The Deed

by Lynsay Sands

  "You have read too many books, wife," he told her grimly, then shared a glance between Blake and Little George. "I do not think it a good thing that some fathers allow their daughters to read now. It does seem to addle them somewhat."

  Emma narrowed her eyes on him and snapped, " 'Tis a sound plan!"

  "Mayhap if we were characters in one of Chaucer's--"

  "Husband!"

  Amaury sighed. "You forget one thing, wife. Should I be considered dead, 'twould leave you unprotected. Bertrand would force a marriage."

  Emma frowned over that, then brightened. "I shall claim that I am pregnant. I would be safe then."

  Amaury shook his head at that. Rather than keep her safe, such a claim might simply put her in graver danger. He had no doubt that to Bertrand, a child would simply be an inconvenience. He'd either arrange for her to suffer a miscarriage or kill her outright, depending on how great his desire was for her. Amaury tended to think he would try to cause her to miscarry, for in his eyes, his wife was a very desirable woman. He did not bother to mention this to her, however, for his thoughts were taken up with plotting of his own.

  "Nay, I will not be dead," he announced, moving to finally don his braies. "But I shall be dying."

  Chapter 13

  OH, my lady. 'Tis so unfair!"

  Putting a hand to her maid's shoulder, Emma patted it soothingly. "Aye, fate is a fickle witch," she murmured, adding a dramatic sigh for good measure.

  Amaury grimaced slightly at his wife's poor acting, then silently cursed his forgetting himself when Maude gasped.

  "Look, my lady! He appears to be coming around. He is in pain."

  Emma glanced down with a start, and frowned at her husband as she caught the expression that Maude had noticed just before he eased it back into the expressionless mask he had been feigning since shortly after explaining his plan that morning. It was to look as if he had been attacked in his sleep and stabbed. He was to be at death's door, but lingering before stepping over the threshold. The official story was that Emma had awakened as her husband was stabbed and thrown herself at the adversary, so that she and her husband became tangled up with him, but when Blake had arrived with the torch, they had found Little George.

  Amaury's first was to claim he had arrived before Blake and, unable to see in the dark, had joined the tussle, but that the villain had somehow escaped before the others had arrived. Bertrand and Lady Ascot, however, would know that they had commissioned no one else to attack her husband, and would assume that Little George had simply done the deed they had set before him. Her husband was hoping this plot would keep both Emma and Little George's wife safe until they could figure some way to find the woman.

  Emma thought her plan would have worked better, but the men had not agreed, so she had had to bow to the majority. And had fretted over it ever since. There had been a myriad of problems that day. First they had had to convince the others that they had not raised a hue and cry and set them to searching the woods for the phantom attacker because they had been busy trying to save her husband's sorry hide. Then there had been the problem of Maude. Amaury, being near death, had had to lay, supposedly unconscious, in the wagon for the remainder of the trip. Her husband had not handled real illness well, so she should not have been surprised that he bore this feigned illness even worse. He had whined and complained over the need to ride in the wagon like a baby at every opportunity.

  He had gotten that opportunity often. To prevent Maude from trying to change Amaury's bandages or do something else that would allow her to learn that he was not injured after all, Emma had been forced to ride in the wagon as well, playing the concerned wife. She had spent most of that last day of traveling attempting to keep Maude from overhearing her husband's complaining. Especially at the nooning meal when all she could offer her deathly ill and supposedly unconscious husband was an apple. It would not have done for her to be taking food to her supposedly weak and dying husband, but try to explain that to a hungry man who had had naught but a corner of bread that she had managed to sneak away for him to break fast with.

  It had got worse after that, for it had begun to drizzle. In an attempt to keep her "poor" husband dry in the uncovered wagon, Emma had taken up a blanket and crouched over him for the remainder of the ride. That had merely allowed him to complain more, for they were sheltered somewhat by the blanket. Between his complaining and the fact that her back had felt near to cracking from being in such a bent position for so long, Emma had been ready to stab her husband herself.

