Her lips curved as she nuzzled him. Richard needed this rest, and it was pleasing to think that she could comfort him enough to hold his nightmare at bay.
Her smile faded. The violence he must have seen. Richard was a warrior who had sworn to uphold his King and his Duke, but he was not by nature a violent man. There was no violence for violence’s sake, where Richard was concerned.
Like Richard, Emma’s father had been a warrior, but, unlike Richard, Thane Edgar had been prone to foul rages. Beaumont was blessed in its lord. It must be better that a man like Richard, someone in full command of himself—even-tempered and just—should take up the reins of government here. Emma had loved her father, but as a young woman she had observed that his rages often led to flawed judgements—witness his decision to force Cecily into St Anne’s convent. And her father’s temper…Emma grimaced; it had been fear of Thane Edgar’s black temper that had driven her into becoming Judhael’s secret lover.
Judhael. Who had proved to be another man of violence. Until Richard, Emma believed that most men, and certainly the warriors, were cast in that same violent mould.
Judhael’s gaunt face, as she had seen it that morning, floated to the forefront of her mind. In the village, Judhael had not shouted at her, he had not forced her to talk to him. Was he finally trying to learn control? She wanted to believe it.
A lock of Richard’s hair was curled round her finger. The dark in the bedchamber was total, but the exact colour of that hair was imprinted on her heart—dark brown, with a glint of chestnut when the sun caught it. ‘Richard,’ she murmured, as she lay pondering ironies. It did not seem possible that one of Duke William’s most powerful knights should have come to England to wage war on England’s subjects, and yet be a man of peace. The Norman commander of the Winchester garrison, a man of peace? Yet it was so. Why else would the death of one Saxon boy haunt him so?
Richard had a real desire to give good governance. His concern for justice must, of course, be the reason he wanted to make good the promises he had made her in Winchester.
Emma’s heart contracted. It wasn’t because he was developing a fondness for her. Richard was honourable, he had sworn to find her a husband and now he was going to match his word with deed.
It is too soon, she thought. Our time together will be too short.
Richard intended to find that husband she had asked for. She shook her head. She didn’t want a husband, unless it was him. Richard had spoiled her for any other man.
Unless—longing was a pain that pierced her heart—could Richard possibly be implying that he thought her his equal? Was he saying that he wanted to court her?
No, that could never be. She was landless and dowerless. Not only were her father’s lands in the keeping of a Frank, his friend Sir Adam, but Richard himself was committed to Lady Aude. Her brother’s men were indispensable to him. Emma of Fulford had nothing to offer.
Richard stirred and mumbled in his sleep, but his hold of her did not slacken. A tear slid down Emma’s cheek; she rubbed it away in his hair. Her throat ached.
She was upset because she had been remembering her father.
She was worried about Judhael embarking upon the life of a mercenary in Apulia.
She sniffed back another tear. She was not upset about Richard, Comte de Beaumont—her tears had nothing to do with him.
Nevertheless, several questions held her back from sleep. Surely any man who married someone as serenely beautiful as Lady Aude would learn to love her, and then what would happen to Emma of Fulford? And what did Richard mean when he said he was working to uphold the promises he had made in Winchester? Emma had rashly asked him to find her a husband. Had Richard already picked one out?
Even before they broke their fast his army began mustering in the hall and bailey. Since neither place was congenial for Henri to play in, Emma took him up to the relative quiet of Richard’s bedchamber.
Pushing one of the chests beneath the narrow window, Emma climbed up and peered down at the horde milling about below the gatehouse.
A stream of soldiers flowed over the walkway bridging the ravine. There were men in chain-mail; men in old-fashioned leather tunics with metal rings sewn on to them; peasant farmers with little in the way of armour save their strength and a sharp billhook. There were shields of every description, round shields and long shields; there were spears and lances; short swords and long swords. The blade of a Saxon battle-axe caught the light. Boots thumped like distant drums, horses neighed and snorted, the dust rose. It was just as well, Emma reflected, that Richard had slept last night, for his wits would need to be keen today.
