LordoftheKeep (28 page)

He tried again to bring his lips to hers. She turned her
face to the wall; tears ran over her cheeks.

“‘Tis not enough,” she whispered.

“My love, ‘tis not true I care only for blood and bed. But
the warrior in me will not allow this to pass. I must have justice—”

An eddy of cold air tickled Gilles’ shoulders. He rolled to
his feet as he threw the blankets over Emma. In a moment he’d snatched up his
rags and stick.

A small face peeked in. “Are you a ghost?”

Gilles relaxed. He glanced behind him. The pallet looked
like naught but a rumpled heap of blankets. “Do I look like a ghost, ye imp?”
he rasped out. He leaned on his stick, diminishing his height. His thundering
heart calmed.

The child crouched in the open doorway and glanced about. “I
heard his ghost were here.”

How swiftly word traveled. “Children should not listen to
gossip. Where be yer mother? Yer father?” He shook the stick at the boy.

“Dead. They’s not ghosts. They’s buried in the field with
the rest of the fever folk.”

“I’ll make a ghost of ye if ye don’t disappear!” Gilles
prodded the boy’s belly with the end of his stick.

“You’s an old man. You couldn’t catch me if I decided to
run.”

“But ye are not running, and I’ve a mind to whip ye with my
stick.” The boy darted from the doorway. Gilles slammed it. He used the end of
his stick to chop a small hole in the dirt, then jammed one end into the hole
and lodged the other end against the door. “That should hold him. Next time, we
will be more careful.”

Emma threw off the blankets and scrambled into her kirtle
and gown. “There will not be a next time. What if he recognized me? I’ll surely
be called a whore then, lying abed with a beggar.”

Gilles reached for her, but she evaded his touch. “He could
not possibly have seen who was lying beneath me. My body concealed you, I am sure.”

“But all know this was my place.” She checked her pack and
slung it over her shoulder. “They would assume…”

“Exactly.” Gilles captured her hands and held them in his.
“Think, Emma! We see what we expect to see because of where we are. Anyone
opening that door and seeing a man making love to a woman, would assume the
woman was you—”

Emma bit her lip. She refused to acknowledge the seduction
of his hands, the nearness of him. She concentrated on his words. “And who
might a person expect to see at the mill pond? Beneath a man or not?”

“The miller’s daughter,” Gilles said.

“Oh, sweet God.” Emma stared at him.

“What? You have thought of something.”

Emma paced the tiny space, biting her lip. “Trevalin has
mistaken me for Beatrice on a number of occasions. What if,” she swallowed
hard, “what if Trevalin thought ‘twas Beatrice William tried to rape.”

“What care would Trevalin have for Beatrice?” Gilles tried
to close the space between them, but each step he took, she took one away. It
hurt in an intangible way.

“He cares deeply for her. It could be him.”

“You wear a mantle unlike any other.”

She shook her head. “Not that day. The sun was shining so, I
wore but a heavy woolen gown.” Her voice grew more confident as she mulled over
the idea. “And Trevalin feels guilty—’tis preying on his mind.”

“Why do you say that?”

“What is your assessment of him?”

“He is an able, if not inspired, warrior. I would trust him
to guard my back. Nay, he could not have done it.”

She nodded. “I, too, would have dismissed him as a possibility,
save for two things. His captivation with Beatrice and the fact that suddenly
he looks slovenly. His skin is an ill color. He looks as if he is suffering.”

“Suffering?”

Emma watched Gilles wrap his rags about his head, hiding his
identity. “Aye. I think he regrets what he has done. Has he not betrayed his
lord?”

“If he killed William he did more than betray me.” Gilles
thumped his chest with a fist. “He sentenced himself to death.”

She met his obsidian gaze. Sorrow filled her. “I will not be
here to see it done.”

Chapter Thirty

Gilles used his stick to forge a halting path through the
bailey to where a few beggars awaited the handing out by Father Bernard of
scraps from the manor kitchen. Less eager than the others, he took a cold leg
of mutton, disregard. Most of the meat had been stripped by some man or woman
who dined in his hall. As he gnawed at the bone, he watched for Trevalin. When
he finally saw the man, he felt a chill run down his spine. Somehow, he had not
really believed Emma. Yet Trevalin walked as if already dead. His footsteps
dragged. His hair lay lank on his scalp. If Gilles did not know otherwise, he
would think the man suffering of a wasting disease.

