Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
Emma endured the disapproving stares of the few people they passed on the streets as the three of them rode down Coppergate toward the new castle. They could have taken another route but this street was wider and allowed them easier passage. She knew some who saw her in the company of the knights would wonder about her. A few would think the worst.
Sir Geoffroi had not worn a hauberk this eve. Instead, he had donned a fine tunic of blue wool, a shade darker than his eyes. The shoulders of his tunic were beautifully embroidered with silver thread making her wonder if a woman of Talisand had made it for him. His belt was fine leather studded with silver, one she had not seen before with a design carved into it, mayhap his family’s emblem. When she’d first seen him waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, he had appeared every bit the nobleman, not merely one of the Bastard’s knights.
All three of them wore cloaks of dark wool so the people they passed could not observe how elegantly she and Sir Geoffroi were attired, nor did the people who stared at them know of the feast that was their destination. How could she explain to them that what she did was not improper or treacherous, that even her father, whom the people knew and respected, would have encouraged her to go? No, she could not expect them to understand what she only reluctantly admitted to herself, that not all Normans were alike and that Sir Geoffroi was, in all things, honorable.
Yet she did not forget that he and his fellow knights had killed some of her people.
She was relieved when they finally crossed over the moat, leaving the town and the stares of the people behind. But when they entered the bailey and the palisade walls of the Norman fortress surrounded her, it was fear, not relief that caused her to shudder. She had thought of the square wooden tower built a year ago as Lucifer’s den. If ’twas so, this new, mightier castle might be Hell.
A few men-at-arms lingered in the wide open bailey, guards mostly, she assumed. Still, her presence was noted as their heads raised and work stopped, their eyes following her as she passed them. They could not see much of her, cloaked as she was, but they had to wonder at a woman escorted by two knights.
Her gaze was drawn to the stables, larger than those built to support the knights garrisoned in the first tower. The other buildings she assumed were those typical of such castles: the armory, blacksmith and lodging for men who did not sleep in the hall. In one corner, a chapel was nearly finished. It was ironic, indeed, that those who came prepared to kill paid homage to God in building a chapel. Mayhap they thought of their deaths and wanted to be prepared. The archbishop had once told her that the Norman king came to England with the Pope’s blessing. She could hardly fathom it.
A groom came to take their horses. Sir Geoffroi dismounted and helped her down, raising his hands to her waist to lift her from her saddle. His touch sent a wave of pleasure coursing through her as his hands slid inside her cloak and he lowered her to the ground. How could such a slight encounter leave her wanting? A flame she had thought long extinguished suddenly ignited within her. When her feet touched the earth in the bailey, she raised her eyes to meet his, darkened with emotion. He, too, had been affected by their closeness.
Sir Alain, still atop his horse, interrupted the moment. “I will return at the end of the eve to go with you when you take the lady home.”
Sir Geoffroi inhaled deeply and nodded. Turning to her, he offered his arm. She had only to set her fingers upon his tunic and an unexpected shiver ran down her spine. He must have felt the attraction, for he turned his head to look at her and in his eyes she glimpsed intense interest as he led her toward the open door of the castle. It was not convenient, this attraction between them.
Inside the great hall, a servant accepted their cloaks and Sir Geoffroi introduced their host as Gilbert de Ghent. His clothing and bearing suggested he was a nobleman, landed and wealthy. He had black hair and was not more than thirty, dressed in an emerald green tunic with an ornately jeweled belt. His stance conveyed arrogance and his dark eyes raked her body. Here is a man who expects women to fall at his feet .
Gilbert bowed over her hand and gave her an admiring glance. “Had I but known a woman of your grace and beauty lived in York, I would have invited you myself.” Then with a wry smile aimed at Sir Geoffroi, their host said, “The Talisand knight is holding some secrets.”
Sir Geoffroi reclaimed her hand and placed it on his forearm. “Beware the young rogues of Flanders, Emma. My father’s estate in Tournai might be in France, but ’tis close to Flanders. We know them well.”
Gilbert laughed and strode off saying he would see them at the feast.
