LordoftheKeep (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Two weeks later at Hawkwatch, Emma stared about the hall
from her place at the high table. The food tasted of ashes on her tongue. All
about her, the men and women of the keep moved through their lives. Hers felt
over. Even Angelique’s sweet smiles and pats did not raise her spirits.

Beside her, Nicholas d’Argent sat at ease. Had he no
grieving feelings for his father? He’d stepped into his father’s place with
little disturbance. Indeed, the people wanted guidance, and as Roland remained
steward, the transition was smooth, but Emma felt horribly out of place in her
position flanking him at table with his wife on the other side.

She imagined many of the folk in the hall held her
responsible for Gilles’ death. She imagined the women believed her to have
murdered William. Fortunately, Nicholas’ speech on the night they’d returned to
the manor had compelled the people to keep their speculation to themselves.
Nicholas had announced to one and all that his father had killed William,
effectively silencing the doubters—or silencing them when any of the family was
present. Only Nicholas’ further admonitions that his father’s widow must be
treated with due respect kept the braver sort from lashing out at her. They
were as yet unwilling to test the new lord’s limits.

Emma, herself, was unwilling to test the new lord’s limits.
She most wanted to remain in Gilles’ chamber, near to his things, wallowing in
her sorrow, but Nicholas demanded her attendance at all meals and at chapel.
They’d exchanged harsh words over his dictates.

Indeed, his wife was as hard as he. The instant Catherine
had seen Emma spin, she’d demanded that Emma teach the village girls to spin a
finer thread than what was now produced. Where Emma had been but another weaver
in Gilles’ time, now she was his widow, and so should see to the improvement of
the manor’s production.

She would go mad soon. Her back ached and her eyes were
deeply shadowed. Sleep eluded her. The spinning lessons only kept her hands
busy, not her mind.

She dreamt of him. In her dreams he was cold. How she wished
they’d buried him beneath a field of flowers and not in the stone crypt beneath
the chapel. At least then, she could imagine him with his face to the sun.

Abruptly, Emma rose from the table. She ignored Nicholas’
demands to know where she was off to and strode to the blue chamber that was
now permanently hers. She donned her oldest clothing. When she reached the hall
again, the occupants of the high table were deep in an intent discussion, heads
together. It was child’s play to slip out unseen.

For a few moments, she wandered the baileys. She had no
direction, but the crisp, cold air cleared her head. Overhead, a hawk wheeled
in the gray sky, floating on cross breezes, dipping, turning, wheeling. For a
moment she watched it, then it blurred as tears filled her eyes and rolled down
her cheeks.

“Beatrice.” Mark Trevalin touched her shoulder.

She hastily swiped away the tears and turned. “You have
mistaken me before—” She halted in mid-sentence. “What is it? Are you ill?” His
skin looked gray and dry. An uneven stubble darkened his jaw. His eyes were
threaded with red. She held his arm and examined his face. “Truly. You must see
Lady Catherine. She is a healer far more talented than our leech.”

“Naught ails me.” He hastened off.

Emma watched him cross to the stables and disappear into
their shadows. Nicholas would surely take him to task for his slovenly
appearance when next he saw him. Gilles’ men were always well turned out,
garbed finely, with well oiled-leathers and gleaming sword hilts.

The thought of Gilles sent her eyes to the ramparts again,
but the hawk was gone.

She walked slowly through the village from one end to the
other, exploring each alley and byway, revisiting where she had come from—and
at such a cost.

She examined a pile of rubble from the fallen wall and
remembered sitting in Gilles’ arms as he directed his men.

“I must stop this!” she chastised herself. With quick steps,
she hastened from her memories. As she neared the well, a gathering of beggars
burst into a relentless patter. With a shake of her head she spread her hands
to indicate she had nothing for them. A ripple of laughter followed her.
Gooseflesh broke out on her arms. A feeling that they stared at her as she
walked along the path toward the castle made her glance quickly back, but they
were haranguing another soul and seemed to have forgotten her.

* * * * *

Gilles watched her until she disappeared into the mist that
now lifted and swirled about the drawbridge. He ached to call after her. It was
all he could do to restrain himself.

