LordoftheKeep (2 page)

As she and her uncle had stood outside the hall, Emma had
paid sharp attention to the gossip of Lord Gilles’ attendance at the judging.
It was generally accepted among the satisfied that he cut swiftly through to
the core of a matter. He dealt judiciously with petty squabbles and in some
cases was just as likely to think of an unusual settlement as dismiss the
complaints as a waste of his time. He listened fairly, but suffered fools not
at all. Of course, the dissatisfied thought him cruel, a blight on their
future. Emma had decided that she would say nothing and offer no denials, for
‘twas obvious Lord Gilles accepted none.

Now her heart beat in panic and fear; the panic and fear of
a decision made that might bode ill for the future.

He
had looked right through her.

She had sworn to keep secret her lover’s name. When the time
was ripe, they’d acknowledge the vows they’d spoken together. She never doubted
it for moment—until now. She had thought she had his most sacred vow, could
withstand any beating she received.

Until today, this hour, her heart knew her lover would take
her away when his obligations were fulfilled. Although she had known him but a
few weeks—he was a member of an advance guard of Lord Gilles d’Argent’s—Emma
had fallen in love with a stunning swiftness that defied sense. She had
accepted her lover’s promises for the future and sealed those promises with the
joyful giving of herself.

Emma looked about the crowd and her gaze rested on her
lover. His interest in the proceedings seemed to have waned. Indeed, he stood
in haughty disregard of the proceedings and her presence. Feigned, she hoped.
He no longer looked in her direction.

Suddenly, he seemed a shadow of a man compared with the
power and force of a Gilles d’Argent. In vain, Emma tried to shrug away her
thoughts, telling herself she merely sensed the difference found in a man of
but a single score of years and that of a man of two score years or possibly
more.

Surely, one would note the strength of a warrior tested and
honed in battle and one not yet tried, not yet called to prove himself. From
the moment she’d entered the hall, she’d been struck with Lord Gilles’ power.
It radiated to her from across the long chamber, like tendrils of creeper
extending along a garden wall, drew her forward as if someone had taken her by
the hand.

Did everyone feel it, that power, as she did? ‘Twas obvious
from the gossip some feared him, whilst others felt grateful to rest their
cares with him. Why did no one remark on this intangible pull? His physical
presence drew her, too. His fierce expression did not frighten her; it beguiled
her. She felt somehow mesmerized by the lord’s every word.

Nay, I must not let my fears entice me to these doubts
,
she thought. She had made sacred promises, sealed them with more than a kiss.
All would come right if she but kept her silence, as she had promised her
lover. Surely, God would help her, answer her frantic prayers.

“Emma?” Gilles’ voice jolted her to the present. “Do you not
think that whatever difficulties may arise for your lover, you will bear
greater ones if you do not name him?”

“Nay, my lord. I see no difficulties for myself.”

“Have you lived in a cloister to not know what becomes of
unmarried females without male protection? Surely, this whim of yours to
protect your lover will bring you to grief. Should your uncle scorn you, you
may find yourself earning your living at the whim of less patient men. Your
uncle may cast you out to earn your own way if you bring shame on his
household.”

“He brings his own shame by dragging me here and stating his
ugly accusations for all to hear, my lord.” Her anger flared anew. “I believe
he thinks less of my predicament and more of the weight of Jacob Baker’s coin.”

“Aye. ‘Tis most likely true. No one would know of your
predicament for a while, but only for a while. Surely you know that you cannot
hide a child beneath your skirts for long.”

“Who said I am to have a child, my lord? If all
such…encounters caused birth, this keep would be overrun with babes. I see few
in the village and fewer here.” She allowed an amusement she did not feel to
enter voice as she swept out her hands to indicate a room with many people but
few children.

“True. But, as I have seen to the disposition of three such
cases today, I can be sure that such encounters often result in birthdays. So,
your uncle comes early to see to your honor—and his. May I ask, Emma, how you
wish this resolved?”

“My lord, if I were to be a farmer’s wife, the farmer would
not see this as some shameful circumstance. Indeed, he might even demand I
prove my fertility before he would wed with me—”

“You are no farmer’s wife!” Gilles retorted. “You were to
have been wed to a baker, a man of worth.”

“I do not hold Jacob Baker in great esteem, my lord.”

“Nay? And are maids picking their suitors these days?”

“Would that they could, my lord.” Emma met his amusement
with serious intent.

Gilles lost his grin before her frown. “I believe I have
been chastised! And by a simple maid!”

