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Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord
Carol Townend


Taming his runaway lady!Raised a lady, Emma of Fulford is a fallen woman with a young son as proof. He is all she has in the world, and now the boy’s brutal father has returned… Desperate and afraid, she needs to escape, and fast, so approaches Sir Richard of Asculf.She begs this honourable Norman knight for help – and offers the only thing she has left…herself. Honourable he may be, but Sir Richard is only human, and Lady Emma tempts his resolve. Can this conquering knight tame his runaway lady and stop her running for good? Wessex Weddings Normans and Saxons, conflict and desire!







Praise for Carol Townend

THE NOVICE BRIDE

‘THE NOVICE BRIDE is sweet, tantalising, frustrating, seductively all-consuming, deliciously provocative…I can’t go on enough about this story’s virtues. Read this book. You’ll fall in love a hundred times over.’

—Romance Junkies

‘From the very first words, this story snatches the reader from present day, willingly pulling hearts and minds back to the time of the Norman conquest. Culture clash, merciless invaders, innocence lost and freedom captured—all wonderfully highlighted in this mesmerising novel.’

—Romance Reader at Heart

AN HONOURABLE ROGUE

‘Ms Townend’s impeccable attention to detail and lush, vivid images bring this time period to life.’

—Romance Reader at Heart

‘Anyone who wants to read a very satisfying and heart-warming historical romance will not go wrong with AN HONOURABLE ROGUE by Carol Townend.’

—CataRomance

HIS CAPTIVE LADY

‘Ms Townend does an excellent job of drawing readers into the world of the Saxons and Normans with clever dialogue and descriptions of settings and emotions. I give this book a very high recommendation!’

—Romance Junkies


The sheer physical strength of the man was impressive—the wide shoulders, the muscled thighs—she had felt this for herself as he had carried her up those stairs. But there was more than mere strength here. Yes, it was most odd. It was there in his eyes…This evening Emma would swear she could put her life in his hands and rest easy.

But he is a Norman!

Pointedly, she made a show of looking about his bedchamber. It was furnished with royal extravagance. There were two braziers—comforting glimmers of heat. Adding more coals to one of them, Sir Richard waved her towards it. ‘Warm yourself, my lady.’



My lady. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. How long had it been since anyone had done her the courtesy of addressing her by her title? But he would soon stop doing so once he learned about her son…


Carol Townend has been making up stories since she was a child. Whenever she comes across a tumbledown building, be it castle or cottage, she can’t help conjuring up the lives of the people who once lived there. Her Yorkshire forebears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps their influence lingers…

Carol’s love of ancient and medieval history took her to London University, where she read History, and her first novel (published by Mills & Boon) won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Award. Currently she lives near Kew Gardens, with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at www.caroltownend.co.uk






Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord

Carol Townend











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)




Author Note




In the eleventh century heraldry was in its infancy—the devices of the various noble houses did not start to develop properly until the second quarter of the twelfth century. However, flags and pennons may be seen on the Bayeux Tapestry. They were used in the Battle of Hastings to convey signals as well as to reveal identity. Count Richard of Beaumont’s crimson pennon is similar to these.




To Lucy and Mike with love and much thanks for supporting historical research in la belle France




Chapter One


Winchester—1070

Emma was halfway to the wash-house just outside the city walls when the fluttering of a red pennon caught her eye. Up there, on the road that led to the downs, a squadron of Norman horse soldiers had crested the rise. With a scowl, Emma gripped little Henri’s hand. She was late, but this she had to see. Was it him? It had to be. Sir Richard of Asculf, commander of the Winchester garrison, was finally returning from campaign in the North.

Emma stared past the row of cottages and some field strips up the hill, squinting in the bright spring sun while the March wind tugged her green veil and skirts. One knight looked much the same as another in full armour, hence the importance of his pennon. And, of course, more than one knight had a red pennon. Since William of Normandy had come to wrest the crown from King Harold, Emma had seen several such. Sir Richard’s had a silver line running through it, but the conroi, or squadron, was still too far away for Emma to make out the device.

‘Mama, you are hurting my hand!’ Henri said, trying to slide his small fingers out from hers.

‘Sorry, sweetheart.’ Emma slackened her grip, but she stayed stock-still, waiting while the column drew nearer. If it was Sir Richard, and her instincts told her it was, he had been away for several months near York. The rumours were that it had been a particularly bloody campaign; already some were calling it the Harrowing of the North. Many Saxons had been put to the sword, and not just warriors—women and children had been killed, too. Murdered was perhaps a more accurate word. Some said even the ducks and pigs had been slaughtered, and the grain had been burned to ensure that anyone left standing would have neither the will nor the wherewithal to contemplate rebelling against King William. Up around York, the Saxons that had been left alive would be battling merely to survive, exactly as she was.

But Sir Richard would be all right; his kind always were. A strong, handsome face lit by a pair of penetrating grey eyes hovered at the edge of Emma’s consciousness. Sir Richard was Norman, and while he might be a friend of her sister, Cecily, he was likely as ruthless as the worst of them. Those eyes…so cold.

Anger churned in Emma’s stomach as the line of horse soldiers snaked over the rise, chain-mail gleaming like silver, shiny helmets pointing to the sky. Doubtless they were eager to return to their quarters. Everything that had gone wrong in her life was their fault, she thought, homing in on the great grey the lead knight was riding. Sir Richard had a grey destrier. If the Normans had never crossed the Narrow Sea, her life would have proceeded as it should have done. Her mother and father would still be alive, her brother, too. Lady Emma of Fulford would be happily married and Henri would be legitimate…

Normans. Apart from her mother, God rest her soul, Emma loathed them.

Yes, it was Sir Richard sure enough, that war-horse gave him away.

‘Sir Richard.’ Muttering the name as though it were a curse, Emma turned back to the river path. Sir Richard was no doubt returning to a comfortable feather bed in the castle while, thanks to the likes of him, she—Emma glanced at the wash-house that sat by the river shallows, smoke gushing through the open side—must pound linen from dawn to dusk simply to put bread in her belly.

Emma sighed. Her morning’s work lay ahead and if she wanted to eat, she had better get to it. Releasing Henri, she set about unpinning her veil and kilting up her skirts. Since daybreak, she had been dreading this moment, but there was no escaping it. Today was her turn in the river at the washing stones. No matter that the spring sunlight had little heat in it, no matter that the Itchen was colder than melt-water from an ice-field, it was her turn at the washing stones.

Aediva was already in the river up to her knees, energetically bashing a twist of linen against the stones.

‘Good morning, Aediva,’ Emma said, tugging off her boots and setting them down by a twiggy hawthorn.

“Morning, Emma.”

‘Mama, may I play with my boat?’ Henri waved a crudely shaped wooden off-cut under Emma’s nose.

‘Yes, but not until I come down to the water. Wait there.’ She pointed at the hawthorn bush. It had not yet unfurled its leaves. ‘I have to see Bertha first.’

‘Oh, Henri’s all right.’ Aediva looked up with a smile. ‘I will keep an eye on him while you collect your washing.’

At Emma’s nod, Henri skipped towards the washing stones, blond hair—just like his father’s—shining in the sun. Where was his father? Emma wondered, unable to suppress a shiver of fear. Shortly after the arrival of the Normans, Judhael had told her that he was going to take refuge in the North. Anything, Judhael had said, rather than submit to a foreign invader. Had Judhael gone north? Had he been involved in the recent fighting? Emma bit her lip. Had Judhael been killed? Emma’s love for Judhael was entirely gone; he had destroyed it in the days after the Conquest and Emma hoped—indeed, she prayed—never to see him again. But she did not wish him dead.

She smiled at the son she and Judhael had made when a Saxon king had sat on the English throne. Illegitimate or not, Henri was the light of Emma’s life. He would soon be three. She forced herself to sound cheerful. ‘Mind you stay clear of the water.’

‘Yes, Mama.’

The Winchester wash-house was a three-sided wattle-and-daub barn, open on the river side. That morning, three of the fires inside had been lit, and steam billowed out from several kettles. Bertha, who ran the wash-house, was supervising a girl stirring a frothing cauldron with a wooden paddle and a boy was lifting wood from a stack to feed the fires.

The moment Emma set eyes on Bertha, her blood ran cold. Bertha’s face, normally red from the steam and the heat of the fires, was as white as snow and the skin round her mouth was pinched and tight.

‘Bertha, are you all right—what’s happened?’

Bertha caught her breath. Her round brown eyes were small with worry and when she made a point of stepping sharply backwards, away from Emma, cold fingers touched Emma’s neck. Something terrible must have happened for Bertha to look at her like that. ‘Bertha?’

Bertha swallowed. ‘I…I am sorry, Emma. There’s no work for you today.’

‘No work?’ Several willow baskets were stacked up round the side of the wash-house, as they were every morning. A number of them were quite clearly overflowing with dirty laundry. ‘What’s that, then?’

Bertha moved behind one of the cauldrons and, ridiculous though it might be, Emma could not shake off the idea that Bertha was afraid of her. But why on earth would Bertha look at her like that?

Deep furrows appeared on Bertha’s brow. ‘I am sorry. Truly. But I have no work for you.’

Emma blinked, unable to believe what she was hearing. Bertha was a good friend, one who always made certain to save her plenty of work. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It is quite simple. I have no work for you, not any more.’

Emma looked pointedly at the laundry baskets. ‘No?’

‘No.’ Bertha took a small step towards her. It was then that Emma noticed the bruising on Bertha’s wrist. Lord, on both her wrists. ‘I am sorry, Emma. Some old friends have returned to Winchester. I…I only have so much work to offer and they are desperate. Desperate.’ Bertha almost spat out the last word, but for the life of her, Emma could not grasp what she was being told.

Emma frowned, her eyes kept returning to those bruises. ‘Your friends have demanded work?’

‘N-no, not exactly.’ For a moment Bertha would not meet her eyes, then she looked Emma straight in the face. ‘I mean, yes, yes, they do need work.’

Bertha was hiding something. Those bruises had not been there yesterday and they were in some way connected with Bertha’s ominous change of heart. No work? She must keep calm. ‘Bertha, I need the laundry you give me. How else can I earn food for Henri and myself? I also need to pay Gytha for our lodgings at the mill.’

Bertha spread her hands. ‘There is nothing I can do. You will have to find work elsewhere.’

Emma blinked. ‘I shall come back tomorrow. Perhaps then—’

‘Don’t do that. No point.’ Colour flared on Bertha’s cheeks. ‘I won’t have work for you tomorrow, either.’

A cold fist gripped Emma’s insides. ‘No work—Bertha, you are saying…never?’

