The Deed

by Lynsay Sands

  Noting her displeasure, Bertrand nearly clapped his hands with glee. To him it meant that truly she was not happy in her marriage. It was impossible that she might see through his words and be aware that it was he and his mother behind the many misfortunes her husband had experienced of late. His mother was too clever.

  "Your husband is most fortunate to have you for a wife," he told her passionately now, with the first iota of truth he had spared in this conversation. He did think Amaury lucky, and it was a luck he hoped to have soon.

  Emma's stomach rolled again at the covetous calculation in the face of the man before her. She knew he was savoring the possibility of gaining all he wanted once her husband was gone, was relishing the idea of possessing all he now held.

  "Aye, he is fortunate," Emma agreed impulsively. "He is a grand duke now, with a large estate, many retainers, and an heir on the way."

  Emma would forever savor Bertrand's reaction to that. He looked pole-axed. Taking advantage of his stunned state, she turned abruptly and moved back through the garden. Her headache was already easing, as was her anxiety. There would be no more attempts on her husband now. Lady Ascot and Bertrand would believe it a waste of effort. They could not force a marriage were there an heir. It was just a shame that it was not true, she thought with a sigh.

  She had nearly reached the doors leading back into the castle when Lady Ascot stepped through them and started down the path toward her. Her steps faltering, Emma slowed as she came abreast of the woman, but other than a cold nod, Lady Ascot did nothing.

  Walking at a much slower pace Emma continued forward through the doors, then paused and peered back. Bertrand still stood where she had left him. He stayed there until his mother reached him. Lady Ascot paused, and they exchanged a few words, then glanced furtively around before moving further along the garden path and disappearing from sight.

  Biting her lip, Emma hesitated a moment, then cursed under her breath and moved back into the garden. Pausing on the edge of the trees, she glanced nervously around, then stepped cautiously into the trees, following the faint murmur of their voices.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Pregnant, Mother. Surely you know what that means," Bertrand snapped.

  "Do not be smart with me, boy!" The words were followed by a sharp crack. Pushing a branch of leaves aside, Emma saw Bertrand holding one very red cheek. His mother was just setting her cane back on the ground.

  "I am sorry." He peered at her woefully. " 'Tis just that I am distraught. All our work and planning has been for naught."

  "Nonsense. We shall continue as planned."

  "But she is with child. She cannot be forced to wed if there is an heir."

  "She can if she miscarries," Lady Ascot said coldly. "And that should not be too difficult to arrange."

  Emma's eyes widened in horror at that. Would they stop at nothing?

  "Oh Mother, you are clever."

  "And do not forget it."

  Emma grimaced at that, but it was only a halfhearted effort. She was distracted by the thought that it was already the end of June. She had had her last woman's time directly after the wedding, over a month ago. It was late, was all, she assured herself, but with little belief. She was usually as regular as the sun's rising and falling. But then she had been under a great deal of stress of late and had heard that could affect such things.

  You were nauseous this morning when you sat down to break fast, some nasty part of her mind reminded her, and Emma's hand clenched over her stomach. It was stress, she tried to reassure herself. Stress always affected her stomach.

  What about the constant need to relieve yourself? Was that not a symptom? Emma winced. She knew the symptoms of pregnancy backward and forward. She had memorized them in the first month of her marriage to Fulk. A weak bladder was often a symptom and it was true that she had had to make water more often than usual lately. She had not noticed until they had headed for court, for it was when it was most inconvenient to stop and find a spot to take care of such matters that they had become most noticeable.

  Good God! She could not be with child! It was ironic that the one thing she had yearned for for so long suddenly terrified the breath out of her. But if her foolish impulsiveness in claiming a pregnancy she had not thought to be real put the longed-for child in danger . . .

  "How shall we do it? 'Twill not put her life in danger, will it?"

  "Nay. Gytha will know a way. Where the devil is that woman anyway? You did tell her to meet us here, did you not?"

