never left her for an instant.
A muscle twitched in Judhael’s cheek. ‘Friends, love, is that all? We were more than that once.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the tavern. ‘Come, share a drink with me, there is much I would say before we leave.’
‘Leave?’ Emma held her breath, it sounded as though Azor had succeeded in persuading Judhael to join the fight against the Eastern Emperor.
‘Yes, Azor and I have a mind to go to Apulia.’ Judhael glanced casually at Henri, and every nerve in Emma’s body went on alert.
‘Where is Azor?’ she asked, in as pleasant a tone as she could muster. Had Azor told Judhael that he had a son? He promised he would not.
A shrug. ‘He’s around somewhere. Come, love, have a drink with me.’ Judhael held out a pitifully thin hand, more claw than human appendage. It did not look like the hand of the man who had been her father’s favoured housecarl.
‘I think not.’ She crossed her arms. ‘Judhael, I am glad you survived the Harrowing, but I do not wish to speak to you. What is there to say?’ Emma’s mind was paralysed by conflicting thoughts. This was Judhael, her son’s father, and she had dreaded him finding her for so long…and yet now that he was here, looking her in the eye, one thought emerged from all the others.
This was the man who had haunted her for years—this skeletal, beggarly creature?
Judhael’s face, what Emma could see of it behind the beard, was nothing but bone and sharp angles; his shoulders sagged and his clothes were in shreds—beside them her Winchester work clothes would look positively pristine. The sour odour of stale sweat wrinkled her nostrils—Judhael’s clothes needed washing; he needed washing.
Something within him had died. Judhael was a shadow of his former self. Was this what defeat did to a man?
He glanced again at Henri. ‘Who is this? Looking after one of your lord’s by-blows?’
Emma evaded his gaze. Azor had kept her secret, bless him. Judhael might be a shadow of his former self, but she could well remember what the flat of his hand felt like. Much as she hated to do it, common sense told her she must lie, to deny that Henri was hers. She prayed that Henri would hold his tongue. ‘He belongs to one of the ladies in the castle.’
Henri’s eyes went wide. May God forgive her, she could see the questions forming in his young mind, she could feel his confusion. One day she would explain everything to him, but not today.
Please, God, let Henri keep silent.
Unfortunately, Henri took matters out of her hands, exactly as he had done in Honfleur. ‘Mama?’
‘Mama?’ Judhael hissed out a breath. ‘Holy Mother, the boy is yours! I thought you were nursemaiding for that lord.’
Emma drew herself up. What else could she do? ‘Very well, I confess it. I am not a nursemaid. Henri is my son.’
Bending, Judhael caught Henri by the chin. Stared.
Henri whimpered and clutched Emma’s skirts.
‘How old is he?’ Judhael snapped.
‘Almost three.’ She put steel in her voice. ‘And have a care, I will not have him frightened.’
Judhael straightened and something of the old fire flared in his eyes. Emma’s heart sank. Her chin inched up. She refused to flinch, but instead of lashing out or taking her by the shoulders to give her one of his teeth-rattling shakes, Judhael shook his head and stepped back.
‘My son.’ He rubbed his forehead; his nails were broken and dirty. ‘I never thought—a son.’ He stared at Henri, a man transfixed.
Emma fiddled with the purse at her belt. Had Judhael changed? Had she been wrong to conceal Henri’s existence from him? She had done it to protect him, but it was impossible to conceal the truth any longer, Henri’s age gave it away. ‘Yes, Judhael, this is your son.’
Judhael’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Name of Henri, I think you said?’
‘Yes.’
Judhael inhaled deeply, his shoulders straightened. He went on gazing at Henri, expression softening. ‘My son.’ When he looked back at Emma there was no trace of his former arrogance, but that febrile brightness in his eyes was not entirely quenched. ‘Emma, you have to let me speak privately with you. When I learned you had left Winchester in the company of that Norman, I had already decided to try out the life of a mercenary. But I wanted to speak to you, to say a last farewell.’
Emma kept an arm firmly about Henri. ‘We can say our farewells here.’
‘Emma, no! Earlier I didn’t know about Henri. But now that I do, it is imperative I speak to you.’
‘Judhael, it makes no difference. I lost the desire to speak to you on Seven Wells Hill. We have nothing to say to each other.’