He crouched by the well, leaning on his stick as if
crippled. It concealed his height and served as a fine weapon. In but a few
days, he no longer had need of Catherine’s pots and paints for disguise. Dirt
from the mill pond bank served just as well.

How he missed his sword and daggers. But if he were to be
given one choice, he would most want to have back his fine leather boots. His
feet hurt—as did his back. Sleeping on cold ground, with naught but beggars as
companions, made him most appreciate his feather mattress and warm hearth.

Warmth.

He desperately missed Emma’s warmth. As each morning dawned,
he visited the mill pond to remind himself why he had taken on this task.

For William. For his bastard son. A son who’d loved
indiscriminately, from Beatrice the miller’s daughter, to the alehouse keeper’s
wife, although the alehouse keeper had not had the opportunity to be loitering
near the mill, murdering his wife’s suitors. If fact, Gilles suspected the man
had pocketed a goodly sum in exchange for her offered favors.

Who had killed William, then allowed Emma to take the blame?
Each night, as he strived for sleep in an abandoned stable, he seethed with
indignation and faced possible failure. Just as he’d failed to prove Emma
innocent and legitimately gain her freedom, so he seemed to be failing at
finding William’s murderer.

* * * * *

The next day, Emma again felt drawn to leave the keep. The
same lone hawk spun overhead, soaring high to disappear and reappear over the
castle keep.

Exhausted from hours of teaching children to spin and then
sitting patiently through meals of conversation that avoided mention of what
all of them held close to their hearts, she trudged the hill toward the
village. Candles glowed in a few cottage windows, and mist hung in the air.
Occasionally, she caught the sent of charred wood as she passed a pile of damp refuse,
discarded after the devastation of the fire. The wind suddenly picked up,
creeping beneath her skirts.

The hawk appeared, low in the sky. She found herself
watching it and following to where it circled, alone, wings spread in majestic
glory.

It settled on the roof of Lowry’s abandoned stable and
turned its head, looking at her, she imagined. The thought lured her near.

She stepped inside the rickety structure a moment. A sound
startled her, and she peered into the deep shadows. Three or four beggars crouched
about a tiny fire. They turned their dispirited gazes toward her. She locked
eyes with one. His eyes stared out at her from a grimy face, wrapped round
about with rags. Unbidden, her heart raced and her breath came short. She
whirled and fled.

Once in the bailey, she ran up the steps of the keep, burst
into the hall, and sought May and Angelique. She snatched the child into her
arms and held her close. The urgency and sudden flood of sensation that had
driven her away from the stable set her heart to racing.

“Why am I afraid?” she whispered against Angelique’s neck.
She took the child to her bedchamber and tucked her into the feather bed, then
paced the chamber. She let down her braids and fussed at the knots. A few
moments later, May quietly entered.

“May?”

“Aye, my lady?” May pulled her headcovering off and kicked
off her clogs.

“I-I need air. You will be staying here again the night?”
She tried to still the breathy quality from her words.

“Of course.” May took the ivory comb that had once belonged to
Lady Margaret and ran it through her hair. “But ‘tis damp and bitter cold.
Ye’ll freeze if ye go above to the walk.”

“I won’t be long.” Emma drew on her mantle and stuffed her
hair into the hood.

Sarah met her in the hall. “Where are you off to?”

For reasons she could not name, Emma lied. “I am only going
to get some air.” Sarah patted her shoulder and let her go.

Emma knew the gatekeeper would pull up the drawbridge when
full night descended. But for now, with light but waning, a few horses and men
were still coming across the bridge. Unable to stop herself, she slipped out as
a cart lumbered in.

The mist crept in tendrils along the ground before her. The
stable loomed as a ruin in the night, almost appearing to float above the earth
with its wreath of mist. Hesitating, sidling up to the dark, yawning doorway,
she glanced in. The beggars lay in a knot in the center of the main portion of
the building, snoring and murmuring restlessly in their sleep.

A glance and she found the one she sought. Stepping over
legs and arms, she knelt by the man’s side, willing him to wake. She crouched
there like one in a trance, drawn to this place, drawn to see those eyes.