For an instant, she entertained the possibility Sir Geoffroi might be jealous of the handsome Gilbert, but then she reconsidered, knowing he loved to tease. Likely the two knights exchanged barbs often.
They walked farther into the hall. It smelled of new timber, herbed rushes and the dinner being prepared. The large timbered space was not unlike the one in the castle across the river, mayhap larger. Sconces full of candles cast a warm glow about the immense room. Servants hurried in and out with platters and trays, occasionally glancing in her direction. They were Northumbrians, after all. A young minstrel walked about strumming a lute while singing a French song. ’Twas the well-appointed den of her enemy. She had to remind herself she was still in York.
Ahead of them a man and a woman stood together, watching them approach. The faces of the couple bore looks of curiosity as if they had not expected Sir Geoffroi to be accompanied by a woman. Like the others, they were richly clothed in fine velvet embroidered with silver and gold, the woman in a dark red gown, the man in a tunic the color of cloves.
When they reached the couple, Sir Geoffroi said, “Allow me to introduce Emma of York.”
Emma curtsied as she had been taught as a young girl in Lincolnshire, the same way she had curtsied before the Saxon King Harold.
“Emma, these are my friends, William Malet, our sheriff, and his wife, Helise.”
“Welcome Emma,” said Helise Malet, “I am delighted you are here.”
Emma returned the smile the woman gave her. Malet’s wife was a woman of some years but despite the gray strands in her dark hair, Helise was probably not yet forty. She had a kind face and when she returned Emma’s smile, it occurred to her that the woman was, indeed, happy to have another woman to talk to. There were no other women in the hall save the servants.
Emma acknowledged Helise’s husband with a nod. His red hair was fair, almost Saxon in appearance. His chin bore a short, well-trimmed tuft of the same red hair. His expression was jovial.
“My lady.” He bowed before her.
Malet could not know of her noble Danish blood, nor of her highborn father and mother, so she assumed his use of the title was mere courtesy. She wanted no one to know she was the daughter of a Danish thegn, much less Maerleswein, now a rebel leader. It worried her that the archbishop might inadvertently disclose her identity.
Another man, who looked to be near fifty, confidently strode to Sir Geoffroi and introduced himself to her as William FitzOsbern, the Earl of Hereford. His lined face and gray-streaked dark hair made her think he had seen many battles and his heavy mustache gave him a harsh look. She recalled her father once mentioning that FitzOsbern was a friend of the Norman king.
“My lord,” she said curtseying before him. Her father would be amazed at her audacity in joining the Normans in their feasting, but he would also have encouraged her for the information it might provide him.
FitzOsbern smiled at her as she rose and facing Sir Geoffroi, said, “Hiding so lovely a flower from us, Sir Geoffroi? ’Tis brave of you to bring her as your guest, knowing neither Gil nor I have a wife.”
The offhanded compliment did not endear him to Emma.
Sir Geoffroi laid his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “Have no misconceptions, Fitz, the lady is with me.”
“Aye, I can see that,” FitzOsbern said with an amused expression. “I wish you both a happy feast.” Tipping his head to her, he took his leave, saying he had to greet a late arriving guest.
Left alone for the moment, Sir Geoffroi led her toward the place where they would dine.
“Should I be flattered by FitzOsbern’s words or would he say the same to any woman?” she asked as they walked toward the table.
“Fitz meant it as a compliment, Emma, but truthfully, there are too few women in England for William’s thousands of knights. And none like you.”
“Are you teasing me again? You pay me too high a compliment.”
“Nay, I do not.” Guiding her toward the table, he explained that the table arrangement would be different than she might have expected. Instead of a raised dais set at a right angle to long trestle tables, because there were so few guests, there was a U-shaped table covered with a linen cloth and set around the stone-ringed hearth fire.
Servants had begun setting platters of food and trenchers on the table for the guests. Candles illuminated the many dishes that were sending smells of spices and roast meat into the air.
“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.
“How fortunate for me,” offered Gil, “this garden business will bring you back to the castle I am responsible for.”