They had started pouring in just before dawn. Knights from Falaise, responding to Richard’s call to arms; men from Bayeux eager to prove their loyalty to Bishop Odo’s half-brother, Duke William; there were archers from Caen and Pont-1’Evêque. Billowing clouds of dust had announced the arrival of several columns of elite knights from Rouen, proving that even those at the very heart of the Norman Duchy were racing to arms in support of the new Count of Beaumont.
What with the tramp of the many feet, the shouting, the winding of a horn, the bailey was in uproar. There was so much noise that even as Emma was craning her neck to see, there was a fluster of flashing wings and the doves in the stable eaves took flight. They formed a white swirl that curled over the heads of the restless figures below. Seconds later they were gone.
Emma couldn’t blame them. Watching what was happening in the bailey was making her nervous. She chewed her lip. There would be more fighting, more bloodshed. She willed herself not to remember those lost in the Great Battle, but of course, that was impossible; her father was ever in her mind. And what had happened around York?
If only there were some way of preventing this, Emma thought, turning away from the window. On the floor, Henri was playing with his boat, oblivious to the warmongering below. The rush matting was, Henri had informed her, the sea, and Richard’s spare boots were doing duty as giant sea monsters.
‘A battle of another sort, eh, Henri?’ Emma said, stepping down from the chest and neatly avoiding Richard’s old lute—no longer a lute in this game, so Henri had informed her, but an island in an otherwise vast and empty ocean.
Her brow wrinkled. Maybe Henri was not oblivious of what was going on in the bailey. Lord, who does protect the innocents, if not men like Richard?
Boat in hand, Henri roared up and down across the floor. The boat met one of Richard’s boots head-on, Henri made his most ferocious gurgling noise, and the boot flew into the heap of disused arms stacked in the corner. A couple of sacking-wrapped packages clattered to the floor.
‘Careful, Henri.’ Emma went to set them to rights.
‘Sorry, Mama.’
The boat soared over its choppy sea and Richard’s other boot—er, whale—attacked and…
The sackcloth around the discarded sword began to come undone as Emma grasped the sword hilt. A garnet flashed, silver gleamed. She stared, mind blank with disbelief. The decoration at the pommel—beaten silver set with a chunky garnet—was familiar. This sword-hilt…slowly her mind groped its way towards the truth…she knew this sword!
Trembling in every limb, Emma wrenched the sacking aside. Henri had gone quiet. She glanced across, but he was fine, still roaring up and down the matting, round and round the lute-island.
She blinked at the sword, not believing what she was holding and yet, and yet…
This was her father’s sword!
It had lost its sheath but this—she turned it in her hands and ran shaky fingertips along the blade—was the sword of a Saxon thane, the sword of a man who had gone off to battle in the company of his son. The sword of a man who had not returned: Thane Edgar of Fulford.
Tears blinded her. She thought she made a choking noise; she certainly swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. Her mind seemed to have frozen. More tears, which she blinked away.
The sword remained in her hand, solid and very real. And there, i
t was still there, the pink ribbon she had wound round the cross-guard in that autumn of 1066 as a luck-token. It was stained with dirt and what looked like blood. Hot tears, more and more, like a dam bursting. She bit back a sob.
What was her father’s sword doing stacked so neatly in the corner of Richard de Beaumont’s bedchamber? And why hadn’t these other arms been returned to the armoury? Were they trophies? Trophies of the kills he had made?
From her stunned brain one final question emerged.
Did Richard kill her father?
Chapter Fifteen
Emma’s legs gave way. She collapsed on to the bed, wiped the tears with her sleeve and laid the sword across her knees.
Think, Emma, think.
The blade was shiny and sharp, it had been cleaned and oiled. Naturally. No Norman or Saxon warrior worth his salt could stand to see a fine blade ruined for lack of care.