As she knelt at the beggar’s side, a wave of heat suffused
her body. Her gaze took in his hand, resting on his breast. A scar, so like
his
scar, crossed the beggar’s fingers. The moon ran from behind a cloud and an
errant beam of light gleamed on something at the beggar’s throat.

She reached out and touched it. Her fingers traced a
delicate silver chain caught on the edges of the rags at his throat.

Her cry startled him awake. Their eyes locked.

He grasped her arm in an iron grip and hauled her to her
feet. Silently, he dragged her to the black shadows of the rear of the stable.

They faced each other, unable to see clearly. The inky
darkness was thick as velvet cloth. She wrested her arm from the man’s grip.
With shaking hands she groped out and encountered the rough wool of a beggar’s
clothing. Slowly, she spread her fingers on the cloth, then slid her fingers
up.

Starved for contact with him, she traced the shape of his
jaw, his cheeks, his brow. His harsh breath was all that broke the silence
between them. He neither restrained her exploration, nor touched her back. She
shoved back the rags that covered his head and scraped her fingers through the
rough stubble of hair on his head. She knew the shape of him, knew him by
heart, and had no need of light to confirm what her hands told her. Her breath
shuddered in her chest.

“Gilles,” she whispered, her hand shaking as she raised it
to touch his lips.

Then she was on him—pounding his chest in a terrible anger,
fueled by her grief. She snatched at his clothes, baring his throat, tore at
his arms. He held her off, his hands becoming entangled in her hair, unbound and
flailing him like some silken whip. She punished him silently in her agony. Her
disbelief drove her to near madness.

He wrapped her tightly in his arms. Slowly, his hands
gentled her. He whispered inarticulate sounds against her ear. Her hair was
silk, her warmth an unbearable reminder of their times together. His eyes
burned.

Emma collapsed in his arms. Every inch of him was so real
and so familiar. Each sweep of his hands tortured her, each touch of his warm
breath at her ear drove her mad. She opened her mouth to cry out to him her
anger and her joy.

He covered her mouth with his. This was the man she knew.
‘Twas no crippled beggar who kissed her. She knew his mouth, his taste.

Then she wanted all of him. She searched in his rags for
him, touched his bare chest, flattened her hands on his pounding heart.
Frightened that she was in some horrible nightmare and would wake to find him
gone, she dug her nails into his skin.

Their mouths were hungry, never drawing apart to take air or
speak. He held her breasts, learned the shape of her again, found her warmth
beneath her skirts. He dragged her up, lifted her high in his arms.

Instinctively, desperate for what was to come, she wrapped
her arms about his head and kissed him long and deep.

When he thrust up into her, she cried into his mouth, for
‘twas like dying and finding heaven to be joined to him again. Her back to the
rough wooden stall, he cupped her buttocks and gave himself to her, each stroke
violent in its search for the deepest part of her. When she went rigid in his
arms, he held her tight and poured out his love for her.

Shaking, trembling with emotion, he lowered her and himself
to their knees on the straw-strewn floor. Still joined, their lips were bruised
and puffed. Emma didn’t want to end the kisses, for to do so would mean words
must pass.

Emma feared the words. Her mind remained blank, her body on
fire with her passion.

At last, Gilles drew back. He knew he must speak first. The
moon broke the clouds again. Faint light reached them. Enough that he could see
her eyes were tightly closed. “I did it for love, Emma.” He cupped her face,
smoothed his thumbs over her cheeks. “Open your eyes.”

“Nay,” she whispered against his lips. “What if I do and you
disappear?” Tears gathered and slipped from her eyes. He leaned forward and
touched them with his lips. It opened the dam. Her mouth sought his and his
hers.

This time the kisses were slow and careful. He let his hands
float over her, touching gently. He drew her down beside him, her eyes still
closed. Her hair slipped from her shoulder, and he shivered at the feel of it
on his skin. Arching into her, he took her, pressing slowly, drawing out the
moment.

But she would have nothing of slowness.

She urged him on, hands busy, mouth sealed to his. He
couldn’t stifle his hoarse groans. Forgetting the sleepers nearby, he held her
hips to him, tore his mouth away, and moaned his ecstasy.