Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord

Chapter Three

‘More fitting?’ Emma stormed out of the bailey with Henri in her arms. Aediva was no longer with her, having gone back to the wash-house immediately after Emma’s interview with Count Richard. Earlier, when Aediva had heard where Emma had been going that morning, she had insisted in coming along—bless her—to give Emma moral support. Emma had good friends, and for that she was grateful, but this morning it seemed to Emma that what she needed were powerful friends.

Crossing the drawbridge, Emma stalked into what was left of Golde Street after King William—with typical Norman arrogance—had had half the street pulled down to build his castle.

‘More fitting?’ Her steps were brisk and jerky and Emma was unaware that she was still muttering to herself until Henri patted her cheek and tried to make her look into his eyes.

‘Mama? Mama angry?’

‘Yes, sweetheart. Mama is very angry.’

Henri’s face fell, his hand dropped.

‘Oh, not with you, sweet, not with you.’ Emma made her voice light. ‘It is that man I am angry with, that bone-headed, patronising man.’

‘Sir Rich?’

Emma gave a humourless laugh. ‘You are not daft, are you, my lad?’ Saints, she must guard her tongue with Henri; he might not have seen three summers, but he understood far too much of what went on about him. ‘Sir Rich about sums him up.’

‘Mama? Smile?’

Sir Rich, indeed. But as far as she was concerned he was singularly unhelpful. Forcing a smile, Emma marched down the street. What next? Where next? Panic was churning inside her.

‘We need work,’ she said. ‘Somewhere to live.’

‘Yes, Mama.’

Sir Richard must have known his steward would not have any work for her, he must have known she would be turned away. He had humiliated her. Clearly, Sir Richard disapproved of her working as a laundry maid. Not fitting for a lady, oh, he had never stated it quite so baldly, but he thought it. She had read it in those cold grey eyes. Not fitting, indeed. And here she was leaving the castle with nothing, because the count’s boy, Geoffrey, had left her with the steward, who couldn’t be bothered to find her ‘suitable’ work. What was suitable? she fumed, reaching Westgate and turning towards Market Street. What did the man expect her to do?

‘Henri, you are growing so fast, I swear, you are heavier than one of Gytha’s grain sacks.’ Setting her son on his feet, she took his hand and swept on.

‘Suitable work? Hah!’ What was suitable for someone of her station? Neither lady nor peasant due to her—she glanced at the top of her son’s head—supposed mistake. A mistake, Emma gritted her teeth, that she would never regret as long as she lived.

At the corner of Staple Street a woman with eggs in a basket caught her eye. Eggs. Emma’s mouth watered; she had not eaten an egg in an age. But, of course, the days were growing longer and with the longer days, the hens would be coming into lay. In her other life, when she had been a thane’s daughter at Fulford, Emma had loved hunting out the first eggs of the season. A wave of longing took her and she missed a step.

‘Fresh eggs, mistress?’

She cleared her throat. ‘Later, perhaps.’

The Staple lay in front of her, a wattle-and-daub building that was almost as large as her father’s meadhall. Its thatch was dark with age, and smoke gusted from louvres in the roof ridge. The Staple was the most popular tavern in the town, and this morning the door and shutters had been flung wide to admit the air, the spring sunlight and, of course, the customers. Emma had friends inside. Not powerful ones, but friends none the less. Perhaps they could help her.

Emma stepped over the threshold, holding fast to Henri.

A huddle of merchants were haggling over the finer points of a deal around the central fire, a band of off-duty troopers were drinking at one of the trestles. Other than the tavern girls, there were few women present. Hélène and Marie were in the shadows at the far end of the room, filling clay jugs with wine from a barrel. Behind the women stood the wooden screen that concealed the doorway to the adjacent cookhouse. To one side, against the further wall, a stairway led to the communal bedchamber that—following a design brought in by the Norman invaders—had been built under the eaves.

Several heads turned as Emma made her way towards Hélène and Marie. There certainly were plenty of pests from the garrison here today. Emma found herself swishing her skirts out of the way of more than one grasping hand. Reaching the trestle under the loftchamber, Emma took a place on a bench and let out a sigh of relief.

‘How goes it, Hélène?’