Emma swallowed. Deep lines radiated from his obsidian eyes.
Eyes narrowed now in displeasure. She clamped her teeth on her tongue to stay
the torrent of words bubbling up inside her.

“Again, Emma. How do you wish this resolved?”

“Allow me to return home, my lord. I wish to return to my
weaving. If I should prove wrong and…a child results, I shall pay my sixpence
fine.”

“You will find even sixpence a fortune without your uncle’s
protection.” When she did not answer, Gilles signaled to William Belfour, who
stood at an arched stone entrance to the hall. William hustled Emma’s uncle
back into Gilles’ presence.

“It seems, old man, that you come early to seek a wedding.
Emma says she is not with child. I am reluctant to dictate solutions to events
that have not some tangible consequence.”

Simon spluttered his indignation. “My Lord Gilles, she is
ruined. She has no dowry. How am I to make a marriage for her when she has
given away her only possession worth anything? Who would have her now she has
spread her thighs for some nameless man? All know she is no longer a virgin.
You asked her before this company, and she has admitted her shame. She is
worthless. ‘Twill cost me dear to keep her bastard, too.”

“Well, old man, you certainly made sure every man, woman,
and child is aware of her loss of virtue by presenting this case. If you had
held your tongue, no one would have been the wiser.”

Every one of their words cut Emma deeply. Pain flared and
blossomed, swelled and grew to ugly proportions. Soon the pain would be there
for all to see, for surely in another moment she would weep
.

Wait for the proper moment
, her lover had said.
Surely, this was that moment? Tears in her eyes burned to be released as she
fought the urge to turn to her lover and demand he speak for her.

She offered up a silent prayer for the judging to end. She
wanted nothing more than to escape to the forest, to silence and peace.

“Demand his name, my lord. I demand compensation.”

The old man cowered as Gilles rose on the dais. His crimson
mantle flared about him, angry in its own inanimate way. His black eyes flashed
a warning. Emma silently prayed her uncle would heed it, else they might find
themselves in the lord’s prison. Simon scuttled back as Lord Gilles stepped
from his place to stand before them.

“So, we come to the crux of the matter. Compensation. I have
asked you to hold your tongue. I am at the end of my patience. Speak again and
it will be you I punish, you who will pay compensation.”

Gilles moved to stand before Emma with arms crossed on his
chest. A single shaft of afternoon sun pierced an arrow slit high above,
casting a sparkling flame to radiate from the blood-red ruby on his left hand.

“I will not force you to name your lover. Yet I know few men
of quality who will have you without your virtue intact.”

He spoke intimately to her, so only she could hear his
words, spoke softly as if to spare her further torment and yet, torment her his
words did. She bled inside.

“Emma, did you not realize the consequences when you took a
lover? What manner of man would leave you to face a judgment such as this?” He
swept out his hand to the company before crossing his arms again. “Why did you
give away your most precious possession?”

Emma found herself unable to speak. This close to him, she
could not hide from his intent scrutiny. She could not hide from the terrible
twist of realization his words forced upon her.
What manner of man would
leave her to face this humiliation?
Her lover could have come forward. He
could have saved her from this humiliation—claimed her before the company,
admitted the vows they’d spoken. He could have stayed Simon’s fist. She must
lie to Lord Gilles and to any other who chanced to ask the same questions as he.

“Speak. Why did you give away your most precious
possession?”

She slowly shook her head.

“Answer me, Emma.” His voice gentled, but there was a power
in his words that made her unable to refuse him.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and met his eyes. “You
have answered your own question, Lord Gilles. You see—I had nothing else to
give.” So saying, she bowed her head.

They stood in silence for a few moments. “Pray God your
lover holds your gift in high esteem.” His voice was harsh.

He resumed his seat, once more at that impossible distance,
ready to pronounce her fate. As he moved away, she felt the loss, as if his
power had included her, had given her the strength to explain, to stand here
before this company, exposed. With distance, she felt frail and alone. Her
stomach churned, her knees threatened to fail her.

“Old man, take your ward home. Mistreat her and you face my
wrath. If a child results, see me at the next manorial court. You have wasted
my time.”

Simon grew red beneath his yellow complexion and in anger
wheeled away, swearing as he scurried up the aisle of the hall.

Emma vowed to hide her pain, hold it inside. She looked once
more on Lord Gilles. She wished to steep herself in the power that shimmered
about him, as if that inner power of his might sustain her in the days to come,
for suddenly, her future seemed tenuous and frightening. She locked eyes with
him for a moment, boldly drinking him in from his ebony hair to the hard lines
of his warrior-trained body, knowing instinctively he’d not punish her for
meeting his eyes. She nodded once and, head held high, she followed her uncle.

