LordoftheKeep (6 page)

William stared Emma in the eye. What blindness had assailed
her that she had not seen this man for what he was? Emma held open the battered
wooden door that separated her from humanity. “Be gone.”

“Nay. I saw you swishing your skirts before Lord Gilles and
thought mayhap you’d gained some experience and might be worth a second try.”
William gripped Emma by the arms. He lowered his mouth to hers and claimed her
lips. He tasted of a rich red wine.

Where once Emma had thrilled to William’s touch, now she
shivered in fear. His strength frightened her. He pressed his hips to hers and
she felt his heated manhood growing hard against her stomach.

Emma bit his lip.

“Promiscuous bitch!” William pushed Emma away, hand to his
mouth. His surcoat bulged from the press of his desire, and he put his hands on
his hips, emphasizing his state. Emma refused to look.

“I will be back, mark my words. We have business unfinished
between us. Tempt not my anger, for I have influence here. Many may buy your
cloth now, but a word in the right ear and your custom would dry up. You will
find yourself assessed a penny here, a penny there until you must offer
yourself for food.” William left her in a quick swing of his mantle.

Emma sank to her pallet and scooped up Angelique, who’d
slept through the confrontation. Her hands shook as she smoothed her daughter’s
curls. “He would not dare. His threats are hollow. There is always need for
good cloth; we will never starve.” She said the words aloud, repeated them
again and again to convince herself and hold back fear.

* * * * *

A chill wind whistled down the chimney of Hawkwatch Keep.
The hunting birds lifted their wings to protest the disturbing eddies of air.
Garth moved closer to the fire.

“What is it?” Gilles demanded without turning to see who
approached him. The fool would receive the sharp edge of his tongue for
disturbing him. He lifted his tankard of ale and drank it down as he flexed the
stiff fingers of his cold right hand.

“My lord?” a soft voice said behind him.

Gilles recognized the voice. It drifted like a gentle
visitor through his dreams. He rose from his seat and turned. “Mistress Emma.”
Gilles swept her a courtly bow, his ill temper banished in one instant. “How
may I be of service?”

“My lord, I do not require any service. I have brought you a
gift to thank you for saving my life and that of my daughter.”

“A gift?” Gilles, nonplussed, groped for words. He could
count on one hand the gifts he’d had received in his many years.

“Aye, my lord.” Emma extended a package wrapped in clean
linen.

He stepped down from the dais and took the bundle. For a
moment he just stroked his thumbs over the coarse wrapping.

“I hope it will be pleasing to you, my lord,” Emma said into
the silence.

As Gilles plucked off the twine that bound the bundle, he
sought to excuse his curt behavior. “Forgive me my churlish nature. I have just
returned from a most unfortunate afternoon. One of my men wounded a horse in
careless play with a sword—a prized horse’s tendon was severed. What seemed but
a careless accident resulted in the destruction of a valuable mount. I had need
to cut the horse’s throat.” He ground to a halt, unsure why he explained his
foul mood at all.

The wrapping parted. Gilles did not know how to describe the
pleasure he received from the length of intricately woven cloth in his hand. He
unfolded it and saw that one end was stitched about a humble iron buckle.
Humble could not describe the belt itself.

His gaze skipped from the belt, to the woman before him, to
the floor. Words lodged somewhere in his throat.

She stepped forward, her child on one hip. “I tried to
capture the carving of your chair, my lord, and the decorations of your chimney
piece.” Her voice dropped. “I hope you are not displeased.”

In fact, she had taken the Norman motifs found on his chair
and painted about his whitewashed chimney piece and woven them in the colors of
fire and storm clouds. The colors were more vibrant and alive than any he’d
ever seen. He turned the belt. The interwoven designs became a string of hawks
in flight. “Displeased? This is your work?” How could he be so stupid? She’d
just said as much.

“Aye, my lord.” She bobbed a low curtsy.

“I am more than pleased. This is beyond fine. I have never
seen the like.” Gilles held the belt in both hands and stroked his thumbs over
the intricate pattern. Each motif entwined and linked to another, endlessly. An
unfamiliar feeling came over him. A gift linked the giver and the recipient as
the designs linked along the cloth. Did she intend such a thing?

He turned the belt in the light. The shades of color changed
and shifted as did the color of her mantle as she moved.

“You must join my weavers.” The words barely made it from
his mouth. He raised his gaze to hers and thought he saw in her eyes what he
felt coursing his own blood. No matter the sounds that might surround them, no
matter how many men and women were busy in the hall, only the two of them
existed at that moment. “You must join my weavers,” he repeated. “Today.”