Bertha nodded. ‘That’s it, never. You will have to go elsewhere.’

Dazed, Emma walked blindly into the March sunlight and came to a dead halt just outside the wash-house. No work. Saint Swithun help her, what could she do?

Henri was jumping about on the riverbank, screaming with laughter as Aediva pulled faces at him, but their laughter seemed a long way off. Overhead, some rooks were cawing as they flew over the city walls towards the castle and the woods beyond; they, too, seemed very distant. What will become of us?

Moving as in a dream, Emma forced her legs to move. She made it as far as the riverbank, and sat down next to the hawthorn where she had left her boots and her veil. Drawing up her legs, she leaned her head on her knees.

Bertha had no work for her. What else could she do?

Minutes ago Emma had been dreading her turn in the river. She wiggled her toes; they were already blue even though she hadn’t been in the water and wasn’t likely to enter it, not today. Right now she would kill to be in the Itchen alongside Aediva. What was she going to do? However was she going to pay Gytha?

Lifting her head, Emma looked back over her shoulder. Through a gap between two cottages, a couple of ploughboys were visible, hard at work in one of the field strips. One was pulling on the ox’s halter, while his companion steadied the plough. In their wake seagulls dived and mewed. And there, past the field strips, on the road beyond was Sir Richard of Asculf, the most powerful man in the district, riding back to his garrison at the head of his squadron. A couple of wolfhounds were loping alongside him, and a small white dog she was unable to identify.

The most powerful man in the district.

They were almost back in Winchester. Richard’s conroi had crested the rise overlooking Eastgate when his shoulder gave another twinge and his fingers tightened involuntarily on Roland’s reins. It was a mere twitch, but nonetheless it had Roland tossing his head. Richard suppressed a smile. For all that Roland was such a big-boned piece of horseflesh, these years in England had seen him become highly sensitised to Richard’s slightest movement.

‘Is your shoulder paining you, sir?’ his squire, Geoffrey, asked. ‘You rode like a demon back there. We almost lost the hounds.’

‘What, are you worried you might have to re-stitch me?’ Richard said, with a grin. There had been no surgeon handy when they had removed the arrow and his squire had proved to be a little squeamish when it had come to sewing him up.

‘It seems quite possible, you ought to take more care.’

‘Geoffrey, it was only a scratch. Best to keep moving. Don’t want to seize up.’

‘No, sir.’

Richard turned his gaze back to the road. In between Richard’s squadron and the city walls a row of cottages followed the course of the river. Some lads were doing some late ploughing, scoring the earth with dark furrows. Crops were being seeded in other holdings, apples trees were being pruned.

‘The city looks idyllic from here, eh, Geoffrey, the clear skies, the bright sunlight?’

‘Aye, just like home.’

Richard shot his squire a startled glance. ‘You think so?’ Winchester would never feel like home to him. He longed to return to Normandy, but King William had ordered him to remain in Winchester and command the garrison. And, as a loyal knight, Richard would obey.

As they approached Mill Bridge the road took the conroi past the wash-house. One of the laundry women was knee-deep in the river, talking to her child as she beat linen against the rocks. Another, a young girl with a thick blonde plait, sat to one side, hunched by the riverside in an attitude of exhaustion. She must have heard their hoofbeats though, because at their approach the girl rose. Setting her hands on her hips, she stared as they rode by.

There was a certain belligerence in the girl’s stance for all that she was a slender little thing. Her feet were blue with cold. Shapely legs, what Richard could see of them. Geoffrey had seen her, too; he nodded at her as they passed, but the girl didn’t respond. Richard doubted she even saw Geoffrey for she was, he realised with something of a jolt, staring at him with that narrowed gaze he had come to recognise in many Saxon eyes. Blue eyes, gleaming with hostility. And yet behind the hostility, if he was not mistaken, there was fear, too. Such a shame. She might be pretty, if ever she lost that scowl.

Just then the boy by the riverbank gave a shriek; the hostility vanished from the girl’s face and her head whipped round.

‘My boat, my boat!’ the child wailed.

The stick he had been playing with was drifting beyond his reach. The woman in the water tried to snatch at it as it floated past, but missed.

‘Mama!’ The child’s distracted wail drew the barelegged laundry maid to his side, concern in her every line.

Shaking his head, Richard looked towards Eastgate and wondered if, after what had happened at York, Normans and Saxons would ever learn to live in peace.

Some half an hour later, when Emma had calmed Henri about the loss of his boat and the shock of losing her work had begun to ease, her green skirts were neatly back in place and her veil was securely covering her hair.

‘Gytha will help us, Henri,’ she said, pushing through the crowd on Mill Bridge.

Henri glanced up and nodded as though he understood what she was talking about. Sometimes, it seemed to Emma that Henri really did understand everything she said to him, but that was ridiculous. Her son was not yet three, how could he? She paused to smooth a stray lock of his hair back into place. There was no trace of the tears brought about by the loss of his boat, thank goodness. Henri was smiling his normal sunny smile.

Emma’s nose wrinkled. Smoke! The smell of smoke was not in itself unusual, but great acrid gouts of it were hanging over the bridge, stinging her eyes, catching in the back of her throat. Henri began to cough. Someone’s cooking fire must have got badly out of control.

‘Mama, look!’

Emma waved her hand in front of her face to clear the smoke and her jaw dropped. The mill! Some fool had set a fire in the mill yard. Gytha was running to the river with a bucket in either hand and her husband, Edwin, was tossing water onto a smoking fire set all too close to the wooden wall of the mill.

Someone yelled, ‘Fire!’

An excited babble broke out among those on the bridge, but no one was running to help. Picking up her skirts, clinging to Henri, Emma elbowed through and into the cobbled yard.

‘Here, Henri, wait by the wall.’ Eyes round, Henri stuck his thumb in his mouth and went to stand by a couple of grain sacks.

Emma raced to Gytha’s side, grasped a bucket handle and set to work. The fire was not large and a few bucketfuls later it was reduced to a hissing black mass.

‘Lucky it was small,’ Emma commented, as she, Gytha and Edwin frowned down at the smouldering remains. ‘But what fool would light a fire so close to the mill?’

Silence. Gytha was biting her lips. Edwin refused to meet her eyes. Indeed there was something in his stance that put Emma in mind of Bertha. Oh, no, what now?

‘Gytha?’

Gytha’s throat worked. She glanced at the onlookers blocking Mill Bridge and Emma followed her gaze. A great bear of a man stood in between two nuns from the nearby convent. The hood of his cloak was up, but Emma could see that he wore his brown hair and beard long, in the Saxon manner. Emma sucked in a breath; she must be dreaming, but she thought she knew him.

Azor? In Winchester?

It couldn’t be. But for a moment it was as though Emma was wrenched back four years in time to 1066. The man had a long brown beard, just like Azor’s. She must be mistaken—many Saxons wore such beards. Even as Emma looked, he ducked back into the crowd, leaving the nuns staring avidly over the handrail at the goings on at City Mill.

Gently, Gytha touched her arm. ‘Emma, you had best come inside.’

Edwin exchanged glances with his wife. ‘I’ll make sure the fire is right out,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll shift the grain sacks ready for the carter.’

Usually when in the mill, Emma found the familiar rattle and rumble of the mill wheel calming, but today it seemed too loud. Perhaps because her nerves were jangling even the rush of the river under their feet seemed deafening.

‘Was that Azor on the bridge, Gytha?’

Gytha made her way to the hopper and scooped in some grain. Henri followed, settled himself on the floor by Gytha’s skirts, and began drawing patterns in the flour dust.

‘Gytha?’

Briefly, Gytha closed her eyes. ‘Yes, that was Azor.’

Emma felt as though the mill had been tipped upside down. Azor was Judhael’s most staunch supporter; he was also another champion of the lost Saxon cause. ‘Sweet Mother.’ Mouth dry, she swallowed hard. ‘Does that mean that Judhael has returned?’

‘I am afraid so.’

Emma’s nails dug into her palms. ‘You have seen him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Lord.’ Emma drew a shaky breath. ‘You spoke to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And…?’

Gytha smiled sadly at Henri and shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter what he said. I think you should forget it.’

‘He is still bitter? He knows that I live here?’

‘Yes to both questions,’ Gytha said.

Emma felt the blood drain from her face. ‘I thought I could escape him here, that I would be safe among all these people. If I had gone back to Fulford, Judhael would have found me in a moment. How did he find me?’

Gytha lifted her shoulders, her eyes were wide and concerned. ‘I have no idea, but it wouldn’t take much to discover your whereabouts. A question here, a question there.’

‘I have prayed and prayed that he would never come back.’

‘Well, Judhael and Azor have both returned and somehow Judhael has learned that you live here.’

‘Gytha, he said something else, didn’t he?’

Gytha dropped the grain scoop back into the sack and dusted down her hands.

‘Gytha?’

Gytha pursed her lips and something clicked in Emma’s mind. Crossing the floor in two strides, she took Gytha’s arms and looked at her wrists. Mercifully, they were unmarked. ‘He threatened you, didn’t he? And Bertha—Judhael must have been to see her, too.’ She scrubbed at her forehead. ‘What was it Bertha said—something about desperate friends having returned…?’

‘Emma, what are you talking about?’

‘Judhael! He must have threatened Bertha, which is why she has stopped giving me work—’

‘Bertha had no work for you?’

‘Apparently not. There were several baskets of linen lined up to be washed, but I wasn’t allowed near them. Judhael must have paid her a visit, don’t you see?’

‘I am beginning to. He certainly wants you back.’

‘The man is mad! After what he did up at SevenWells Hill, the way he beat Lufu when he learned it was she who told Cecily the location of the rebel camp. Lufu was only trying to help get my baby brother to safety.’ Cold sweat was trickling down Emma’s back. She looked at her son, at Judhael’s son. If Judhael got hold of Henri—It didn’t bear thinking about. ‘I’ll never go back to him, never!’

‘Of course not. Never fear, we shall pay him no mind. We managed to put out the fire and—’

Emma’s blood turned to ice. ‘Judhael set the fire?’

‘We are not sure, but it seems likely. It happened shortly after his visit. I think it is meant as a warning. He suggested we throw you out.’ Gytha grimaced. ‘Lord, I hadn’t meant to tell you that. Emma, we shall pay him no mind.’

‘Pay him no mind? Gytha, the man tries to burn down the mill and you say pay him no mind! What if he had set the fire at night and no one noticed until it was too late? We might have been fried in our beds!’

‘Hush, Emma, you are alarming Henri. And anyway, no one was hurt.’