The cold air that greeted them as they left the hall did
naught to cool her feverish brow and sweaty hands. For one brief moment, she
whirled and reached out for the iron latch of the door to his hall. She grasped
the curved metal that held the double doors to Lord Gilles’ life closed to
her—held his world closed to her. And, she now realized, that of her lover,
too.

Despite the humiliation and pain of the judging, Lord Gilles
had treated her kindly, more kindly than she had expected. She was beset with
confusion.

“Come, you worthless bitch,” Simon called from the bottom of
the steps that led up to the hall doors.

“Worthless bitch,” Emma murmured, her hand falling from the
latch. She raised the hood of her mantle to conceal her face and turned away,
following her uncle into the roiling mass of humanity that moved about the
bailey.

Chapter One

The forest near Hawkwatch Castle, 1192

Despite the vociferous protests of his squire that a lord
should not indulge in such behavior, Gilles knelt at the edge of a rushing
stream and began to skin a rabbit. Deftly sliding the knife between the skin
and the flesh, he worked it off in one smooth, practiced motion. He offered the
hare to the hovering young man and then cleaned his knife, thrusting it into
his belt. Dipping his hands into the icy water, he used sand from the stream
bank and the water to cleanse the blood from his skin and nails. The squire
handed him a linen cloth.

As Gilles dried his hands, he looked about the assembled
company of men who sprawled at ease at the edge of the ancient pine forest. In
the distance stretched the wetlands giving onto Hawkwatch Bay. He propped
himself against a tree and waved off the offer of a tankard of ale. The marshy
scents mingled with the sharp odor of burning pine.

Gilles frowned. He had been playing lord of the keep for
nearly two years. Running a wealthy manor was tedious, if time-consuming. Even
Prince John’s forays into brotherly insurrection caused little more than a
ripple on the tides of Gilles’ life. He straightened and stretched.

There was little reason to hurry the roasting of the meat,
for the sooner they ate, the sooner they would return to Hawkwatch Castle.
Hunting offered a short respite from the checking of accounts, the judging of
complaints, the endless training of the younger men.

“Have you need of anything?” Roland d’Vare asked, coming to
Gilles’ side.

“Need of anything? Aye. Relief.” Gilles smiled at his
friend.

“Yon bush should be adequate to your needs.” Roland grinned
in return and tossed Gilles his mantle.

“You know what I mean.” Gilles waved away his squire and
pulled on his black woolen mantle. Hubert dearly loved the niceties of ceremony
whilst Gilles detested the fussing. “You would think I was not capable of
securing a simple pin,” he muttered at the young man’s downcast face. “By
relief I meant that beyond a hunt such as this, the training of the men is the
only diversion here.”

“Diversion? You mean hard work, do you not? I had never seen
such poorly trained men ‘til we came here. No technique, no tactics. ‘Twas
shameful.” Roland raked his fingers through his silvery hair as if the men’s
incompetence yet tried his patience.

“Aye. I wonder to what my father devoted his attentions
whilst his men slacked at their work. At least now they are fit fighting men.
Yet…the hours I spend at arms practice do not make up for the grinding boredom
of my other responsibilities. What I would have given to have been with Richard,
testing myself against this Saladin at Acre. Instead, I train men who will do
naught but chase an occasional brigand.”

“‘Tis younger men who follow Richard—not those loyal to
Henry. Our day is past.”

“Mayhap I should invite Prince John for a gallop across the
estuary—as the tide is coming in.”

“He’d be swallowed by the quicksand. He cannot travel
without the weight of his own importance.” Then Roland grinned. “Ah, I see,
‘tis just what you are hoping for. With John out of Richard’s hair, you may be
called to more active duty.”

Gilles shrugged off the suggestion, but he could not prevent
a rueful smile from touching his lips.

He turned his back to the trees and looked off to the
distant thread of white that indicated the bay and farther, the North Sea, his
mind on other times and other places.

Roland followed the direction of his gaze. “I, too,
occasionally feel what you do.”

Gilles turned to his friend in puzzlement. “What is it I
feel? Even I do not know.”

Roland hesitated.

The forest behind them was dark and silent. The voices of
the men sounded loud and intrusive. Gilles lowered his voice to keep their
words between just them. “Do not fear to offend me, my friend. I know you
ofttimes find it hard to forget the distance betwixt lord and vassal, but I
prefer you speak plainly as you did when we were equals, before my father saw
fit to expire and put this damnable iron weight of responsibility about my
neck.”