“Do you mean that, my lord?” Emma asked. “You offer me a
great honor.”

“On the contrary, the honor is mine.”

Emma’s heart raced, her palms dampened.
To weave for him!
She and Angelique would never starve, nor feel the chill of a winter storm
blowing beneath their door. Angelique would grow with straight bones and a full
belly.

She need not make excuses to Widow Cooper.

Then she frowned, turning away from Lord Gilles and looking
down the long hall at the folk who lounged about on benches to avoid the bitter
wind outside. Just as the harrowing of the coming winter wind would be a
torture, ‘twould be a torture of another kind to be near William Belfour and feel
his contempt and ugly scorn, to be within reach of his displeasure.

And to be within hearing of his words. ‘Twas his poetry and
song that had first drawn her. Poetry he had composed just for her. Words that
she had thought were a window to his soul, a soul she’d mistakenly believed was
as golden and fair as his face. Instead, they’d been false words raising false
hopes. The thought of listening to his poetry and song would be unbearable.

Starving would be unbearable. Beatings from Widow
Cooper’s son would be unbearable.

Emma lifted Angelique’s hand and studied the dry tips of her
little fingers and the chapped skin upon her downy cheeks. A mother should not
put her fears before the health of her babe. She squared her shoulders and
looked up at the man who offered her the world, frightening though it might be.
“I will weave for you.”

Chapter Five

Gilles strode down the keep’s high wooden stairs to the
bailey. Sourly, he looked around at the bustling activity in the courtyard,
fully prepared to find fault with whomever should cross his path. He’d slept
poorly, dined on turnips—which he hated—and spent the fine morning closeted
with his punctilious cleric in discussion of the millage rates. The business of
lord of the manor weighed heavily upon him.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine spring was
coming, not winter. The promise of rain filled the air, but the banks of dark
clouds were still far off over the bay. A path parted for him as he made his
way in the direction of the armory.

She sat on a stool in a patch of sunshine, a wooden device
in her hands. His steps slowed. For long moments he watched only her hands as
they moved with agile grace. A belt, or perhaps a length of trimming, grew
apace on what he determined was a hand loom. The colors draped across her lap
and slipping through her fingers reminded him of the sea, rippling and
undulating as she worked. Occasionally, she lifted her face to the warmth of
the sun. He sensed contentment. It showed in the set of her shoulders, the
gentle smile she gave to her child who slept in a large basket at her feet, and
in her soft humming that drew him near.

But he could not linger, could not indulge this inexplicable
whim to pull up a stool by her side and watch her hands more closely. He
admitted he wanted to know the touch of her hands. He imagined her hands
brought joy.

Shaking off the desire, he forced himself to continue
through the crowded bailey to the armory. At the last moment, he could not
resist a nod to her as he passed. She stood and dipped into a curtsey. Her
smile warmed him and the day no longer seemed wasted.

Moments later, his armorer scratched his head that Lord
Gilles had found no fault with his new sword. The master of hawks heaved a sigh
of relief that Lord Gilles had not complained at the state of the mews, and
Hubert nearly collapsed in shock when the quintain swept him from his horse and
Lord Gilles made no caustic remark.

Hours later, a smile still on his face, he called to Roland
d’Vare’s wife as he crossed the hall on the way to evening chapel. “A word,
Mistress Sarah.”

Sarah was a tall woman of middle years, handsome and lithe,
still capable of commanding a man’s attention by her forthright manner and
winsome smile. Her dark hair beneath her headcovering might be salted with gray,
but more than one youth sighed as she walked by.

“My lord?” she said and waited for him to approach. She
admired Lord Gilles because he was not so set on protocol as his father. Never,
under Gilles’ father, could she have risen to such a position as head of the
weavers—a position traditionally held by a man. Nay, Lord Gilles had given her
an unusual chance, saved her from endless days sitting with the other women,
embroidering and talking inanities. Therein, he’d earned her steadfast loyalty.

“I want to know how the new weaver is settling.” Gilles held
himself rigid with tension.

She noted the clenched jaw and the jump of a muscle by his
eye. Had Emma displeased the new master so soon?

“The new weaver’s a conscientious worker, my lord. She has
an uncanny knack for the cloth; she’s quick and her patterns are unusual. Her
work is unparalleled. She has shown us a new way to tie up the yarns before
dyeing that makes its own pattern, resists the dye as it were, then when
woven—” Sarah halted. “Forgive me. My tongue runs away with me. She is
satisfactory.”