‘Henri and I shall have to leave.’

‘Nonsense, that is exactly what he wants!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Judhael wants you back.’

‘If he thinks threatening my friends is going to make me go back to him, then the war with the Normans had damaged him more than I realised.’ She sucked in a breath. ‘Do you think he knows about Henri?’

Gytha shook her head. ‘I doubt it, he didn’t mention him.’

‘That at least is one mercy. But I won’t have him threatening you. God help us. I like being here with you and Henri does, too. Don’t you, Henri?’

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘Emma, it isn’t right that Judhael should be threatening you. You are a lady—’

‘Not any more I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are. Your father was Thane of Fulford. Judhael was only a housecarl.’

Emma sighed. ‘Be that as it may, I won’t bring trouble to your door. Henri and I must leave.’ ‘Judhael said he would return tomorrow.’

‘I shall be gone by then.’

‘You can’t go to Fulford.’

‘No, I can’t, Judhael is doubtless waiting for me to do just that.’

‘Where then? Where will you go?’




Chapter Two


Sir Richard of Asculf was in the castle stables when the messengers arrived.

Richard was stripped to the waist and his broad shoulders gleamed with sweat, for he himself was personally grooming his destrier, the grey he had in a whimsical moment named Roland. Outside he could clearly hear the chink, chink, chink of a mason’s chisel. Work was being done on the gatehouse.

Since he had taken up the reins of command again in Winchester, Richard did not expect to get as much exercise as a man in his prime needed, and he enjoyed grooming Roland. He was fond of the great beast; they had been through much together. Outside, his two wolfhounds lounged in some loose straw that had escaped into the bailey, eyes closed as they drowsed in the sun. He had no idea where the white mongrel was—scrounging a bone from the kitchens, perhaps? That dog was always hungry.

The rattle of hoofs on the cobbles alerted Richard to new arrivals. Glancing up, he shoved back his glossy brown hair and almost immediately four riders trotted into view, framed by the doorway. Their horses were flecked with foam, almost blown.

A crease formed in Richard’s brow. ‘Geoffrey!’

His squire’s head popped up from the next stall, where he was at work on his own horse. ‘Sir?’

‘See what those men want, will you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Make sure they are offered refreshments and if they have dispatches, tell them I will meet them in the solar in half an hour when I’ve finished here. Oh, and pick out good grooms for those horses, they have been ridden too hard.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Geoffrey went out into the bailey and Richard resumed brushing Roland’s coat. Roland snorted and snuffled and pushed against his hand. ‘Easy, boy. You like that, do you?’

A shadow fell over him. ‘Sir?’

‘Geoffrey?’

‘It…it is not dispatches, sir. They have a personal message for you, and they say it is important.’

‘From the King?’

‘No, sir, but I think you need to hear it.’

‘Not this minute, surely?’

Geoffrey’s eyes were alight with excitement. ‘I am afraid so, sir.’

Sighing, Richard straightened and emerged from Roland’s stall. ‘If they are envoys,’ he said, grimacing at his half-naked state, ‘I’m not dressed to receive them.’

‘You’ll want to receive me, my lord.’ A man pushed past Geoffrey and extended a hand in greeting. ‘You are Sir Richard of Asculf, garrison commander?’

My lord? ‘Indeed, but who the devil are you?’ Snatching his chainse, his undershirt, from the partition, Richard wiped his face. The man, a knight to judge by his costly armour, wore a grim expression. Judging from the growth on his chin, he had not shaved for some days.

‘Sir Jean Sibley, my lord, and at your service.’ The man’s gaze flickered briefly to the wound on Richard’s shoulder.

Richard gestured that they should move outside. My lord? Out in the bailey, the other knights who had accompanied Sir Jean had already dismounted. Richard felt their eyes rest curiously on him.

‘My lord.’ Sir Jean pressed a bundle of crimson fabric into his hands.

A knight’s pennon? No…

A betraying gleam of gold had ice skittering down Richard’s spine. ‘My cousin,’ he managed, ‘something has happened to my cousin.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Bemused, scarcely able to credit what was happening, Richard watched as Sir Jean and the other knights bent their heads in respect. ‘My lord, I regret to inform you that your cousin, Count Martin of Beaumont, died a week since and—’

‘Martin? What the hell happened?’ Richard unfolded the crimson fabric. Martin’s pennon. It was almost the twin of his, the only difference being that the pale, the line through the centre of the Beaumont pennon, was gold rather than silver. A count ranked higher than a knight. Face set, Richard opened it out, and swallowed. This would be hard to accept. He had not seen his cousin in over a year, but as boys they had been fostered together. They had been as close as brothers. Martin is—was—too young to die, Richard thought, though he knew full well that many younger than Martin had died since King William had come to England. That poor mite he had seen cut down in the North was but one of many—even now that child haunted his dreams…

Putting the child out of his mind, Richard focused on the man in front of him.

‘It was an accident, my lord,’ Sir Jean was saying. ‘The Count was drilling the men and his horse threw him. You know how he was.’

Richard nodded. ‘He would have to take part.’

‘Exactly so, my lord. The Count fell and dislocated his shoulder. At first we thought that was the sum of it. But sadly…’ Sir Jean spread his hands ‘…sadly it appears there were other, hidden injuries.’

‘Internal ones?’

‘There must have been. The Count died a week since. And in the absence of heirs, you, my lord Count, have inherited the title.’

Gesturing for Sir Jean and his men to follow, Richard strode across the bailey, the Beaumont pennon crushed tight in one fist, his tunic and chainse in the other. ‘No children? I would have thought it possible that he and Lady Aude—’

‘My lord, they were not yet married.’

Richard blinked. His cousin and Aude de Crèvecoeur had been betrothed since she was still a child and Martin had worshipped her. ‘He never married Lady Aude?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Why the delay?’ Aude de Crèvecoeur was not to Richard’s taste, and if it had been he who had been betrothed to the woman, then he would have delayed, till Doomsday. But, chacun à son gout, Martin had adored her…It made no sense.

‘I do not know, my lord. The Count did not confide in me regarding his marriage plans.’

‘It happened at Beaumont?’

‘My lord?’

‘The accident happened at Beaumont?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Are you certain no foul play was involved?’ Entering the hall, Richard lowered his voice. ‘Both my lords of Alençon and Argentan have long had their eyes fixed on Beaumont.’

‘The thought crossed our minds, too, my lord. But, no, the Count died of injuries from the fall, there was nothing more sinister.’

Reaching a trestle, Richard dropped the pennon on the table and dragged on his chainse. Geoffrey busied himself with serving wine. ‘It’s a damn waste,’ Richard said. ‘Martin was a fine man, a fine count.’

‘Yes, Lord Richard. But I am sure that you, as heir to your cousin’s estates, will also make a fine count.’ Sir Jean gave him a direct look and spoke with a new intensity. ‘If I may speak plainly, you are needed in Beaumont. As you say, Alençon and Argentan are on the prowl. How long will you need to settle your affairs in England?’

Richard took a cup of wine from Geoffrey. ‘That will depend on King William. As Duke of Normandy he will have to approve my inheriting the Beaumont estate. It is his right.’

‘Of course, my lord, but surely he is bound to agree? William needs good men in his Duchy, as well as in his kingdom here.’

‘That may be so, but in the past he has shown a marked reluctance to let me leave England.’

Confidentially, Sir Jean leaned closer. ‘That must change, my lord. Beaumont’s position is of strategic importance to him, which is why both Alençon and Argentan would like to get their hands on it. The Duke must agree to your accession and soon. Delay could be disastrous for his interests in Normandy. We have tried to keep news of Count Martin’s death from both Argentan and Alençon, but it is only a matter of time before they hear the news. And then…’ His expression darkened.

‘I understand. Nevertheless, I need King William’s permission before I can leave England. And until then, I remain Sir Richard of Asculf.’ He lifted his wine-cup to his lips.

‘Of course, my l—sir. And I must mention a further pressing matter. May I ask, will you now take the Lady Aude as your wife?’

Richard all but choked. ‘Marry Aude de Crèvecoeur? Lord, man, why the devil do you ask me that?’

Sir Jean cleared his throat. ‘Her brother, Count Edouard, may expect it.’

‘Expect it?’

‘Lady Aude was betrothed to your cousin some years ago. She has been brought up to be Countess of Beaumont. Since you will be Count in your cousin’s place, her brother may hope you will honour the arrangement.’

‘He can hope away,’ Richard spoke bluntly. ‘I do not wish to marry her.’

‘There may be trouble, L—Sir Richard. At home there are pressures…’

Holding up his hand for silence, Richard stared blankly into his wine-cup. He didn’t need to hear any more. Truth be told, he needed time to think. Martin was dead, dead. And if King William agreed, hewould indeed be Comte de Beaumont. It was hard to credit. ‘I have long wished to return home,’ he murmured, ‘but not this way, not at the cost of my cousin’s life.’ And he would be damned before he married Aude de Crèvecoeur.

‘No, sir, of course not.’

Gathering his wits about him, for it would not do to appear indecisive before these men, knights of Beaumont who had been loyal to his cousin and would soon, he hoped, swear fealty to him, Richard gestured Geoffrey over. First, the King must be informed of events in Normandy. ‘Geoffrey, be so good as to fetch a quill and ink to the solar.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The boy was beaming from ear to ear. There was a world of difference in being squire to a knight and being squire to a count, and this unlooked-for promotion clearly delighted him.

Richard shook his head, but he could not find it in his heart to blame him. Geoffrey had scarcely known his cousin—how could he be expected to mourn him?

Halfway to the door, Geoffrey turned. ‘Shall I fetch a scribe, too, my lord?’

‘No, this is one letter I shall write myself.’ Sir Jean was in the right; until they reached Normandy, the fewer people who knew about his cousin’s death, the better.

‘Very well, sir.’

Richard fixed a smile on his face and turned back to Sir Jean and the knights who had travelled from Beaumont to bring him this news. ‘It is time, I think, for some introductions,’ he said, indicating a fellow with a crest of fiery hair who stood at Sir Jean’s elbow.

The following day, Richard was back in the castle stables rubbing Roland down after an early gallop through the water meadows and around the city defences.

Richard was uncomfortably aware that tending to a destrier clad only in one’s chausses and boots was perhaps not an undertaking for a count. However, at the moment the company of animals was preferable to the company of people. Neither Roland nor the hounds minded how much exercise he took, nor did they think any the less of him if he took time to think and plan. Besides, Richard was damned if he was going to break the habit of a lifetime, caring for his animals himself, simply because poor Martin had died. And in any case, only a handful of trusted men knew of his elevated status.

