LordoftheKeep (30 page)

“Nay!” Sarah grabbed the boy by the arm and pushed him away.

“Sixpence,” Gilles whispered. Little Robbie jerked from
Sarah’s grip.

“‘Meet me at the millpond. Beatrice,’” the boy said in a
sing-song voice. “‘Tis all I said. He were proper happy wiv it.”

Suddenly, Gilles knew where Emma was, knew why she was not
on the road to Lincoln. “Damn you all!” he swore at Sarah.

Trevalin appeared at the stable doors with his horse. He
mounted and rode toward the inner gate, which was just being closed. He
harangued the keeper for a moment until it was swung wide for him.

“Pay him, Sarah. Now.” Gilles ran into the stables. He noted
the missing horses. Nicholas’ and Roland’s. With shaking hands he slipped a
bridle over a fast mare’s head.

With a practiced vault, he leapt onto the horse’s broad
back, his stick in his hand. When a pair of grooms came hurrying down a ladder
to see who dared steal a horse from the Hawkwatch stable, Gilles brandished the
stick like a sword, fending off one man who lunged for the reins.

Sarah burst into the stable.

“Stay where you are or I’ll have your thumbs!” she cried,
pointing a finger at the grooms. They cowered back at the threat. This woman
they knew—and obeyed.

“Don’t go,” Sarah begged, reaching for Gilles’ hand.

Gilles dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and sent the
mount racing from the stable.

In a thunder of hooves, he flew over the cobbles. The keeper
was just swinging the gate closed again. With a hoarse warning, Gilles made
straight for him. The man shouted and leapt aside. In a moment, Gilles was
through the narrow opening, into the lower bailey, across the drawbridge, and
careening down the beaten roadbed.

The wind snatched at his rags. Moonlight painted a wash of
white on surfaces, plunged shadows into black.

Sarah’s entreaty had told him all he needed to know. For
whatever reason, Emma was luring Trevalin to the mill. He remembered his words
to her. They had no bait to snare Trevalin. His blood ran cold. Emma had found
bait. Herself.

As he neared the grove of trees that sheltered the millpond,
he slowed, bringing his horse to a walk. He dismounted and tethered the horse.
With cautious steps to avoid the crackle of brush underfoot, he crept to the
edge of the copse. A lone horse drank from the waters of the millpond.

He glanced about. Trevalin stood but yards away on the bank
of the millpond, opposite where William had bled out his life. The mill loomed
dark and silent behind him. Gilles gripped his stick, wanting to smash
something in an impotent rage that he had no part in the planning of whatever
might occur here tonight.

The clouds parted. He gasped. Emma stood on the bank atop a
discarded millstone. She was as still as a statue, head bowed. Her pose was
reverential, almost goddess-like. The moon gleamed across her white headcovering.
He could not see her face.

Gilles held his breath; Trevalin had moved. The man walked
slowly toward her, stumbling several times along the perimeter of the pond.
Moonlight glinted off the hilt of his sword.

Sword! Gilles would wager Trevalin had not brought a sword
to the mill when he’d killed William. A lover needs no weapon.

Trevalin had not come to this meeting as a lover.

Gilles lifted his stick and almost called a warning to Emma,
but a moan rent the air. An unearthly ululation of agony. The hair on his nape
rose.

“William,” she called from across the pond. “William, my
love. Come to me.” Her words were breathy, not loud, and yet they carried to
where Gilles stood in the trees.

Come to me.
How the words tore at him. He wanted no
other man to hear those words from her lips.

Although he knew it was a role she played, hearing her call
out to William as one calls a lover nearly undid him.

“Beatrice!” Trevalin shouted. He halted, hands outstretched,
not fifty feet from Emma on the reed-choked bank.

Gilles crept forward. He could not defend her hidden in the
tangle of brush among the trees. Just as he stepped from the copse, a figure
glided from behind the mill toward Emma. Spangles of silver glittered on the
mail coif on the figure’s head. His mantle, a luminescent blue in the
moonlight, lifted and swirled about the powerful body. When he turned to face
Trevalin, Gilles swallowed hard. The figure had no face.

Trevalin cried out. He stumbled to where Emma stood, but she
ignored him. “Come to me. Love me once again,” she called in her soft voice,
and lifted her arms to the faceless horror.

The words pierced Gilles to the marrow. Trevalin shrieked an
unholy cry.

The specter opened his arms to Emma.

Nicholas
.

“Beatrice!” Trevalin called. But instead of going to her as
Gilles expected, Trevalin ran at the ghastly apparition, drawing his sword,
slashing as he moved.

Gilles charged after him. As the blade descended on his son,
Gilles swung his stick.

The sword hewed the wood in half, but deflected the blow.
Trevalin whirled away from the ghost. He panted open-mouthed, eyes so wide the
whites gleamed.

Gilles stood empty-handed before him. Trevalin swung his
blade in an arc.

Gilles leapt to the side. The blade sliced his shoulder,
ripping through the rags like a knife through butter.

“Nay,” Gilles cried as Nicholas charged toward Trevalin. His
son froze in his tracks. “‘Tis my battle,” he gasped, sidestepping again from
Trevalin’s thrust.

