Chapter 8 #2
“Suddenly I am hungry for what should be a memorable meal,” said Sir Geoffroi. “Come, Gil urges us to take our seats.”
They were about to sit when she spotted FitzOsbern coming toward them with the archbishop at his side.
“Do you know the archbishop?” Sir Geoffroi inquired in a whisper. “I had not thought to ask before.”
“I do,” she said, smiling at the elderly man of God in rich vestments who slowly ambled toward them as if the effort pained him.
His hair was white now and very thin but his beard was still full.
He wore a surcoat of rich purple velvet and over his shoulders was a white, fur-trimmed robe, the brooch fastener bejeweled.
Here is the one who crowned both Harold of Wessex and William, Duke of Normandy.
When FitzOsbern and the archbishop reached them, before anyone could introduce her, she curtsied. “My Lord Archbishop.”
“Emma,” he said, as she stood. “I was delighted when I was told you would be in attendance.” She was relieved he had not called her “Lady Emma”. “I’ve not seen you at Mass in recent weeks.”
Her cheeks flushed at the reminder. “I have been remiss.”
The archbishop sighed. “’Tis not unexpected. These have not been normal times, so we must make allowances. The Good Lord will surely understand. One need not be in a church to pray.”
“You are most understanding, My Lord,” she replied, grateful he had not said more. He was a kind man, more like a father to the people of York than another archbishop might have been.
FitzOsbern then introduced Sir Geoffroi and the archbishop welcomed the knight to York. “Do come to Mass when you can.”
“I will do that,” said Sir Geoffroi, smiling. Shooting a glance at Emma, he added, “Mayhap Emma will come with me.”
With that, the group took their seats. On one leg of the U-shaped table, sat William Malet and his wife, Helise.
Across from them were Sir Geoffroi, Emma and the archbishop.
She was happy to be seated next to Sir Geoffroi though the attraction she felt for him made his closeness somewhat disturbing.
The middle leg of the U-shaped table, which for the evening was essentially the head table, was where Gilbert and FitzOsbern took their seats. The arrangement was such that all the guests could easily converse with each other.
As the servants poured the red wine and the men filled the trenchers from the platters the servants brought, Emma let her gaze drift around the hall, surprised at the lovely tapestries gracing the walls.
In a knights’ fortress she would not have expected so much civility.
Some were so finely woven they appeared to be made of silk.
Others, she was certain, were made of wool and pictured trees, deer and birds in blue, green and crimson thread.
Raised in Lincolnshire, where her father had many manors, Emma had been taught to weave and embroider as a young girl before her mother had died.
The scenes depicted in these tapestries were different than the ones her mother had made for her father, yet Emma still admired the skill of the weavers.
“Do you enjoy the tapestries?” The question had come from Gilbert, their host.
“They are beautiful.” She would not tell him of the others with which she was familiar for it would reveal too much. “And fine work.”
“In Flanders, where I come from, we have many makers of tapestry. Not a few of those I’ve displayed here are made of your fine English wool. I brought some with me to remind me of home.”
She forced a smile. Before the Bastard had come to England, trade had prospered. Her husband, Halden, had been among those merchants who sold English wool to the Flemish weavers and then sold the tapestries they made back to the English. Tucked away in a chest in her home, there were many.
Emma glanced at the archbishop on her left, hoping he would say nothing about her parentage or her donations of tapestries to the Minster.
He must have caught her meaning for his next words did not give away her identity.
“The Minster has been given some fine ones by the wealthier families of York.”
“I trust the Minster has recovered from the trouble of a few months ago?” offered FitzOsbern.
The old archbishop let out a sigh. “The Minster has been cleansed, blessed and restored to its proper role, thank the Almighty.”
Emma detected regret in his voice and remembered the shame the Minster had suffered when the Normans took their revenge on the rebels.
It was all she could do not to say something, particularly when FitzOsbern leaned over to Gilbert and in French made a remark about the “good people” of York needing a lesson and the Minster served well enough.
Hearing the insult, Emma’s eyes flashed in anger. She had to bite her lower lip to keep from giving him a scathing rebuke. Surely the archbishop had heard the remark.