  It had been a great relief when they had finally arrived at Leicestershire, where Richard was holding temporary court. Amaury too had seemed relieved. At least he had stopped his infernal complaining for a bit as they had seen to carrying him up to this room where they were to remain during their stay. But then, there was no longer the creak of wood and the whirring of the wagon wheels to cover any complaints he might have made, and Maude was no longer separated from them by the length of the wagon and a blanket. Emma suspected that was the only thing that kept him silent, and was in no rush to see the servant go. However, she was beginning to think she might have to. For her husband was obviously having difficulty maintaining his role. All he really had to do was lie silent and rest, yet it seemed even that was too difficult for him to accomplish.

  Emma was about to give in and send Maude away when a knock sounded at the door. The servant immediately hurried to answer it, and stepped aside with a small gasp when the king entered followed by Blake.

  Moving directly to the bed. King Richard peered down at his fallen warrior, his shoulders immediately slumping. "So 'tis true," he murmured glumly, and Amaury issued a low moan.

  As she glanced at him, Emma's lips tightened vexedly. He was to be at death's door, for goodness sake. Did he keep moaning and frowning, people would think him on the mend. Damn! It was his own plan. He could at least have the decency to keep to it.

  Richard took in the glare she was gracing her husband with and frowned. "I think he is trying to say something, madam," he snapped sharply.

  "Nay," Emma murmured, managing a mournful look. "Nay, Your Majesty. He is beyond words now. Death is his companion, and has ever demanded silence of those he courts. He will linger some, I am sure, but 'tis all a matter of-- ouch!" Glancing down, she scowled sharply at Amaury. He'd pinched her, the bloody ogre! He'd slid his hand out from beneath the blankets and pinched her! He was just lucky no one saw him.

  "Is something amiss?" Richard asked.

  Emma glanced sharply at the suspicion on the king's face and shook her head. "Nay, Your Majesty. I just--'tis my new shoes," she prevaricated. "They are new enough to pinch." Her gaze happened to slide to Blake then, and noting the fact that he was making faces at her and nodding toward Maude, she hesitated, confusion covering her expression. She was just grasping the fact that he thought she should have Maude leave, when the door burst open and Little George stormed in with the king's guard on his heels trying to catch his arms and drag him back.

  "She is dead!" he roared disconsolately. " 'Twas all for naught! She is dead." The last word sank away on misery as he came to a halt. The guards immediately caught him and tried to wrestle him from the room.

  "He is Amaury's man," Blake explained quickly to the king, who nodded and turned to the three men struggling at the door. In truth, only his guards were struggling. Little George was slumped where he stood, not fighting, but as immovable as a castle wall.

  "Leave him be! Leave us!" As soon as the door had closed on his men, King Richard turned to survey the inhabitants of the room. He could feel a storm of secrets flowing about him, and was beginning to suspect he was the only one who did not understand what was happening. "What is the meaning of this? What goes on here?"

  There was silence for a moment. Then Amaury sat up in bed with a sigh. " 'Twas my idea, Your Majesty," he announced apologetically, rising from the bed.

  "Oh, sweet Saint Christopher, 'tis a miracle!" Maude cried, dropping to her knees to offe
r a prayer of thankfulness.

  Sighing, Emma moved to her servant's side. "Aye, Maude. 'Tis wondrous." Her voice hardly sounded pleased as she took the woman's arm and urged her back to her feet, but the servant did not notice. She was too busy sobbing with joy. Ushering her to the door, Emma patted her back. "No doubt his lordship would appreciate some refreshments and food after his illness. After you have refreshed yourself, mayhap you could bring him a repast."

  "Aye, my lady. 'Twill be good for him."

  "Aye," Emma agreed, and closed the door.

  Amaury turned to where Little George stood so stiff and silent, despair his only expression. "Tell me," he ordered.

  King Richard opened his mouth to countermand that order and demand his own explanations, then decided against it as the man began to speak.

  "I was helping Wesley to see to the horses at the stables when he struck up a conversation with Lord Woolsey's first," Little George told them dully. "I overheard him commiserating with him over your injury, and telling him that they too had suffered several misadventures on their way here."