“Then speak plainly I will. You believe time has passed you
by. I feel the passage of time less than you. I have Sarah. I find I am content
these days to sit by a fire with her and,” Roland’s grin split his face wide,
“bask in her warmth at night. You need a leman.”

Gilles snorted in derision and tossed the edges of his
mantle off his shoulders. “I need no woman. When I feel the urge there are
wenches aplenty. The lord of the keep has but to raise a brow and his needs are
met—well met. A leman would be about, constantly, like a wife, God forbid. I
need no companion to harp at me for jewels and ribbons, nor bore me with
gossip.”

“A woman need not be so shallow. Sarah neither connives, nor
prattles at me, although I imagine she is privy to all the intrigues. I never
seem to know who is warming a man’s bed, more’s the pity.” Roland laughed, then
sobered. “A woman is more than gossip and soft thighs, Gilles.”

“Little more.” Gilles turned and strode away to join his
men. He sank to the ground by the fire so Hubert could serve him with a
trencher of meat. The gangling boy was hopeless with bow and arrow, but at least
he cooked plainly. Frowning, Gilles contemplated the bird before him. But
today’s fare had not been cooked well enough to placate him in his present
ill-temper.

While Gilles thoughtfully chewed the meat, charred in spots,
raw in others, William Belfour sank down beside him. “You have something to
say, William?” Gilles asked, watching the knight from beneath his glowering
black brows.

“I thought you might like to hear of a new wench awaiting me
on our return. She has the softest of blonde curls between her thighs—”

“Are you, perchance, offering her to me?” Gilles
interrupted, stripping some meat from the bone and casting it into the fire.
The scent of sizzling meat joined that of the burning wood to fill the air.

William, as usual, missed the underlying hint of sarcasm in
Gilles’ tone. “Oh, you may use her if you wish. ‘Twould be a shame to take her
before I’ve finished training her, however. She has incredible passions.”
William looked about to see who eavesdropped before lowering his voice and
leaning toward Gilles. Gilles rolled his eyes, knew he would have to hear of
the young man’s escapades. “I took her behind the mill four times the other
night, and she bit like a vixen. The moans and screams—I thought the miller
would be out with a pitchfork!”

Gilles’ mood plummeted and he cast aside the bones of his
offensive meal. Mayhap he should have waited upon the hare he’d skinned. “I
think you need to spend more time at arms practice to use up some of that
energy. If you have the potency to take a woman four times in one bout, you are
slacking at your training.”

He unfolded his long frame and walked to where Roland tended
his horse. Gilles patted the mare’s neck and spoke softly to her, praising her
dappled gray coat and ancestors. Irritation would have been how he described
his feelings for William. William drew the eye of every wench and lady of the
manor with his tall, blond good looks. The women flocked to his side. He
boasted of his conquests. That most of his stories were exaggerated did little
to lessen Gilles’ irritation.

Gilles knew Roland had struck at the heart of his
discontent. He spoke as much to the horse as to Roland. “You have it aright.
Age sits hard upon me. I hanker to be on horseback, riding with King Richard
wherever his adventures might take him. I feel useless here, holding property
against John’s possible treachery. Would that I could be content to sit with a
wench by the fire.”

Roland lifted his horse’s hoof and used his knife to pick
out the clots of earth packed from hard riding. “Mayhap you have just not met
the right wench.” The mare snorted and tossed her head as if in agreement.

“It chafes at me, this idleness,” Gilles continued as he
soothed the mare. A long silence stood between the men.

“Defy Richard’s wishes and join him.” Roland released the
hoof and straightened.

Gilles looked over Roland’s shoulder to William Belfour, now
the center of the other men’s attention. Gilles could imagine the story William
told by his expansive and graphic gestures.

As if alone, Gilles spoke aloud, his eyes locked on William
Belfour. “My sword elbow aches on bitterly cold days. The cook’s rich sauces
unsettle my belly. A simple run up the castle steps feels as if an arrow were
embedded in my right knee. Look at this hand.” A stark white line ran across
all four of Gilles’ fingers where a sword had slashed him, opening his hand to
the bone. “Hubert, who stitched this gash, remarked that I must be slowing up.
Slowing up. Aye, I am slowing up. I teach technique these days to the men in
training. I do not test them myself, nay, I leave that to younger men.”

“It troubles me that you are so discontented,” Roland
answered sharply. “What need have you to compete? All know of your abilities.
There is scarcely a man alive who could best you.”