Slowly, Trevalin moved forward. Stalking. His face twisted
into a feral sneer. “Beatrice,” he ordered. “Get behind me.”

Gilles mirrored him, hands outstretched, defenseless.

“Gilles. My sword,” a voice said behind him. Roland. Metal
slapped his palm. The hilt felt wonderful, the weight of the blade a blessing.
Old instincts rose.

Trevalin closed on him with a shout. Their blades met in a
clash of metal on metal. Trevalin was shorter, heavier, but younger. In but a
few moments, Gilles’ body was covered in sweat. His rags hampered the free
movement of his arm. His shoulder ached. His arm felt heavy and hot with blood.

He parried more than attacked. The moon hid, plunging the
land into blackness, shadows melding water and sky.

Trevalin backed him toward the pond. Gilles played a
defensive game, dodging, slipping away each time Trevalin’s sword came
dangerously close. Then he saw his chance. He danced left, turning slightly,
shifting Trevalin’s position. If only he could hold him but a few moments more.
The moon burst from behind a cloud. Emma stood there in a shaft of light, the
ghost of a faceless William beside her.

“Beatrice plays you for a fool,” Gilles shouted. He took a
blow on his sword, the blades sliding on each other until they were engaged
nearly hand to hand. Gilles jerked away. “Beatrice plays you for a fool,” he
taunted, just out of reach.

Trevalin howled, his eyes darting to where Emma stood in a
wash of moonlight. When his gaze shifted, Gilles lunged forward, smashed his
blade down in a sweeping motion. Trevalin’s sword flew from his hand, skidding
on the frozen, packed earth. Gilles spun and kicked Trevalin in the leg. With a
moan, he fell on his back.

In an instant, Gilles stood over him, blade pressed to his
throat. “Come, Beatrice,” Gilles called. “Choose a lover from among us. Will it
be the living or the dead? Will it be William or Trevalin? Or mayhap you would
prefer me—yet another dead man.”

Trevalin snarled beneath the sword point. “Kill me. Be done
with it.”

“In good time.” Gilles twisted the blade. Blood ran from the
nick in Trevalin’s throat. “But first I wish to know whom the fair Beatrice
wishes as a lover.”

Emma seemed to float toward them. “William.” She whispered
the name.

Beneath Gilles’ blade, Trevalin fell still. His sneer
twisted into a weeping mask. He arched his back and howled at the moon.

“William,” she said again.

“You bitch,” Trevalin screamed. “You mock me. I defended
you. I saved you from rape!”

Gilles held him pinned to the earth with the blade. The
temptation to slit Trevalin’s throat, a temptation almost impossible to resist,
came over him. Then Emma lifted her eyes from the pathetic man at Gilles’ feet
and locked her gaze on his as if she’d read his thoughts. She stared at him,
eyes luminous. All her hopes were in her gaze.

She spoke to Trevalin, but watched Gilles. “I am Emma, not
Beatrice. William was not raping Beatrice that day; he attacked me.”

“Nay,” Trevalin choked out. “‘Twas you. You. He tried to
force you. I killed him for you. I smashed in his bloody face! I killed the
raping bastard!” He began to weep.

Gilles lifted his blade. But Trevalin made no more move to
rise. He lay back, palms outstretched to the heavens. Emma knelt by his head.
She touched his forehead. “I am Emma,” she said. “Beatrice is not here.”

She looked up at Gilles. “He was the one who sent me to the
royal court. He asked only what suited his purpose. He shifted the blame to
save himself. God have mercy on his soul.”

Roland hooked his hand beneath Trevalin’s arm and jerked him
to his feet.

With a snarling oath, Trevalin tore from Roland’s grasp. A
savage shriek of anger filled the air as he snatched Emma to his chest. He
groped in his boot and drew a knife. “Back off.” His blade gleamed in the
moonlight, the point pressed to her stomach. “I’ll gut her here if you come any
closer. Drop the sword!”

The agony of seeing her in Trevalin’s arms made Gilles
spread his arms wide. But he held onto the sword.

Trevalin slit Emma’s gown near the waist. She cried with
pain. Gilles dropped the sword with a clang to the hard earth. Trevalin picked
it up and flung it into the pond. He picked up his own and sheathed it,
gripping Emma about the neck with the arm that held the knife.

Emma’s cry had maddened Gilles, but he could not move. The
blade now hovered at her breast.

To his left, Gilles felt rather than saw his son, a faceless
horror, move in Trevalin’s direction. “Hold,” he rasped out. “Hold.”

Trevalin dragged Emma to where his horse stood at the edge
of the pond, reins dangling. Blade to her belly, Trevalin ordered her to mount.
In moments, he’d swung up in the saddle behind her and was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Gilles swore. He sheathed the longest portion of his
shattered stick down the back of his rags and ran into the copse of trees. He
grabbed his horse’s reins, tangling them a moment in his agitation, then leapt
onto the horse’s back.

Using only instinct and the uncanny connection he had to
Emma, he rode blindly in the direction in which they’d gone.

