Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord

by Carol Townend

  The road was shiny with rain, the ruts were filling with water. A couple of magpies were scrapping over fish guts by the ditch. They went on squabbling even when his horse’s hoofs passed within a foot of them. A nose-wrinkling stink of ripe entrails filled the air.

  Ahead, a child suddenly ran into the street and came straight at them, his little face the picture of misery. Seeing him, the hair prickled at the nape of Richard’s neck—a running child, running as fast as his short legs would carry him…The muscles contracted in Richard’s belly, a black memory stirred and, for a moment, he was in another country, in a bleak and bloody landscape near York.

  As the child stumbled towards them, Richard’s gaze sharpened. Surely that was…?

  ‘Henri!’ Geoffrey exclaimed.

  ‘So it is. Wait here.’ Signalling the others to halt, Richard urged his horse forwards.

  Henri tripped on one of the ruts and fell flat in the mud.

  It was the work of a moment to dismount and pick him up. ‘Henri?’

  Sniffing, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, Henri’s eyes widened. His mother’s eyes.

  ‘Lord Rich!’ He gave a watery smile. ‘Was looking for you.’

  ‘Were you, lad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come along with me, then, and tell me what’s wrong.’ Henri’s face was streaked with mud and tears, or was it rain? It was hard to tell.

  The child sniffed and swallowed on a hiccough. ‘He broke my boat!’

  ‘Did he? Hold tight, Henri.’ Richard set him on the saddle and mounted swiftly behind him, pulling him close.

  ‘Yes.’ Henri twisted towards him, face puckering, fists clinging at his gambeson. ‘And…Rich, Rich, I lost Mama!’

  ‘It is all right, Henri, you are safe with me. First we will go and find your mama and then we shall see about getting another boat made for you. In fact, if Mama agrees, you shall have lots of boats. How does that sound?’

  A small damp body pressed close to his. ‘Yes!’ A smile trembled into being. ‘Count Rich?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Mama and Jude…’

  Richard realised he must be scowling when Henri’s voice trailed off. He schooled his face into a pleasant expression. ‘Yes?’

  A small hand touched Richard’s cheek, as though the child was offering him comfort. ‘Mama and Jude, no kissie, kissie, no kissie, kissie.’

  Richard’s jaw sagged. Of all the things Henri could have told him this was…this was…thank God. He felt as though the clouds had lifted, but, no, a flurry of cold wind hit him in the face and the puddles were spotty with rain.

  Henri’s blond head shook from side to side. Mud was running down from one of his ears. Absently, Richard wiped it away.

  Thank God.

  ‘No kissie, kissie,’ Henri repeated, and the child’s satisfaction clearly matched his. Almost.

  The rain was pouring down in earnest when Emma reached the quays. Somewhere along the way she had lost her veil. Standing at the mouth of the harbour, gulping for breath, she put a hand to her eyes to ward off the wet and peered desperately towards the jetties.

  The tide was coming in. Their ship was at last at its mooring, and one or two sodden figures were squelching towards it across boards that were dark with wet. One man was leading a pony to the broad gangplank, another was hauling on the bridle of a reluctant baggage mule.

  No Henri. There was a cold stone where her heart should be.

  The other jetties were quiet. The fishermen must have put out earlier or taken refuge in one of the taverns.

  ‘Henri!’ Emma ran a few steps and peered into a dank alley between two storage barns. ‘Henri!’

  No response.

  Hoofs clattered behind her, metal-shod hoofs that scraped the cobbles. She turned, and the world lurched sideways.

  ‘Henri!’ She stared up into the face of his rescuer. ‘Richard!’

  Richard grinned. ‘At your service, my lady.’

  ‘Look, Mama, I found Count Rich!’

  The relief weakened her. It was an effort to move to Richard’s knee, but she managed it. She held up her arms. ‘Come here, Henri.’

  Her son was warm and soft and…She drew back. ‘You’re covered in mud!’

  ‘Sorry, Mama.’

  Her eyes met Richard’s over the blond head.

  ‘A little mishap on the Pont-l’Evêque road,’ Richard murmured.

