Chapter 8 #4
The garden was nestled behind the kitchen and surrounded by a reed fence some distance from the stable at the rear of her home.
While not nearly the scale of the one her family had cultivated in Lincolnshire, it was of sufficient size that they always had more than enough to share with others.
Cabbage, leeks, turnips and kale were among the vegetables she planted, along with herbs for cooking—parsley, sage, chives and dill—and those for healing, like betony and chamomile.
She planted flowers, too, both for eating and for healing, though not many.
Her small garden did not allow for all she would have liked, but there was always enough.
A shadow fell over the plant she was weeding. She sat back on her heels and lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
Sigga stood over her, a worried expression on her face. “Mistress, I am concerned about Inga.”
Emma set aside her tools and rose, dusting off the tunic she usually wore to dig in the earth. “Why?”
“These past few days she has spewed up her morning meal.”
“She is unwell?” Inga had seemed so much happier in recent days. Emma had begun to believe the young woman would be able to look forward to her future.
“No, I do not think she is sick.” Sigga hesitated, wringing her hands, as if reluctant to say more.
“What, then?” Emma waited for her servant to speak. Whatever she had to say was obviously causing her pain.
“I believe she is with child.”
“Oh, no.” Emma’s heart sank. She had hoped there would be no child from the rape, no lasting reminder of that night.
Her own courses were so erratic she did not note Inga missing one, but she had not inquired.
Perhaps she had not let herself consider she might be wrong in her assumption all was well.
“If what you believe is true, this changes everything.”
“Aye, Mistress. And just now she ran from the house. When I shouted after her, asking where she was going, she said only ‘the old tower’.”
Emma inhaled sharply.
Sigga said, “Might she go to confront the knight who is responsible?”
“Nay,” she said, rising from the ground.
“Inga would not want to see him again.” Suddenly a thought came to Emma, one so horrible it made her heart speed in panic.
“Sigga, the square tower the Normans first built is the highest point in the city, save for the Minster. I pray she does not plan what I fear.”
“What?” inquired a concerned Sigga.
“The shame she feels may have impelled her to want to take her own life. I think she means to cast herself down from the ramparts.”
Sigga crossed herself. “God and all the angels, no.”
Emma raced into the house, Sigga following on her heels. “I must stop her.”
“But you will not be admitted to the Norman castle,” cautioned the servant. “Neither will Inga.”
Reaching the door, Emma grabbed her cloak from the peg.
“She has only to persuade them she is a new servant and they will let her in. They did me when I went to see Sir Geoffroi. Keep watch over the twins and do not let Magnus leave. He would only draw unwanted attention and no servant would travel with a hound.”
She ran out the door. Once in the street, her gaze searched for Inga but all she saw were people going about their business. It was midday and the streets were crowded. If Inga were running, she would be some distance ahead.
Launching herself into the street, she did not stop running until she reached the castle.
She was panting when she spoke to the guard.
Using her prior excuse, and the added one of being late, she gained entry and hurried through the bailey to the tower.
Seeing a group of knights going in the same direction, she kept her head down.
The hall was full of men eating their midday meal and she was able to move to the stairs as one of the servants. Once there, an older serving woman stopped her.
“What brings such a one as ye to the castle?”
Knowing she did not look the part of a servant even wearing her soiled tunic, the only thing that came to mind was to mention the reason she had come to the tower in recent days. “I am on an errand for Helise Malet.”
“Aye, well, she is not usually in the floors above.”
“I must see for myself,” Emma told the woman and brushed past her, racing up the stairs.
Midway to the highest level, Emma stopped, her chest heaving as a sharp pain stabbed her beneath her ribs.
She was not accustomed to running such long distances.
A few breaths later, determined to find Inga before it was too late, she resumed the climb, reaching the top of the narrow, curling stairs.
The stairs ended in a wooden door. She opened it and stepped onto the platform on the third story of the tower.
The wooden walls of the battlement were solid except for the arrow loops, too narrow for even a woman to jump through.
But there was the walk at the top that circled the walls.
It was there she found Inga, staring out, her hands gripping the edge of the low wall.
“Inga.”
The girl shot a glance at Emma, but then returned her gaze to the vast expanse below the tower. The wind whipped strands of her honey-colored hair about her face as she held her body rigid and leaned slightly forward. Was she preparing to leap?
Cautiously, so as not to cause Inga to make a sudden move, Emma closed the distance between them and whispered, “Inga, you must not.” She wanted to grab hold of Inga but feared she might cause the girl to suddenly leap from the wall.
Inga glanced back at her. “All will know. I will be shunned, the child called the bastard of our hated enemy. How will my father bear it?”
Finally reaching out to Inga on the narrow walk, Emma pulled her into her arms and backed them away from the precipice. The girl turned into Emma’s chest and sobbed.
“Oh, Emma…”
“Your father will not blame you, Inga.”
Inga pulled back, her gray eyes appearing to plead. “But how can I live with such a thing?”