Once out of the pines, the land gave way to marsh. He could
barely see as the wind tore at his tattered clothing.

They rode the ancient paths, ones from Roman times, through
the marshes, to the bay. To the sea.

Then he saw them, in the distance, a dark patch against a
rising mist.

Why did she not take her chances and fall off? The babe. She
would not endanger the babe.

A sweat born of fear broke on his skin, his shoulder burned,
warm blood matted his rags.

Trevalin rode his horse at reckless speed through the
marshes. Gilles followed. He drove his horse mercilessly along the narrow paths
through the wetlands, parallel to the beaches of Hawkwatch Bay. They appeared
and disappeared in the swirling mists. A light flickered at the water’s edge.

The light became a fire; a small group of men clustered
about it. Help. Then all thoughts of aid from that direction flew from Gilles’
mind. Trevalin had veered away. Not toward solid land and help—toward the sands
and the concealing fog.

“
Jesu
,” Gilles cried.

The tides had turned. Low waves foamed across his horse’s
path. “Trevalin! You fool.”

With a whispered prayer, Gilles kicked his mount’s flanks
and charged after them.

Gilles saw Trevalin glance over his shoulder and urge the
horse to a faster pace. The horse stumbled, went down on a foreleg, screamed,
and threw them into the water.

In a bound, Gilles leapt from his horse. Trevalin’s beast
floundered to his feet and shot from his master’s grasp to race from danger.
Emma rose, water streaming over her body. Gilles felt the icy water, knew she
would die of the cold ere he could save her. She stumbled toward him, hand
outstretched. Trevalin jerked her after him. They disappeared in a wall of fog.

When Gilles took a step; his foot sank in the glutinous suck
of shifting sands. He whipped his stick from his back and probed the surface.
The distance was lengthening between them. The water and mist intensified their
every sound, though, and Gilles followed the thrashing noises, the grunts of
Trevalin’s efforts to drag a reluctant Emma through the surf.

Gilles swore and moved as quickly as he could, testing the
surface. If he fell, if he was trapped, Emma was dead.

With a gust of wind, the mists swirled open, like a curtain
parting. Trevalin’s pace had slowed, hampered by Emma, who dragged her feet and
flailed her arms.

“Trevalin! You’re mad!” Gilles cried. “You’ll drown.”

“Get back,” Trevalin shrieked. “Get back. I’ll kill her.” He
jerked Emma against his body and Gilles saw the knife against Emma’s throat.

With hands out to the side, Gilles halted. His feet felt
numb.

“Let her go, Trevalin. Let her go, I beg you. I will not
stop you. Flee if you want!”

Trevalin shook his head like a slumbering wolf wakened from
a winter nap, and hauled Emma a few more feet away. Emma screamed. She went
down in a hole, twisting in Trevalin’s arms.

Gilles charged toward them, all thoughts of his own safety
forgotten as Emma struggled in nature’s grip. Trevalin pulled on her for a
moment, then dropped her arm, backed away, and began to run in a shambling gait
toward the far shore and Lincolnshire.

Gilles swerved toward Emma.

“Nay. Leave me! Catch him,” she cried. “Don’t let him get
away.” She dragged at her skirts.

Trevalin turned at her words. Waves foamed about his calves.
A wall of mist rolled toward them. “You sorry bitch. I killed William to save
you and you betray me!”

Gilles ignored Emma’s entreaties and sloshed through the low
waves to her. He grasped her arms and pulled.

“I can free myself. Go.” She pointed at Trevalin.

“He doesn’t matter. Only you matter,” he gasped. “Sweet God,
without you there is nothing.”

Trevalin cut parallel to the coast and widened the distance
between them. In moments, his retreating figure was lost in the fog.

Gilles hauled at Emma’s arms. She slipped from his grasp.
With an oath, he cast off his rags. He tore the belt from about his waist and
threw it around her. He cinched the buckle beneath her arms and twisted his
hands in the loop. He pulled with all his strength.

“Leave me, Gilles. I’ll free myself. You must stop him. He
can prove your innocence.”

He ignored her entreaties. She had no idea how close to
death she was.
They both were
. Her skirts were thick with sand and
water, weighing them down. He held the belt with one hand and knotted his hand
in the rent in her gown where Trevalin had stabbed her. He tore the cloth
apart, freeing her.

With a cry, she stumbled clear of the sinkhole that had
nearly claimed her life. Gilles no longer felt his hands and feet. To be sure
he did not drop her, he kept his eyes on the belt and the grip he had on it.
When she was able to gain her feet, he wrapped his arms about her and they
stumbled toward the shore.

Three men coalesced from the mist enshrouding the land. They
moved cautiously toward Gilles and Emma, weaving left and right in the shallow
water as the surface beneath their feet proved unstable.

“Take her,” Gilles gasped, near to the limit of his
strength, as one man ran ahead of the others. “She will die of the cold.” The
man, his long tunic tucked up at his waist, hooked his fist in the belt beneath
Emma’s arms and hoisted her before him.

The fog shifted. Smoke and flames were visible on the shore.
Safety. So close. Too far. Gilles sank to his knees. His body shuddered with
cold. Mist swirled to claim him.