And as for the pink ribbon plaited around the cross-guard…
Gently, she touched it. The ribbon took her back to a time of innocence, a time of hope. She and Judhael had only just become lovers; they had wanted to tell Thane Edgar of their wish to marry. Events had conspired against them when England had been plunged into turmoil. First Harold Hardrada, then Duke William…
Henri’s boat nudged her foot and yanked her out of her memories. She watched him crawl back to the centre of his imaginary sea.
‘You hadn’t even been born,’ Emma murmured, dashing more tears away.
‘Mama?’
Henri was intent on his game, which was probably just as well. What good would it do him to see his mother in this state?
Had Richard killed her father?
She rested her fingers on the blade. It was cold. There was no escaping this. The presence of this sword in Richard’s bedchamber implicated him in her father’s death. Not Richard, no. Not Richard. She held down another sob and stared at the stains on the ribbon. Her father’s blood? A bee blundered in through the window while Emma sat as though turned to stone.
Henri was merrily continuing with his game. A second boot met the same fate as its mate and shot at the wall. ‘Sorry, Mama.’ The bee buzzed, Henri chortled quietly to himself, while below them in the bailey and the hall, men were mustering for war.
‘Richard,’ Emma spoke under her breath. ‘Not you, dear God, not you.’
She felt stunned, utterly stunned, although she could dimly see that in one sense there was no fathoming her reaction. Her father’s death at Hastings was old news; neither he nor her brother had returned. But it was one thing to know your father had been killed fighting for his King and quite another to discover that the man you had chosen as your protector might have been the one to strike the fatal blow.
On the other hand, Richard might not have killed her father.
Emma chewed the inside of her cheeks and fingered the end of the pink ribbon. It was unraveling; her entire world was unravelling. Why should Richard keep this sword? Her breast heaved and the old prejudices and fears seemed to rise up and devour her.
At best Richard was implicated. At worst…
Delicately, Emma unwound the rest of the ribbon from the cross-guard. Setting it to one side, she put the sword back in its sacking and returned it to the corner. Nothing must seem out of place when Richard started looking for her.
What had he said last night? That is the nature of war. Did he know whose sword this had been? Pain sliced through her. She had been living in a dream world since she had left Winchester and it was time she woke up. Yes, Richard was noble in the best sense of the word, but she had been blinkered to think they might ever live in true amity. A Saxon and a Norman? Too much stood between them for her to continue as Richard’s mistress for a single minute more….
The pain in her middle intensified, and she wrapped her arms round her stomach and sank back on to the bed. She must leave Beaumont, and it hurt, it hurt. What kind of a woman was she to feel real pain at the thought of leaving Richard? He had seduced her with his title and his strength. He had seduced her with that fine body and his apparent need of her. But what did she truly know about him?
He was gentle with her.
He ordered tiny boats to be made for her son.
He was a liar. He had lied about Lady Aude—‘Ugly Aude’ indeed.
And as for his sleeplessness—it might not be wholly rooted in his concern for that Saxon boy his trooper had killed. His insomnia could just as easily suggest that there were other dark deeds in Richard’s past, deeds that were coming back to haunt him.
The sacking-wrapped sword drew her gaze. Dark deeds. What else might Richard be hiding from her?
The bee flew into the whitewashed wall, buzzing frantically as it tried to find its way out. It lurched back into the middle of the room and dived at the wall again, before finally finding freedom and lumbering out of the window.
Emma cleared her throat. She could not sit here for ever. ‘Have you overcome the sea monsters, Henri?’ Her voice did not sound like her own.
‘Yes, Mama!’
Pushing to her feet, she gritted her teeth. This should be easy, particularly since she had armed herself against caring for Richard de Beaumont from the outset. She held out her hand. ‘In that case, come along. We are doing downstairs to pack your things.’
Large blue eyes stared up at her. ‘Pack?’
‘Yes. Later this afternoon we are going on a journey.’
Henri’s face lit up. ‘With Count Rich?’
‘No, my love.’ As her answer sank in, Henri’s face lost its shine. ‘But if you are good, Henri, very good, we may go in another boat.’