Hélène stuck a stopper in one of the jugs and smiled. ‘Fine.’

‘I have a couple of favours to ask,’ Emma said.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Henri tugged his hand free and skipped behind the wooden screen, lured by a mouthwatering smell of fresh bread.

‘Hello, Henri.’ Hearing the voice of Inga, the tavern cook, Emma relaxed. Inga would keep Henri safe. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Yes!’

Leaning her head against the white was hed daub, Emma closed her eyes. She had been humiliated, Sir Rich—ha!—had humiliated her. Telling that boy of his to make sure she had ‘fitting’work, when he must have known that the steward would give her short shrift. The steward’s lips had curled as he had said, no, he did not think there was any work in Winchester Castle for a lady like her. And his tone…

‘All right, love?’ The bench creaked as Hélène came to sit next to her.

Emma opened her eyes while Marie drifted into the main body of the tavern and began flirting with a young archer. ‘I confess it, I have been better.’

‘Someone call you nithing again?’

To be called nithing was to say that you did not exist, that you were lower than the low. Which, Emma thought bitterly, she was. An outcast. She had been a lady and she had had a child out of wedlock. Would she ever be able to hold her head high again?

Again she sighed. ‘Not this time, although that has been cast in my face in the past.’

Hélène patted Emma’s knee. ‘Not by anyone Iwould let through these doors, dear, rest assured. You are no more nithing than I am.’

‘My thanks.’ Emma gazed earnestly at Hélène. ‘I would have you know that your friendship means much to me.’

Dark colour washed into Hélène’s cheeks. ‘You value my friendship? You know what this tavern is…what the girls…’ she all but choked ‘…and yet you value my friendship?’

Henri emerged, smiling, from behind the screen with a slice of bread dripping with honey clutched tight in his fist. Emma laid her hand on Hélène’s. ‘You must know I do. This is the only place, apart from the mill, where Henri and I are accepted, fully accepted. You and Gytha are dear to me, you let me be…myself. You don’t judge me.’

Hélène snorted and her wave took in Marie, now sitting on the lap of the archer, whispering in his ear. ‘Judge you? Running this place does not give me the right to step into a preacher’s shoes. Not that I would want to…’

‘No, of course not. But you understand me.’ Emma reached out to wipe a trickle of honey from the corner of her son’s mouth. ‘You know how life does not turn out quite as one expects it to and unlike some—’ a brief image of cold grey eyes flashed into her mind ‘—you accept me for what I am.’

‘Of course I do. Tell me, what was it you wanted to ask?’

‘I need work,’ she said, bluntly. ‘Do you have any?’

Hélène lifted a brow. ‘I am sorry, Emma, the girls here take turns in seeing to the laundry.’

Emma’s shoulders slumped. ‘I was afraid you would say that. Dear Lord, what am I to do?’

‘Surely there is more than enough for you at the wash-house?’

‘There’s not any at the wash-house! Bertha—oh, Hélène—it is quite dreadful.’ Keeping an eye on Henri who was wandering back behind the screen for more bread, Emma lowered her voice. ‘Judhael is back! He has threatened Bertha.’

‘Surely not?’

‘Yes, yes, he has—there were marks on her wrist. Hélène, Judhael is not a…gentle man.’

‘You are saying Judhael hurt Bertha?’

‘Yes! You don’t know him as I do. Why, he beat the Fulford cook once for speaking out of turn.’

A warm hand came to rest on Emma’s knee. ‘That is why you never returned to Fulford. You were afraid he might find you.’

Emma swallowed. ‘Yes, that’s it. But it has all been for nothing, he has found me anyway. He has been bullying Bertha and…oh, Hélène, it is worse that that—he knows where I live, as well. He has been to the mill—’

‘Judhael has made threats there, too?’

‘He set a fire.’ While Hélène stared at her, frowning in disbelief, Emma explained about the fire and the threats that Gytha had been given. Finally, she laid bare her deepest fears. ‘Judhael does not know about Henri. But if he should learn he has a son…’ She clenched her fists. ‘He must not get his hands on Henri, I will not let him!’

‘So that is another reason why you refused to return to Fulford.’

‘Yes. I would never trust Judhael with a child and I always knew that if he should return, it’s the first place he would go. I must keep Henri from him.’

