Twilight Magic (11 page)

“I have no cause for complaint, my lord. Your hospitality is excellent.”

William grinned. “What think you of my new castle?” Darian rolled his eyes; Emma merely smiled at the bid for compliments.

“I am impressed at how much has been accomplished in so short a time. I spent part of the morn in your kitchen and in the undercroft, and I most admire your modern thinking. Having sinks so close at hand must make Cook’s tasks much more bearable.”

Sinks. They were talking about
sinks
! And because of those silly sinks, William so puffed up with pride he strained his tunic’s seams. Ye gods.

Darian stopped listening, concentrating on the delicious little apple pastries, doing his best to ignore the tantalizing scent of the woman next to him, determined to take little notice of how her creamy white hands delicately tore chunks of near-white bread from the loaf, or the grace with which she scooped up chunks of stew and spooned them past her lush lips.

Then the earl asked Emma a question about the great hall at Camelen, her birthplace.

She answered, “My father chose to decorate Camelen’s hall with weapons, but my sister has removed several. In her last message to me, Gwendolyn said one of the tapestries she had commissioned from a weaver in Shrewsbury was almost finished. By now, it should occupy the space where a group of lances once hung.” She glanced around. “I see several places where a tapestry might be placed to warm your hall.”

William gave Emma an apologetic smile. “Your mention of your sister reminds me of a task I should have taken care of earlier. Forgive me, my lady, for not immediately handing over your letters—one from Lady Julia, and another received at court from your sister. They are in my packs upstairs. I shall send a servant to fetch them.”

Smiling hugely, Emma put her hand on the arm William had raised to summon a servant. “No need, my lord. I would not be so discourteous as to read them during supper. They can wait. Do you know from which sister?”

“Gwendolyn, I believe. Your other sister, Nicole, is the one you wish to speak to the king about, is she not?”

Emma nodded. “Nicole resides at Bledloe Abbey by king’s order. I had hoped to have her freed of the place and back home at Camelen by now.”

Darian heard how much she loved and missed her sisters. Did she also still mourn her dead father and brother? No mention had been made of her mother, so he assumed the woman no longer lived. Did she miss all of her family as much as he missed his?

He swallowed the lump that swelled in his throat, chiding himself for allowing an unexpected attack of grief. A long swig of ale eased his throat but a little.

He’d tucked away memories of his family long ago, unable to bear recalling the day his parents and siblings perished, of the blood and fire and horrific carnage. His hand shook as he put down the mug and again took refuge in his vow to avenge the deaths he hadn’t been able to prevent.

The man responsible for burning a small village in Flanders had died before Darian could seek direct revenge, so he did the next best thing—in the name of justice, he rid the world of men who murdered innocents for sport.

Men like Edward de Salis.

Except someone had already slain de Salis and sought to put a noose around Darian’s neck in the process.

William patted Emma’s hand. “I realize helping your sister is important to you, but first we must free you and Darian from this unfortunate turn of events.”

“Of course,” she said, but he heard her impatience at the delay. Emma would rather attend to her sister’s problem than her own, put her own well-being behind that of someone she loved. A noble and unselfish sentiment.

A foolish sentiment.

One must always take care of one’s own neck first before someone took advantage of said exposed neck.

He no longer had a family or home because the villagers near Bruges hadn’t done enough to protect themselves. Having escaped the carnage by luck only, blessed with William’s patronage, Darian had made his own way in the world, never forgetting that important lesson. With the exception of being accused of de Salis’s murder, he’d done a good job of taking care of himself thus far. And would again when the murderer was caught.

The earl rose from his seat, signaling the end of supper. As the servants cleared away the bowls and refuse, everyone walked away to attend late-afternoon chores or see to evening duties.

William walked Emma over to the stairs, her hand resting on his arm, her head bent toward him to better hear whatever he was saying.

Lady Emma should marry the earl. Or some other man of his rank and wealth.

Darian ignored a burst of revulsion, wishing the idea hadn’t popped into his head upon realizing how comfortable Emma and the earl were with each other. They might be years apart in age, but age made no difference in noble marriages. The two of them had far more in common than he and Emma.