He hardened his mind against pity. If Trevalin had killed
William, ‘twas in a moment’s passionate anger. But what he had done to Emma,
nay that had taken calculation, the allowing of blame to fall on an innocent
woman. Were not knights sworn to protect the weak? Trevalin had betrayed his
vows in more ways than one.

Nicholas stood in the entrance to the stables. Out of the
corner of his eye, Gilles spotted Beatrice, the object of Trevalin’s passion.

She ran to the stables, stopping there before his son.
Without hearing a word, he knew she curried favor. She stood too close, smiling
broadly, hands clasped behind her, rocking back and forth, the forth a
thrusting of breasts for his son’s attention. Nicholas shook his head twice,
then shrugged and nodded.

A strangled sound drew Gilles’ attention from the couple to
Trevalin, who stood, hands fisted at his sides, but a few feet away. Beggars
passed as though invisible, and most assuredly, Trevalin seemed not to notice
those who scrambled next to him over the kitchen refuse. He muttered to
himself. When Beatrice trotted toward him, he met her head-on, only a few feet
from where Gilles crouched.

“What are you doing? His lordship may be young and comely,
but ‘tis said he much favors his wife.”

Beatrice shrugged. “What’s it to ye? ‘E likes me. I offered
to tend ‘im at ‘is bath tonight. ‘E accepted.”

“You bloody fool. What would he want of you in his bath save
a quick ride between your thighs? ‘Twill gain you naught but a bastard. Did you
learn nothing from Sir William?”

“I learned ye can be rid o’ a bastard easy enough if’n ye
want to.”

Trevalin grabbed her by the upper arm and hauled her close.
“What are you saying?”

“I’m sayin’ a woman needn’t birth a babe lessin’ she wants
to.” She snapped her fingers. “‘Twas gone like that!”

“Was it his?” Trevalin’s voice trembled. “Or mine? Or don’t
you know?” His face had paled to milk white. “I’d have made you my wife.”

“What would that git me?” She jerked from his hold and
lifted her skirts, flashing her ankles and calves as she ran up the keep steps.

Gilles rose and, leaning heavily on his stick, made his way
to the stables. His son stood in a stall, saddling his horse. No grooms were
near. “Beatrice said you invited her attendance at your bath.”

“By God’s throat!” Nicholas gasped. “You scared the life
from me.” The horse swung around, his hooves dangerously near Nicholas’ boots.
He clouted the horse’s rump with his palm.

“Well? Did you?” Gilles crouched in the entrance to the
stable. He stared up at his son, who returned to tightening the horse’s girth.

“What if I did? She is on my list of potential killers to question.
‘Tis not only men who hate. We drew lots and Beatrice fell to me. She’s a
conniving wench, bent on bedding every man with a suitably full purse at his
belt—or between his thighs.”

“Drew lots?” He stood up, forgetting to disguise his height.
Eye to eye, he held his son’s gaze.

“Oh aye. Your wife insisted you would not find William’s
killer without our help, so we have made note of every lad and lass in
Christendom who might wish William dead and then divided them into portions.
Did you not get your share? She had charge of seeing to its delivery.”

Gilles nodded. “Aye. She gave me a list.”

Nicholas led the horse to the stable door. “I am off this
minute to check the miller’s tale in Lynn—as you directed. We’ve eliminated
most of the other names on our list.”

“And Beatrice?” Gilles spat out.

“Beatrice? She eludes me. I cannot determine when she left
the keep—or if she did. I’ll bathe her myself if ‘twill gain the information we
need.”

“We?” Gilles gripped his stick so tightly, his knuckles
ached at the effort.

“Roland, Sarah, Catherine, Emma.”

“And will Catherine approve this bathing with Beatrice?”

Nicholas met Gilles’ gaze. “Approve? Are you taking me to
task for my behavior? Mayhap you should examine yours before criticizing mine.”

Gilles let his son and the horse leave the stable without
another word. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The familiar scent of
horse and hay filled his head.

“Old man.”

Gilles opened his eyes. Nicholas had returned. He stood
framed in the stable entry.