It was a pity she had given the entire contents of Richard’s purse to Judhael, but that couldn’t be helped. She had survived on her own once in Winchester; she could do so again.
‘I am sorry, Lord Richard,’ Sir Hugh said, with a triumphant grin that revealed he was anything but sorry. ‘The response has been such that I doubt there will be space for everyone in the hall tonight.’
The hall was certainly crammed past bursting point. The high table was raised on a dais, and from Richard’s vantage point at the head of it, he should have had clear sight of the main door. The horde hid it from him.
It was organised chaos in here. Soldiers, servants, knights, squires and even his hounds were weaving round each other, tripping each other up, as they scurried about their business. His ears rang with noise. One man hailed another across the scramble, another dropped a serving platter, a manservant swore, a woman shrieked with laughter, a dog snarled.
No children though, Richard realised. He had not seen Henri since dawn, when he had looked in on the boy before breakfast. There was no sigh of Emma, either. Not that he could blame them; this mêlée was not for them.
‘Do what you can, Hugh,’ he said. ‘I can see it will be tight.’
‘We will have to commandeer the stable.’
Richard nodded. ‘You might also use that storage barn next to the armoury, and tents could be raised in the herb garden behind the keep if necessary.’
‘The herb garden?’
‘Yes, Hugh. If there’s an inch of space anywhere, use it.’
‘But…the herb garden? Lady Aude will not like it, my lord.’
Richard sent Sir Hugh a meaningful look. ‘It is not up to the Lady Aude. Between you and me, she may not be here for much longer.’
‘Oh! I see, my lord, very well.’
Richard rubbed his face and looked past the maps and wine-cups on the table to the hall beyond. ‘I have to confess I had not realised the response to my call to arms would be quite so overwhelming.’
‘Your family have ever been loyal to Normandy,’ Hugh said with a little smile. ‘And Normandy looks after its own.’
‘Hmm.’ Richard tapped the map with the point of his dagger. ‘What time are those envoys expected back?’
‘They should return at any time, my lord.’
‘Excuse me, Lord Richard?’ The mercenary Theo was saluting at
his side, his expression troubled. ‘A word, if you please, concerning the Lady Emma.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No, my lord, I do not think so.’
Rising with a frown—Richard loathed being interrupted while in conference—he ushered the Saxon into a side passage. It was cool and dark, and when the door swung shut the babble in the hall muted. ‘Yes?’
Theo swallowed. ‘Lady Emma—I thought you should know—she has left the castle. With the boy.’
‘She has most likely taken him to the village to escape the military havoc here.’
‘I am not sure, my lord. She was dressed for travelling and carrying a bundle. I wouldn’t mind betting that she and her son were leaving. Leaving the district.’
A cold knot formed in Richard’s stomach. Emma? Leaving? Surely she would have said something to him if she had intended leaving Beaumont? Especially when only last night he had told her he was going to honour his promises to her as soon as he might. What was she about?
‘You must be mistaken, man, she said nothing to me about leaving.’
‘Nevertheless, my lord, Lady Emma did not have the look of someone who was planning to return.’
‘When, when did you see her go?’
‘They crossed the drawbridge not ten minutes since. On foot. They were headed towards the village.’
‘Merde.’
In the hall someone yelled out an order—Sir Hugh by the tone.
‘Do you want me to bring her back, my lord?’
Richard laughed. It was a bitter sound, but the thought of Theo dragging Emma back by her ears if she did not want to come struck him as oddly amusing. ‘No, follow her.’ He dug into his pouch. ‘Here, take this. Watch over them, covertly, you understand. I need to know what she does. Make sure she comes to no harm, but above all, Theo, do not lose her.’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Hurry, man. And take a horse, you might need it.’
Theo turned on his heels and Richard watched him squeezing his way through the crush until the door swung shut. It took a minute to steel himself to return to his council. Emma, gone? No! He had hoped she had developed a liking for him; he certainly felt more than fond of her. Perhaps he could have expressed himself better last night. But that was not possible, not while he was still honour bound to Lady Aude.
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord Page 20