Geoff held back the curse that nearly slipped from his lips, but allowed the scowl on his face at the thought of the handsome castellan paying court to Emma.
“I detect Sir Geoffroi likes not your coming into my castle’s bailey,” said Gil.
“’Tis not the castle’s bailey, so much as the castellan that concerns me,” Geoff said.
“Do not mind the cocks’ banter, Emma,” advised Helise. “Before the dinner is over and Sir Geoffroi sweeps you into the night, we must plan for your return.”
Geoff heard Emma let out a sigh and he reached his hand to hers where it rested between them on the bench, giving her slender fingers a gentle squeeze. “Her sons are here, Emma, and only a bit older than the twins.”
She looked across to Helise. “Mayhap I will bring along one day the two children who are my charges.”
“I am certain my boys would like to meet them,” replied Helise.
Listening to the exchange, Geoff wondered. Had she agreed to help Helise for his sake, or only because she was at heart a gracious woman? He hoped her desire to see him had led to her willingness to help Helise, but however it came about, it pleased him that she would be close to where he was most days, where he could see her more often. With difficulty, he pulled his gaze from her face. In Helise’s company, she would also be protected by Malet’s guards—and from Gilbert’s attentions .
When the last course was served, musicians came forward to entertain the guests, a bard with a triangular-shaped harp and another musician with a dulcimer. They reminded him of Rhodri and the evenings at Talisand when the Welsh bard and Lady Serena had entertained them with song. He missed Talisand and such evenings, but were he to leave York without Emma, he would miss her more.
He glanced beyond Emma to see the music was lulling the old archbishop to sleep.
“Why, Sir Geoffroi,” Emma suddenly said, her eyes following the platter the servants set before them. “’Tis strawberry tarts. I have seen wild strawberries growing near the edge of the fields. Knowing your fondness for the sweet treats, you must be eager to partake.”
He grinned. “I am.” He reached for a tart and placed it on her side of their trencher, then retrieved one for himself, “Yet I do not see how they can rival the ones served by a certain lady of my acquaintance who lives in York.”
“Oh, but these you need not share with a hound and two ravenous children.”
He laughed at the memory, for it was a pleasant one and not just because of the tarts.
“The sharing of them was half the pleasure,” he said. Reminded of Emma’s household, the young woman who lived with Emma came to his mind. “How is Inga? I did not see her this day.”
“She was resting when you arrived. I think she is recovering, yet sometimes when she is lost in her thoughts, there is a sadness about her. While ’tis understandable, it worries me.”
The music faded into the background. The candlelight cast a warm glow on Emma’s ivory skin and made her blue-green eyes change to a dark blue. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to claim her as his. To see her at Talisand. “Mayhap a change of place might help her.”
“Mayhap…” said Emma.
When the music stopped and the last of the tarts had been consumed, the guests rose. Helise came to engage Emma in conversation about the plans for the new garden.
Malet drew Geoff aside. “Sir Geoffroi,” he whispered. “I must tell you after watching your lady this evening I do not think she is just any widow in York.”
“I would agree, Malet, she is more comely than the other women of York and what you do not see is her heart, as beautiful as her face.”
“You do not get my meaning,” Malet said in apparent frustration. “For one thing, she speaks French. Did you not see her eyes narrow when Fitz made his unwise remark? Helise pinched me she was so annoyed with the man, but it hardly suited for me to take the earl to task in the middle of the feast.”
“Aye, I had the same impression. She might speak French. So, what of it? We speak their tongue.”
“There is more,” Malet counseled. “’Tis clear the archbishop is well acquainted with her and she has the air of a highborn woman. What do you know of her?”
Geoff grew indignant at the sheriff’s probing. “I know all I need to. She is beautiful, kind and cares for others. She lives with two orphaned children and a young woman she has taken under her wing who was sorely misused by one of William’s more disreputable knights.” He said nothing about the man whose large shoes he saw in the chamber where they had laid the sword-maker. He did not want to consider what it might mean, so he dismissed the thought. Emma was all that was good.