Hélène’s frown deepened. ‘Emma, I still don’t understand. How did Judhael find you? No one at Fulford would have betrayed your whereabouts.’

‘No, of course they would not. I haven’t the faintest idea, unless…’

‘Unless…?’

‘It has to be the gown.’ Rubbing her head, Emma took a deep breath. ‘A couple of weeks ago I met Cecily in the market. I mentioned Gytha’s marriage and Cecily misheard me. She thought I was talking about me, that I was considering marriage.’ Emma looked at the floor. ‘You see, it is what Cecily wishes for me. She is so happily married and she wants me to be happy, too. You will say it was foolish of me, but I didn’t correct her. If I were married, it would help expunge the shame of Henri’s birth.’

‘And…?’

‘The next time the Fulford carter came to Winchester for supplies, Cecily had sent me a betrothal gift. It is a gown, the most magnificent pink gown I have ever seen. Of course I shall never wear it—’

‘Never wear it! Why on earth not?’

Emma grimaced. ‘It is fit for a queen—what would I be doing with a gown like that? But never mind that. It must have been the gown that brought Judhael to me.’

‘He followed the carter from Fulford?’

‘He must have. With the result that I have no work and must look to find new lodgings, as well. I won’t let Gytha and Edwin risk themselves for me.’

‘You may lodge here with us, Emma,’ Hélène said firmly. ‘I may not have work, but I can offer you lodgings.’

Tears pricked behind Emma’s eyes. ‘That is very kind, but I don’t want to cause you any trouble any more than I want to cause Gytha trouble. What if Judhael comes here?’

Hélène waved towards the door where a man was lounging on one of the benches. Emma had seen him hefting barrels about the inn; he was built like a house. ‘Tostig will see us safe.’

‘Nevertheless, I would not put you at risk.’

‘You would be more than welcome.’

‘My thanks. Perhaps I will stay here while I think what to do. I wish I had some way of repaying you, but until I do find work…I even tried up at the castle this morning, but there was nothing there, either.’

Hélène was studying her intently. ‘Something upset you up at that place, I can see.’

‘Mmm.’ It was stupid; Emma could not think why she was still upset, it was not as though this kind of thing had never happened before. But she had believed Sir Richard, had really thought he meant to help.

‘Tell me.’

Emma opened her mouth with Sir Richard’s image in her mind and the words pompous hypocrite forming on her tongue when Frida banged through the doorway. Frida was scowling and there were splotches of angry colour on her cheeks. Emma blinked; it was hard to believe she was looking at the same girl who had paraded so confidently across the castle bailey less than half an hour ago.

‘That man! Bloody Norman!’ Frida spat, flouncing towards them, blatantly ignoring the fact that most of the customers in the Staple were Norman by birth. Her yellow skirts whisked past the fire, perilously close to the flames. She thumped on to their bench with such force, the bench rocked.

‘That was quick,’ Emma blurted, before she had time to check her words. Her cheeks scorched. ‘Forgive me, Frida, but I saw you in the bailey, less than half an hour ago.’

Some of the anger left Frida’s expression as her mouth twitched. ‘Yes, I was in the stable. But I expect Sir Richard could…’ shooting Henri a glance, Frida made a suggestive gesture ‘—I expect our garrison commander could do it quickly if he had a mind. Only he didn’t.’

Hélène leaned forwards, a line between her brows. ‘What happened?’

Frida shrugged. Unpinning her veil, she folded it and held it carefully on her lap. Her yellow gown and veil were too good for everyday wear; they would be put into storage to await a special occasion, a special admirer.

‘Sir Richard and I,’ Frida spoke with a slow precision that was quite out of character, ‘agreed that we should not suit.’

Hélène’s mouth fell open. ‘Not suit—what nonsense is this? You are my best girl. You have a natural curves that make sacking look like silk. You know how to behave—in short, Frida, you have all the virtues a man like Sir Richard could expect in his maîtresse. And what is more, you only keep to one lover at a time! Is the man a eunuch?’ Huffing, Hélène leaned back against the wall. ‘I don’t understand it. There must have been something…There were no angry words between you?’

‘No, madame.’