“Excellent.” He had restrained himself from inquiring about
Emma for three days. They had been three days of expectation and tension. The
lord of the manor did not visit the weaver’s building. That chore fell to his
steward, Roland. Emma had not taken her meals in the hall when Gilles was
there, so he had not had a glimpse of her since her arrival—until this day, in
a ray of sunshine, with the sea rippling through her fingers. “How fares her
child?” Gilles hoped he was not further betraying his interest to his friend’s
wife.

“Oh, Lord Gilles, what a beautiful babe. She is like her
name—an angel in every way. She has a sunny disposition and we enjoy her happy
company. She does not hinder the work.” Sarah finished in a rush. “Please, do
not think the child hampers our work.”

“Be at ease, Mistress. I have no reservations about the
child,” he said. “I wish the new weaver to weave exclusively for me.”

“My lord!”

So ‘twas pleasure not displeasure that drove him to inquire.
Never had such a directive been given. A holding such as Hawkwatch was filled
with hundreds of people. The looms of the village worked as hard as the looms
of the castle, and still some cloth must be purchased farther afield to provide
for all their needs.

“Mistress?” Gilles did not raise his voice but the line
between his brows grew deeper and his eyes snapped fire. No one questioned the
master with impunity.

How could he explain that he wanted no one else to sample
the fruit of Emma’s labors? That he could not bear it if he saw another’s
surcoat belted in the colors of the sea?

“As you wish, my lord.” Sarah huffed off to the outbuilding
in the middle bailey that housed the weavers.

Lord Gilles could not have proclaimed his feelings any
louder than if he’d shouted them from the ramparts. So…the master was enamored
of the new weaver, Sarah thought.

Not such a beautiful woman, save for her eyes and hair, and
perhaps her figure. She patted her own still slim hips. She thought it
interesting that Emma did not yet share Lord Gilles’ bed but rather had a
pallet with her babe in with the spinners as most of the other weavers were
men. This should prove an interesting match to observe.

For a moment, Sarah wondered if Angelique was Lord Gilles’
babe, but decided not on the basis of the lord’s startling black coloring,
which was in such sharp contrast to Angelique’s. Lord Gilles could have passed
for one of Saladin’s men with his sun-darkened skin. He wore his hair overlong
for Sarah’s taste, but as most men of his years were balding, her own dear
Roland included, she did not fault him the small vanity. His black eyes and
dark straight brows gave him a fearsome scowl, but she found him more bark than
bite.

A sweet, fair child like Angelique was unlikely produced by
such a man. Granted, round apple cheeks did not mean that future high slashing
cheekbones and a long haughty nose would not emerge, but she decided that some
other man had fathered the babe. It would prove interesting to watch Emma’s
waistline over the next few months and see if Lord Gilles put his claim on her,
Sarah decided as she hastened to give Emma her orders.

* * * * *

“He said I was to weave only for him?” Emma looked down
quickly lest the flush on her face betray her. Her hands stroked the belt she’d
just finished. A belt she’d imagined looping about his waist. Her face flamed
hot.

How enthralled she’d become!

She must avoid his lordship, avoid such thoughts. They led
only to heartache. The distance betwixt lord and weaver was as far as that from
earth to moon. She was a servant in his household, nothing more, pledged by
loathsome vows to another.

But the thought of moonlight sent her musing on her weaving.
She ran a hand along the smooth wood of her hand loom. Her mind conjured the
shimmer of moonlight, molten silver, reflecting off a pool in the darkest hours
of night. Abruptly, she rose and fled to the dyeing hut to have a special batch
of wool prepared—wool for a surcoat.

* * * * *

Angelique’s quick tug at her hem caught her attention. Her
back ached and her fingers cramped. She had not noticed how much time had flown
by as she worked.

“Ah, sweet. Are you hungry?” She slipped her shuttle into
the threads and hefted her babe to her lap. She kissed the small head as her
daughter fed. “I have not forgotten you.” When Angelique finished, Emma
hastened to the hall, then paused and looked about. “But I have forgotten my
place.” Quickly, she made her way to a table where several spinners sat in deep
conversation. Cradling Angelique in her arms, she ate from the communal platter
of venison that fed a dozen workers, from spinners to dairymaids. She tore up
soft pieces of bread for Angelique and crumbled cheese. Not once did she look
toward the high table. As always, she kept her eyes downcast.

Despite her efforts, however, she could not ignore all the
activity in the hall. This evening, men from the Duke of Norfolk’s household
dined with the company. William regaled them with song. She made every attempt
to pretend indifference when the hall fell silent and his rich voice filled the
vast space.

Truly the voice of an angel, Emma thought. Each note clear
and fine. She looked about. Even the men sat enthralled, watching William. The
man on her right leaned across the table and whispered to another. “One can
always tell when Sir William’s taken a new wench—he composes a new song!” The
men laughed loudly over their jest. Emma sat frozen and sick. What simple
devices men used to lure a woman. How simple of women to be snared so easily.