When the two of them drifted up the stairs—and he knew William would only fetch Emma’s letters, naught else—Darian reined in his unwarranted jealousy, turned around, and nearly tripped over a wolfhound.

Rose must have been sitting behind him all through supper, awaiting a tidbit he’d never tossed her way.

But there were no tidbits left on the table. And the responsibility for feeding the hound wasn’t his.

He left her there and stalked off to fetch the ale he’d refused earlier and join the other mercenaries—where he belonged.

The chamberlain claims he never set eyes on your petition. I fear you must write another.

Emma rolled the parchment and laid it beside her on the bed, hoping Julia de Vere hadn’t considered it necessary to bed the chamberlain for such unsatisfactory information.

Damn. She shouldn’t have to compose another petition for Nicole’s release from the abbey, but write it she would. Surely, parchment and quill and ink might be found somewhere in this castle. And perhaps the earl would agree to take the petition back to London when he returned.

And perhaps—heaven be merciful—perhaps Earl William might be willing to present it directly to King Stephen, thus bypass the odious clerks and an unhelpful chamberlain altogether.

Emma liked Earl William. He’d been attentive and friendly all through supper. She truly appreciated his efforts to be hospitable, unlike Darian, who’d been very quiet, almost brooding.

Had something the earl said irritated him? Or was he upset at being seated next to her?

The latter seemed more likely.

He’d spoken not a word to her after her near mishap with Rose in the yard this morn, and he’d done his best to avoid her all the rest of the day. At supper he’d held himself aloof, taking no part in the conversations. Not that she expected Darian to be interested in tapestries and sinks, but she sensed they could have been talking of battles and he wouldn’t have voiced an opinion.

Why was he so distant today when he’d been so gallant and kind last eve? Certes, if their kiss last eve was any indication, his defenses against their attraction weren’t as high or as strong as he wished. If by his silence he strove to bolster his fortifications, then he’d built them too high. ’Struth, he’d pulled inward so far he’d even ignored Rose!

The hound shouldn’t be made to suffer because Darian happened to be in a bad mood.

Maura had the right of it. That wolfhound should belong to Darian. Only look at how swiftly the hound obeyed him this morn. The command in his voice had halted Emma, too, as well as everyone around him. Not all men possessed a voice of command. Darian should be giving orders, not merely following them.

Ferocious on the hunt or in battle, a wolfhound could also be the most loving and devoted of companions. The poor thing had sat behind Darian all through supper, awaiting a tidbit or kind word and received neither.

Why Darian shunned the hound’s freely given, affectionate loyalty was beyond her.

Emma shoved thoughts of Darian and the wolfhound aside as she picked up Gwendolyn’s letter, which she’d already read once. The second reading proved as exciting and disturbing as the first.

She still wanted to dance for joy over Gwendolyn’s happiness in her marriage and at being with child, and nearly wept over her sister’s concern about Nicole. Apparently Gwendolyn had noticed the oddity in Nicole’s letters, too. Nicole was changing and Gwendolyn didn’t like the change, either.

The resignation in the girl’s letters broke Emma’s heart. She had to get to Nicole and find out how a strong-headed, outspoken girl of ten could turn submissive in four short months.

Bledloe Abbey was three hard days of riding away. She was no longer subject to the king’s will and she considered herself free to travel. Except Darian was now her husband, so she supposed she needed his permission. She also lacked the funds or means to get to the abbey.

Emma rolled up Gwen’s letter and rose from the edge of the bed. The large room gave her space to pace.

Would the earl give her aid? Perhaps, but then she would be even deeper in his debt, and would rather not be. Gar might be persuaded to provide her with a horse, or cart and driver, perhaps even guards. But that would put her in Gar’s debt, and she liked that even less.

Could she convince Darian to take her? Would that not be the most sensible solution? But since he preferred to avoid her, would he refuse her? And how bound did he feel to obey William’s order to remain at Hadone?