‘You didn’t mention Raymond, did you?’

Frida lowered her gaze.

‘You did! Oh, you foolish, foolish girl, I told you, not a word about Raymond. Most men wouldn’t care about such things, but some are more choosy. Some men like to pretend their belle amie has only known them. Such a man would not want to hear his lover is pining for another, even if he is paying for her services.’

Frida’s eyes glittered, a tear sparkled on one of her lashes. ‘I only asked him if he knew how Raymond had died.’

Hélène made a sound of disapproval, but her eyes were kind. ‘I suppose you had to. Did he know?’

Shoulders slumped, Frida shook her head. ‘I do not think so. Sir Richard said something about the fighting in the north being hard and…and bloody. I don’t think he saw Raymond fall. I know it was stupid of me—how can a commander be expected to watch every one of his men at every moment? It was just, I hoped…’ Her voice trailed off and she wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

‘Frida, you allowed yourself to get too fond of Raymond, I did counsel you against it.’

‘I remember. I know I should not have mentioned him to Sir Richard and am sorry for it.’ Frida lifted her eyes. ‘It was not easy making myself understood, and not easy understanding him, either. That is why he turned me away.’

‘Because of his poor English?’

‘Because I have no French. That, he said, was why we would not suit. I…I do not think it was because I asked about Raymond.’

It was Emma’s turn to direct a look of incredulity at Frida. ‘Sir Richard didn’t want you because you don’t speak Norman French?’

Frida began pleating the veil on her lap. ‘He can barely speak a word of English, and my French is just as bad. Apart from one or two…’ her lips edged up and she shot a glance at Henri who had returned and was single-mindedly cramming the last of his bread into his mouth ‘…choice words. But I did manage to gather that Sir Richard’s English deserts him completely at times.’

‘He wants conversation?’ Hélène’s expression was all confusion. ‘With a woman? Lord, the man has changed. I know he took an arrow to the shoulder near York, but perhaps another part of his anatomy was affected.’

Frida made a negative gesture and a flash of humour lifted the edges of her mouth. ‘I did not see that part of him, but the rest looked perfectly hale. Oh, yes.’ Rising, she turned for the stairs to the loft room where the girls kept their belongings. At the foot of the stair she looked back. ‘I can’t say I am sorry, though, he seemed detached to me, very detached. It chilled me. Despite all those muscles, I am not sure I would want him as my…admirer.’ Slowly, she continued up the stairs.

The fire crackled. A dog ambled in from the street and flopped down by the hearth.

‘Frida, turned down by Sir Richard.’ Hélène shook her head. ‘I would never have believed it.’

There was more here, Emma sensed. ‘Oh?’

‘The man has something of a reputation, which is odd when you consider he himself has never actually visited the Staple.’

‘Really?’

Seeing Emma’s look of disbelief, Hélène laughed. ‘No, never. This is the best place for miles. My girls are clean, they are well fed and they know better than to steal—a man likes to know that his silver is safe while he—’

Emma cleared her throat and jerked her head pointedly at Henri, whose round blue eyes were taking in Hélène’s every word.

‘As I was saying, dear, my girls are honest. And knowing Sir Richard’s reputation, I was surprised that he never patronised us. Then this morning his man appeared—’

‘His squire, Geoffrey?’

‘I think that was the name. You would think Sir Richard would like to pick his own girl, wouldn’t you? I would if I were a man. Not him.’ She paused, brow puckered. ‘Perhaps that is what Frida meant when she said he was cold. No matter. He refused her, my best girl—I don’t understand it. What can he want?’

Emma’s heart began to thud. ‘Send me.’

‘Eh?’

‘Send me.’ She gave a smile and knew it was twisted. ‘I can wear the pink gown.’

‘Are you mad? You’re not one of us, you can’t…’

‘Think I don’t know what to do?’ Emma ruffled her son’s hair. ‘Here’s proof.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Your reputation…’

‘What reputation? I am nithing, Hélène, I have fallen from grace, and this child, this bas—’

Gasping, Hélène clapped her hands over Henri’s ears. ‘Emma, have a care!’