William took a long drink from a tankard and waved off calls
for him to sing again. When the crowd grew insistent, he strode among the
tables and bodily lifted a small man in colorful garb from his seat. Emma
watched the ripple of muscles along William’s back and arms as he hoisted the man
overhead. She shivered and remembered the strength of his hands as they’d
bitten into her arms and held her immobile.

Cheers rose. William deposited the man on the table before
Lord Gilles, and going again amongst the people, grabbed up apples and empty tankards.
He tossed them to the man who deftly snatched them from the air and began to
juggle.

Emma did not see the objects whirling over the juggler’s
head, for he offered her an excuse to stare at the head table and the men who
sat there. She examined them all, comparing them to William. They ranged from
young to old. Nothing stirred within her as she examined their faces—until she
settled her gaze on Lord Gilles. He watched the entertainment with a smile on
his face, much like the one he’d bestowed on her that very day in the bailey.
That simple smile had knotted her stomach and caused heat to flood through her.

She flicked a glance from William to Lord Gilles. William
was roving the company, bending and whispering to women as he moved about. Emma
saw blushes and hopeful glances. Lord Gilles gave his attention to the juggler.
An apple flew from the juggler’s control and landed in a pitcher of ale. Ale
splashed the face of a short, stocky man who rose in a roar to chase the
juggler. The juggler nimbly leapt from table to table, avoiding his pursuer.
Lord Gilles rose and watched to see who won the race. Wagers flew. Emma found
herself caught up in the moment. The juggler disappeared out the door. The
company subsided, voices dropped, conversations resumed. When Emma looked at
the high table, Lord Gilles was gone. The hall seemed colorless and empty
without him.

Cease this senseless dreaming! Can you not see how far
you sit from his table?
She hoisted Angelique into her arms and forced
herself to leave the hall. She must avoid Lord Gilles and his enthralling
presence.

Avoiding Lord Gilles should not be difficult. He kept
warriors’ hours, up at dawn. He did not carouse with the younger knights, but
rather retreated to his chamber early of an evening or remained only to play a
game of chess with one of his men—most often Mistress Sarah’s husband. Lord
Gilles did not wander the hall as William Belfour did.

To avoid William Belfour took a much greater effort, but she
had swiftly learned that the man was tiresome and predictable. Emma had only to
mark which women of the keep were most comely and stay away from their places
of work.

It had become her habit to rise at dawn and work first to
allow Lord Gilles and his men time to leave the hall before she ventured out.
She waited for the sounds of the men’s morning work at arms practice, then
broke her fast.

‘Twas usually only at prayers that she saw Lord Gilles.
‘Twas sin, she knew, to stare at him so, instead of concentrating on her own
prayers. Many prayers of thanksgiving had she offered in her few weeks at Lord
Gilles’ keep. ‘Twas a miracle that her life was so blessed. No one scorned her
for the child, or not in her presence anyway. Mistress Sarah was a hard
taskmaster, and she brooked no gossip or nastiness among her workers.

As Emma passed through the hall entry a voice called to her.
“Wench.” It was an order as well as a greeting.

She turned and put down Angelique who clung to her skirts
and hid her face. Her babe had been fussy and irritable all day. ‘Twas time she
sought her bed. The short, burly man before her was battle-scarred and
bullnecked. He was missing one eye, and the empty socket made Emma’s skin
crawl. She waited patiently, however, to hear what the man wanted. “Sir?” She
recognized him as one of the duke’s visiting knights.

“Come.” The man crooked a finger and turned abruptly away.

Emma hesitated, but realized that a knight must be obeyed as
surely as the lord himself. She lifted Angelique, protesting, to her hip. Her
stomach danced. Mayhap he was to take her to Lord Gilles. Her free hand rose to
smooth her headcovering and fuss at the wrinkles in her worn gray overgown,
aware she looked unfit to stand before Lord Gilles.

She followed the man’s swiftly retreating form as fast as
she could with Angelique on her hip. The man led the way to a narrow stone
staircase that led into the bowels of the keep.

The stair opened to a dark hallway lit only with two rush
torches. Their smoke stung her eyes. Off the hall were dark alcoves headed by
stone arches. The scent of mold and damp pervaded the chilly hallway. At the
bottom of the staircase Emma peeked around the corner. She set Angelique’s
twisting, wriggling form on the floor. The man disappeared into a side alcove,
and she followed. The man cuffed Angelique away with one sweep of his arm as he
engulfed Emma in a strong embrace.