“Will you not eat, Emma?” asked Sir Geoffroi looking at the choice pieces of venison he had placed on her side of the trencher.
She stabbed the piece of meat as if it were FitzOsbern himself and brought it to her mouth and bit down hard. But when the succulent juices encountered her tongue she had to praise the food. “’Tis very good.”
“The knights do not often dine so well,” said Sir Geoffroi.
“We buy from the market and the herdsmen and hunt for both deer and boar, but the preparation is usually a simple roast on a spit, not cooked in the well-spiced sauce that has made this venison so tender. And you must try some of the boar,” he added, laying a slice on her trencher, along with a large helping of roasted beets, onions and turnips. “’Tis delicious.”
Emma was amused. Did he realize he had set enough on her side of the trencher to feed two men? “You will make me fat should you expect me to eat such large servings, sir knight.”
He turned his head so that his twinkling blue eyes met hers. “I would see you always well cared for, Emma.”
In that moment, she forgot she was sitting in the Norman castle surrounded by her enemies.
She thought only of the knight who had been her savior more than once.
Her kind Lucifer, who was no fallen angel.
More like Gabriel, the bringer of good news.
Her gaze lingered on his handsome face, his high cheekbones, his striking blue eyes and his full lips. Aye, Gabriel.
The archbishop drew her attention as he began to speak.
“I was delighted to see you here, Emma, dining with the new castellan. Mayhap your presence will cause others in York to see that peace is in their interest. We must urge them to submit to William. Further rebellion will only lead to more hardship and death.”
The archbishop’s voice had grown thinner with age, yet she believed Sir Geoffroi had heard him because he had been listening intently.
But, thankfully, the knight could not know why the archbishop thought her presence might send a message to the people of York not to pursue rebellion.
“I have little to say about what the people might do, My Lord. They have much to regret and many losses to mourn, not the least of which is their freedom.”
The archbishop sighed but said nothing.
* * *
Knowing well the losses Emma spoke of, Geoff was grateful she had accepted his invitation to dine with his fellow Normans.
It might be difficult for her but he selfishly enjoyed having her by his side.
He was proud of how well she had done, how effortlessly she had moved among the French nobles. And he was surprised.
Mayhap she and her husband had been among the wealthier citizens of York. The home her husband left her certainly bespoke of such status. The tapestries that hung on the walls in her home were as well made as the ones Gil had added to the new hall.
Geoff sat close to her on the bench, his tunic touching her gown, close enough to feel her heat, to smell her fresh scent and to notice her body stiffen at FitzOsbern’s remark.
Her reaction told him she understood the words Fitz had spoken in French.
Since Geoff had learned English in the three years he’d been in England, he did not think it unusual for one as intelligent as Emma to have learned some French in the year William’s knights had been garrisoned in York.
There was much he wanted to ask her but the questions never made it to his tongue, for he worried her answers might destroy the delicate trust that had grown between them.
He needed time to understand her, time for her to freely tell him of her life.
Time in which the budding affection between them could grow.
Mayhap with summer’s coming and peace, they would have that time.
From across the table, Helise spoke. “Emma, I am thinking of planting a garden for the new castle. Gilbert,” she looked toward the castellan, who had stopped talking to listen, “has welcomed my efforts. We’ve servants enough to do the work, but you know the soil of York better than I, what to plant and where.
If I could persuade you to assist me, I would welcome your advice. ”
“Do help her, Lady Emma,” said Malet, “for my lady wife is most determined to make the garden a success before we leave at summer’s end for Holderness.”
Geoff suspected along with help for her planting, Helise wanted Emma’s company.
He knew of her kitchen garden behind her home, which she had tenderly cultivated with her servants since the first signs of spring.
Helise’s garden would be a much larger affair, one to supply a castle.
Would Emma want to take on such a task with all she had to do? Would she even know how to begin?
“I would be pleased to help you,” Emma said graciously.
“Very good!” exclaimed Malet.
Geoff supposed the sheriff also wanted a woman’s companionship for his wife while they were in York, but Geoff had another reason to be glad she had agreed to Helise’s request. He would see her more often.