Gilles raised a black brow at his friend’s swift defense.

“Oh, I could best most of them.” He thrust his chin in the
direction of William and the other men. “But only because they do not think or
plan; it is thinking and planning upon which I must depend. I can no longer
trust the speed of my reflexes or the sureness of my foot against a youth of
William’s age and prowess.”

Turning at the laughter coming from the fireside, Roland
grimaced at William. “Belfour.” Roland spat in the dirt.

“Few of them will see our age,” Gilles continued, “few of
our companions remain.”

“Your father lived to three score years and five. You are
not yet two score,” Roland rebutted.

“At the next Epiphany, I will be that age, the age of men
who sit at the fire, hands on their fat bellies, dozing.” Gilles ran his hand
down the mare’s neck and ignored Roland’s sudden laugh.

“Pardon me if I find that image amusing. Your father never
had a fat belly and was too busy wenching to doze. I believe he died in the
act, by God. You’ve not a white hair on your head, I might add.” Roland
smoothed a hand over his own thinning hair, silvery gray for many years. “I
have five years on you. You insult me with your complaints.”

The words were lightly spoken but Gilles sensed he had truly
offended his friend. He clapped Roland on the shoulder. “Forgive me. I am grown
maudlin from inactivity. Forget I spoke.”

As Gilles watched the group by the fire, William Belfour
rose and lifted his tunic and relieved himself into the fire amid shouted crass
remarks relating to his masculinity and sexual prowess. Gilles turned abruptly
to Roland. “A godlike display!”

“Aye, a sword to put all of theirs and ours to shame. He
plies it with carelessness. ‘Twill bring him down one day.”

“Would that I should be so endowed.”

“Gilles, you surely are not jealous of William?” Roland
threw his knife into a nearby tree.

“Jealous?” Gilles drew his dagger and, with a flick of his
wrist, it joined Roland’s in the trunk, quivering against the other’s haft. The
two men grinned at each other as they retrieved their knives. Gilles sheathed
his and said, “See, we behave like children. But, aye, I find I am jealous of
William’s youth and vigor. What woman would not prefer a man such as that one—”
He broke off and turned from the men at the fire, turned to face the woods at
their backs.

“What?” Roland froze, peering into the thick trees whose
heavy branches turned afternoon sunlight to nighttime shadow.

“Do you hear it? The baying of dogs?” A shiver coursed
Gilles’ spine. The hair on his nape stirred.

“Nay.” Roland found himself talking to air as Gilles plunged
into the trees.

Something called to Gilles in the distant wood, some
sensation of danger. He could no more ignore the summons than deny his lungs
breath.

He paid no heed to the noise he made. He drew his knife from
the sheath at his side and held a hand before him to fend off the low-hanging
branches. The ground beneath his feet was thick with cushioning pine needles
and the scent of damp earth and fecund growth filled the air about him.

Gilles had been saved many a time by an extraordinary sense
that warned him a heartbeat before death or danger appeared. He heeded that
sense now as it called to him.

He held up one hand to halt Roland, who crept through the
trees in his wake. Something caught Gilles’ eye—a glimmer of motion, a swirl of
blue between the thick branches of the conifer trees. The color tantalized his
memory. He hastened to it. A shaft of pain swept down his leg, inexplicably,
for he had received no injury. The baying grew louder. “Wild dogs. They hold
some hapless creature at bay,” he said as Roland gained his side.

“Let us leave them to it.” Roland paused. The undergrowth,
thick and matted, would necessitate bending nearly double to work their way
beneath the low hanging branches.

Gilles plunged ahead, almost running, crouched low, branches
snatching at his ebony mantle aswirl behind him. He burst forth into a wide
sunny glade, lit from above like a natural cathedral. He leapt into a pack of
circling dogs, slashing with his knife.

Their guttural growls rose as blood poured from one dog’s
throat. He snatched the stick from the young woman who swiped it wide to hold
the dogs at bay.

Nine in all, the dogs were thin and menacing. Long streamers
of saliva hung from their mouths as their heads swung back and forth, following
the stick and awaiting their moment. Teeth bared as the stick hit home. Low
growls and yips seemed to be secret words passed back and forth as they planned
their strategy and crept near.

Gilles clouted the closest. With an ugly crunch, the stick
embedded itself into bone. The dog fell dead. Gilles jerked the stick back and
drove it into the leaping hounds who turned to savage their fallen comrade.
Another fell. The remaining hounds howled and cowered into the undergrowth,
slinking away, bellies low as Gilles charged them.