His letter to King William had been despatched, but no reply had been forthcoming. Yet. He was impatient to be back in Normandy.

The regular tock, tock, tock of chisel on stone told Richard that the masons’work on the gatehouse was not yet completed. He heard the occasional shout from the overseer and the creak of their hoist.

In the orchard just outside the city, a cuckoo was calling, its voice floating clearly over the castle walls. Spring, thank God. It had been a hard winter. Perhaps this year he would be celebrating Easter in Beaumont…

A shadow fell across the stable floor. ‘There are two women to see you, sir.’

Richard glanced up with a grin. He was expecting one woman, Frida from the Staple. ‘Two? Geoffrey, you flatter me.’

Despite the exercise Richard had been taking, sleep remained elusive. Which was why he had decided to add another, more pleasant, form of exercise to his regime. It had been too long since he had had a woman, perhaps that was what he needed; it certainly could do no harm. And the entire garrison knew that the best women available locally were to be found at the Staple, the inn past Market Street. With the news from Normandy added to Richard’s daily responsibilities, Richard had not had time to visit the Staple himself to pick one. He had sent Geoffrey along in his stead, with orders to look out for a suitable girl.

But two women? Lord. If that didn’t do the trick, nothing would.

Of late, Richard’s dreams had been filled with disturbing images, bloody images that centred on a Saxon child whose death he had been unable to prevent. Richard hoped the girls were pleasing—another wakeful night would drive him insane.

Geoffrey cleared his throat. ‘No, sir, you misunderstand. These women are not from the Staple.’

‘Oh?’

Richard heard footsteps. More shadows darkened the doorway as a young woman and a small boy stepped forwards, both with that fair Saxon colouring. An older woman stood close behind. Richard’s eyes narrowed; they were familiar, but he could not at first place them. The woman who had come forwards was comely, with large blue eyes and honey-blonde hair that she had twisted back beneath a threadbare veil. Her clothes were unremarkable, a faded green gown, a thin leather belt with a worn purse hanging from it.

The boy clung to her skirts and eyed the great wolfhounds warily. Richard’s other dog, the mongrel, was not around. Slowly, the boy stuck his thumb in his mouth. And then Richard had it—this was the barelegged laundry maid he had seen by the river. With her veil on and her clothes set to rights, he had not known her. Her face was shadowed with tiredness, but she had lost that scowl she had been wearing by the river. And, yes, she was all the prettier for it.

His chainse over his shoulder, Richard came towards them. He was irritated not to see Frida, and no question but the laundry maid was about to disturb his morning with a petition.

The fear in the boy’s eyes as he stared at Richard’s wolfhounds made him set his irritation aside. ‘They will not hurt you,’ he said softly, in English. Richard’s command of the tongue was weak, but when pushed he could generally make himself understood. ‘They like children, just do not startle them. They have been asleep, you see.’

The laundry maid’s companion stepped closer and held out her hand to the child. Of course, this was the child’s mother, the woman who had been in the river when they had ridden in. ‘Henri, come here.’ The boy went to her slowly, eyes on the hounds, and the two of them backed out into the bailey.

The pretty laundry maid remained. Her smile was nervous; yes, she was definitely about to ask a favour of him. Best get this over with, and then he could see if Frida might suit. From Geoffrey’s description Frida had much to offer. It would have to be a temporary liaison, of course, since he hoped to be leaving for Normandy soon. ‘Your name?’

‘Emma…Emma of Fulford.’

Merde, this was Cecily’s sister? Lady Cecily of Fulford had married his comrade SirAdamWymark, and Richard counted her among his dearest friends. He took a closer look. Yes, the resemblance was there if you searched for it. So this was Lady Emma of Fulford—a lady washerwoman! Her father had been a Saxon thane, her mother a Norman noblewoman. Richard had met Lady Emma before, albeit briefly, but he knew her by repute.

It was not lost on him that she had not used her title, nor that she had chosen to ignore him yesterday by the river. As he recalled, despite her Norman mother, Emma of Fulford had been singularly unhelpful in the days immediately following the Conquest. For that reason alone Richard was disinclined to like her, never mind that she had obviously divined that he had an assignation in the stables, and was currently trying to look down her little nose at him. He bit back a laugh. Since the woman only reached his shoulder, looking down her nose at him was, of course, impossible.

But, by St Denis, the years had changed her. Emma of Fulford’s clothes were little better than a beggar’s. Gone was the finery she had once worn to flounce around her father’s mead-hall. Gone were the thane’s arm-rings she had called her own. Briefly, Richard wondered what she had done with them. They had been jingling on her wrists the day he had met her, barbaric Saxon bangles with the soft gleam of gold. When had that been—three years ago, more? He couldn’t recall. Had she lost the arm-rings, or sold them?

She always had been a stupid wench. Why else would she have run off with that Saxon hothead? The whole of Wessex knew they had been lovers, and for her, a noblewoman, to have taken a man out of wedlock—it was almost unheard of. She was lucky not to have had a child.

As Richard looked at her, his gut tightened and for a moment he thought he saw pleading in those large, dark-lashed eyes. But, no, he must have been mistaken. Her nose lifted, her lips firmed.

‘Sir Richard.’ She inclined her head, eyes flickering briefly, haughtily, to his naked chest. He could almost see her thoughts—why was he, a knight, grooming his horse? What would she say, Richard wondered, if she knew he was soon to be Count of Beaumont?

More was coming back to him. In the winter of 1066, hadn’t Emma of Fulford been persuaded to abandon her rebel lover on Beacon Hill? Richard hadn’t liked her haughtiness then and he didn’t like it today. Striding past her, he went to the water trough, sluiced himself down and dragged on his shirt. Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself that this was Cecily’s sister, and that she had been brought up as a thane’s daughter. A laundry maid! He wouldn’t mind betting that her status as a fallen woman meant she was shunned by half the town. What was that Saxon word for nothing—nithing? Did the people consider her nithing? Whatever her past mistakes, this woman deserved better. There was breeding and beauty there, and, of course, she spoke fluent French.

‘You need my help?’ he asked, reverting with relief to that language.

‘I…Yes, please. My sister, Cecily—she married your friend Sir Adam—’

‘I know who your sister is.’ The woman before him was perhaps an inch or so taller than Lady Cecily, but she was not tall. Richard seemed to remember that her figure had been fuller when he had met her, but it was hard to judge it today, hidden as it was beneath that hideous gown. Her waist seemed slim. He found himself recalling the daintiness of her feet and the exact curve of her calves. He hoped Frida was half as attractive.

‘Yes, of course. Well, I do remember Cecily mentioning you were a good friend—’

To Richard’s horror, her voice broke. Abruptly she turned her head. ‘I…That is…Oh, Lord…’ She blinked rapidly, but not before Richard had seen her eyes glaze with the swift shine of tears. When she looked up a moment later, she had herself in hand. ‘I would like to work here in the castle. I thought—since you know my family—you might be able to put me in touch with the castle steward, and perhaps…perhaps a recommendation…’ Her voice trailed off.

Richard could tell by the set of her lips that she loathed asking this favour of him. Emma of Fulford might have been stripped of her finery, she might have lost her reputation, but she had kept her pride. ‘Work? You mean washing linen?’

The nose inched up. ‘Yes, I…I have experience. I have been working at the wash-house. But I would prefer to work in the castle. Clothes, household linens, fine silks…anything. I know how to handle the most delicate imported fabrics. Nothing will be damaged. I am also a competent seamstress.’

How the mighty had fallen. It was hard not to smile, but Richard managed it. Something in her proud posture touched him. Let her keep what dignity she had left. ‘There are competent seamstresses aplenty here.’ He rubbed his chin while he thought. Lady Emma might have been foolish in the past, but this was Adam’s sister-by-marriage, and he wanted to help.

‘I see.’ Emma of Fulford’s shoulders slumped; she began to turn away. ‘I…I thank you for your time, sir.’

Richard took her arm gently. ‘Don’t be so hasty, I have not said I will not help you, merely that we have no need of seamstresses.’

The arm beneath the cloth was slighter than he had expected, fine-boned. It crossed his mind that she might not be eating enough. Releasing her, Richard knew a moment’s confusion. Sir Adam Wymark had married this woman’s sister. Adam was the best of comrades and amenable to Cecily’s every wish, so why had Emma not been given houseroom at Fulford?

He opened his mouth to ask before it occurred to him that the less involvement he had with this woman, the better. He would be leaving soon. And while he did not know much about her, what he did know told him that she was—complicated. Richard already had more complexities than he could cope with. But there was something in her manner and person than held his admiration. Add to that the loyalty he felt for Adam and Cecily and he had to help her.

‘Geoffrey will make an appointment for you to meet our steward. Geoffrey?’

‘Sir?’

‘See to it.’

‘Is she to work in the laundry here?’

Richard shook his head. ‘I think not. Lady Emma needs something more suitable to her station, you understand me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well, take her to the steward, and if he has nothing for her, let her make enquiries in the ladies’ solar. In the meantime, pass me my tunic, would you?’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Emma of Fulford said, bowing her head. Geoffrey handed Richard his tunic and he dragged it on. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said, curtsying gracefully.

Richard was buckling on his belt when a movement across the yard caught his eye. A smiling woman waved and started making her way slowly towards them, hips swaying as she walked. This must be Frida from the Staple.

Frida was wearing a tight-laced yellow gown that emphasised her generous curves. The deep slash in the front revealed more than a hint of bosom, and the full skirts frothed about her ankles. Yellow suited her and that undulating walk was calculated to draw the gaze of every man in the bailey. Frida’s walk had the power to halt the tocking of the masons’ chisels. It even reached the cookhouse—through the open door came a clang as someone dropped a pot.

Richard grinned and wished that he had shaved. This was the sort of woman for him. His relationship with Frida would be uncomplicated, a brief business affair unencumbered by guilt or messy emotion.

Emma of Fulford had seen Frida and with a slight tinge to her cheeks was edging away. ‘Your…lady…is here, I see.’

Face flushing for no reason that Richard could point to, he cleared his throat. Frida was a whore as everyone knew, but she was said to be a faithful whore who kept to one lover at a time. If they suited, she would be his and his alone—for as long as he was in England, and for as long as he kept supplying her with the trinkets and coin that she would doubtless require.

Nevertheless, as Richard watched Frida slowly make her way towards him, he found that the graceful, slight figure of Lady Emma of Fulford had a tendency to linger at the back of his mind.