“Catherine’s land and coin, her brothers, made her a worthy
mate, I believe you said when you proposed her as my wife. But I have learned
to love her. Had she come in naught but a moth-eaten kirtle, I would have taken
her. If you think Catherine would allow any other woman to attend my bath, you
do not know her. Beatrice may say what she likes, doing is another matter.”

“Emma and I think Trevalin saw William attack her that day,
and mistook Emma for Beatrice. We think he might have killed William in a rage
over the forcing.”

Nicholas glanced over his shoulder. He came further into the
stable shadows. “What would you have me do?”

“Watch him, especially around Emma. Set Catherine or Sarah
to watch Beatrice. I want Emma protected at every moment. Whoever did this
thing was willing to let her die.”

“I will do as you wish.” He touched his father’s arm. “Your
Emma asked if I would trade the cost of her board in Lincoln for a length of
cloth each quarter. I believe she will leave here soon.”

Gilles took a steadying breath. What was the point in
triumphing if he savored his victory alone? A murmur of voices made them both
look to the stable entry. Three men-at-arms were striding their way. Gilles
gripped Nicholas’ arm. “Protect her. She carries my child.”

Any response from Nicholas was stifled as Gilles limped
away, leaning heavily on his stick.

* * * * *

Emma sat on the feather bed and combed her hair. Angelique
sat on a wolf pelt on the floor staring at Little Robbie. The boy crouched on
his haunches, a frown furrowing his small brow.

“How can I ‘muse her? She doesn’t say nothing. Jest sucks
her thumb like a babe.”

Emma smiled at him. “She is a babe. ‘Tis kind of you to come
and amuse her, though.”

“She’s too young for dicing.”

“I would think so!” Emma laughed heartily. “You must know
some other games.”

“Watch.” Little Robbie snapped his fingers. At his
fingertips appeared a silver coin.

Angelique pulled her thumb from her mouth. She soberly
examined the coin when the boy handed it to her. As she brought it to her
mouth, Little Robbie snatched it away. “‘Tis not food!”

“Where did you get the coin, Little Robbie?” Emma leaned
down and held out her hand.

He hid it behind his back. “‘Tis mine. I dint steal it. The
dead knight give it to me.”

“Why?” Emma tried to keep her voice calm.

“‘Tis a secret. I promised.”

Angelique tried to climb on Little Robbie’s back. When he
collapsed in a heap, Angelique squealed with delight. For a few moments, Emma
watched the children play. Robbie would get on his knees. Angelique would try
to mount him like a pony. Little Robbie would collapse. Their shrieks of joy
brought tears to Emma’s eyes. Robbie needed to play as much as Angelique. She
imagined he’d not often had the opportunity.

“Now, Robbie, the knight is dead. You have no more need to
keep his secret.”

“Nay?” Little Robbie cocked his head. His cheeks had filled
out a bit. The shadows around his eyes were fading.

“Nay.” She pretended it was unimportant, picking up her
spinning.

“He ast me to take a message.”

“What was the message?” Her fingers fumbled the thread.

“‘Meet me at the mill pond’,” he said somberly, in a voice
uncannily like William’s. Then Robbie spun in place. Angelique imitated him and
fell in a heap, hiccuping and dizzy.

“To whom did you take the message?” She held her breath.

“Her who’s got the golden hair. Like yours. Bess.”

“Beatrice?”

“Oh, aye. Her. Beatrice.” He froze. “Should she be kissing
me?” He sat very still as Angelique bussed him repeatedly on the cheek.

“I imagine ‘tis my angel’s way of thanking you for
entertaining her.”

Beatrice. Mayhap Trevalin had not killed William. Mayhap
Beatrice had seen William at the mill and become mad with anger that he’d
invited her and yet dallied with another.

* * * * *

Nicholas sat at Catherine’s side by the hearth in the hall.
He felt his cheeks heat. “I’ve been asked if I’d like an attendant at my bath
this evening.”

Catherine grinned over her embroidery. “May is it? She
stares at you whenever your back is turned.”

Nicholas flushed even hotter. “Nay. Beatrice.”

His wife’s smile faded. She stabbed her needle into the
linen. “Her. She would bathe a toad if she thought he’d take her away from
here.”

“Have I your permission to allow her attendance? We still do
not know her whereabouts on the day William died.”