  "Aye, of course. She is probably late a purpose. She is an arrogant bitch. I do not know why you put up with her as lady's maid."

  Emma stiffened at that. Gytha was Lady Ascot's maid? The one said to be her lover? It was the proof they had been looking for. She must tell Amaury. The king would have Bertrand and his mother in the tower before the nooning meal. Emma had straightened to hurry away with this news when pain exploded inside her head. Stumbling under the blow, she turned shakily, and just managed to make out Gytha's coldly smiling face before darkness rushed in on a roar to overtake her.

  "Where the devil did my wife get to?" Tossing the bed linens aside, Amaury stood and began to pace the floor.

  Little George raised an eyebrow at his lord's impatience, but had no answer.

  Scowling at him for his silence, Amaury moved to the window and stared blindly out. He detested this inactivity, and he detested the fact that his wife had to leave for meals. In his mind it put her in danger and he did not like it, but Blake and King Richard had agreed that she must leave. It was to give the assassin a chance to strike. Besides, they had assured him, Bertrand and his mother could hardly harm his wife in public. While he had agreed with that at the time, the fact that she was late now was gnawing at his innards like a pack of hungry rats.

  He was about to send his first to search for her when a trio of riders leaving the bailey caught his attention. Distracted briefly, he narrowed his eyes on the man traveling with two women, suddenly sure it was Bertrand. The rider had the same carriage and diminutive shape. Added to that, one of the females with him bore a striking resemblance to Lady Ascot. Amaury's gaze slid to the last rider and he frowned. She looked familiar, but from this distance he could not see her face, all he knew was she was too big to be his wee wife.

  His gaze slid back to the man, narrowing as he noted the tapestry across his lap. It was a damned strange thing to be riding about with. It was big too, overflowing his lap and hanging down both sides of the horse, Amaury noted. Then he stiffened, his blood running cold as he glimpsed a small gold item slip from the folds of the rolled material and drop to the ground.

  Whirling away from the window, he grabbed his sword from beneath the bed linens and rushed to the door.

  "My lord!" Little George cried, leaping from his seat to follow.

  "What the devil?!"

  Amaury heard that exclamation seconds before the man coming down the hall suddenly stepped into his path and caught his arms to stop him. "What are you doing? You risk everything!"

  It took a moment for those hissed words to sink in enough to make Amaury peer at the face of his obstacle. Recognizing Blake, he grabbed the front of his doublet urgently. "Where is she?"

  "Who?"

  "Emma. Where is she? You were to return her to the room."

  "The king wished me to . . ." He paused. "She should have finished breaking her fast at least half an hour ago," he admitted grimly.

  Cursing, Amaury pushed past him and continued down the hall.

  Muttering some unpleasant descriptive words himself, Blake hurried after him, whipping off his cloak as he did.

  "At least put this on," Blake hissed, draping it over him and tugging the hood up to cover his face. Glancing back at Little George, he snapped, "Go back and close the chamber door, man! Would you let all and sundry know he is up?"

  Skidding to a halt, the first retraced his steps to fulfill that order, then caught up to the two men again as Blake said, "You must not ru
sh about like this, Amaury. You will draw attention to yourself. Where the devil are you going?!" he added when they reached the bottom of the stairs and Amaury suddenly turned toward the outer doors.

  "Lord Blake?!"

  Sliding to a halt, Blake whirled quickly and made a bow as the king approached from a side door of the hall. A glance over his shoulder showed Amaury escaping out the door.

  "Rise. What is happening?"

  Straightening from his bent position, Blake glanced briefly around the empty hall, then murmured, "Lady Emma is missing."

  "What?" King Richard stared at him in stunned horror for a moment. Then his gaze slid to the open door and the cloaked figure crossing the bailey toward the stables. "Is that--?"

  "Aye."

  "Good God!" Richard started after him at once, Blake, Little George and the king's liveried men-at-arms now following.

  They had just reached the stables when Amaury came riding out.

  The king raised a hand and opened his mouth to call him to a halt, but it was too late. Amaury rode out like the Devil was on his tail.