  Aye." King Richard nodded at that. "Woolsey told me all about it when he arrived at court earlier this month. His favored horse went lame and had to be put down, one of his men became ill, and they came across a woman floating in the river one of the nights when they made camp." The king paused to frown when Amaury's man winced over that last bit of information, his face transfixed with agony. "But they knew not who the woman was," he added after a moment.

  "Nay, they did not. Nor did I, until he showed me this." Holding his hand out, Little George opened it to reveal a small circular band.

  "Your wife's?" Amaury asked reluctantly.

  He nodded. "It has our initials."

  Amaury crossed the few feet that separated them and took the ring. Peering at it closely, he looked for those initials, then sighed when he espied them. Handing the ring back, he clasped his first's shoulder. "She has been dead all this time?"

  "They found her two days after she was taken, but said she looked to have been in the water for at least a day."

  Thinking he had been patient long enough, King Richard crossed his arms and frowned on them all. "What goes on here? Amaury, explain yourself. You are obviously not injured. Why was I told you were?"

  "I am sorry, Your Majesty, and I do appreciate your forbearance so far," Amaury murmured, squeezing his first's shoulder before turning to face his king. It was a breach of protocol, Emma was sure. One was not supposed to show the king one's back, but Richard did not appear upset. In truth he was so tangled up in intrigue at the moment, she suspected he had not even noticed.

  "We have had some difficulties since the wedding," her husband announced now. "I was beset by bandits, then mercenaries in two separate attacks, and my dogs were killed by poison meant for me. My wife and I were attacked on the journey here. Then we learned that my first's wife had been kidnapped a few days after the wedding in an attempt to force him to aid in seeing to my demise."

  The king digested all of this, then quirked one eyebrow. "Bertrand?"

  "That is my guess."

  "And this injury you supposedly suffered?"

  Amaury cast a glance at Little George, then sighed. " 'Twas for George's wife. He was ordered to kill me if the last attack failed. At threat of her death. We hoped my being on death's door would protect her and Emma at the same time. There was also the hope that they would grow impatient with my lingering, try again to kill me here, and be caught in the act."

  "And now?"

  Amaury hesitated, then shrugged. "It may still work as a trap."

  "You forget your maid. By now she has no doubt told one and all that you are recovered. Up and about, in fact."

  "Aye," Amaury agreed wryly. "But that may be to our advantage. Aye, 'twill work," he decided. "You and Blake can explain that I am still weak, but definitely on the mend. 'Twill force them to make another attempt."

  The king considered that, then nodded. "I will have my own men posted at the door and--"

  "Nay! My apologies, Your Majesty, but I would not have you do anything to put off my assassins. Guards may frighten them away entirely. Then I shall just have to deal with them later. I need no guards. I have an advantage in that I am not ill. I shall be waiting for them."

  "I will not have that, de Aneford. Bertrand may be a coward, but his mother is clever. They may see right through this ruse of yours. I would have at least one guard with you. Here in the room."

  Amaury considered that, then nodded.

  "I will be that guard." When everyone peered at him, Little George tightened his hand on the ring he held. "I have an interest in seeing justice done."

  "It shall be so," King Richard decided.

  Emma paused on the path and tipped her head up, closing her eyes as she inhaled the sweet scent of the flowered trees about her.

  It was the second morning after their arrival at the king's temporary court at Leicestershire, and for Emma the last day and a half had been a nightmare of anxiety. Waiting was not one of her favorite activities on the best of occasions, but waiting for someone to try to kill her husband was unbearable. Even Amaury, who had seemed to relish the idea at first, was beginning to show the wear of wasted hours lying abed awaiting assassins who were definitely taking their time. It was one of the reasons she had delayed returning to their room. Her husband was growing short-tempered in his impatience. A few moments alone in the garden had seemed a lovely treat. It was so fresh here, clean. Truly, court was foreign to her. Everyone seemed so cold, uncaring, and quite debauched. It made her mind spin to think of how many wives were sleeping with other wives' husbands. But that was only one of the infractions going on here, she thought, grimly recalling a conversation she had had at table.