He caught at her arm, fingers boring into her flesh through the sleeve of her gown. Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw Theo stiffen and edge closer. Judhael saw it, too. Releasing her, he made a point of retreating to give her space. His eyes were over-bright, staring. ‘Emma, I am sorry. I have come to regret what happened that day. I made some bad mistakes, not least of which was to ride off without you. Blame my passion for King Harold’s cause, which blinded me. Forgive me. Do not deny me my son.’
‘Judhael, the past cannot be forgotten. Philip, Lufu—both were badly done. Besides, your recent actions make lies of your fine sentiments. What about those bruises I saw on Bertha’s wrists? And that fire at City Mill—did you set it?’
Blue eyes bored into hers. ‘At Fulford, Father Aelfric taught us the importance of a forgiving heart. Is there no forgiveness in you?’
‘Don’t preach to me! In the year King Harold was killed, my brother was a baby; he was a newborn and your ambitions almost killed him! And as for Bertha and Gytha—to threaten innocent women…’ Emma shook her head. ‘I do not think you have changed. And even if you have, there can be no going back for you and me.’
Judhael lifted his gaze to the castle on its rocky outcrop. ‘You’re hardly a saint yourself. I thought you were nursemaiding that man’s bastard. But since you are not—what are you, Emma, his whore?’
Emma bit her tongue; refusing to let him goad her. It flashed in on her that in a sense it did not matter what she was to Richard because Richard—despite his impending marriage to Lady Aude—showed by his actions that he valued her. Their relationship might be an illicit one, but the Count of Beaumont treated his mistress with more respect than she had ever received in her life.
Judhael grunted. ‘No going back, you say?’
‘No.’
‘Not even if our son might be legitimised?’
Emma’s breath caught. ‘Marriage—you are suggesting that I marry you?’
‘Aye.’
She could hardly believe her ears. Marriage? With Judhael? A wedding between them would indeed legitimise Henri, and no one would be able to call him bastard again. Shamefully, one thought stood clear of the rest. It was a thought that made Emma ache, a thought she had no business thinking.
If she married Judhael, she would never see Richard again.
Henri’s fingers were winding into her skirts. Emma folded them in hers. ‘You are not serious. I am, as you have just pointed out, no saint—this child testifies to that. But at least I never risked the health of an infant—Philip was a baby, Judhael.’ She turned away, grateful for Theo’s watchful presence. ‘I must go.’
Judhael’s gaze was intent. ‘Tell me one thin
g, Emma—your lord, the Count of Beaumont, will he marry you?’
‘That is not your concern.’
A hand snatched at her, a hook-like hand with dirty, broken nails. ‘I do not like what you have become, Emma. I do not like it that our son must bear the stigma of illegitimacy.’
Pulling free, she gave him a steady look. ‘We both knew what might happen in that autumn of 1066. It was my risk, as well as yours.’
At his sides, Judhael’s fists clenched. ‘Emma, we can make amends. Henri does not have to remain illegitimate. For the love of God, marry me. Come with me to Apulia.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘No.’ Emma’s voice was steady, but her nerves were jangling. Being with Judhael had often reduced her to this state, she recalled. Only this time she was not going to be browbeaten. Judhael held her gaze, his expression steadier than it had been when he had been her father’s housecarl. Doubts assailed her. He had always been so changeable—was it possible that he was trying to reform?
‘Time,’ Judhael said softly, glancing at Theo. ‘Seeing me has been a surprise and you need time to consider. I will wait.’
‘I will not change my mind,’ she said. Henri shuffled. Realising she was squeezing his hand too tightly, she relaxed her hold. ‘In any case, weren’t you and Azor leaving for Apulia straight away?’
‘I will delay my plans for you and our son, love.’
Firmly, she shook her head. ‘Believe me, I will not come.’
‘Think about it. And in the meantime…’ Judhael eyed the purse that Richard had given her and put his hand out. ‘I could do with a coin or two to tide me over.’
‘Some things never change,’ Emma murmured. Opening the purse, she tipped the contents into his grubby palm. The rank stench of his sweat hit her and it was an effort to hide her revulsion. ‘I take it you sold the arm-rings you won from my father?’
‘Eh?’ Judhael looked blank.
‘Never mind.’ Thane Edgar’s arm-rings, together with the ones she had given him, were doubtless long gone. She gestured towards the market. ‘Buy yourself some new clothes, visit a bath house, get some fat on your ribs for the journey. But do not wait for me, because I will not come. Farewell, Judhael.’
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord Page 18