Rising abruptly, Emma began pacing up and down in front of the wine barrel. ‘Let him hear, Hélène, let him hear, he will hear soon enough, so why not from me? Like most of the girls here, I am a—’ conscious of listening ears, Emma lowered her voice ‘—a fallen woman. Exactly as you are.’

‘But your birth! Your father was—’

‘I am like you, my friend.’

Hélène’s lips curved, but she shook her head. ‘You are not like us, indeed, Emma, you are not.’

‘How so?’

Hélène leaned forwards. ‘You are not truly fallen, not in the way me and my girls are.’ Emma made an impatient movement, but Hélène rushed on. ‘Oh, to be sure you have an illegitimate child, you committed the sin of fornication, but you did it for love.’

‘I don’t love Ju…him. I don’t!’

‘You don’t today, but you did at the time. Whereas we—apart from the occasional aberration like Frida with her Raymond—we do it purely for coin. There’s a difference. You, my dear, are not truly fallen. Neither are you nithing.’

Emma’s eyes prickled. ‘Only you, my friend, would see it that way.’

One of Hélène’s brows arched upwards. ‘Don’t forget Gytha, she is your friend, too. There’sAediva too, and Frida, and Marie…’

Emma had to laugh. ‘Point conceded, I have many good friends. But most of the townsfolk see me as fallen.’

‘Leofwine doesn’t. Nor does your sister, for that matter.’

‘No. But seriously, Hélène, I need your help.’

‘There must be other ways. I won’t send you to Sir Richard. You, a thane’s daughter, putting yourself forward as a maîtresse? Never!’

Emma fiddled with her purse. ‘He said his steward would find work for me, but the steward said there was none to be had. Clearly, despite the friendship Richard of Asculf has with Sir Adam, he had no real intention of helping me. So I shall put myself forward for another kind of work.’

‘As his bedmate?’

‘Yes! Frida let him refuse her, but Frida is grieving and she needs time.’

‘I know.’

‘Besides, I can converse with him, my French is as fluent as his.’

‘Your mother,’ Hélène murmured.

‘Exactly—which of your girls can speak his language as well as I?’

‘None, but that doesn’t mean—’

Emma took Hélène’s hand. ‘Send me. He won’t turn me down. I won’t let him.’

A knowing light entered Hélène’s eyes. ‘You like him.’

Emma dropped Hélène’s hand as though it scalded. ‘Sir Richard?’ His image flashed before her, a vivid image of him as he had been in the stable. That thick brown hair, those grey eyes that surely were more clever than cool, that broad chest, so pleasingly—yes, privately Emma would admit to this—his chest was most pleasingly muscled…‘No. That is, I…I agree with Frida, Sir Richard can be distant, as if his mind is elsewhere.’

‘Do not lie, Emma, you are not good at it. You like Sir Richard.’

‘I scarcely know him.’

Hélène made a dismissive movement. ‘What has that to do with anything? You are attracted to him, that much is plain. When you stormed in, I knew something had happened, and by that I mean something significant, not merely that the castle steward had no employment for you. You find Sir Richard attractive.’

‘I do not!’

Hélène lifted an expressive brow and smiled an infuriating smile. ‘You are attracted to him and, what is more, I believe you like him also. I know you, Emma of Fulford, and you would not be asking me to send you to him if you did not. You may have a bast…this child here, but you are not like us. And if you are considering, even for one moment, becoming that man’s concubine, it is because in some quiet corner of your soul you feel more than a passing liking for him.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Have it your own way.’ Rising, Hélène shook out her skirts. ‘You must excuse me, I need to ask Inga if she has enough in the way of provisions for the evening meal. We are busier now the garrison’s full up again.’

‘Hélène, will you help me?’

‘You really believe you have it in you to play the part of his whore—because that is what you would be—his whore?’

‘Yes. Why not?’

Shaking her head, Hélène rested a hand lightly on Emma’s son’s head. ‘Take Mama back to the mill, Henri, and help her pack up your belongings.’

‘Why?’

‘You are coming to live at the Staple for a time.’

Henri’s face brightened; he did a little jig. ‘Honey on bread, honey on bread!’

Hélène laughed. ‘Yes, sweetheart, every day.’

Emma bit her lip. ‘I cannot pay you…’

‘We can discuss that later. I don’t think that is a situation that is going to last.’

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