  ‘He was on the road to Pont-l’Evêque?’ Heavens.

  ‘Apparently he was looking for me.’

  Her eyes stung and suddenly Emma was pleased it was raining. She blinked like a mad thing. ‘I see. Well, I thank you, my lord, with all my heart.’

  Richard smiled and Emma’s heart did a silly leap. He looked to be in good health, although perhaps a little tired and unshaven. And there was something different about him. She frowned. Of course! He was wearing a leather gambeson such as an ordinary soldier might wear. Where was his chain-mail, his shield, the crimson pennons? Where was his entourage? The dogs? Had matters gone badly in Beaumont? Her heart squeezed as she stared up at him. She ought not to care any more, particularly since she had found her father’s sword in his possession. It was galling to learn that she did care, very much. She was going to have to be strong.

  ‘I did not expect to see you again,’ she said, in as wooden a voice as she could manage.

  ‘I gathered as much, in Beaumont.’

  Hugging Henri to her, Emma set her face towards the ship. ‘Thank you for bringing Henri to me, my lord. Thank you. But if you will excuse me, I have booked passage to Bosham and we must embark.’

  Richard sent her the most peculiar smile. ‘Which boat, that one?’

  Emma’s gaze followed his pointing finger. ‘Geoffrey!’ A horrible suspicion formed. ‘Why are Geoffrey and Theo talking to the ship’s master?’

  Richard’s eyes glinted.

  ‘Richard, have you taken it upon yourself to cancel my booking? Have you?’

  ‘How dare you!’ Emma hissed a few minutes later as Richard hauled her into one of the more prosperous merchant’s houses overlooking the port. ‘How dare you!’

  Inside, Richard released her. Rubbing her arm, she glared at him, grinding her teeth in her anger. With Henri’s eyes on them, she couldn’t make a fuss, at least not as large a fuss as she wanted to and Richard knew it, the brute. She took a steadying breath. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The poor souls whose house your men have commandeered, where are they?’

  ‘Visiting friends.’

  Money must have changed hands. The house was large and lovingly furnished with clean, white-washed walls and a polished table. The subtle smell of beeswax lay beneath the smoky tang of a household fire. Bunches of lavender had been hung from the beams and a copper pot gleamed on the hearth. It was probably the best house in the port.

  ‘I don’t know why you have brought me here. I have nothing to say to you and I have no intention of going back with you.’

  ‘Mama?’ Anxious eyes were looking up at her. Henri did not like her tone, nor, judging by the expression on his face, did Richard.

  ‘Godric?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Take Henri out to watch the ships, will you? And don’t let him out of your sight, he can move like lightning when he wants to.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Godric held out his hand and looked enquiringly at Emma.

  Emma nodded her permission.

  ‘Come and see the boats then, my lad. I wonder if there are any with red sails?’

  At the door, Henri hung back. ‘Count Rich?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You won’t forget your promise?’

  Richard’s expression lightened and he ruffled Henri’s hair. ‘Would I forget something as important as that?’

  Henri smiled and allowed Godric to lead him out. They were alone.

  Emma felt the familiar awareness shimmering through her. Every nerve seemed to tingle simply being wit
h him. Heaven help her, she had missed him.

  Determined to resist, she strode up and down. ‘Promise? What promise?’

  ‘Later.’ Richard came to stand in front of her, close enough for her to see that he did indeed need a shave. He smelt of horse and sweat and Richard, and his mere presence in front of her was shamefully weakening. It was so weakening she could hardly tear her gaze from his mouth. She would give her life to be able to step into those strong arms and let them stroke away the past…Lord, this was not going to be easy….

  ‘I have a question for you, Emma. Two, in fact.’ Those grey eyes were watching her as intently as a hawk watches his prey.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Theo told me some men escorted you here.’

  ‘Theo saw me? I wondered how you knew where to come. You had me followed!’

  Richard reached out and for a brief joyous moment, Emma thought he meant to enfold her in his arms, but he simply felt the woollen fabric of her skirt and frowned. ‘This is wet, Emma, you should change.’

  ‘I shall do nothing of the sort! What would I wear?’