  "Damn! He must be on to something. Where is the stable master?! I need horses, man! Bring me horses!"

  It took only a few short moments for Amaury to reach the spot where he had seen the small golden item slip from beneath the tapestry, but to him it seemed to take forever. He recognized it as a tiny single slipper before he had even dismounted to pick it up, but once he held it in his hand, his fear became a reality and he was lost for a moment in grief.

  "What is it, de Aneford? What have you there?"

  Amaury gazed up at King Richard as he and the others reined in beside him. He was silent as he held the slipper up for them to see.

  Blake immediately blanched. "Emma wore gold this morning."

  "Aye." Hand closing on the slipper, Amaury quickly remounted. "Bertrand has her. I saw him ride away with his mother and another woman from my chamber window."

  "And she left a slipper behind to let you know 'twas her!" the king guessed excitedly.

  "Nay. Bertrand had a tapestry rolled up and strapped over the horse before him. This fell out of one end."

  King Richard grimaced at that. Being carted off in a rolled-up old carpet was not nearly as romantic as riding away under force and dropping bits of clothing as a trail to a lover. Richard liked romances.

  "Hold!" The king ordered when he turned his horse to chase Bertrand.

  Amaury hesitated. By law he could not ignore an order by the king, but he wanted to just then. Frustration churning inside him, he paused.

  "You do not know where they head," Richard pointed out calmly. "You cannot race about heedlessly. We must think on this."

  "There is nothing to think on. They went in this direction. I will catch them up afore they go far . . . if I hurry."

  The last few words definitely carried a message for him, King Richard thought with amusement. "What if they did not go straight? What if they turned in one direction or another soon as they were under the cover of the trees? Do you not think they would have realized they could be seen from the castle by anyone who cared to look? Do you not think they know they would be the first under suspicion when 'twas discovered Lady Emmalene was missing?"

  "Aye," Amaury admitted bitterly, recognizing the wisdom behind the words and the fact that he himself should have thought of that himself, and most likely would have had he not all but panicked. Panic was what got men killed. Not panicking was why he had survived so long as a warrior. Odd that he had lived with himself for twenty some years, yet had never panicked over his own health, but now that Emma's was in jeopardy, he could seem to do little else.

  "He could be headed for his demesne," Blake suggested. " 'Tis not that far from here, though as I recall, 'tis in that direction." He gestured to the north.

  "Aye, but he may have cut off that way as soon as he hit the trees," Richard commented thoughtfully.

  "Aye," Amaury decided after a moment. " 'Tis most like he headed for there. 'Tis the only land he holds, and he could not risk taking Emma elsewhere when he holds her against her will."

  Turning to one of his men-at-arms, the king gestured, bringing the man immediately to his side. "Return to the castle. Gather a hundred men. Nay, two hundred, then follow us. Bring Amaury's men as well."

  "If we hurry we will not need the men," Amaury muttered impatiently as the soldier rode back toward the castle at once.

  "His keep is only a day's ride from here and he may know a shortcut we do not," the king pointed out. "If so, we are prepared. Ride on, de Aneford."

  Turning his horse with relief, Amaury set out after his wife.

  Chapter 14

  EMMA awoke to find that she could not breathe or see, her head pained her something horrible, she was hot and sweaty, and she seemed to ache everywhere. She was also wrapped in something decidely old and dusty and hanging over what she guessed was a horse by the way she was being bounced about so.

  Ten minutes later she was still soundly berating herself for getting into this mess when the jarring motion beneath her halted abruptly. A moment later, she felt hands grasp her through the thick, hard material about her as she was shifted, jostled and carted about briefly. Then the covering about her was ripped open and she found herself lying upon a bed in a small stone room.

  "You are awake."

  Emma was having some difficulty seeing after the sudden change from dark to light, but did not need her eyes to recognize the speaker Bertrand. And he sounded damnably pleased. She opened her mouth to share her feelings on the subject of being cracked over the head and kidnapped, but all that came out was a disappointing croak before her throat closed up with dryness.