Chapter Three


‘More fitting?’ Emma stormed out of the bailey with Henri in her arms. Aediva was no longer with her, having gone back to the wash-house immediately after Emma’s interview with Count Richard. Earlier, when Aediva had heard where Emma had been going that morning, she had insisted in coming along—bless her—to give Emma moral support. Emma had good friends, and for that she was grateful, but this morning it seemed to Emma that what she needed were powerful friends.

Crossing the drawbridge, Emma stalked into what was left of Golde Street after King William—with typical Norman arrogance—had had half the street pulled down to build his castle.

‘More fitting?’ Her steps were brisk and jerky and Emma was unaware that she was still muttering to herself until Henri patted her cheek and tried to make her look into his eyes.

‘Mama? Mama angry?’

‘Yes, sweetheart. Mama is very angry.’

Henri’s face fell, his hand dropped.

‘Oh, not with you, sweet, not with you.’ Emma made her voice light. ‘It is that man I am angry with, that bone-headed, patronising man.’

‘Sir Rich?’

Emma gave a humourless laugh. ‘You are not daft, are you, my lad?’ Saints, she must guard her tongue with Henri; he might not have seen three summers, but he understood far too much of what went on about him. ‘Sir Rich about sums him up.’

‘Mama? Smile?’

Sir Rich, indeed. But as far as she was concerned he was singularly unhelpful. Forcing a smile, Emma marched down the street. What next? Where next? Panic was churning inside her.

‘We need work,’ she said. ‘Somewhere to live.’

‘Yes, Mama.’

Sir Richard must have known his steward would not have any work for her, he must have known she would be turned away. He had humiliated her. Clearly, Sir Richard disapproved of her working as a laundry maid. Not fitting for a lady, oh, he had never stated it quite so baldly, but he thought it. She had read it in those cold grey eyes. Not fitting, indeed. And here she was leaving the castle with nothing, because the count’s boy, Geoffrey, had left her with the steward, who couldn’t be bothered to find her ‘suitable’ work. What was suitable? she fumed, reaching Westgate and turning towards Market Street. What did the man expect her to do?

‘Henri, you are growing so fast, I swear, you are heavier than one of Gytha’s grain sacks.’ Setting her son on his feet, she took his hand and swept on.

‘Suitable work? Hah!’ What was suitable for someone of her station? Neither lady nor peasant due to her—she glanced at the top of her son’s head—supposed mistake. A mistake, Emma gritted her teeth, that she would never regret as long as she lived.

At the corner of Staple Street a woman with eggs in a basket caught her eye. Eggs. Emma’s mouth watered; she had not eaten an egg in an age. But, of course, the days were growing longer and with the longer days, the hens would be coming into lay. In her other life, when she had been a thane’s daughter at Fulford, Emma had loved hunting out the first eggs of the season. A wave of longing took her and she missed a step.

‘Fresh eggs, mistress?’

She cleared her throat. ‘Later, perhaps.’

The Staple lay in front of her, a wattle-and-daub building that was almost as large as her father’s meadhall. Its thatch was dark with age, and smoke gusted from louvres in the roof ridge. The Staple was the most popular tavern in the town, and this morning the door and shutters had been flung wide to admit the air, the spring sunlight and, of course, the customers. Emma had friends inside. Not powerful ones, but friends none the less. Perhaps they could help her.

Emma stepped over the threshold, holding fast to Henri.

A huddle of merchants were haggling over the finer points of a deal around the central fire, a band of off-duty troopers were drinking at one of the trestles. Other than the tavern girls, there were few women present. Hélène and Marie were in the shadows at the far end of the room, filling clay jugs with wine from a barrel. Behind the women stood the wooden screen that concealed the doorway to the adjacent cookhouse. To one side, against the further wall, a stairway led to the communal bedchamber that—following a design brought in by the Norman invaders—had been built under the eaves.

Several heads turned as Emma made her way towards Hélène and Marie. There certainly were plenty of pests from the garrison here today. Emma found herself swishing her skirts out of the way of more than one grasping hand. Reaching the trestle under the loftchamber, Emma took a place on a bench and let out a sigh of relief.

‘How goes it, Hélène?’

Hélène stuck a stopper in one of the jugs and smiled. ‘Fine.’

‘I have a couple of favours to ask,’ Emma said.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Henri tugged his hand free and skipped behind the wooden screen, lured by a mouthwatering smell of fresh bread.

‘Hello, Henri.’ Hearing the voice of Inga, the tavern cook, Emma relaxed. Inga would keep Henri safe. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Yes!’

Leaning her head against the white was hed daub, Emma closed her eyes. She had been humiliated, Sir Rich—ha!—had humiliated her. Telling that boy of his to make sure she had ‘fitting’work, when he must have known that the steward would give her short shrift. The steward’s lips had curled as he had said, no, he did not think there was any work in Winchester Castle for a lady like her. And his tone…

‘All right, love?’ The bench creaked as Hélène came to sit next to her.

Emma opened her eyes while Marie drifted into the main body of the tavern and began flirting with a young archer. ‘I confess it, I have been better.’

‘Someone call you nithing again?’

To be called nithing was to say that you did not exist, that you were lower than the low. Which, Emma thought bitterly, she was. An outcast. She had been a lady and she had had a child out of wedlock. Would she ever be able to hold her head high again?

Again she sighed. ‘Not this time, although that has been cast in my face in the past.’

Hélène patted Emma’s knee. ‘Not by anyone Iwould let through these doors, dear, rest assured. You are no more nithing than I am.’

‘My thanks.’ Emma gazed earnestly at Hélène. ‘I would have you know that your friendship means much to me.’

Dark colour washed into Hélène’s cheeks. ‘You value my friendship? You know what this tavern is…what the girls…’ she all but choked ‘…and yet you value my friendship?’

Henri emerged, smiling, from behind the screen with a slice of bread dripping with honey clutched tight in his fist. Emma laid her hand on Hélène’s. ‘You must know I do. This is the only place, apart from the mill, where Henri and I are accepted, fully accepted. You and Gytha are dear to me, you let me be…myself. You don’t judge me.’

Hélène snorted and her wave took in Marie, now sitting on the lap of the archer, whispering in his ear. ‘Judge you? Running this place does not give me the right to step into a preacher’s shoes. Not that I would want to…’

‘No, of course not. But you understand me.’ Emma reached out to wipe a trickle of honey from the corner of her son’s mouth. ‘You know how life does not turn out quite as one expects it to and unlike some—’ a brief image of cold grey eyes flashed into her mind ‘—you accept me for what I am.’

‘Of course I do. Tell me, what was it you wanted to ask?’

‘I need work,’ she said, bluntly. ‘Do you have any?’

Hélène lifted a brow. ‘I am sorry, Emma, the girls here take turns in seeing to the laundry.’

Emma’s shoulders slumped. ‘I was afraid you would say that. Dear Lord, what am I to do?’

‘Surely there is more than enough for you at the wash-house?’

‘There’s not any at the wash-house! Bertha—oh, Hélène—it is quite dreadful.’ Keeping an eye on Henri who was wandering back behind the screen for more bread, Emma lowered her voice. ‘Judhael is back! He has threatened Bertha.’

‘Surely not?’

‘Yes, yes, he has—there were marks on her wrist. Hélène, Judhael is not a…gentle man.’

‘You are saying Judhael hurt Bertha?’

‘Yes! You don’t know him as I do. Why, he beat the Fulford cook once for speaking out of turn.’

A warm hand came to rest on Emma’s knee. ‘That is why you never returned to Fulford. You were afraid he might find you.’

Emma swallowed. ‘Yes, that’s it. But it has all been for nothing, he has found me anyway. He has been bullying Bertha and…oh, Hélène, it is worse that that—he knows where I live, as well. He has been to the mill—’

‘Judhael has made threats there, too?’

‘He set a fire.’ While Hélène stared at her, frowning in disbelief, Emma explained about the fire and the threats that Gytha had been given. Finally, she laid bare her deepest fears. ‘Judhael does not know about Henri. But if he should learn he has a son…’ She clenched her fists. ‘He must not get his hands on Henri, I will not let him!’

‘So that is another reason why you refused to return to Fulford.’

‘Yes. I would never trust Judhael with a child and I always knew that if he should return, it’s the first place he would go. I must keep Henri from him.’

Hélène’s frown deepened. ‘Emma, I still don’t understand. How did Judhael find you? No one at Fulford would have betrayed your whereabouts.’

‘No, of course they would not. I haven’t the faintest idea, unless…’

‘Unless…?’

‘It has to be the gown.’ Rubbing her head, Emma took a deep breath. ‘A couple of weeks ago I met Cecily in the market. I mentioned Gytha’s marriage and Cecily misheard me. She thought I was talking about me, that I was considering marriage.’ Emma looked at the floor. ‘You see, it is what Cecily wishes for me. She is so happily married and she wants me to be happy, too. You will say it was foolish of me, but I didn’t correct her. If I were married, it would help expunge the shame of Henri’s birth.’

‘And…?’

‘The next time the Fulford carter came to Winchester for supplies, Cecily had sent me a betrothal gift. It is a gown, the most magnificent pink gown I have ever seen. Of course I shall never wear it—’

‘Never wear it! Why on earth not?’

Emma grimaced. ‘It is fit for a queen—what would I be doing with a gown like that? But never mind that. It must have been the gown that brought Judhael to me.’

‘He followed the carter from Fulford?’

‘He must have. With the result that I have no work and must look to find new lodgings, as well. I won’t let Gytha and Edwin risk themselves for me.’

‘You may lodge here with us, Emma,’ Hélène said firmly. ‘I may not have work, but I can offer you lodgings.’

Tears pricked behind Emma’s eyes. ‘That is very kind, but I don’t want to cause you any trouble any more than I want to cause Gytha trouble. What if Judhael comes here?’

Hélène waved towards the door where a man was lounging on one of the benches. Emma had seen him hefting barrels about the inn; he was built like a house. ‘Tostig will see us safe.’

‘Nevertheless, I would not put you at risk.’

‘You would be more than welcome.’

‘My thanks. Perhaps I will stay here while I think what to do. I wish I had some way of repaying you, but until I do find work…I even tried up at the castle this morning, but there was nothing there, either.’

Hélène was studying her intently. ‘Something upset you up at that place, I can see.’

‘Mmm.’ It was stupid; Emma could not think why she was still upset, it was not as though this kind of thing had never happened before. But she had believed Sir Richard, had really thought he meant to help.

‘Tell me.’

Emma opened her mouth with Sir Richard’s image in her mind and the words pompous hypocrite forming on her tongue when Frida banged through the doorway. Frida was scowling and there were splotches of angry colour on her cheeks. Emma blinked; it was hard to believe she was looking at the same girl who had paraded so confidently across the castle bailey less than half an hour ago.