“The child is innocent, a child who will grow to love you. To take such a life and your own would be against God’s law.
’Tis worse than murder, Inga. You would be killing not only the body, but also the soul.
You could not even be buried in hallowed ground.
You and your innocent babe would be barred from Heaven for all eternity.
” Emma knew the words of the Church’s teachings were harsh, and while she did not believe God was so unmerciful, she had to use what she could to dissuade Inga from such a dire action.
Inga shuddered in Emma’s arms. “How could I ever love a child who looks like him?” Inga muttered.
“Mayhap the child will have your golden hair and gray eyes. Did you not once tell me that your grandfather’s look was clear on all his offspring?
You and Feigr have the same look about you.
So might the child. And to a mother’s love, looks are nothing.
The child will be heart of your heart, half your own soul. How could you fail to love it?”
Sniffing, Inga’s sobs abated, giving Emma hope.
“What are you doing up here?” a deep voice bellowed behind them.
Emma turned her head to see the Norman guard. “We are just looking at the countryside,” the excuse coming to Emma. “The forest is so beautiful it has moved my friend to tears.”
“Aye, that may be, but you have no business here.” He gave Inga a suspicious look, her tear-stained cheek speaking of things other than surveying the surrounding countryside.
“We will trouble your battlement no longer, good sir. We are leaving.”
His eyes followed them as Emma helped Inga down and together they walked to the stairs.
“It will be all right, Inga. I will help you. We will raise your child with the twins.”
* * *
“I saw your lady in the bailey today,” Mathieu said to Geoff as he left the practice yard in the bailey wiping sweat from his brow.
Geoff paused. “Mayhap she came to see Helise about the garden they plan for the new castle. I am sorry to have missed her.”
“I do not think so, sir. She was running, as if for her life.”
“What?” Why would Emma be running across the bailey? “Was anyone chasing her?”
“Nay, but she appeared fearful. Then I saw her again, a short while later, when she walked with her friend, Inga, to the gate. You were in the midst of sparring with Sir Alain or I would have fetched you. I did not see Inga enter, but they left together.”
Geoff could not imagine what the sword-maker’s daughter would be doing in the castle where Eude and his companions kept their pallets.
He would have to ask Helise if Emma had come today about the garden.
Or, better still, he would try and get away to pay Emma a visit and ask her himself. Why had she been afraid?
* * *
Emma was focused on her embroidery when she heard Feigr’s heavy steps as he trudged down the stairs after one of his many visits to see his daughter. Seeing Emma, he drew up a bench in front of her. “Why does my daughter weep so, my lady?”
He was pale and his face lined with worry. She rose and poured him some mead from the pitcher on the table, dreading the conversation to come. “Let us share some mead.”
She resumed her seat with her cup, wondering if he would be able to absorb the news. “Inga recovers, Feigr, but…”
“’Tis still that night she thinks of?” he interrupted. Without waiting for Emma’s answer, he gazed into the pale liquid he held in his hands. “I failed to protect her.” His eyes narrowed. “But no more! I am training with the warriors now. My own swords will be put to good use killing Normans.”
“Oh, Feigr, not you, too?”
“I must,” he insisted. “When that cur and his brutes came for Inga, had I known better how to wield my own weapons, I might have stopped them.”
“Or, mayhap you would have been killed, Feigr. The knights train from their youth. And think. Inga would have wept all the more had she lost you.”
For a moment he said nothing, just stared into his wine. “I would give anything to see the tears gone from my daughter’s face.”
Emma steeled herself for what she must say. “There is something I must tell you.” His eyes were the same gray as his daughter’s only more intense. She hoped he would understand. “Inga may not be able to tell you, but because you love her, you must know.”
“What?”
“Inga is with child.”
Feigr’s face froze in shock. Then he expelled an oath and beneath his breath his voice was fierce. “I will kill him!”
“Mayhap you will one day, but for now you must help Inga. She needs you. And this you must not speak of ever again: Inga sought to take her life.”
He pulled back, a look of shock on his face. Then his eyes narrowed as his face contorted in anger.
“I stopped her in time, Feigr, but she needs both of us to see her through this ordeal, to give her courage to bear the child.”
His anger faded and he slumped. “My poor daughter,” he mourned, shaking his head, his eyes revealing his grief. “What have they done to my Inga?”
“You must help her, Feigr. You must let her know you stand beside her. The child will be Inga’s, after all. And your grandchild.”
“’Twill be the Norman’s bastard!”
Emma vowed silently never to again use that word. “The babe will be an innocent, Feigr. I have told Inga I will help her to raise the child. We will be a family, Inga, Ottar, Finna and the child. You, too, Feigr. The child will know nothing but love, I promise.”
He looked up at her, his eyes full of unshed tears. “I thank you, my lady. Without you, Inga might be lost to me. Aye, for her sake, it will be as you say. I will let her know she has my love, no matter what comes. But I vow I will kill the Norman scum who did this to her.”