  Emma had been seated next to Lady Magdalyn, a rather cold and caustic creature who seemed to delight in shocking people. When she had noticed Emma staring warily at Lady Ascot as she had entered the hall, Magdalyn had leaned closer and murmured, "She is a nasty old bitch, is she not? 'Tis lucky you escaped marrying her son." Then after a silence, "I wonder where her maid is? I have never seen them apart until this visit."

  Curious at the way Magdalyn drawled the word maid with such sarcasm, Emma had murmured, "Her lady's maid?"

  "Hm. She is much more than maid. If court gossip is to be believed, she is Lady Ascot's lover. Though of course, for propriety's sake she is called maid."

  "Lover?" Emma had gaped in amazement at the very idea. Being a woman herself, she was positive the maid would not have that odd appendage that was needed for the joining. How could they possibly be lovers then, she had wondered with confusion. But when she had stated these thoughts aloud, Lady Magdalyn had laughed and shaken her head in amazed disgust.

  "You are naive, are you not?" she had drawled, then stood and moved to another seat. Moments later, loud laughter had drawn Emma's eyes along the table to find Magdalyn and the woman next to her laughing openly as they eyed her.

  The snapping of a twig brought Emma's eyes open with a start to stare at the man before her. "Bertrand." She eyed him warily, discomfort creeping up her back when he smiled at her.

  "Good morning. Lady Emmalene. I see you like gardens as well. We have something in common then."

  Shifting carefully to the side to move around him, she nodded stiltedly. "I must return to my husband. I have been remiss in neglecting him so. He will be fraught." More than fraught, she thought grimly. Her husband would be livid should he learn that she had put herself in a position to be caught alone and unawares by Bertrand. He had ordered her to stay in the room where he could protect her at all but mealtimes. Then she was to travel directly to the hall to dine, then return directly. In fact, he had taxed Blake with the chore of seeing her back and forth. But on arriving at the table that morning, King Richard had announced his wish to have a word with him.

  When her husband's friend had hesitated, Emma had assured him that she would be fine and would return directly to her hu
sband once she had finished breaking fast. Only then had he reluctantly stood to join his king. One did not refuse royalty.

  Emma truly had meant her promise when she had made it, but after Magdalyn had left her alone, a servant had placed some greasy cheese and a chunk of brown bread before her and Emma had felt her stomach roll in protest. For a moment she had feared she might be ill, then had managed to swallow the bile in her throat. She did not think she was coming down with anything. In truth she blamed her jumpy stomach on the constant tension of anxiety she had been suffering, not only this last day, but for weeks now. Her stomach had always been the first to react to troubles. Her head was usually second, and she could already feel the beginnings of the aching gathering in her head.

  "Is he often fraught?" Bertrand asked, and was not surprised by the startled confusion on her face. He knew her thoughts had been far away. He had watched the play of emotions cross her face for the last several moments, his heart lifting with hope as he noted that each expression seemed to be a negative one. A frown, a sigh, a grimace. Aye, Lady Emma was not happy in her marriage. He had suspected such would be the case. De Aneford was a great buffoon with beefy hands and little between the ears but wood. How could anyone prefer a man like that over himself? Impossible. Bertrand was aware of his attractiveness to women.

  Nay. Lady Emmalene did not love her husband, Bertrand decided now. He had feared it might be otherwise when Gytha had told him that she cried out at night with her passion, but now he decided those cries had been pain-filled sobs. Nay, they had not been cries of pleasure the wench had heard. Women did not do such things. It was only men who shouted their victory as they succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh. He ought to know. Had he not bedded a hundred women at least? And not one of them had cried out with pleasure.

  Emma frowned over his question, and rubbed her forehead in a vain attempt to ease the aching that was beginning there. "I must return to my husband."

  "Wait!" Catching her arm, he drew her back to his side. "I heard of Lord Amaury's misfortune and wished to express my sympathies."

  Emma's mouth tightened at his words. It was more likely he wished to gloat than sympathize.