  His mouth twitched and he gestured towards a couple of bundles that lay unnoticed by the wall. Her bundle, hers and Henri’s. He had had them brought from the inn. Emma glowered at him. ‘You assume too much, Richard.’

  ‘I assume nothing, I assure you. Change, Emma, you will catch a chill.’

  Emma folded her arms across her breasts. ‘I will not!’ Rain was getting in through the smoke-louvres, the fire hissed.

  ‘Have it your own way.’ His eyes held hers. ‘Theo mentioned that one of the men…was his name Judhael? That was your former lover’s name, as I recall.’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘It was Judhael. Lord, Emma, the man abandoned you years ago and you insist on protecting him?’

  She shook her head. ‘Judhael did not abandon me, I walked away from him.’

  ‘Did you arrange to meet him in Beaumont?’

  ‘No! He and a companion—oh, Richard, what can it matter? I am trying to get back to England. J…my old friends escorted me. And all would have been well and Henri and I would have been safely on our way if you had not told the ship’s master that we do not require passage on his ship.’ She glared at him. ‘You were wrong to do that, I am going back to England. There is still time. They will not sail until high tide.’

  ‘I regret, my lady, but that ship will sail without you.’ Grim-jawed and determined, Richard looked anything but regretful. ‘We have matters to discuss before you may leave. After that…’ he shrugged ‘…it will be your decision. You may leave then if you wish.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you! I would like to leave immediately.’

  He drew closer, and his eyes were as frosty as they had been when she had first met him back in Winchester. Had Richard been defeated in Beaumont? Was she once again looking into the eyes of man made bitter by defeat? Since he was wearing the plain attire of a humble soldier, it seemed likely. Lord, hadn’t she seen enough men destroyed that way?

  ‘Later, Emma, after our talk.’

  He had backed her up against the table, which was digging into her thighs. ‘Richard, please.’

  He took her shoulders. ‘Why did you leave? If it was not because Henri’s father had come for you, because you love him—’

  ‘No! No, it was not.’ His fingers were merciless, and his eyes—Emma really did not like that cold look. Curse her for her weakness, but she wanted to see those grey eyes lit with warmth again, as they had been in that tower room in Beaumont.

  ‘Then why walk out? Why?’

  Emma turned her head to avoid that pitiless gaze and focused on the baggage across the room. ‘The sword, it was the sword.’ Her mouth was dry. Licking her lips. she stumbled on. ‘I found Thane Edgar’s sword in your room. My dead father’s sword.’

  His grip eased, he was frowning, eyes blank. ‘Sword?’

  Breaking free, tears blinding her so she could—thank God—no longer see him, Emma wrapped her arms about her middle. ‘You can’t even remember, can you?’ Her laugh was harsh, cracking in the middle. ‘Saints, you kill my father and you can’t even remember!’

  ‘The sword, the one from Hastings, the one I had Geoffrey wrap in sacking—it belonged to your father?’

  Bleakly Emma nodded, conscious of him looming over her. That powerful male shape was shadowy, silhouetted by the light coming in through the shutters and blurred by her tears. Silence gripped them and it seemed they had both been turned to stone. Outside, a gull mewed, a sparrow chirped. The fire was no longer hissing, the rain must have stopped.

  Richard broke the spell by running his hand across his forehead. ‘Your father, Thane Edgar…by all that’s holy, Emma, I did not know that man was your father. And I did not kill him.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that.’ More tears flooded her eyes.

  He took her hand, his touch gentle this time, and ran his thumb over her fingers. ‘I swear it, Emma. But now I understand why you fled.’ Drawing her to a bench, he pulled her down beside him. ‘If you will listen, I will explain why I kept that sword.’

  She nodded. For some reason it had become impossible to look him in the eye, so she stared instead at a knot in the tabletop.

  ‘I did not kill your father, but I did see him die,’ Richard said. ‘I will not burden your mind with details because they can come back to haunt you, but you should know that your father died bravely.’

  Emma ran a fingertip over the swirls in the knot, round and round, round and round. ‘Was he near the King?’