“All to her credit, I admit,” said Malet. “But I cannot help wondering if she might not be acquainted with the leaders of Northumbria we replaced. Earl Cospatric, comes to mind for one. Could she be a rebel spy?”
“I had heard that Cospatric left Scotland but as yet he’s not been seen in England. And no, she is not a rebel spy. What is there to spy upon? There are no secrets here that I know of.”
“Mayhap not, but I would suggest you watch her closely.”
“I intend to, my lord sheriff,” Geoff said with a sly grin, “most closely.”
***
Emma had not imagined the evening with the Normans would be so enjoyable, though as she considered it, the pleasantness must be attributed more to the knight who had accompanied her than to anything else. She had begun to relax in Sir Geoffroi’s presence when her temper had flared at FitzOsbern’s remark. The man’s arrogance was exceeded only by his ignorance.
Her respect for Sir Geoffroi and fear of disclosing who she was had stilled her tongue. She would not embarrass him nor reveal all she knew. To do so would be to betray the two men she held in highest regard, the knight she had come to trust and her noble father. Oddly, it had been the knight who had come first to her mind. But she would not allow herself to consider that her feelings for Sir Geoffroi might run deeper than merely respect.
When they had taken leave of their host and descended the stairs to the bailey, their horses were waiting, along with Sir Alain.
The huge knight grinned, making his scar seem less formidable. “A pleasant evening, I trust?”
“Most pleasant,” said Sir Geoffroi, helping her to mount her mare.
Soon they were retracing their path to her home.
For some time, the three rode along in silence. The streets were darkened, but the waxing moon shining in the star-studded sky was so bright their horses cast dim shadows.
“Thank you for attending the feast,” said Sir Geoffroi.
“’Twas the least I could do for all you have done for me and those I love.”
Sir Geoffroi chuckled. “And now you have another garden to plant.”
“I do not mind. Helise Malet is pleasant enough. And the twins might enjoy her sons, but I cannot promise that Finna will not again refer to your king as a bastard.” She smiled at the memory of innocent Finna speaking with the knight.
“William hates the label, but ’tis what he is. You and Serena, Countess of Talisand, have in common your dislike of the king. She, too, once called him that.”
“She is English?”
“Aye, and has no love for William, but for the sake of the Red Wolf, she tolerates our sire’s presence when he visits.”
Emma could not imagine entertaining the Norman king. Serena must be an unusual woman.
They turned down Emma’s street. It was quiet with nary a candle she could see, save in her own home where the light flickered behind the skins that covered the windows. She was comforted by the knowledge that the hearth fire would still be burning and the brazier in her chamber would be warming the space. Artur, ever faithful, would have seen to it.
They reached her house and Sir Geoffroi slid off his horse to help her dismount. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders and allowed him to lift her down, her breasts brushing his chest as her feet met the ground. For a moment their gazes met, the moonlight bathing them in its soft glow. His hands still on her waist, he bent his head and kissed her lightly. His lips were warm and as gentle as she had remembered them. Though tender, there was passion in the kiss and when he raised his lips from hers, he was breathing heavily. So was she.
He kissed her forehead and whispered, “That you do not reject my kiss encourages me, Emma. Were we alone, I would not leave you so soon.” He pulled back and let out a breath. “Still, I would provide no further display for either Alain or your neighbors who might be curious to know what passes between us.”
She was gratified to see Sir Alain stood some distance away on the other side of Sir Geoffroi’s stallion, his back to them. “Thank you for protecting my reputation, though I am certain my neighbors already wonder at my behavior.”
“I hope they do not cause you concern.”
“Nay.” She would not change what she had done no matter her neighbors disapproved. She had enjoyed her evening with Sir Geoffroi.
“When are you to meet with Helise Malet to plan the garden?”
“Two days hence.”
“If I can, I will be there to bid you welcome.”
***
The next day, kneeling in her own garden, Emma loosened the dirt around the young plants that had risen from the soil. The smell of the herbs and the rich, tilled earth reminded her of the summer harvest that would come.
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.”