‘That man! Bloody Norman!’ Frida spat, flouncing towards them, blatantly ignoring the fact that most of the customers in the Staple were Norman by birth. Her yellow skirts whisked past the fire, perilously close to the flames. She thumped on to their bench with such force, the bench rocked.

‘That was quick,’ Emma blurted, before she had time to check her words. Her cheeks scorched. ‘Forgive me, Frida, but I saw you in the bailey, less than half an hour ago.’

Some of the anger left Frida’s expression as her mouth twitched. ‘Yes, I was in the stable. But I expect Sir Richard could…’ shooting Henri a glance, Frida made a suggestive gesture ‘—I expect our garrison commander could do it quickly if he had a mind. Only he didn’t.’

Hélène leaned forwards, a line between her brows. ‘What happened?’

Frida shrugged. Unpinning her veil, she folded it and held it carefully on her lap. Her yellow gown and veil were too good for everyday wear; they would be put into storage to await a special occasion, a special admirer.

‘Sir Richard and I,’ Frida spoke with a slow precision that was quite out of character, ‘agreed that we should not suit.’

Hélène’s mouth fell open. ‘Not suit—what nonsense is this? You are my best girl. You have a natural curves that make sacking look like silk. You know how to behave—in short, Frida, you have all the virtues a man like Sir Richard could expect in his maîtresse. And what is more, you only keep to one lover at a time! Is the man a eunuch?’ Huffing, Hélène leaned back against the wall. ‘I don’t understand it. There must have been something…There were no angry words between you?’

‘No, madame.’

‘You didn’t mention Raymond, did you?’

Frida lowered her gaze.

‘You did! Oh, you foolish, foolish girl, I told you, not a word about Raymond. Most men wouldn’t care about such things, but some are more choosy. Some men like to pretend their belle amie has only known them. Such a man would not want to hear his lover is pining for another, even if he is paying for her services.’

Frida’s eyes glittered, a tear sparkled on one of her lashes. ‘I only asked him if he knew how Raymond had died.’

Hélène made a sound of disapproval, but her eyes were kind. ‘I suppose you had to. Did he know?’

Shoulders slumped, Frida shook her head. ‘I do not think so. Sir Richard said something about the fighting in the north being hard and…and bloody. I don’t think he saw Raymond fall. I know it was stupid of me—how can a commander be expected to watch every one of his men at every moment? It was just, I hoped…’ Her voice trailed off and she wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

‘Frida, you allowed yourself to get too fond of Raymond, I did counsel you against it.’

‘I remember. I know I should not have mentioned him to Sir Richard and am sorry for it.’ Frida lifted her eyes. ‘It was not easy making myself understood, and not easy understanding him, either. That is why he turned me away.’

‘Because of his poor English?’

‘Because I have no French. That, he said, was why we would not suit. I…I do not think it was because I asked about Raymond.’

It was Emma’s turn to direct a look of incredulity at Frida. ‘Sir Richard didn’t want you because you don’t speak Norman French?’

Frida began pleating the veil on her lap. ‘He can barely speak a word of English, and my French is just as bad. Apart from one or two…’ her lips edged up and she shot a glance at Henri who had returned and was single-mindedly cramming the last of his bread into his mouth ‘…choice words. But I did manage to gather that Sir Richard’s English deserts him completely at times.’

‘He wants conversation?’ Hélène’s expression was all confusion. ‘With a woman? Lord, the man has changed. I know he took an arrow to the shoulder near York, but perhaps another part of his anatomy was affected.’

Frida made a negative gesture and a flash of humour lifted the edges of her mouth. ‘I did not see that part of him, but the rest looked perfectly hale. Oh, yes.’ Rising, she turned for the stairs to the loft room where the girls kept their belongings. At the foot of the stair she looked back. ‘I can’t say I am sorry, though, he seemed detached to me, very detached. It chilled me. Despite all those muscles, I am not sure I would want him as my…admirer.’ Slowly, she continued up the stairs.

The fire crackled. A dog ambled in from the street and flopped down by the hearth.

‘Frida, turned down by Sir Richard.’ Hélène shook her head. ‘I would never have believed it.’

There was more here, Emma sensed. ‘Oh?’

‘The man has something of a reputation, which is odd when you consider he himself has never actually visited the Staple.’

‘Really?’

Seeing Emma’s look of disbelief, Hélène laughed. ‘No, never. This is the best place for miles. My girls are clean, they are well fed and they know better than to steal—a man likes to know that his silver is safe while he—’

Emma cleared her throat and jerked her head pointedly at Henri, whose round blue eyes were taking in Hélène’s every word.

‘As I was saying, dear, my girls are honest. And knowing Sir Richard’s reputation, I was surprised that he never patronised us. Then this morning his man appeared—’

‘His squire, Geoffrey?’

‘I think that was the name. You would think Sir Richard would like to pick his own girl, wouldn’t you? I would if I were a man. Not him.’ She paused, brow puckered. ‘Perhaps that is what Frida meant when she said he was cold. No matter. He refused her, my best girl—I don’t understand it. What can he want?’

Emma’s heart began to thud. ‘Send me.’

‘Eh?’

‘Send me.’ She gave a smile and knew it was twisted. ‘I can wear the pink gown.’

‘Are you mad? You’re not one of us, you can’t…’

‘Think I don’t know what to do?’ Emma ruffled her son’s hair. ‘Here’s proof.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Your reputation…’

‘What reputation? I am nithing, Hélène, I have fallen from grace, and this child, this bas—’

Gasping, Hélène clapped her hands over Henri’s ears. ‘Emma, have a care!’

Rising abruptly, Emma began pacing up and down in front of the wine barrel. ‘Let him hear, Hélène, let him hear, he will hear soon enough, so why not from me? Like most of the girls here, I am a—’ conscious of listening ears, Emma lowered her voice ‘—a fallen woman. Exactly as you are.’

‘But your birth! Your father was—’

‘I am like you, my friend.’

Hélène’s lips curved, but she shook her head. ‘You are not like us, indeed, Emma, you are not.’

‘How so?’

Hélène leaned forwards. ‘You are not truly fallen, not in the way me and my girls are.’ Emma made an impatient movement, but Hélène rushed on. ‘Oh, to be sure you have an illegitimate child, you committed the sin of fornication, but you did it for love.’

‘I don’t love Ju…him. I don’t!’

‘You don’t today, but you did at the time. Whereas we—apart from the occasional aberration like Frida with her Raymond—we do it purely for coin. There’s a difference. You, my dear, are not truly fallen. Neither are you nithing.’

Emma’s eyes prickled. ‘Only you, my friend, would see it that way.’

One of Hélène’s brows arched upwards. ‘Don’t forget Gytha, she is your friend, too. There’sAediva too, and Frida, and Marie…’

Emma had to laugh. ‘Point conceded, I have many good friends. But most of the townsfolk see me as fallen.’

‘Leofwine doesn’t. Nor does your sister, for that matter.’

‘No. But seriously, Hélène, I need your help.’

‘There must be other ways. I won’t send you to Sir Richard. You, a thane’s daughter, putting yourself forward as a maîtresse? Never!’

Emma fiddled with her purse. ‘He said his steward would find work for me, but the steward said there was none to be had. Clearly, despite the friendship Richard of Asculf has with Sir Adam, he had no real intention of helping me. So I shall put myself forward for another kind of work.’

‘As his bedmate?’

‘Yes! Frida let him refuse her, but Frida is grieving and she needs time.’

‘I know.’

‘Besides, I can converse with him, my French is as fluent as his.’

‘Your mother,’ Hélène murmured.

‘Exactly—which of your girls can speak his language as well as I?’

‘None, but that doesn’t mean—’

Emma took Hélène’s hand. ‘Send me. He won’t turn me down. I won’t let him.’

A knowing light entered Hélène’s eyes. ‘You like him.’

Emma dropped Hélène’s hand as though it scalded. ‘Sir Richard?’ His image flashed before her, a vivid image of him as he had been in the stable. That thick brown hair, those grey eyes that surely were more clever than cool, that broad chest, so pleasingly—yes, privately Emma would admit to this—his chest was most pleasingly muscled…‘No. That is, I…I agree with Frida, Sir Richard can be distant, as if his mind is elsewhere.’

‘Do not lie, Emma, you are not good at it. You like Sir Richard.’

‘I scarcely know him.’

Hélène made a dismissive movement. ‘What has that to do with anything? You are attracted to him, that much is plain. When you stormed in, I knew something had happened, and by that I mean something significant, not merely that the castle steward had no employment for you. You find Sir Richard attractive.’

‘I do not!’

Hélène lifted an expressive brow and smiled an infuriating smile. ‘You are attracted to him and, what is more, I believe you like him also. I know you, Emma of Fulford, and you would not be asking me to send you to him if you did not. You may have a bast…this child here, but you are not like us. And if you are considering, even for one moment, becoming that man’s concubine, it is because in some quiet corner of your soul you feel more than a passing liking for him.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Have it your own way.’ Rising, Hélène shook out her skirts. ‘You must excuse me, I need to ask Inga if she has enough in the way of provisions for the evening meal. We are busier now the garrison’s full up again.’

‘Hélène, will you help me?’

‘You really believe you have it in you to play the part of his whore—because that is what you would be—his whore?’

‘Yes. Why not?’

Shaking her head, Hélène rested a hand lightly on Emma’s son’s head. ‘Take Mama back to the mill, Henri, and help her pack up your belongings.’

‘Why?’

‘You are coming to live at the Staple for a time.’

Henri’s face brightened; he did a little jig. ‘Honey on bread, honey on bread!’

Hélène laughed. ‘Yes, sweetheart, every day.’

Emma bit her lip. ‘I cannot pay you…’

‘We can discuss that later. I don’t think that is a situation that is going to last.’




Chapter Four


Later that same night, Emma waited until Hélène was alone sitting at her usual table under the loft overhang. From there Hélène could keep close watch on the wine butts and the measures the girls were handing out. Smoke was swirling up into the blackened roof space along with the drone of many voices. Platters banged on to trestles; knives scraped on pewter plates; torches flared. A serving girl passed with a platter, and the smell of beef braised in rich red wine lingered in the air.

Emma and Henri had already moved into the Staple. They had been allocated space in one of the screened sleeping areas in the loft. Henri was worn out with excitement and had been put to bed, which left Emma free to raise the matter of payment with Hélène.

‘About my rent,’ Emma said. ‘I have worked out how I may be able to pay you.’

‘There is no hurry, I really can wait. Wine?’