In frustration she plopped back down on the bed. Sweet mercy, at times like these she wished she could stare into a bowl of water or a garden pond and see what she wished to see. Then she would know if Nicole simply matured at a pace her sisters didn’t credit as possible, or if sadness or fear battered at the girl too hard.

She might be able to tell Gwendolyn to plan for a son or daughter. She might know if Darian would be cleared of the murder charge.

But mostly, she longed to peer into the future and see what became of her and Darian. She had to believe they would become lovers, but then what? How long would he remain her husband before he obtained an annulment—if he could obtain one? And if the Church approved the annulment, what would become of her then?

Emma shook her head at her foolishness. To allow the visions meant accepting the good with the bad, and the bad could be horrific. If she allowed the visions and saw Gwendolyn die in childbirth as their mother had, she would be devastated. Nor did she want to know what vision had been forming in the bloody-hued water in the washbasin on the night of her arrival at Hadone.

Of the visions she’d endured before learning how to halt them, several had come to pass, her mother’s death the most heart-wrenching.

But a few remained a mystery. Like the identity of a little girl playing in a meadow blooming with spring flowers, whom Emma hadn’t yet met. A tall door made of oak into which was carved a beautiful rose. A rolled-up parchment tied with a scarlet ribbon, beside which sat a gold pendant in the shape of a clover.

There were others, but none of them had remained sharp in her memory except these—besides the one of Darian, of course. That vision had been the clearest of all, and taken her several years to understand.

Emma suspected some visions retained substance because within each she sensed both great sorrow and unbridled joy. What she didn’t know was whether the sorrow or the joy would dominate.

Would the joy and pleasure of making love with Darian lead to the greatest sorrow she would ever know? And had she somehow ensured the sorrow when she’d interfered with events to obtain the joy the vision promised?

And none of this mattered at the moment. Nicole had never appeared in one of her visions, so Emma couldn’t knowingly change the course of the girl’s life because of them. Observations and decisions would be made based on facts and feelings, not an image in a bowl of water.

The door opened and Maura entered the chamber much earlier than Emma had expected to see her. She shut the door and leaned against it, obviously disturbed.

Something was dreadfully wrong.

“Maura?”

Maura took a deep breath before saying, “I could not help but overhear the mercenaries talk when I passed by their table. They spoke of you.”

Emma felt an ill wind brush against her face. “One would think they would have better things to do than gossip.”

Maura raised her chin. “Is it true your father and brother were traitors to the crown?”

Emma inwardly sighed. She’d been confronted before on the subject, and as at court she refused to beg pardon or excuse her family’s stance in the war between Empress Maud and King Stephen.

“My father and brother fought for a cause they strongly believed in. Both considered Empress Maud the rightful successor to the crown. If you deem that traitorous, so be it.”

Maura’s countenance turned stormy. “Here at Hadone we are loyal to the earl of Kent, and so to King Stephen. How can you expect us to shelter a traitor? Why did you not hie yourself off to Bristol, where you belong?”

Emma’s defenses heightened to counter the attack. “Believe me, given the chance, I might have gone to Robert of Gloucester’s stronghold and placed myself in the empress’s service. Becoming a ward of the king and going to his court was not by my choice. Coming here was not my decision, but one made by Earl William and obeyed by Darian. If you wish to argue that decision, pray argue with the one who made it.”

Maura looked around the bedchamber. Her bedchamber, which she’d so graciously shared. “You may continue to use the chamber for the remainder of your visit. I will sleep elsewhere.”

Maura spun around and left the room, leaving Emma with an aching heart, having believed she and Maura were becoming friends.

Perhaps she should have softened her words. Maybe she should have tried to convince Maura that the war between the empress and king shouldn’t affect their budding friendship.

And maybe Maura would have rejected any plea for understanding and left the room anyway. The steward’s daughter hadn’t been the first and likely wouldn’t be the last to blame Emma for her father’s actions and subsequent downfall.

A journey to Bledloe Abbey sounded better than before, for her own sake, as well as Nicole’s.