“And how will a back scrubbing gain you that information?”

He shrugged. “Mayhap you could come upon us. You could
threaten to have her sent to Normandy—to a pig farm—should she not give up her
whereabouts that day.”

She chuckled. “I think a pig farm suits her admirably, but
if she killed Sir William, she will not be easily daunted by such threats.”

“I was jesting.” He touched her hand. “But an indignant
wife, who chooses her words well, might still entice a slip of the tongue.”

She linked her fingers with his. “As long as nothing else is
enticed in the doing.”

* * * * *

Beatrice simpered about Nicholas. He gritted his teeth. She
supervised the bucket boys, then began to help him remove his clothing. “Yer a
fine lookin’ man, my lord.”

“Why, thank you, Beatrice. When the…bath is done, mayhap we
could find another amusement to whittle away the long hours of the evening.”

Her eyes grew round. “My lord. What are ye suggestin?”

He endured the skim of her fingers along his chest as he
removed his tunic. “A game? Chess?”

“I fear I’ve not played that game.” She stood by the tub, a
cloth held hopefully in her hand, her eyes just south of his chest.

He pulled off his linen undershirt and said a silent prayer
Catherine would arrive before Beatrice attacked. “You said you’d attended
others at their bath.”

“Oh, aye. Lord Gilles.” Her face colored and her eyes evaded
his. A lie, he decided. Her gaze returned to his. “And, of course, Sir
William.”

“Ah. My father’s bastard. You were quite privileged to serve
both father and son.” He stalled. “Fold this.”

She dropped the washing cloth and hastened to do his
bidding. “I were ofttimes called upon to serve Sir William. He were the finest
of the knights. He offered to take me away with him.” She sniffed.

“Did he?” Catherine spoke from the doorway. Her arms were
crossed over her chest. “And did he offer marriage? Or did he just need a whore
for his bath?”

“My lady!” Beatrice bent over the shirt, folding it
carefully. “His lordship bid me tend this shirt—”

“His lordship has a squire.” Catherine strode to stand
before Beatrice. His wife was a hand shorter, but her manner made Beatrice
shrink back. “I believe you have made an unfortunate choice here. I am in
charge of the females on this manor.” She rounded on Nicholas. “And you were
warned that if you got another servant with child, you’d find a shrew for a
wife in your bed. I want her gone. Send her to my brother in the Holy Land. He
can sell her—”

“My lady!” Beatrice fell to her knees. “Please I beg of ye.
I’m a virgin. His lordship never touched me!”

Nicholas smiled sweetly at his wife. The Holy Land, by God.
Much better than a pig farm! “I’m sorry, Beatrice, but we cannot lie. God will
surely strike us dead.” He hung his head. “We were touching—”

“Nay!” Beatrice burst into tears.

“The Holy Land. Tomorrow, my lord,” Catherine said, shaking
her finger at her husband. “Send Trevalin to do the deed. He’ll see we get a
fair price for her.”

Nicholas hauled Beatrice to her feet. She tore out of his
grip as if he’d burned her. “I swear, my lady. As God is my witness. We never
touched. Never.”

With a flick of her hand, Catherine dismissed Beatrice’s
words. She sat at the table and drew one of Gilles’ parchments toward her. She
unrolled it. “Here, my lord. This looks like a good place for her.” She tapped
the diagram of Gilles’ stable addition. “Right here. An Arab prince might like
her milk-white skin.”

“Mayhap that’s a trifle harsh for just touching,” Nicholas
mused.

Beatrice stared round-eyed at the parchment, tears running
down her face. She wrung her hands. “I swear, my lady, I swear, we never did
nothin’ to dishonor ye.”

“My lord?” Catherine cocked her head to the side.

She gave him a look that sent a small shiver down his spine.
Thank God he was acting. He thought Catherine quite capable of arranging
Beatrice’s sale to perdition if she wished it. “Let us think of another way to
punish her,” he said. “A lashing?” He watched the color drain from Beatrice’s
flushed cheeks. “Aye. A lashing. How many strokes?”

Catherine rolled the parchment. “Mayhap none if Beatrice
will tell us some gossip.”

“G-g-gossip?” Beatrice stopped wringing her hands and
stared.