  ‘Harold Godwineson? Yes, the owner of that sword was at the heart of things, in the midst of his companions. He died a warrior’s death.’

  The whorls in the knot wavered and swam, tears burned tracks down her cheeks.

  ‘Emma.’

  A large hand reached out and carefully turned her face towards him. Fingers smoothed the tears away. Fingers that Emma thought—but of course she could not see properly for the crying—were trembling. She bit back a sob. Hope, she was learning, could be as painful as despair….

  ‘Emma, you must believe me. When…if we return to Beaumont I will put Thane Edgar’s sword into your keeping. I saved it to remind myself that in war there is bravery and heroism on both sides.’ His throat worked. ‘I find I need you to believe me.’

  Burrowing into his arms—oh, the relief—Emma pressed her face into leather worn soft with use and nodded. ‘I do,’ she choked. ‘I do. I expect you would have killed my father if you had had to, but I thank God that you did not.’

  They sat on the bench for some time. Shadows shifted. Richard stroked her head, and pressed warm lips against her temple. Winding her arms about him, she hugged him as tightly as she could and lifted her tear-blotched face to his. If we return to Beaumont, he had said. Events there must have turned out badly.

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘Mmm?’ He pressed another kiss to her temple and eased her plait from the back of her neck with a grimace. ‘You are drenched. We need to get you dry.’

  Sniffing like a child, Emma nodded and stood meek as a lamb while Richard of Beaumont began undressing her. It was very innocent, very chaste. She let the relief sink in. Her father had died a hero’s death, as he would have wished. And Richard had not killed him, thank God.

  Questions crowded in on her. ‘Richard?’

  He was frowning over the recalcitrant buckle on her girdle. ‘Lord, I hate this thing, why on earth won’t you get another? Ah, there!’ The girdle clunked on to the table and he turned her about, searching for the ties at the back of her gown.

  ‘What happened in Beaumont, Richard—was there a battle?’

  ‘In a moment. First you will tell me. Are we reconciled?’

  Emma blinked and, turning back to face him, reached for the solidity of that plain gambeson. Her fingers curled firmly into the leather. The tide must indeed have turned against him in Beaumont. Richard had come to her without his entourage, in the guise of
an ordinary man. He was, apparently, no longer the powerful protector she had sought out in Winchester. But if he wanted her, he could have her. She no longer cared for the trappings—man or count, she would be content with either. She had dreamed of marriage once, but for this man, she would set those dreams aside, too.

  ‘We are reconciled.’ It sounded like a vow, which in a way, it was. Richard had had her heart in his keeping for some while, if he did but know it.

  A smile lit his eyes. It was his old smile, the warm one she had seen in Beaumont and it took years off him. She thought he would kiss her, but he simply stood there, staring at her and smiling. She flushed, suddenly ridiculously self-conscious.

  ‘Beaumont, Richard? What happened?’

  He made her face the other way and returned to her lacings, ‘There was no fighting, thank God.’ His breath was warm on the back of her neck. ‘With William’s support and that of my allies, negotiations won the day. The Counts of Argentan and Alençon were after easy pickings. When they realised half the Duchy was up in arms against them, they came to their senses.’

  ‘You won!’

  ‘Aye, Beaumont is mine, and without as much as a sword being unsheathed. When two stags fight antler to antler there does not have to be bloodshed, but one must acknowledge the other has won. Of course, we may not rest on our laurels, they will always be probing for weakness, but we shall be ready for them should they return.’

  ‘I am so glad,’ Emma said, as he peeled the damp wool of her gown from her shoulders. ‘You will give your people good governance, I am sure.’ She reached for his hand, but he had turned away and was rummaging in her pack for a dry gown. ‘What happened about the armoury and all those damaged weapons?’

  He looked across. ‘I forgot you heard about that. Jean found the culprit and is dealing with him. Will this blue one do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stood meek as a lamb and let him dress her. ‘So, the Count of Beaumont is acting as my maidservant,’ she murmured.

  ‘What?’ His grin was lopsided. ‘Desperate times! I can’t have you catching your death, not when I have plans for you.’

  ‘You do?’