‘Please.’ Emma took her place on the bench. ‘But I don’t want you to wait. And with Judhael so eager to speak out against me, Heaven knows when I will find work. Would you like to look at the gown? I would be prepared to sell it, if you like it.’

‘The one your sister sent you?’

‘Yes. It is very fine.’

‘I am sure that it is, although—’ Hélène’s lips curved ‘—knowing your sister, it will be the gown of a lady rather than a…shall we say, a tavern girl.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I know your sister. Still, my girls might be able to use it when their wealthier admirers want to play at being great lords. Go and put it on, so I can really see how it looks.’

‘Now?’

‘Why not?’

Emma nodded agreement and, taking up a candle from the table, headed for the stairs.

The loft chamber was airy and ran fully half the length of the building. It was divided in two by thick wool curtains. One half was used as a sleeping chamber for travellers while the other, divided into sleeping areas by yet more curtains, belonged to Hélène and the girls. Emma and Henri had been given one of these.

Despite the size of the loft, the private spaces were cramped and simply furnished. Like nuns’ cells, Emma thought wryly, except that some of these cells were put to uses that would scandalise any nun. What would Mother Aethelflaeda, the Prioress of St Anne’s, say if she found her here? No doubt a penitential fast would be the least of it.

Indeed, a few years ago, Emma herself would have been scandalised by what went on at this inn. Yet today…She sighed. So much had changed.

Henri was deeply asleep. Setting the candle safely on a stool, Emma reached under their bed and quietly pulled out the bundle that contained the gown. She began to undress.

Sounds of merriment came muffled through the floorboards. You wouldn’t believe it was Lent. Yet more to scandalise Mother Aethelflaeda. Laughter rolled up the stairs; it squeezed through the cracks in the floorboards. One man brayed like a donkey, another responded with a shout that nearly raised the roof.

Smiling, Emma shook her head. To think that the Staple was only a stone’s throw from the Cathedral and Nunnaminster…

Setting aside her workday gown, Emma reached into the bundle and drew out Cecily’s gift. The sumptuous fabric was heavily encrusted with silver-and-gold threadwork. There was also a filmy silk veil in a paler hue to wear with the gown. Emma’s throat ached. These lovely things were fit for Queen Mathilda, and Cecily had remembered that pink was her favourite colour. Emma was touched beyond words. She hated to sell them, but sell them she must. And while they were indeed more suited to a noblewoman than a tavern wench, if Hélène liked them, she would give her a good price, better than she might get elsewhere.

The candle-light flickered as Emma drew the gown over her head. Tugging at the lacings, she tied them off, staring down at herself critically. The gown was cut fairly low at the front and it gaped a little. Frowning, she readjusted the lacings and tugged the bodice into place. She must have lost weight since her measure had been taken at Fulford. As Emma shook out the veil, a small stoppered bottle—glass, it was such a rarity—rolled on to the bed. This was yet another of her sister’s gifts; it had been tucked into the fabric the day the carter had brought it.

Removing the stopper, Emma sniffed. Rosewater. It was her favourite scent; Cecily had remembered that, too. It must have been imported. Blinking hard, Emma dabbed some at the wrists and neck, and carefully replaced the stopper. She might have to sell the dress and the veil, but it would not hurt to keep the rosewater. Slipping the bottle into her bundle of everyday clothes, she set about arranging the silk veil.

Curtains brushed her shoulders as she made her way back to the head of the stairs. A piercing whistle cut through the din. By the fire at the middle of the inn, Ben Thatcher, a man with more looks than sense, was giving her the eye.

Cheeks brighter than the flames in the hearth, Emma hurried downstairs and dived into the relative safety of the shadows at the cookhouse end of the room. Another appreciative shout came flying towards the wine-butts. At her table, Hélène scowled at Ben Thatcher and waved Emma over.

‘That the new girl, Hélène?’ Unrepentant, Ben shouted over the general clamour. ‘How much?’ His companion made a coarse gesture and muttered an aside. Ben spluttered into his ale.

‘It is the dress that is for sale here, Ben Thatcher, so mind your tongue,’ Hélène said, tugging Emma to her. ‘Never mind them, dear. They are good lads, but—strong ale and weak minds…’ She looked Emma up and down. ‘Ooh, yes. I see what you mean, that gown is fit for a queen. You look well in it, Emma, very well. Indeed, I am not sure that you should sell it. I am sure you will find another way of repaying me.’

‘If times were better, I would not sell it. I love it, but…’ Emma shrugged ‘…you know how things are.’

‘I wonder that you can bear to part with it.’ Hélène took the fabric of the skirt between her thumb and forefinger. ‘This cloth, shipped in from the east, would you say?’

‘I think so.’

‘Are you certain about this? What will your sister say?’

Emma grimaced. ‘I hope she never finds out. I shall certainly not be telling her.’ She spread the skirts to demonstrate their fullness and gave a mocking curtsy. ‘See? Every detail is perfect. The lacing ribbons are silk, and this veil is light as a cobweb.’

‘It hangs well. I do like the way the skirts swing. Yes, it is perfect. A little large at the bosom, perhaps.’

Flushing, Emma put a hand to the neckline.

Hélène batted it away with a smile. ‘No, let it be. It is quite…alluring like that.’

Emma fussed with the neckline. ‘Gudrun made it. She and Rozenn—the Breton seamstress—have been working together and…’

A movement by the door caught Emma’s attention. She frowned.

‘Emma, what’s amiss?’

‘I…I…no matter. Except—was that Sir Richard’s squire I saw leaving just then?’

‘Possibly, he does occasionally favour us with his custom when Sir Richard is in residence. He likes it here, even if his knight does not.’

‘Excuse me?’ A man’s voice cut in behind them. ‘Lady Emma?’

Emma whirled and her stomach lurched. ‘Azor!’

The hood of Azor’s head was up and he was standing in the deepest shadows, but Emma knew him at once. Judhael’s comrade, Azor, was a former housecarl of her father’s. He, too, had allied himself with the Saxon resistance. So it had been Azor she had seen on Mill Bridge…

Azor looked pointedly at Hélène and jerked his head in the direction of the screen. Hélène backed away. Catching Emma by the arm, Azor drew her into the darkness between two large wine caskets.

‘Lady Emma…’ Azor’s eyes raked her from head to foot; his beard—threaded with grey nowadays—quivered. ‘No wonder it took so long for me to find you. When I heard you were…in difficulties…I imagined the worst.’

Emma swallowed. Azor had her fenced in with his body. Her hands began to shake. ‘Where is he?’ Her voice rose. ‘He is not here?’

Azor flung a glance over his shoulder. ‘Hush, no names, eh?’

‘I am not stupid.’

Azor’s lip curled as he looked at her. ‘I thought he might have caused you trouble when he visited your friends, but in my worst nightmares I would not have imagined this.’ His gaze took in the tavern, while the sneer on his lips spoke of a high disdain for tavern girls. He twitched clumsily at Emma’s skirts. ‘Bedding with men for coin, are we?’

Emma’s heart was fluttering like a netted bird. Was Judhael in the inn? She had hoped to have at least a couple of days’ grace…

Henri! Emma did not care what Judhael or Azor thought of her, the important thing, the most important thing, was that they should not find out that she had a son. Thank God Henri was safe upstairs.

‘Well?’ Azor gave her a little shake, such as he would never have done when her father had been alive, he would not have dared.

Emma lifted her chin. ‘It is none of your business what I am or what I do.’ Azor still had her boxed in. Laying a hand on his chest, she gave him a shove. ‘Please let me pass. I was having a private conversation with Hélène, and you interrupted us.’

Azor snorted, but in the flare of the torches it seemed his expression had softened. ‘The Lady Emma I used to know would have died rather than consort with the likes of Hélène.’

Conscious of Hélène hovering like a guardian angel behind Azor, Emma bit her lip. ‘Hélène is a friend, a true and loyal friend when many have deserted me.’

‘The woman’s a whore! Hell, my lady, Ju—he will kill you when he finds you.’ Again, the harsh features appeared to soften; his voice became gentle. ‘He wants you back, my lady. It has become an obsession with him.’

‘Let me pass.’ Emma’s mouth was dry, for she feared Azor spoke the truth. Judhael might well kill her. It was a struggle to keep her expression calm, when every nerve was shrieking at her to pick up her skirts and dash upstairs to check on Henri. She must know that that he was safe. Azor might have found me, but please, God, let him not learn about Henri.

‘My lady, there is no need to look at me like that. You must not fear me, I came to warn you—’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Hélène broke in. She had found a wooden cup and was filling it with wine from one of the barrels. As she approached, trying—bless her—to draw Azor’s attention, Emma willed her friend not to mention Henri. ‘You are new to the Staple, are you not? Please accept a cup of our best red. It is come in a recent shipment from Aquitaine in the land of the Franks.’ She lowered her voice. ‘King Harold himself never drank better.’

Azor looked doubtfully at the wine and more narrowly at Hélène. ‘He drank Frankish wine?’

Hélène smiled. ‘Indeed he did.’

‘But I didn’t order it.’

‘Take it, sir, with my compliments, as a welcome to the Staple.’

‘Waes hael.’ Mouthing the traditional Saxon toast, Azor grudgingly nodded his thanks, but his eyes never left Emma’s and she knew he had not finished with her.

Nevertheless, she made to push past him, not trusting him an inch. ‘Excuse me, if you please.’

Someone threw a log on to the fire and sent up a shower of sparks as the door opened to admit two men. The fire flared.

Silence gripped the room. Squinting past Azor’s shoulder, Emma tried to see what everyone was looking at, but Marie was moving between the tables, blocking her vision.

Emma was not the only person to notice the silence; Azor turned to look, too. ‘Swithun save us!’ Thrusting the cup at her, he ducked deeper into his hood.

Sir Richard of Asculf, garrison commander, paused in the doorway as a trio of troopers jumped to their feet and saluted sheepishly.

Richard had heard of this place—what man in the garrison had not? The prettiest girls in Wessex worked here. Richard was not averse to the idea of using their services—he would hardly have sent for Frida if that had been the case, but this was the first time he had stepped inside the Staple himself. His subordinates needed somewhere where they could be at ease, somewhere where they were not under the eye of their commander. By unwritten law, this was their territory, not his.

If the women here nursed a hatred for Norman soldiers they hid it well, or so he had been told. Saxon tavern wenches who had learned to smile at Norman soldiers.