  "A beverage." Bertrand got to his feet and moved toward the door. "I shall fetch you one. You just rest now. 'Twas a long ride."

  Emma glared at his departing figure, then sighed unhappily and eased to sit on the edge of the bed and peer around. There was not much to see. The cot she sat on was the only piece of furniture in the room. Aside from that, her prison boasted one window and a small fireplace. Grimacing, she eased herself forward, got awkwardly to her feet, and staggered toward the window. It was not very far, but it seemed she had traveled miles by the time she reached the square opening.

  Sagging against the ledge, she drank in deep breaths of the sweet fresh air coming through the window, then tipped her face up to the kiss of the afternoon sun. Both of nature's blessings were energizing after the hours she had spent in what she now saw had been a tapestry. Within moments her aches and pains began to ease, and she was able to concentrate on the problem at hand.

  She was being held captive in a tower by people who wished to see her husband dead. And her child dead as well, if she were indeed carrying one.

  Moving a hand to her stomach, Emma probed it gently. There was no pain or tenderness. Surely there would be both if she were with child and the ride had knocked it loose? And surely that ride had been enough to knock the most determined baby loose? Mayhap she was not with child after all. She grasped at that possibility eagerly, then shook her head. She could not be sure either way just now. Looking back, she saw that she had had a couple of the symptoms, but they might have simply been due to stress. She could not discount the possibility that she might be however, and that if she was, she had put that child in grave jeopardy by her words to Bertrand. His mother now wished to see her miscarry.

  She had to get out of here, Emma thought grimly, focusing her gaze on the landscape outside the window. It was an old keep. Much smaller than Eberhart. The window of the tower she was in looked out of the side of the keep.

  Leaning out and turning her head to the right, she could see the side of the wall that surrounded the bailey and one of the watchtowers that stood on either side of the drawbridge. The watchtower was manned by two men. She eased her head back inside lest they spot her peering about, then turned to glance at the ground below her window.

  It was a long way down. A great long way. There was one t
hin ribbon of dirt in front of the wall, then a moat that presumably surrounded the whole keep. Beyond that was a clearing that stretched for a good hundred feet before the trees began. She would not escape this way, she decided grimly. She could not fly.

  Sighing, she turned and peered about her prison. Dull stone walls, bare stone floor, the cot, and the door. It seemed the door and the window were the only two exits. If she could not leave through the window, then she must escape through the door. Only, she already knew the door was locked. She had heard Bertrand bar it on leaving.

  Then she must get him to unbar it, she thought determinedly. Mayhap she could even get him to take her below stairs. She would have to gain his trust first, of course. The easiest way to do that was to convince him that she would prefer marriage to him over marriage to Amaury. It would not be a difficult task, she thought. Bertrand, from what she could tell, seemed to have a rather high opinion of himself. She had witnessed it both at her wedding to Fulk and at court this last day or so. Aye, he would be easily convinced. If she could stomach the convincing.

  "You shall have to," she told herself firmly. "Else they kill your husband and the child you may be carrying."

  Amaury slowed his horse, then stopped and turned to peer at Blake and the king as they reined in their animals beside his. "They cannot be headed for their keep. Bertrand's horse is carrying two people. He could not possibly outrun our animals. Were he heading home, we should have overtaken them hours ago."

  The king was silent for a moment, his gaze moving over the forest ahead of them before he turned to peer at the path they had already traversed. Squinting slightly, he could just make out a long red stream flowing over a small hill some distance back. It was his men. With the speed Amaury had been traveling, the army he had sent for had not been able to catch up to them yet. From this distance, they looked like one long body. A bright red caterpillar creeping over a bump in the lane. "Mayhap he knows of a shortcut that saves time," Richard said.

  "Think you 'tis possible?" Amaury frowned at the idea.

  King Richard shrugged. "As I recall on the map, his demesne is closer as the crow flies, but a deep river causes a detour of several hours."