A swift glance around found Richard surprised. Many of his men were there, of course, sprawled across benches, leaning on tables, sitting with girls on their laps. But overall, the Staple was more orderly than he had expected. The tables, though busy with cups and plates and half-eaten suppers, had a clean, scrubbed look to them; the fire was well built and spare logs and kindling were stacked safely to one side. A mouthwatering smell of beef stew reminded Richard that not only was he hungry, but that the Staple’s reputation did not rest entirely on the beauty of the servings girls. The madame apparently ran a kitchen fit for a king.

Irritably, Richard addressed the room in general. ‘At ease. Mon Dieu, you’re all off duty!’ As conversation resumed, he turned to Geoffrey. ‘You are certain you saw Emma of Fulford in here? I thought I told you to help her find work at the castle.’

Geoffrey bit his lip. ‘Yes, sir. I left her with the steward, as you said.’

Richard frowned. ‘Left her? You are saying you didn’t make certain she was given work?’

‘N-not exactly, sir.’ Geoffrey shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I told the steward what you had said and…and—’

‘You went away.’

Geoffrey stared at the floor. ‘I…I am sorry, sir.’

‘That was ill done, Geoffrey, very ill done. Do you even know if she was given work?’

‘No, sir. I am sorry.’

Sighing, Richard dragged off his gloves and held his hands towards the fire. Behind them, the door slammed, candle flames bent in the draught.

Richard acknowledged one of his soldiers with a smile. Belatedly realising who had joined them, a lanky sergeant hastily pushed a girl from his lap. ‘At ease, soldier, you’ve earned a little relaxation,’ Richard repeated. He scowled at his squire. ‘You had better be right.’

‘I am, sir. Look, there at the far end.’

Merde. The lad was right, though Richard could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was Lady Emma of Fulford, flanked on the one side by a huge wine keg, and on the other by Hélène, the madame of the Staple. Emma had been talking to a Saxon giant of a man. Negotiating a price for her favours? Lord.

Oblivious of everyone but Lady Emma—this was Cecily’s sister, her sister and Cecily and Adam would never forgive him if he let her continue on this course—Richard marched towards her. The Saxon giant vanished behind an oak post. Richard paid him no heed. ‘Lady Emma.’

She gave him a hasty curtsy. ‘Sir Richard!’

Taking in her finery, particularly the way the front of her pink gown gaped to reveal far more than it should, Richard’s gaze sharpened. ‘What in hell are you doing?’ Diable, it was obvious what she was doing. In that gown, a gown which set off her curves in a discreet yet, oddly, far more tantalising way than the vulgar yellow gown had set off Frida’s charms, Emma of Fulford could only have been doing one thing. The woman had been selling herself. With difficulty, Richard lifted his gaze from the alluring dip in the neckline, from the gentle curve of her breasts. The smudges of fatigue under her eyes were not visible in the torchlight. A translucent veil failed to hide her hair, which gleamed like dark gold beneath it.

Hidden treasure, he found himself thinking. Here in the Staple, in that gown, Emma of Fulford had the loveliness and the hauteur of a princess of the Norse.

Her brows snapped together. ‘What business is it of yours, sir?’

Richard shook his head. ‘Just look at you. Is this the first time you have…done this, or is it something you make a habit of?’

Her blue eyes were cloudy, perplexed. It came to him that she was not connecting properly with what he was saying, that her mind was elsewhere.

‘My lady, are you drunk?’ He leaned closer, intending to discover if she had the smell of wine or mead about her. Instead, he caught the sweet scent of roses, freshness and roses. Hastily, he drew back.

‘Drunk? Certainly not!’

Her eyes, dark in the uncertain light of the torches, were scouring the tavern behind him. Searching for her lost customer? Richard clenched his fists. ‘You are a thane’s daughter,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘What would your sister say? Lord, have you no shame?’

‘He’s gone.’ Those dark eyes were full of shadows. She put a hand to her head. ‘Saint Swithun, help me.’

Whatever was the matter with the woman? How could the loss of one customer mean so much to her? Was she so desperate?

Firm action was clearly going to be called for.

Pink skirts rustled as she made to move past him. ‘Sir, you must excuse me, I need to go upstairs.’

Richard had her by the arm before he had time to think. ‘A moment.’

‘Sir,’ the madame, Hélène, cut in. She clicked her fingers and another Saxon, all muscle, appeared at her side. Not a threat exactly, but close. Geoffrey’s hand crept to the hilt of his dagger.

Richard gave the woman a direct look. ‘Madame Hélène, I presume?’

‘Sir?’

‘Lady Emma and I have matters to discuss, private matters. She will accompany me back to the castle.’ By Saint Denis, that sounded as though he intended buying Emma of Fulford’s favours, which he most certainly did not. At least…Richard was opening his mouth to clarify himself, but Madame Hélène got in first.

‘Emma, are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes, I am fine.’ Emma smiled, but her smile made a liar of her—it was vague and abstracted. ‘Sir Richard, please, I must go up to the loft.’ She laid a hand on his arm, white teeth worrying her lower lip.

‘No, you are coming with me.’

‘I am?’ Emma gave him one of those distracted looks and a quick nod before returning her attention to the other woman. ‘I am fine, truly, Hélène. I think Sir Richard may even help me.’

At her words, the muscle-bound Saxon effaced himself. Geoffrey let out a breath and his hand fell from his hilt.

Damn right I am going to help you, Richard thought. But not perhaps in the way that you are expecting. Grasping her hand, he led her past the tables, past outstretched legs, past the dogs lazing at the hearth and out into the night. He could not let her continue on this course; his friend Adam would never forgive him.

‘No cloak,’ he muttered as the inn door snapped shut behind Geoffrey and the chill March air rushed into his lungs. ‘We have left your cloak behind.’

‘My cloak?’ She gave a wild laugh and jerked against his hand. She was trying to break free and she would no doubt have succeeded if Richard had not maintained the firmest of holds. The moon was up, the stars were visible behind the roofs of the houses, and her pink veil glowed palely through the dark. Something—a stray?—brushed past Richard’s leg.

‘Please, my lord.’

She tried to shake him off, but he would have none of it. ‘You are coming back with me.’ Swiftly, he removed his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. When he set off at a brisk pace for the castle, she began to struggle in earnest.

‘No, no!’ Slim fingers twisted and wriggled within his. ‘Please…’ Her voice cracked. ‘I must go back. You don’t understand.’

‘Don’t cry, I am not going to hurt you. I just want to get you away from…that place.’ He stopped dead at the crossroads where what was left of Golde Street met Market Street. Her breath was agitated; her veil lifted as she peered over her shoulder towards the darkness surrounding the market cross.

What, or who, was she looking for? Richard could see little. Here, a few cracks of light crept round the edge of a shutter; there, a slash of yellow escaped through a slit in some planking, but as to the rest—black night.

‘Please, oh, please.’

As she pulled at him, the moonlight fell directly on her cheek where a single tear gleamed like a pearl. Hell.

‘He will find him, I know he will. He will find him and—’

Richard lost patience. EitherAdam’s sister-in-law was a madwoman or she was in desperate trouble. In their interview that morning, she had not struck him as mad. He swept her up in his arms, a struggling armful of woman who smelt charmingly of roses. Closing his mind to the twinge in his shoulder, to the stab of awareness of her as a desirable woman, he made for the castle drawbridge.

‘Calm down, my lady. Emma, calm down. I know you are not an innocent, but really, you cannot be allowed to continue on this course. You were lucky with that Saxon rebel.’

‘Lucky? What do you mean?’

‘You were lucky not to have had a child. How would it be if you had to suffer the shame of having a rebel brat clinging to your skirts?’

Silence. Perhaps he was getting through to her. ‘You may not be so lucky the next time. We are going somewhere warm where we may talk, and you are going to explain what you think you are doing.’

As they waited for the guard to lower the drawbridge, she kept her face averted. Her fists were clenched under her chin. Quiescent in his arms, but resisting him with every fibre of her being.

While the chains rattled and the drawbridge lowered, Richard exchanged glances with his squire.

‘Your shoulder, sir?’ Geoffrey said.

‘It is fine.’

She was quivering, not from fear, Richard hoped. ‘Geoffrey?’

‘Sir?’

‘Help arrange my cloak over her properly. She’s cold.’

Emma’s mind seemed to have frozen and she barely saw where he was taking her. Judhael, Henri, Azor, Sir Richard…it was too much. She was also digesting the fact that Sir Richard didn’t realise she already had a child, a bastard child. If only she could be certain that Judhael didn’t know, too.

Dimly, she recognised she was being carried across the torchlit bailey. Excited barks skirled through the air, and several dogs raced out of the stables—Sir Richard’s wolfhounds, the white mongrel.

Sir Richard ducked into a doorway at the base of one of the towers and started up a curling stairway.

Emma would not demean herself by struggling. The man was over six foot tall and his build, well…since she was pressed close to that muscular chest, she could not help but notice that Sir Richard was a powerfully built man. As one would expect of one of King William’s officers, a knight and a commander.

It might be disturbing to be held so close, closer in fact than she had been to any man since Judhael, but Emma’s mind was fixated on her son.

Did Azor know about Henri? Did he know that Henri was asleep upstairs at the inn? Had Azor perhaps followed them when they had brought their things from the mill to the Staple? Was Azor even at this moment snatching Henri from his bed?

But Emma did not struggle. If she were to engage in a physical fight with Sir Richard, she could only be the loser. He took the stairs in brisk strides, a small entourage trotting at his heels—his squire, the three dogs. No, a physical struggle with this man could only result in ignominious defeat; he had the build of a champion.

She did not speak, either. For this man, this friend of her sister’s husband, Sir Adam, did not know the full extent of her fall from grace. He had not heard about her illegitimate son. How would it be if you had to suffer the shame of having a rebel brat clinging to your skirts?

Perhaps—Emma slanted him a swift look through her lashes—perhaps other tactics might work here…

Saints, but this Norman was handsome in a strong-jawed masculine way. His hair was thick and brown. A torch in a wall-sconce cast a shadow from his straight nose across one lean cheek. A cheek that this close Emma could see was dark with stubble. His lips—she bit the inside of her cheek; she would not look at his lips—but surely they were too well-shaped for a man?

He paused to draw breath on a landing, or so Emma thought, until his squire pushed past him to open the door.

‘That is all, Geoffrey.’ Sir Richard gave a curt headshake as the boy made to follow them into the room. ‘I will call you if I need you.’ The white mongrel almost tripped him. ‘And take the damn dogs with you.’




Chapter Five


‘Yes, Sir Richard.’

Emma found she was holding her breath as the squire called the dogs to heel and the door closed behind him. Sir Richard’s cloak fell away and she was set, none too gently, on her feet. His breathing was uneven. So, too, was hers.




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